The Decline of the Art of Composition: A Technical-Critical Study. By: Schenker, Heinrich.

TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM DRABKIN Music Analysis, Mar2005, Vol. 24 Issue 1/2, p33-129, 97p; DOI: 10.1111/j.1468-2249.2005.00217.x; (AN 20928386) )This translation is based on an amended typescript in the New York Public Library, Oster Collection, File 31, items 28153, transcribed here on pp. 131231.Details of the organisation of this document, and of the nature of the changes made by Schenker to the original typescript, are provided in my introductory essay and in the preface and notes to the transcription. For passages in which Schenker's handwriting has been deemed illegible, I have adopted the following procedures: Where the sense of a phrase or sentence with handwritten corrections can plausibly be determined from what is legible, any words that are needed to complete the sense are enclosed in square brackets. Where the meaning of a word or short phrase cannot be determined, a gap is indicated by an ellipsis [. . .]. Where the meaning of an entire sentence cannot be determined with confidence, the translation is based on the original typescript and a note indicating this is provided. In revising the typescript, Schenker at times cancelled sentences and even whole paragraphs, sometimes by putting a cross over the material to be deleted, sometimos merely by drawing a faint line across the page. If this material is of sufficient scope and, at the same time, does not duplicate arguments in any replacement text, it appears in this translation in a smaller typeface. Otherwise, I have not attempted to offer simultaneous readings of earlier and later phases of the text. Typewritten page numbers in the typescript provide the main referencing system in this translation, and are supplied (boldface in curly brackets) without comment; for pages that are unnumbered, or numbered by hand, I provide the Oster Collection file number in square brackets, for example [31/52]. For the most part the sequence of pages is straightforward and unambiguous. For the text on and around pp. 1427, and pp. 3947, Schenker has explicitly indicated or suggested considerable reordering of sentences, paragraphs and larger sections of text for continuity of wording and argument. For details on the reordering of pages in the typescript, see Table 2 in the introductory article. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 33 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005. Published by Blackwell Publishing, 9600 Garsington Road, Oxford OX4 2DQ, UK HEINRICH SCHENKER THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION: A TECHNICAL-CRITICAL STUDY TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM DRABKIN The section headings, printed in boldface type, are my own. They have been added in order to help guide the reader through the various topics discussed, and do not in any way reflect the structure of the typescript, for which Schenker provided no such markers. The Productivity of the Masters, Across a Great Variety of Genres and Forms [31/28] We live in a musical age that, by and large, could be called an age of

dilettantism. The proud procession of geniuses Handel, Sebastian Bach, Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Brahms has passed: a procession that would have a difficult time finding an equal in the history of human intellectual ende avour. As soon as one man went, another came; Germany had at all times a towering figure. Now the last one Brahms is gone, and nowhere is there so much as a hint of a true genius. Twilight of the masters!1 After more than two hundred years, it has come to pass that we cannot point to any artist in Germany to whom we can look up with unclouded reverence, with unconditional love and admiration: no artist on whom we can rightfully bestow the honorary title of master, in its purest meaning. It is not easy to admit that the picture is bleak. Many are even incapable of doing so: they appeal to the law of development as a natural law and conclude from this that we must be engaged in a state of progress, if for no other reason than we are living in an age very far removed from that of Bach and Beethoven. They do not consider that, as all teleology in nature is generally false, so teleology in art must also be false. Has not history constantly taught us that nature cares little about scattering the seeds of genius at all, and forever? How many cultures has she not already destroyed? And how seldom does she think about letting each death-consecrated culture2 be succeeded by a greater one! Who can deny that, already in ancient times, there may have lived a hero, a poet, a person who, as hero, poet and person, was greater than that which the world has yet to see? Does nature always think about continuity, and just for the sake of people and their arts? Indeed not: she thinks of no succession, of no development of geniuses. Here she breaks off; there she starts up again; in short, she governs like the Fates, without wanting in any way to be engaged in the medium of human teleology. Should one not rather consider the image of all artistic human activity as resembling the elevations and depressions of the world's surface? Do the Alps contemplate the Himalayas? Is Monte Rosa3 about to reach its peak in Mount Everest? By no means: here we have an elevation, there a depression; here one range breaks off completely, there a new one begins. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 34 HEINRICH SCHENKER [31/29] Only this much is, admittedly, true: that genius alone can beget genius and only in the most favourable situations if it comes to begetting at all. And that is precisely the point of departure. It should be self-evident that, no matter how large a number of talents have been occupied with intellectually digesting the work of a true genius, these can never add up to a collective genius, so to speak, and therefore can never result in progress. Talent and genius are in fact two different intellectual qualities; and it will always remain the case that a talent, even a talent of the thirtieth century, will still be worth less than a genius of, say, the fifteenth century.4 Although the teleological viewpoint does not lead further, other contemporary catchphrases such as `the art of today' or the `art of its time' are unfortunately also of little help in bringing comfort or shedding light. If you think carefully about them, even these phrases merely contain tautologies in themselves. Of course, every age has its art; it is simply that not all ages are of equal value. For do we not know, from history, of periods of decadent intellectual life? Think, for example, of the

period of exhaustion in Greece after the death of Euripides, or the period of decline in Italy after Michelangelo or in England after Shakespeare. Did not these ages also have their own arts? And yet how insignificant, compared to those that preceded them! Thus we certainly have an art of our times an `art of today' but it can by no means be said to represent progress merely because it belongs to our time. If the middle of the present time is, in a sense, framed by the past and the future, then already the past argues against our pronouncing the art of today as great, or even as art. That should already be sufficient; yet perhaps fortune will be kind enough to demonstrate, by a greater future as well, how wretched the present time is. Anyone who considers the external indicators carefully will have no choice but to concur with my opinion. It used to be the custom of great composers to have a comprehensive mastery of all the forms of the art and all the stylistic genres, complete command of musical technique, which enabled them to conceive ever new {3} creative tasks. Let us begin simply by leafing through the systematic catalogues of the works of our masters.5 There we find, for example, among Bach's instrumental music alone, keyboard music, works for one or several keyboards accompanied by other instruments, works for the violin, for the flute, for the cello, for organ, and for orchestra. To this can be added a St John Passion, a St Matthew Passion, aChristmas Oratorio, an Easter Oratorio, a Mass in B minor, four short masses, the Magnificat, a burial service,6 motets, 198 sacred and 22 secular cantatas, and so on. And what richness and variety there is, for instance, in the keyboard works alone! Consider, too, that Bach had a difficult life: he had twenty children by two wives, and did not live beyond the age of 65! Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 35 What a wealth is to be found in the works of Mozart! Masses, cantatas, oratorios, operas; arias, duos, terzets and quartets with orchestra; lieder, canons; symphonies, serenades, divertimentos, smaller pieces and dances for orchestra, marches, concertos for a solo string or wind instrument with orchestra; string quintets, quartets and duos; concertos for one, two and three pianos with orchestra; piano quintets, quartets and trios; sonatas and variations for piano and violin, for piano four hands and for two pianos; sonatas and fantasias for piano, variations and shorter pieces for piano, sonatas for several instruments and organ, and so on and so forth. And what breadth there is just in Don Giovanni, in the quartets and symphonies! A lifespan of 35 years had to suffice for this. And how little even the appalling suffering of the final years which a Methuselah himself would surely have found difficult to bear, even if it were spread across his long, exceedingly long, life affected the force of his genius!!!! If we look at the systematic catalogue of Beethoven's work, we find works for orchestra (including military band), for violin and orchestra; quintets, string quartets, string trios, wind music; music for string and wind instruments, for piano and wind, for piano quartet, for piano, clarinet and cello, for piano and violin, for piano and cello, for piano and a solo wind instrument, for piano four-hands and piano solo, for harp;7 masses, {4} oratorios, operas and other works for voice with orchestral accompaniment, partsongs and canons; folksong arrangements for one

voice (sometimes several voices and a small chorus) with piano trio accompaniment; lieder and songs with piano accompaniment. Note, however, the abundance within each genre: nine symphonies, sixteen string quartets, thirty-two piano sonatas, and so on. Every genre comprises quite a few pieces. What a wealth of work! And all this with severe physical affliction, which allowed the master to live a mere 57 years! Mendelssohn, too, composed five symphonies, seven overtures and other works for orchestra; a concerto for violin and orchestra; an octet, two quintets, seven quartets, a piano sextet, three piano quartets, and two piano trios; an overture for wind instruments, concert pieces for clarinet and basset horn, piano concertos, countless solo piano pieces, six organ sonatas; two oratorios, cantatas, psalm settings, motets, operas, partsongs and songs for voice and piano. He achieved this wealth in a lifespan of 38 years. It is unnecessary to consider here the life's work of, for example, a Haydn or a Schubert. These are, as I have said, thoroughly described in the systematic catalogues of their works.8 But, as we can read in their biographies, all these masters additionally had taxing duties to fulfil, such as conducting, performing in public, giving lessons in public and private schools; and still they found time to write long and witty letters, to engage with society, to undertake concert tours, and so on. How was all this possible! Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 36 HEINRICH SCHENKER In this respect, Brahms was the last of the masters who possessed a comprehensive mastery of the entire art of music. He was still capable of writing four symphonies, two serenades, two overtures, variations and dances for orchestra; a double concerto for violin and orchestra, a violin concerto, two string sextets, two string quintets, a {5} clarinet quintet, three string quartets, two piano concertos, a piano quintet, three piano quartets, five piano trios (including one with horn and one with clarinet), two clarinet sonatas, three violin sonatas, two cello sonatas; pieces for two pianos and for piano four hands, sonatas and countless pieces for piano solo, pieces for organ, arrangements for piano, studies, 51 exercises, Hungarian dances; and finally vocal music: ten opus numbers for mixed chorus, each opus of course comprising several pieces (thus for example five motets); Fest- und Gedenkspru che for eight voices, partsongs for female chorus and for male chorus; numerous vocal works with orchestra including A German Requiem, Song of Destiny, Song of Triumph, Song of the Fates, etc.; a burial song for chorus and wind instruments; songs for female choir accompanied by two horns and harp; two songs for alto voice, viola and piano; further, vocal music accompanied by the organ, vocal music with piano accompaniment including choral music and the enchanting Liebeslieder waltzes for four solo voices, duets and solo songs: 260 lieder! What an eternal treasure for the nation! And his life measured only 64 years. The Output of Composers after Beethoven [31/80]9 Let us compare these pictures with the life's accomplishments of the other so-called `masters', for example Berlioz. Four symphonies, ten overtures, and eight smaller instrumental works are all there is in the way of absolute instrumental music. The vocal music comprises seven sacred works, six secular

cantatas, songs for chorus with orchestra and for one or two voices, songs with piano, five operas, and arrangements of all sorts: in any event, still a respectable output for a life of 66 years. It is only a pity that none of his works, not a single one, possesses that high perfection of, for example, a work by Beethoven. Similarly in the music of Liszt and Wagner, whole categories of musical productivity are missing: in the case of Liszt, for example, the various forms of chamber music; with Wagner, virtually all instrumental music. But what applies to Berlioz applies no less to the {6} two last-named masters. Their outputs are still, in fact, colossal achievements when one compares them in particular with what the present, swellheaded generation has to offer. Just take a look at, for instance, the total artistic output of the celebrated symphonist Anton Bruckner.10 He wrote nine symphonies (though not a single one that could be compared with one by Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn or Brahms for being thoroughly worked out). A Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 37 single piece of chamber music: a string quintet! A single piano piece, `Remembrance' (!). Admittedly, this is compensated by a Te Deum for chorus, soloists and orchestra; three masses, a psalm and other sacred music in several sections; and a few secular choral works of a smaller scope. During this time 76 years elapsed.11 [31/34] Now I can safely leave it to the reader to survey the output of the socalled moderns, our contemporary artists. Without having been a leading genius, Anton n Dvor a k may at least, it seems, be regarded as the last whose work, in common with the true masters, shows the trait of variety that I have just described. What the remaining figures can offer is, to begin with, already too little from a quantitative point of view, to say nothing of quality. I declare: today's artists, in effect, write too little; they are insufficiently productive, whether in relation to what we now know of the accomplishments of true geniuses or truly great talents, or simply considered in absolute terms. But do not think that, if I base my objections on their limited productivity in this apparently superficial manner, I am disposed to measuring the work of the human intellect by the yard: I will shortly take the opportunity of basing my objection on yet other, more organic, grounds. Concerning this lack of productivity, we must be all the more amazed by the fact that the present generation, as it arrogantly proclaims, actually works without any preconceptions. If the artists of today are so proud of having freed themselves from all tradition and no longer feel obliged to cart about with them any technical ballast from the past, why is their productivity not at the same time even more fluid and greater than that which we have already seen from the masters? If, as it seems, one has merely to follow one's own individuality, {7} or, as is often said, merely to work by following one's nose, how does it come about that such lack of preconceptions which, as is well known, has become the proud fanfare of all contemporary composers' guilds and individual `masters' among the `moderns' promotes productivity so little, so very little? Should this misfortune actually be blamed on other things, e.g. on social causes, as those who are interrogated about it are quick to reply? I do not think so. One merely has to read the biographies of the classical masters to learn that the

circumstances of their daily lives was in truth no better than those of modern artists, if not seldom even worse. And how are we to account, moreover, for the other fact, namely, that today's artists have become so very monotonous in the assignments they set themselves? Lacking in most, if not all, the requisite skills for the task, they begin their artistic output mostly with `symphonic poems' and then devote their entire life to this genre, occasionally interspersing a few short songs for charity's sake. What is it, then, that prevents them from occasionally writing A German Requiem, as a Brahms has done? A Song of Triumph? And Liebeslieder waltzes? And, last but not least, `Hungarian dances'? Did not a Beethoven also Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 38 HEINRICH SCHENKER write `bagatelles' and `romances'? Did he not arrange folksongs? Did he not compose marches and polonaises? Did not Schubert compose alongside proud songs and symphonies also the most magical marches, la ndler, waltzes and a divine Divertissement hongrois? Did not Bach devote himself to small works, alongside his passion settings and cantatas? Did he not write short inventions and preludes, alongside the Well-tempered Clavier? I therefore ask once more: what in Heaven's name has happened that today's generation behaves so arrogantly and grandly, working only on symphonies or symphonic poems? There would certainly be no objection to this, if only they had a certain amount of artistic worth a tiny amount, a very tiny amount! Why do people of today not sense that, for example, a good piano sonata is still rather better than, say, a bad opera or a bad symphonic poem? How has our concern for style, for musical culture and perfection not only in the largest sense, but also in the smallest become lost? {8} And when I consider further that, for example, the symphonies or piano sonatas of Beethoven and, in recent times, the compositions of Brahms are, work for work, individual and different in both technique and expression, then I must ask again: why is it that all symphonic poems, moreover, look so shockingly like one another, even those by different composers? Seen from this standpoint, it sounds of course all the more grotesquely comic that the little dwarves12 I beg your pardon, the `masters' of today make fun of even a Mendelssohn or a Brahms, and are especially fond of criticising the latter of disproportionate straining in the understanding of art, of `reflections', as if, conversely, to write so little without reflection, as the moderns indeed do, would not actually by itself alone involve a logical contradiction of the facts and the concept. If Mr X or Mr Z gives himself airs that he is capable of composing on the spot, why does he not write twice as much as Brahms and twice as well? To derive, however, the larger number of artistic works merely from a relaxation of willpower and an increase of working hours, is this not the greatest, the most pointless foolishness? Perhaps this idiocy is believed today, for precisely those reasons, but I ask: who would not gladly make the effort to bring to fruition a Ninth Symphony, if it can indeed be brought to fruition by hard work? Did not Wagner shed so many tears over this score, and would he not gladly have liked to create a similar work? But did he in fact compose a Ninth Symphony? And was not Mozart called, during his lifetime, `a remarkable man for every philosophical friend of music'? And merely on account of his Piano Quartet inG

minor!13 Was not Beethoven regarded as a brooding, reflective artist? How ridiculous: a master who effortlessly put on the market five to eight large-scale works, year after year, including some that he actually performed in public himself! He, who put together six quartets in a single set, Op. 18, not one of them of a lower order than the others, and who dedicated to Count Razumovsky the three quartets of Op. 59, which are of truly symphonic dimensions! Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 39 And so I believe that it is finally time to lay these nonsensical {9} conclusions to rest. For in fact the chronically recurring complaint about excessive reflection, actually directed at highly esteemed masters such as Brahms, is at all times based only on a false conclusion. Anyone who takes himself as the point of comparison will, in fact, make a mistake when making a disparaging judgement of a master. Deep inside him, his own vanity and a comic megalomania flatter him with the treacherous thought: `Surely I could also have done this, had I wished to exert myself as much as he had.' Once a celebrated Viennese symphonist,14 when asked by a singer why he did not write beautiful lieder, as Dr Brahms did, answered: `If I wanted to, I could. But I don't want to'. Now, this anecdote may in the end have been true, to a certain extent. But it may be taken to be no less true that the same symphonist would often have not even understood the content of the texts that Brahms set to music. It would therefore be merely an act of justice to recognise Brahms, the last of the masters, as simultaneously the most fluent genius of our age, whether or not his works tax the average listener too much. Is it so very difficult to understand that he was an artist whom nature blessed more generously with the gift of a special understanding of the most subtle technical problems and all the finer effects, which art makes possible, and that by contrast the other composer lacked the sensitive nerves that are required for this? Was not indeed Haydn, for example, the son of a simple cartwright, i.e. someone who basically had no literary training? And yet what technical-constructive laws he conceived for the art of music! By contrast, fate did not wish to allow another composer with a shortfall in literary education Bruckner, for instance to perform an equal act of grace for our art. Conversely, however, even the high literary education that we find in Berlioz or Liszt was incapable of leading to any positive results in the realm of music. From this one can only see what must in general be recognised as self-evident, that in the remaining matters of art neither birth nor cultural surroundings, neither education nor reflection is decisive: what matters is, simply, a specific nature-given ability. One need only consider the field of literature to see that the same also applies to poetry: a productivity of the true geniuses, verging on the astonishing, joined with an enchanting variety of artistic tasks, in short, accomplishments that could never have been achieved by reflection alone. One need only think of the life's work of a {10} Goethe, a Schiller! The real reason, however, why the great masters were so productive and at the same time created such consummate works of art lies, as I have said, simply in their secure command of the technical means, just as, conversely, the decline may be sought in the lack of any technique today. Ah, the moderns do not have an

inkling of all the things that must be learned in art for them to be justified being regarded as honest artists. Here it does not matter whether this is achieved in the swift tempo of a genius or in toilsome work over a period of years or decades. Thus Goethe once said:15 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 40 HEINRICH SCHENKER I have tried many things: drawn, engraved copper, Painted in oils; I also produced much in clay, But nothing endured, I neither learned nor accomplished. Only a single talent did I bring near to mastery: Writing in German. And so, as an unhappy poet I unfortunately am wasting life and art in the worst of all materials. So, merely `near to mastery'? What would the moderns say to this? Is the German language for them, too, only a `worst of all materials'? Oh, if only that were the case! Later on in the epigrams we also find the following: The German learns and pursues all the arts: to each one He can show an appealing talent if he applies himself to it diligently. Only one art does he practise without wanting to learn: the art of writing. Thus he dabbles about with it: Friends, we have experienced this. And we are still experiencing it in music. And here is one more: What did fate want of me? It would be foolish To ask this; for generally it does not want much of many. It would have been successful in making a poet Had not speech shown itself to be insuperable. And let us hear what Schiller has to say, in a letter to Goethe of 1795: For every hour of courage and faith there are ten in which I am despondent, and do not know what I should think of myself. This much have I learned from experience: that only strict determination of thoughts assists me in gaining facility; otherwise I believed the opposite and feared hardness and rigidity. {11} Does it not follow unambiguously from this that poetry contains, among other things, elements that can be mastered only by diligent effort and inspired experience if a flawless work of art is to be created? It is the same in music. A Handel passes sentence on Gluck but why? Mozart and Beethoven pass sentence on so many contemporary composers but why? And was not also Brahms often severe enough in his judgement of the younger generation of composers but why? Is this all based merely on caprice, or perhaps on the fact that they could not understand those who wrote differently? Certainly not. Rather, their judgements were based on technical mistakes that could be pinpointed quite precisely in the works of the composers concerned; of course, posterity was not immediately conscious of these failings, though they mercilessly soured the enjoyment of the work.16 Thus in music, too, there is a mechanical, purely technical something, a workmanlike ingredient, which each and every artist must possess. Unfortunately, the acquisition of these technical elements is not merely a mechanical act, as one might perhaps like to expect. Although it appears to be given objectively, so that no one can bypass it, whether they will or not, instinct

is in truth accessible only to the eyes and ears of those who are in any event led Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 41 and compelled by inner instinct and artistic imagination. Thus it happens that the mere appreciation of the technical points of a work of genius requires a recreative spirit and that, likewise, they are revealed to those who are already on their trail. That alone is the actual meaning of Schumann's famous dictum, `Only genius can understand genius'. That humanity does not have the nature of a genius, may certainly be [accepted] without [argument]. To use an analogy from chemistry, the geniuses represent to a certain degree elements that are indissoluble in the great waters of humanity. I can therefore say with confidence that surely not a trace, not an atom, of the works of, say, a Beethoven was known at that time, and that things will never be different until the end of time. It may be noted, in passing, that this very indissolubility explains why geniuses must always end up in a materially unfavourable position compared to their contemporaries. In a genius's lifetime, a publisher will take {12} a purely businesslike standpoint, even when he is convinced of the force of the works. `I cannot give away my assets', he is accustomed to reasoning, `on something that is not going to show a profit for the next thirty to forty years; I want to take in the profits myself. Also, I am not responsible for the pleasures of my children, who should rather pay for this themselves'. Now these children either are not endowed with capital assets or have not even yet arrived in the world; therefore, when they do come of age, they cannot offer a fee to the composer who has provided them with such pleasures, since in most cases he will have long been dead. At best, a monument is the useless honorarium for the dead genius. Thus things stand in a financial state of suspension between two generations: the older does not want to bear material responsibility for the younger. There is a most marvellous irony to consider when afterwards, such a genius, who had been deprived of earnings for two generations, himself proves to be an earning power of the first rank in the strictest sense of the national economy.17 Just reckon the monetary value of, for instance, the works of Mozart, how his shares on the world market have risen since his death, and you will have to admit that the poor musician, who in the last years of his life had to beg from a Herr Puchberg18 ten guilders here, fifty there, is a respectable millionaire, who would have the right to look down proudly upon all those businessmen who regarded their handful of wretched guilders as of materially higher value, in effect, than the whole of Mozart with all his works. For him, ten guilders were a manifest reality. But that a Mozart has a million times more than these ten guilders in himself, that is something the good Puchberg surely does not know. And how many millions is a Beethoven worth?! How many publishing houses did he make wealthy? How much money did he put in circulation by virtue of conductors and virtuosos paid handsomely for performing his works and being paid in perpetuity! Consider what capital force Richard Wagner represents! He, who in his own times was constantly in financial straits, could today negotiate royalty payments for his works with the Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 42 HEINRICH SCHENKER

largest banking houses. It is indeed high time that artists, too, were regarded from a purely economic standpoint as a kind of wealth producer, {13} and who may be differentiated from the merchants and financiers of all sorts only from the character of the wares they produce. What we cannot, however, expect of the world, should this not be demanded all the more of the fellow-artists of the genius? If we must forgive the world at large [. . .] for standing always in a distant relationship to the ingeniousness of a work, should we, for this reason, forgive the artists as well, who themselves show so little concern for the finer points of their art? What an enormous sum of technical experience had already been drawn up by our masters in sonata form, for instance, and made manifest in their works. And yet there were in fact only two masters who, in their turn, were capable of understanding their significance: Mendelssohn and Brahms! The situation is identical with regard to the application of the cyclic principle to the orchestra, i.e. to the symphony. Here it is again only Mendelssohn and Brahms who were in a position to receive the monumental technique of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. It is, however, this very misunderstanding of cyclic form, as the highest representation of absolute music, that I hold principally responsible for the decline of the art of music in the nineteenth century,19 which the last two masters of those just mentioned were hardly able to stem. Perhaps the misunderstanding may be ultimately be forgiven [. . .] on account of the all-toohappy fate of German art, which bestowed the succession of Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven at much too quick a pace. Hardly had the inheritance of one master been assimilated than the next amassed his treasures; and so this overabundance continued, so that it is only now that we can begin to make an inroad into the world of these masters. Let us make an attempt, then. Cyclic Form That `sonata' is an entirely noncommittal, neutral term is something we have known for a long time. Sonare means simply `to sound'; thus a sonata is nothing more than a piece that sounds. One need only think of `ballade', `intermezzo', `overture', `march' etc. to understand the difference. In the latter cases, in fact, the title also functions as a programme for the content; this is not the case with `sonata', and no more so with `symphony', which can be defined simply as a sounding piece for several instruments. {14} Even with regard to the number of movements, the composer has complete freedom of choice. We know of sonatas in one movement by Domenico Scarlatti, in two movements by, for example, Haydn and Beethoven, in three and four movements by Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and others. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 43 With respect to the character of the movements, the greatest freedom and variety also reign. First movements, for instance, are not always animated; often enough we find a slow movement at the beginning, also variations, minuets (for instance, Beethoven's Op. 54 in F). It may at most be true that allegros predominate as first movements, but that can be explained quite

simply: is it not natural for a composer to seek to gain the listener's active interest, thereby preparing a favourable basis for the engagement of special moods such as are represented in the middle movements? Who would otherwise enter into company, all of a sudden, with the unveiled expression of a special, exceptional mood, e.g. of resignation or world-weariness? [. . .] Is it rather not more likely that someone in the company of strangers would first make an effort to win them over by leading a lively and agreeable conversation and, only later, when a more intimate and reassuring relationship has been affirmed, dare to speak of things especially close to his heart? This is entirely true of the composer. He will not make easy work of introducing the listener to the more exclusive mood of a slow movement: a stronger personal credit, or a stronger art, is required for this. In general, composers are right to warm up the listener with lively allegro music. But now I ask: if the problem of the first movement is based on naturalness, can one say that the allegro character of the first movement belongs to the form only in terms of a schematic plan? The inner working of the structure of a cyclic movement is based [. . .] on the principle of three-part construction. As I already mentioned in Harmonielehre, 5, musical ideas are in a sense divisible by two or three; this divisibility may be applied to a single theme, or to the entire movement. If a movement of instrumental music can be divided into three parts, it has cyclic form. The three parts being: the first three thematic groups, the {15} development, and the recapitulation. Cyclic form is based not only on the three-part construction of the entire movement but also and this must be emphasised above all [. . .] on the special three-part construction of the first part of the movement. Thus if one finds a piece of music whose first part already shows a three-part construction, then it has cyclic form and whatever its title may be then becomes a secondary matter. Apart from the fact that the essence of three-part construction is incorrectly judged, it is moreover a mistake to conclude that there is a schematic plan in sonata form. For the three-part construction is not present for sake of the form in general; rather it is its own specific organisation of the musical content, something quite different from two-part construction. For just because they may share a three-part construction, sonata movements do not all have the same form. The situation is rather as follows: to speak about sonata form as a specific form, and indeed because of this three-part construction, is just as futile [. . .] as to bring to mind the trivial fact that, for example, Negroes, Caucasians, Malays etc. are all forms of human beings. It is good to know, once Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 44 HEINRICH SCHENKER and for all, that a human being is not a bird, but it is much more useful to speak about the differences between races, nations and peoples, rather than of the discovery [. . .] of the concept of man. Likewise, it is much more profitable to speak about the differences in form among individual three-part cyclic works, rather than referring continually to their most decisive feature, three-part construction, which degrades the form to a schematic plan. I believe that, had musicians after Beethoven's death looked into the organisation of specific works rather than always gaping at the grand three-part design of exposition,

development and recapitulation, it would surely not have occurred to them to speak of a classical formal scheme for the sonata. For to repeat once again: it is more a question of the individual way in which three-part form is revealed, than of the principle of three-part construction, which is an immanent principle of musical shaping related to two-part construction. [31/43 verso] What absolves our earliest and latest masters of sonata form of the suspicion that they started from a preconceived scheme is simply the fact that, in their time, there were no theory books that could have led them astray. However, the impulse toward three-part construction was, above all, something spontaneous for Emanuel Bach, in which nature and art played an equal role. With the eye of a genius, he had perceived the artistic effect of three-part construction and applied it to his music. And if a Haydn was able to sense this effect more tellingly, in order to discover many more new constructions, then this is merely the free act of the genius, an artistic understanding of three-part construction, not faith in a scheme. Already the `first group' reveals to us the masters' preference for the technique of group construction, that is, the putting together of several individual ideas, of which I had just spoken in Harmonielehre, 129.20 What one commonly calls a `first subject' or `first theme' is only rarely an individual idea, but much more often an actual group. {17} The [masters] even tend to assemble each individual theme, i.e. the individual component of the group, from a variety of material. This very manner of assembly, from a variety of contrasting materials, gives the theme perforce a new appeal, an appeal that could [hardly] have come about if the theme were made of merely uniform material. Apart from the fact that such an appeal must involve the player or listener with greater animation, this technique at the same time reveals an act of intuitive precautionary wisdom, in that a kind of capital is laid down, from the interest on which even the middle section of the development is paid out in the most natural way. The examples of group construction are already given in the theoretical section, [Harmonielehre,] 129. At this point I should like to add to those examples just one more, from Mozart's Sonata in C major, K. 309. Here we find a group comprising two themes, which are most marvellously connected by two transitional bars; as far as their technical value is concerned, they are Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 45 perhaps without equal in the entire music literature. The bars are, namely, the end of the first theme and at the same time the transition to the second and enable, moreover, the second theme to begin most gracefully on chord IV:21 The first group of themes is followed by the modulation section, the part that is called upon to join the first group to the second. The technique associated with this section was developed by the masters in such a delicate fashion and, more precisely, because it can be created only from the greatest wealth of thematic material, as indeed only the masters made their hallmark that perhaps it must be described as simply inimitable. The danger is always at hand that the composer will lose too much to the mechanical function of the modulation section, which consists in arriving at a new key. Vi=22 A modern

composer might perhaps also ask: what is the point of another key? To answer this question is certainly not difficult: the significance even of a key can only be made sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the contrast of another, just as one does not want to remain with a single theme; rather, a development leading from one theme to other, new themes should take place. So the fact that a development takes place but at its best only by means of a resplendent evolution of key is made plausible to the ear. In addition, the return to the principal key, from which one had started, attains its rightful sound only if in the meantime one had lingered elsewhere, namely, in a different key. To use a trivial example by way of analogy: if one leaves one's home with the intention of returning, then the very act of leaving is all the more essential to a feeling for the point of departure. {19} Nevertheless, the masters were always able to arrange things in such a way that the very mechanics of the modulation problem receded entirely into the background before the charm of one or more new themes, which they strewed like flowers upon the path of modulation. The sheer joy of the presence 10 14 Ex. 1 Mozart, Sonata in C, K. 309, first movement, bars 1017 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 46 HEINRICH SCHENKER of a new theme made it impossible to perceive the path of modulation as a mere mechanical act. One could, however, continue to think that herein just another schematic plan was at play, if the muscle of the modulation section always lies between the first and second theme groups in a cyclic form. Did it have to be this way? If so, why? For sake of the form? =de It should not be seen as a compulsion of form, but rather a compulsion of nature, if the classical composers chose to proceed along those lines; and yet what is to be stressed more than the presence of the modulation section at all is the great freedom with which they did proceed in this manner. So great and varied is the latter, that it is absolutely impossible to determine a rule for the technique of modulation. Here I shall give just a few possibilities. 1) The modulation takes its continuation from the consequent phrase of the main theme, whether or not this continuation forms a group. See, for example, Mozart's Piano Trio in G major, where the theme is designed so broadly that a group was unnecessary.23 One can also look merely at the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 2 No. 1, or Op. 101, where the first theme is very short and the consequent phrase immediately sets to work on the modulation.24 In such cases as these, the consequent phrase by no means loses the character of a consequent as a result of being charged with the modulation. The consequent merely entwines itself with the actual modulation section to form a unity, as it were.25 2) Alternatively, the modulation proceeds from the consequent phrase of the second theme belonging to the group, a technique that presupposes group construction in the main theme. In such a case, the antecedent phrase of the second theme is reckoned as part of the first group on account of being in the

same key, but the consequent must already be called upon for the modulation section.26 This is what happens, for instance, in the last movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 101 where, after the main theme is finished, things proceed in the manner described here. Of special interest is the Rondo from Mozart's G minor Piano Quartet, where the first group is in fact completely set off, and only after a rest do we get the start of a theme whose consequent will be called upon to transmit the modulation. One could, if one likes, {20} call this a third theme, reckoning from the start of the piece; in most cases of this sort, however, this function would fall to the second. [3)] Often the modulation section is introduced after the conclusion of the principal theme without further ado; and thus it lacks the character of a consequent phrase. This happens often enough when the masters actually place the principal motive itself, or at least a part of it, at the start of this section so that, beyond the complete two-part construction of the principal subject, the peculiar impression of a consequent phrase with a special effect is suggested. And, indeed, the start of the main theme and that of the modulation section want to give the impression of being related to one Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 47 another as antecedent and consequent phrase. Thus for example the Andante of Mozart's Piano Trio in C major,27 and the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Trio in C minor.28 [4)] The modulation section can also be made up of rhetorical progressions; this procedure rules out a clearly defined two-part construction in the antecedent and consequent phases. Consider in this respect the first movement of Haydn's Piano Trio No. 11 (in the Peters Edition), etc.29 This much can be said: the most dangerous point in a cyclic composition lies in the modulation section. It is here that one can decide who has inventiveness and who does not, who is a master and who is not. Here the honour of imagination is saved, as is the honour of form, which can never be regarded as a schematic plan so long as it is possible to infuse with spirit a process that is basically rather mechanical. I am almost inclined to advise, when judging the worth of a composition, always to start by looking at the modulation section and only then, secondarily, to see whether the composer understands group construction. So long as the modulation section is successful, one may confidently be curious about the work. If it is unsuccessful, then one can put the work to one side: the magnificence of the themes themselves will never, in the long run, disguise from us the fact that here we have merely the filling up of a schematic plan. {21} The modulation section is followed by the second group of themes, which present-day nomenclature calls the `secondary subject' [Seitensatz], secondary group, or cantabile group [Gesangsgruppe]. Here, too, we encounter individual themes as well as groups. What may be observed above all, however, is how the modulation runs its course and how the second group (or second theme) is related to it. Often it is the case that the modulation section finishes on the dominant and the second group begins with the same dominant chord, for example, in Beethoven's first Piano Sonata [Op. 2 No. 1] and the finale of his Piano Sonata Op. 101. But things can be different; that is, the modulation

section may finish on a harmony other than the dominant, and still other harmonies may be used to open the second group. This was, moreover, already discussed in the theoretical part (Harmonielehre, 131).30 In any event, the convergence of the end-point of the modulation section with the beginning of the secondary group is among the most interesting problems of a three-part composition, but also among the most difficult ones. As a great master can, by the creation of a new theme, free himself of the mechanical difficulties associated with the procedure of modulation, so in a similar way, where it is a question of interconnecting the modulation section and the second group, he can free himself of the danger of a potpourri-like mechanism by great inventiveness with regard to ending the modulation section and beginning the second group. [31/45] Even for the design of the third and last part, i.e. the closing theme or closing group, there are in general no binding regulations. But, compared to the second group, an even heavier responsibility is verily placed upon it in the Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 48 HEINRICH SCHENKER continuity of the three-part construction. For the latter is, in a higher sense, comparable to a bar in triple time, where the first element is strong (that is, accentuated), the other two weak (that is, less strongly accentuated); likewise the strongest emphasis in the three-part construction of a cyclically designed work falls on the first group, whereas the second group and closing theme appear less accentuated. The slighter degree of emphasis is revealed in most cases by the fact that the closing group is customarily kept shorter than the previous sections. It thus takes the form of a kind of narrow outlet, so to speak, for the first and second groups. In the closing group, there is also the greatest freedom with regard to the starting harmony. But often enough, it is so closely intertwined with the second group that the end of the latter and the beginning of the former are indistinguishable, as, for example, in the last movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 101.31 From the above account of three-part form, one may be inclined to derive what appears to be a self-evident postulate: that the themes of the second and third groups would have to be entirely new. Nevertheless, the masters did not always hold firmly to such a principle, for often enough we encounter themes from the first group in the second or third. Such a continuity of motivic material might mislead us into rejecting three-part construction in this particular case. That, however, would be a mistake. For without doubt a change of key has taken place, and this alone provides sufficient grounds for themes that stand upon the foundation of the new key for despite any similarity to the principal theme, they may still exhibit sufficient differences to be regarded as entirely independent themes. In other words, the {23} new key as well as the modifications to the theme will necessitate the assumption of a second, respectively third, group, by which the three-part construction, too, is anchored. This applies especially to the closing theme, which, even more often than the second group, is connected thematically to the first and nevertheless, merely on the grounds of the space allotted to it, must indeed be regarded as a third theme.32

The criterion of tonality is, in fact, decisive also when the parts of the form flow into one another in such a way that a differentiation between them is simply impossible. Compare, for example, the conjoining of the modulation section with the second group in Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 101, first movement, or the lack of differentiation in the closing theme of the same composer's Piano Trio Op. 70 No. 1, first movement. [31/53]33 And there is more to this: there are cyclic compositions in which doubts can arise even about the presence of a second or third group at all. For example, who could determine with complete precision the second group of themes in the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 101, or the closing theme of the first movement of the same composer's Piano Trio Op. 70 No. 1? Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 49 [development section: handwritten text] [31/56] The tripartite first section, understood as part of the higher-level three-part construction of the entire movement, is followed by the so-called development. It generally has as its mission to create the necessary tension between the first and third sections, by analogy with the middle section, b, of an a1ba2 song form. But since, as already underscored in Harmonielehre, [130],34 it must clarify itself in its own terms, then everything must be offered in such a way that it indeed becomes clear in its own terms, without the aid of repetition. Hence the numerous and rapid parallelisms in this section, and above all the technique of returning to themes and thematic elements from the first part, their development and clarification. The art of association celebrates its greatest triumphs here; and insofar as the themes of the first part are assembled, it is the individual components of these that are highlighted in their own terms. This explains, moreover, why the word `development' is used to designate this part; it refers to the technique described here. But our masters were never trapped into supposing that the sole purpose of the development lay in the motivic working-over of previously given themes. Often enough, they return to the first and original meaning of the middle section, and indeed when the themes in the first part had at any rate been sufficiently elucidated and developed in all their elements by frequent repetition. Far from treating the middle section in a merely schematic way, they instead felt compelled in such cases instead to introduce entirely new themes, rather than develop the old material still further something which would necessarily have led to monotony. One might ask whether it might not be advisable finally to drop the term `development', since the word itself so easily gives rise to the impression of a one-sided technique, and thus a schematic approach. [development section : typewritten text] [31/53 (ctd)] The first section, which thus comes to an end, is followed by the development.

It has as its mission to create a certain tension between the first and third sections, by analogy with song form. Since the development must clarify itself, by means of itself, as already [explained] in 130, so everything must be presented in such a way that it can become clear without the assistance of a second statement. For this reason one finds in this part numerous, rapid parallelisms; short themes clarify themselves by repetition, etc.; perhaps, however, the best means of avoiding incomprehensibility in the development is to return to the themes of the first part. Thus the requirement of clarity alone leads to the fact that the 35 {24}36 development section is occupied with material that had been treated in the exposition. Thus the need to see the earlier themes and motives in a new light contributes in a beneficial way along the same lines. [31/52]37 For if it is the task of the development to shed light on the motives of the first part, by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 50 HEINRICH SCHENKER transformation and all sorts of recombination, then it is practical as can easily be understood to provide at the outset a quantity of individual characteristics, of various small units, in the core of a theme, for the very intention of their future utilisation in the development. Consider, however, where things must necessarily lead if one is so uninspired as to build the main theme on monotonous material and, moreover, to let the development section be soaked up by this monotony. I shudder when I see this mistake perpetrated by choice in modern cyclic works. And yet against this mistake a remedy is already provided in the classical works! For the masters, when they formed main themes that were less the result of being put together from smaller elements, liked to introduce an entirely new theme in the development section to avoid that very monotony of motivic material. This is based on an entirely natural principle: that which is expressed clearly enough in the main theme by repetition or contrast which is precisely the case

when the theme is not put together from smaller elements does not need further light and clarification, that is, it does not have to be chewed over to the point of being tiresome. If on the other hand the main theme has been assembled, then the individual components from which it has been assembled are in need of subsequent illumination, so that the development section is merely fulfilling its moral obligation when it elaborates them. {25} The last phase of the development is probably one of the most compositionally demanding problems of the entire form: specifically, it must somehow be made clear to the listener that the turbulent forces of the development have been extinguished and the recapitulation is close at hand. In other words, in the final phase of the development, the recapitulation must, so to speak, already hang in the air. The means that the masters used to convey this can in no way be reduced to artistic concepts that can be technically defined: they are mainly of a psychological nature and are based on an almost divinatory gift on the secure feeling that this or that device will work its intended effect upon the listener. These wonders of [. . .] confidence may be appreciated and learned only in each individual work. Each of these wonders is a new one! Basically, the task of the recapitulation is to repeat the content of the first section in full. It is however remarkable that even practical musicians, even those of the greatest reputation, with the countless recapitulations they have in front of them to read or play or teach, have failed to learn a cardinal principle, and that even someone like Bu low, through insufficient understanding, unfortunately lets himself get carried away by making the recapitulation resemble the first section a tout prix, as can be seen at many points in his editions of the Beethoven sonatas.38 Nevertheless, [. . .] the principle of diversity and variety applies here, too. This explains why the masters liked to reproduce the content of the first part with all sorts of delays, variations, expansions and contractions; every caprice is appropriate, diversity alone is reason enough for these changes. To look for deeper reasons is entirely futile; for how could one find a reason that was even deeper than that most artistic and natural requirement of variety and diversity? If someone of limited intelligence Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 51 must forever repeat himself in the concepts and words he uses, precisely because he lacks a larger world of concepts, so it is difficult for a person of imagination to indulge in similar repetitions: the richness of his thought itself draws forth ever new variations, new images, and he must obey this natural drive, whether or not he is conscious of it. {26} But how the three-part form that I have described here had to prevent music categorically from being fertilised by programmatic perspectives, by material associations with the real world, is utterly incomprehensible. Just as little as a two-part form excludes a programmatic idea, so a three-part form, i.e. the sonata or the

symphony, does not rule out a programme merely on account of its three-part construction. In fact, over the course of the past centuries the masters have amply demonstrated the possibility of connecting the programmatic with two- or three-part form, i.e. with form in general. One may confidently reckon as programmatic music not simply those works officially so designated, by titles and inscriptions, but rather the major part of the masterworks in general, since seldom do the masters create a work of significance without some definable impetus from the outside world, even if this is not absolutely essential and the impetus may be quantitatively small. It is just that they have the instinct to feel two- and threepart construction at all times as internal and unalterable house rules of nature, and as such never to deny them for sake of the programme. And rightly so. For if, for example, the taking of nourishment and periods of rest are thematic principles of an organism, who would confess to being able to live with programmatic intention against these principles? Thus it is also with music. Even dialectically it may be shown that form, so long as it is not arbitrary but organically necessary, has nothing to do with whatever associations of an extra-musical nature that may have been deposited in the musical content. So long as the musical associations are satisfied, first and foremost, then all sorts of other associations can run their course alongside them. They elevate even the psychological reality of the music, without in any way encroaching too closely upon it. Anyone who does not concede its own laws has only himself to hold to account for the fact that his work can, for sure, have only very small artistic worth, merely the worth of a potpourri, even if he grants it the proud title of `symphonic poem' or the like and is actually so arrogant as to think that he has created an art-work of high rank. {27} Of many works by, for example, Emanuel Bach, Sebastian Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms, the nature of the impetus at work has, moreover, been brought to light at a later stage. But one could have believed it even without these documents. If, then, programmatic associations are indeed not excluded by form in itself, and rather their utilisation signifies for the artist at most the heightening of psychological relevance, then conversely the connectedness of form, its synthesis, represents precisely the most vital worth for art. In synthesis is contained the basic condition of art. If necessity leads to Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 52 HEINRICH SCHENKER abbreviation and to stylisation, already from the nature of limited human creativity in general, then this artistic activity, verily to find a selection of motives and to bind these together, can indeed be understood only as synthesis. But apart from its necessity as a matter of principle, synthesis additionally brings to music the inestimable advantage, that it makes musical legislation possible in the first place. Just as in the past, in the most learned

form of fugue, musical laws were discovered, determined and incontrovertibly demonstrated, so, too, the synthesis of the freer forms, i.e. of twoand three-part form, leads to new laws.39 By this I mean to say that only within a fully achieved synthesis can a new effect, i.e. a new musical law, be asserted and demonstrated. Synthesis, then, may be thought of as the litmus test for the value of the new discovery. It is thus simply the case, as is the measure of the value of all [. . .] and cultural accomplishments for human society in general, where it is namely the synthesis alone that decides the value. Just as the values at hand fall away when they are detached from their purpose in society, so little do musical discoveries have any meaning outside an apposite musical synthesis. As it would be impossible to give a complete account of the limitless wealth of possibilities, I should like now to draw upon a few concepts regarding artistic synthesis. {28} Within a synthesis there arises, in an entirely natural way, the grouping of bars, i.e. their ordering and arrangement in stressed and unstressed or, if you prefer, strong and weak bars. The basic form of the ordering of bars is again two- or three-part, seldom five-part. Composite forms are based on simpler ones. The same applies to the individual beats within the bar itself. Now if, within a specific ordering of bars, the composer accentuates an unstressed beat or an unstressed bar, then this accentuation achieves its effect as contrast from, and only from, the background of synthesis. (That is to say: if we did not [have] the customary ordering of bars and groups as accentuated (strong) and unaccentuated (weak), then the accentuation of a weak bar or beat would be incapable of creating any effect.) Such an accentuation of weak elements would then signify, with respect to connectedness, a return to nature, which lurks behind all art. This would result in an increased supply of nature and art, whereby art is represented by the synthesis of the grouping of bars, nature by the accentuation of the weak element. To bring variety to the statements of individual themes, the masters liked to let their motives proceed from weak beats. The performer should never shy away from marking out the beginning of a motive in some way, lest it be swallowed up in the unaccentedness of a weak beat. A light emphasis, a light animation of the weak beat will always be entirely

appropriate here. On this point, the author of A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation has expressed himself as follows, with regard to a survey of Emanuel Bach's keyboard works (p. 10, numbered point 3): 40 {28b} But even elsewhere, i.e. even within the motive, they like to accentuate the weak bar and weak beats, usually prescribing them with the markings Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 53 ^, sf, fp, mfp,<>,<, and so on. How Schubert, for example, delights in this type of accentuation, e.g. in the Waltz Op. 18a No. 6, and the String Quartet in A minor (p. 15),41 [as do] Mozart and Beethoven. Apart from the effect of variety, which cannot be praised too highly, [. . .] A more intensive effect is made by the accentuation of weak bars, e.g. Schubert's Op. 9 No. 18; [see also] Brahms. They seek the effect of variety also in the reinterpretation of strong bars as weak ones, and vice versa. Music has, in fact, among other things the property that the end-point of one theme can be elevated to become the starting point of the next, without prejudicing other possibilities of continuing the content. And when, in a weak beat, the cadence of one theme and the start of the second converge, then it often occurs that the starting bar must, precisely for the sake of the second subject, be perceived as strong, i.e. as the beginning of a new metric ordering. Thus a weak bar is reinterpreted as a strong one, as the following illustration shows: 42 With new events always at hand, the metric ordering is constantly in flux, which leads to the most delightful, even though rarely heard, effects. Consider the following example, from the Scherzo of Beethoven's Piano Trio in G (see Ex. 2). Bars 912 are initially intended to represent a parallelism to bars 58, with the same four-bar ordering retained. Meanwhile, Beethoven uses the last bar (bar 12), verily in opposition to the tendency of parallelism, as the starting point of a new appearance of the motive, thus making it the head of a new grouping of bars. The repeat of the latter, in bars 1415, shows that the motive (bars 1213) has a two-bar organisation. From bar 12, then, the ordering is as follows: 12+13, 14+15. Thus we have a reinterpretation of what was originally a weak twelfth bar as a strong first bar of the new {29} grouping. And within this new grouping one can now see how the sforzati give emphasis to bars 13 and 15, i.e. the weak bars, until finally the sf in bar 18 [recte: 29] puts an end to these

striking convulsions. And [we may consider] a similar metric within a larger group of themes. Take for example the first group of themes from Mozart's Symphony in E[, K. 543. The group consists of three sections. The first section alone (bars 128) is two-part, that is, it is made up of an antecedent and consequent, each part of which comprises 14 bars resulting from a relationship of 8+6. The middle section (bars 2935), with forte character, contains 7 bars; [. . .] the third and last section (bars 3645) is again two-part, this time with a relationship of 5+5 bars. The result is, first of all, the impression of three-part construction for the entire group which offers the ear a more irrational ordering than two-part construction, even if it is also less complicated. Secondly, the six-bar group following an eight-bar group in the first section represents a second irregularity. Thirdly, the seven-bar length of the middle section is certainly an irrational situation; and finally we have the two five-bar constructions of the last section, which are again far from being simple structures. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 54 HEINRICH SCHENKER But in the way I have portrayed it here, Mozart's procedures in all his works is radical and wild; there is nowhere a trace of barren regularity, as is commonly attributed to him today. Just look at the beginning of his G minor Symphony! What significance is gained by the fact that the first bar initially introduces the accompaniment.43 Even the manner in which an accompaniment is often introduced ahead of time in the joining of themes belongs to those accomplishments that only an organic synthesis can create and confirm. The masters actually liked to introduce the accompaniment for a new melody simultaneously with the conclusion of the previous theme, delaying the entry of the melody itself. For examples of this, see no. 6 in the theoretical part.44 {30a} By this artifice, the possibility is gained of changing the beginning of the next melody in relationship to the previous one, for example by placing it on the third or fourth beat (in short, the last weak beat) but without having a gap occur between the end of the earlier theme and the beginning of the new one, which would compromise the form. The accompaniment itself mediates between the two themes [i.e. statements of the theme], fills the space out and, Allegro Scherzo Allegro () 13 Ex. 2 Beethoven, Piano Trio in G, Op. 1 No. 2, third movement, bars 124 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 55 so to speak, sets the new beginning in relief from its background so much more clearly. By this sort of technique, a new conflict comes to life; in particular, the question arises as to whether the accent falls on the bar with which the accompaniment begins or, rather, the bar in which the melody begins. One's senses are conscious of this conflict in the most lively way; the composer, who

must settle the conflict in the end, is even more conscious. The means of settlement are of course indefinable; one can only study them oneself in the passage in question. In most cases it is a new motivic construction that brings with it a new metric organisation, and thus resolves the conflict. To the realm of the same problem belong cases like Handel's Concerto grosso in A minor [Op. 6 No. 4],45 Mozart's Symphony in G minor, the Andante from Beethoven's Octet [Op. 103], and Mozart's Symphony in E[ major. In all these cases the melodies seem to point to their own metric organisation: the starting point is actually like an upbeat to the next bar, which would have to bear the strong accent; but the accompaniment takes the strong accent for itself and, in so doing, leaves the composer with troublesome consequences. In fact, this kind of irregular construction, which can perhaps be seen most clearly in the first example cited above, is full of the most beautiful, I would even say mysterious, consequences for the entire movement. In other words, the way in which the accompaniment is set places an obligation upon the composer; or, conversely, the composer feels morally and artistically obliged with respect to the accompaniment. One should not assume, however, that all the artifices portrayed here are connected merely with three-part form; it is self-evident that they occur also in two-part form. That two-part form, seen by the inner eye of the masters, is just as little a lifeless schematic design as three-part form {30b} may best be shown by the Andante from Haydn's Piano Trio in F] minor, Hoboken XV:26. Apparently this is a simple song form, a1ba2. Or is what we call the b-section merely to be understood as a return modulation, which starts in A major and follows classical practice by actually starting with the principal theme, the previous section in C] major (which has its own theme) merely extending the standpoint of the dominant, into which the main theme seems to be joined in the manner of an antecedent phrase? Ah, who would and could count up all the freedoms that the masters revealed in their forms, two- and three-part alike! I would, nevertheless, consider it a mistake when Professor [Hermann] Kretzschmar says, somewhere in his undoubtedly valuable Fu hrer durch den Konzertsaal, that to write out the programme of classical works is not in fact difficult. I would reply that it is certainly not difficult if this means indicating only the main, secondary and closing themes, the development, the recapitulation and perhaps also the transitional passages; but it is very difficult almost insolubly difficult if the truly genius-endowed linchpins of the composition are to be uncovered. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 56 HEINRICH SCHENKER [31/63]46 And how much more there is to testify to the glory of the masters! Thus for example we should be mindful of the faithfulness, the love shown to every germ that they created and planted in their works. The same love embraces the most and the least significant things alike. And what a splendid effect this love makes when it places these things in the service of the form, to shape it with variety and irrationality. See, for example, the close of the brief modulation section in Mozart's Serenade for eight wind instruments [K. 388]:

a commonplace, trivial idea, which a Gyrowetz, a Weigl, Pleyel or Kozeluch made use of every day, every hour as did Mozart himself in other works, is it not so? And yet, Mozart would not be Mozart if he did not possess a genius's courage to give these stupid tones these most stupid tones in the world a wonderful logic. They first appear in oboe 1 (see Ex. 3a); but it is only later that we get the second, captivating and artistic [development] (see Ex. 3b): a2 a2 a2 dolce 1. 2. Oboes Clarinets in B Horns in E Bassoons 1. 36 40 Ex. 3 Mozart, Serenade in C minor, K. 388, first movement (a) bars 3643 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 57 Another example worth mentioning occurs in the Rondo from [Beethoven's] Sonata in E[ major, Op. 7: 1. 2. Bassoons a2 Horns in E Clarinets in B Oboes a2 1. 167 171 175 Ex. 3 Mozart, Serenade in C minor, K. 388, first movement (b) bars 167177 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 58 HEINRICH SCHENKER {32} Consider, too, the following bars from the last movement of the great A major sonata (Ex. 5a) by Beethoven, [and] how they later return to introduce

the coda (Ex. 5b): In all of these cases, one can observe a wonderful instinct for associations and parallelisms by which musical art, also of the masters, is promoted. Indeed, one should not forget that even the nightingale, the quail and the cuckoo from the Andante of the Pastoral Symphony are used in a parallel 58 63 Ex. 4 Beethoven, Sonata in E[, Op. 7, fourth movement, bars 5866 a tempo Ex. 5 Beethoven, Sonata in A, Op. 101, third movement (a) bars 123128 (b) bars 314321 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 59 construction, for Beethoven would never have dared merely to set down a germ or a series of tones, i.e. without an effect for the synthesis.47 But in order to complete my discussion of the concept of `master', I have a few more points of view to consider, which I shall choose at random from a limitless multitude. Concerto, Overture, Instrumentation The form of an instrumental concerto became immediately clear to them, as an unceasing battle between the orchestra and the piano or other solo instrument, which rivalled it as an equal. In spite of all freedom and self-evident irrationality of form and content, they had their sights firmly set on presenting the orchestra as of equal importance, even in relation to the solo instrument. Thus it came about that, for instance, the entire story of the concerto is given by the orchestra, by way of introduction, in an uninterrupted current, and that even in the further course of events the orchestra often takes the lead with lengthy presentations, in accordance with the principles of cyclic form apart from the fact, of course, that it has to serve up the thematic material almost without interruption. In this way, the concept of concerto is truly fulfilled, the contrast sets both forces in relief against each other and illuminates them; the ear, which could otherwise easily be dulled by the uninterrupted sound of the solo instrument, is agreeably stimulated by the change of sound. Thus the whole thing `is of a piece', as one sometimes says. One can understand, even in optical terms, why an orchestra sits there and is called upon to

accompany, and also how the objectivity of the problem itself is thoroughly worked out in the deepest way. {33} Similar objectivity is at work, for instance, in the overture. One can see what constructions, for instance, the third Leonore overture represents, in spite of a recognisable, clearly marked programmatic intent! In spite of the quotations from the opera Fidelio! How easily the purpose could have corrupted even this form, had Beethoven not been strong enough to subsume even these operatic ingredients, in which the character of the overture reveals itself, in its form at large, to the advantage not only of the form but also of the particular quotations. And the Corolian overture! What programmatic content, what musical irrationality, and yet what closure from a purely musical standpoint! And the Egmont overture! From these examples one might then finally understand that it is purposefulness and objectivity, above all, that are given expression by the medium of the freest, most irrational construction. Purposefulness seeks to bind things that seem mutually incompatible, namely, programme and pure musical form; but it is only this very purposefulness and objectivity that I call musical style. But even for the essence of sound, i.e. the technique of instrumentation in the work, the synthesis of form is of primary importance. That is, what cannot be accounted for or shown by the synthesis will not yet be produced sonically. Of course, the sound, i.e. a particular instrument, can from time to time inspire the composer; but it can never allow him to be seduced into sacrificing Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 60 HEINRICH SCHENKER synthesis for sound. In a word: synthesis is not merely the proof of the themes, but also of the way they are made manifest in sound. This is the basis, above all, for the economy in the use of instruments, which we always find in the masters' work. Thus, for example, in his Fifth Symphony Beethoven saves the trombones, and also the contrabassoon and piccolo, until the last movement. By this is undoubtedly revealed the intention to increase the sonic power of the finale in relation to the previous movements, {34} but, mark you, only in relation to the preceding movements of the same symphony. But if one considers that the same master's Seventh Symphony uses neither trombones nor contrabassoon, in spite of the fact that their use here would have been no less possible, then it follows that the first employment of these very instruments in the Fifth Symphony, however much it may signify a conquering of these instruments for the genre of symphony, should nevertheless

not be taken as binding upon Beethoven for the instrumentation of all his subsequent symphonies. What is strictly decisive in this matter are the needs of content at hand, so that we find, for example, trombones only in the last movement of the Sixth Symphony and in the Ninth Symphony (scherzo and finale), piccolo in the Sixth (Storm) and Ninth (finale), and the contrabassoon only in the last movement of the Ninth. It is even more instructive, however, to see the method by which Beethoven justifies such new instruments, precisely by means of synthesis.48 One cannot find a more edifying example than the treatment of the piccolo in the finale of the Fifth Symphony. The assignment of supplying the sounding body with the highest imaginable register, the flute's [highest] octave, could in the long run hardly have been Beethoven's sole reason for incorporating this instrument in the content. The key to the solution of this question is the closing subject. In a true symphonic manner, Beethoven scatters a sixteenth-note figure over the regularly constructed subject. This figure is at first played by the violins, namely, in the antecedent phrase of the subject (Ex. 6a): vn 1 cl. 1, vla vn 2 cl. 2, vlc. bsn 12 Ex. 6 Beethoven, Symphony No. 5, fourth movement (a) bars 6468 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 61 And while the entire orchestra that is, all the strings, all the woodwind and brass instruments play the consequent phrase forte (I repeat: forte), the piccolo is on its own, entirely on its own, setting that sixteenth-note figure against all the other instruments of the orchestra (Ex. 6b). Thus the burden of an important, indispensable motivic association rests entirely on its shoulders, and it is precisely from this {35} that the newborn instrument matures, so to speak. And once more, towards the end of the movement, we hear the piccolo weighed down by a similar motivic burden. What we can learn from this method is that, precisely to the extent that the instrument plays a significant role in the thematic development, its sound, too, is better proven to the ear, so to speak, and thus appears more beautiful. And what, after all, is the difference between a better proven sound and a better sound altogether? Only that which is proven in terms of its content can also sound better, in purely sonic terms. Think, too, of Mozart's use of two basset horns in his Requiem. As in the world of ideas, so it is also the case in the world of sounds that variety and contrast are reckoned as the [. . .] principles that make a difference. The effect of tone colour should be promoted only through contrast. What is paramount here is variation quick and rich variation in tone colour, so that the ear itself is not dulled by the sound of one [instrument]. From this, self-

evidently, arises the principle of variety. And it is on these principles alone that we may then derive the much misunderstood technique of, say, writing for the horn. It is a mistake (one that Richard Wagner also made) to believe that, in the sound-world of the masters, the use of the horn was restricted, apparently on account of its limitations in the Classical period. For in the first place the principle governing the use of this instrument was the same as that governing the use of other instruments. Specifically, the particular sound of the horn was emphatically not intended to intoxicate the ear of the listener uninterruptedly; this would have amounted to causing a nuisance. Every sound must simply be freshened, so to speak, as the air in a room must be freshened. pi tutti piccolo Ex. 6 Beethoven, Symphony No. 5, fourth movement (b) bars 7278 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 62 HEINRICH SCHENKER One need only compare the horn part in Mozart's Quintet for piano, oboe, clarinet, bassoon and horn, or [those] in the Serenade K. 388 or the Grand Partita for thirteen wind instruments, with the horn parts in his other works in order to understand that Mozart was on no account afraid of making full use of the technical capacity of the horn when that instrument was required in a soloistic context, [or] of making a correspondingly modest use of its total range when the ensemble in which the horn had to participate was larger. Thus there are, of course, in one and the same symphony, an inordinate number of places in which the horn could take part, were it not that the composer, as I have explained, had the better instinct to protect us from the eternal sonority of the horn, which would have destroyed our ear. But to object, on the other hand, that the masters' hesitation with respect to the horn resulted for an entirely different reason, namely from the purely mechanical incapability of the natural horn of the time, is entirely frivolous. {36} This explains why, for example, there is not a single passage in the whole of Don Giovanni in which he writes for the horn as we would expect to see in the parts conceived soloistically. But this is only because Mozart considered the greater complex of instruments in the opera orchestra as a whole, and regarded a soloistic prominence for the horn as incompatible with it.49 It is indeed the same thing, moreover, with the treatment of a violin part in a string quartet: how much bolder, more embracing, more technically complicated and intellectually high-powered is the first violin part in one of the late string quartets of Beethoven compared to that in one of the same master's orchestral works! Thus, as we can see, there is method in the way in which the horn was treated by the masters. The increased size of the orchestra leads to a restriction in the soloistic treatment of the horn, as it does precisely for all the other instruments. In Beethoven's symphonies we can see clearly enough what sorts of difficulties an orchestral horn player (who was not simply a solo virtuoso) could be expected to cope with at the time. They are no easier

to negotiate today, even though the natural horns have of course been replaced by valved instruments. When we undertake a careful study of the works of the Classical composers, we find in the repertory of the horn an utterly unbelievable number of notes,50 which is not so very much smaller than that of today's valve horn, without of course taking into account all the other differences between the two repertories. From this alone it already follows that the masters took even the horn for granted. But in the very fact {37} that the treatment of the horn within a work of art was, furthermore, subject to the principles of variety and contrast, according to context, precisely on account of this, I say, the true style of synthesis is revealed. These last principles were so firmly marked in the artistic conscience of the masters that they never hesitated to let the more modest body of wind instruments rival the more powerful string orchestra, even on a dynamic level. This is a point that had already Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 63 caught the attention of Richard Wagner, and even more so the people of today. In all the symphonies of the masters, there are passages in which string and wind instruments reply to each other like choruses: this is an idea that actually presupposes complete dynamic parity between the two parts. They would rather let an unequal battle be waged than renounce the principle of contrast or balance the forte strengths against one another. In order to measure the full force of the driving principle, it is enough to refer to the famous bassoon passage in the recapitulation of the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. It would be hypocritical to regard this instrument, which is noble in its place, as beautiful. And yet Beethoven is right: for the principle that has led him to it is that same organising principle that helped him to construct the great work of art, whereas the feeling that expresses itself merely at this point, in its revulsion for the bassoon, is a momentary sensation of discomfort that is entirely lacking in larger consequence. It would, however, be a mistake to regard what I have said as implying a restriction or limitation upon the way in which the masters wrote for instruments. As stimulating and potentially rich as the laws of variety and contrast undoubtedly are, so many other people like to think of them as restrictive and qualifying in the same measure. For when one is compelled to create contrast, is not this very compulsion already a possible hindrance {38} to find a new sonority that lies entirely outside the contrast? One could in fact argue that the choice of this or that instrument could be blamed on the principle of contrast. So why should one be bound to the principle of contrast at all? And yet, as I have said, the restrictions that are enshrined in all laws, including those mentioned here, have not succeeded in dampening the

masters' impetuous desire in the sonorous manifestation of their work.51 Though it is generally little known, it is no less true, however, that we have the masters themselves to thank for the greatest discoveries in the realm of instrumental technique. In the textbooks on this subject, we find as detailed a register as possible of their proud deeds. It is just that they have been mixed together, rather indiscriminately, with the untested discoveries of other composers, who were far from being masters. And it is again precisely the mastery in conceptual matters that is decisive in determining the value of the instrumental discovery in question. I have already had occasion to show how the masters felt themselves compelled to justify their instruments thematically, and need merely repeat here that a sonority gains in the power of conviction when it is at the same time motivated conceptually. We should actually be all the more amazed by the far-reaching, indeed fanatical orchestral sensitivity that led to countless genius-endowed discoveries, since the very synthesis of form itself is intimately perceived as the medium in which that sensitivity could manifest itself. One need only think, for example, of the ways in which Beethoven combined the timpani: in the second act of Fidelio (A and E[); 52 in the [finale of the] Eighth Symphony; in the Adagio of the Ninth, where they are struck simultaneously in fifths; and of the timpani solo in the Fifth Symphony, and the one in the Fourth. [Recall], too, Mozart's invention of Janissary music in The Abduction from the Seraglio, Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 64 HEINRICH SCHENKER Haydn's extravagant use of trombones in The Seasons, the trumpets in Mendelssohn's overture The Fair Melusine, and so on. I should thus like to say: the synthesis of form in the works of the masters is proof of their ideas {39} and also of the sound. In synthesis, they developed a code of laws, determined the possibility of new discoveries in the realm of form as well as orchestral technique, and thus advanced the riches of music by lasting, irrevocably validated achievements.53 Schubert, Schumann and Chopin as Sonata Composers [{44}] It is indeed hard to believe, after what was said above, and yet perhaps already understandable, if I say that even a Schubert, a Schumann and a Chopin were too weak to write a cyclic work with that degree of perfection of which Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and, after them, only Mendelssohn and Brahms were capable of writing.

Who would, or could, argue over the genius of a Schubert! And yet it remains true that the genre of song served as the foundations of synthesis for his genius, upon which it was able to produce new artistic laws. In cyclic form, on the other hand, he is unable to find that irrationality, which arises only from an outstanding development of the content, this of course in spite of great moments which then stand out all the stronger but also all the more isolated from the rest of the content, which has not actually been stretched with sufficient tautness. Even the case of Schubert may teach us that, however beautiful the themes (too beautiful, in fact, for the purpose of cyclic form), however striking and original the harmony, and however novel the mood, these things are incapable of achieving the effect of a true synthesis and a deeply founded irregularity.54 [{45}] No more could Schumann succeed in overcoming his propensity, apparently marked out by nature, for the small song form, than by denying this in a cyclic work. And even when he writes ten bars (instead of eight) and all sorts of other irregularities that are unfortunately of a lower order (like Schubert), one nevertheless quickly sees him exhausted, so to speak, seeking a bench on which to rest;55 and that is precisely the point at which he has brought his lyrical theme to a conclusion, after a stretch of some twenty to thirty bars. Despite all the vigour that the themes in his cyclic work radiate, especially in the louder dynamic ranges, his temperament nevertheless lacks that specifically cyclic verve, the temperament that races forth like a wild huntsman over all the boundary points in themes and groups, mercilessly driving the themes ahead of them, gathering them tightly together. Thus it was not granted to Schumann to create new technical values in the realm of cyclic composition, though in the smaller forms he was capable of making fascinating new discoveries of a synthesis-bearing character. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 65 Similarly Chopin this original, almost singularly original, genius was capable of mastering infinitely many new laws in the tiniest domain of a mazurka, a waltz and the like, for which reason he may be regarded as one of the last of the musical lawgivers. But hardly does he think about writing a sonata than his spirit is broken; and what he offers as a sonata is little more than merely the most regular course of a schematic pattern which, were it not for such an original sweep of ideas, would hardly have been thought noteworthy.56 [{46}] I believe, therefore, that it may be agreed that in all three of these lastnamed masters there existed only a lyrical enthusiasm in the foreground of their selves, so to speak; i.e. a lyricism that could not suffice for what could, in fact, be called the dramatic problem of cyclic form. Mendelssohn and Brahms as the Heirs to the Cyclic Tradition {39 ctd} I already said, along these lines, specifically that the form of the classical composers was misunderstood, and that the catastrophe which engulfed our art took as its starting point

precisely this misunderstanding. In the first place, the blame must probably fall upon those artists who themselves latched onto the classical masters with righteous and inspired adulation and sought to imitate the form of masterworks in their own productions. And they did this out of conviction. What, however, could imitation bring forth? Freedom? Variety? These it certainly could not, for they are the property only of genius-endowed beings, only the privilege of a great richness of ideas. For an artist who is not a genius, these qualities of the works are, therefore, utterly inimitable; and in this respect there is no school that can teach genius, no tradition that can continue it, no reason that can compel it. I admit that another genius can learn purely technical constructive principles of art from his predecessors, i.e. the geniuses, but only on his own; and again only as a genius can he reconstruct the principles of art through the medium of his richness, and also construct new artistic principles within new syntheses. Haydn found himself in this situation with respect to Emanuel Bach, Mozart with respect to Haydn, Beethoven with respect to all three, and, for example, Mendelssohn and Brahms with respect to all four of these. Specifically, these last-named geniuses were clever enough to grasp, to understand with the instinct of genius, the extent to which synthesis in the classical works is bound more to the nature of music than to any schematic abstraction. And if, in their quartets, quintets and symphonies, i.e. in their cyclic works, they continued the tradition of three-part form, they did so not so much as a gesture to Haydn or Beethoven or Mozart, but rather because they felt themselves at the same time to be on the track of these masters, that it could indeed not be otherwise, that it was the art of music itself that insisted that they take that direction. {40} And if, further, they were minded, within a cyclical work, to make use of technical principles that had already been tested by earlier geniuses, that is again no more than proof of their artistic intelligence and their genius. They certainly did not want to make things worse, and when one reckons that every other path leads to a worse result, why should they then have exerted Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 66 HEINRICH SCHENKER themselves merely to be different, merely for the sake of being different? The

vanity itself, of wanting to do things differently, lay far from their thoughts. And they felt the value of those achievements too deeply to give them up so easily, in a childish way, without being able to replace them. When Brahms writes a symphony, he observes everything that belongs to the style of a cyclic work, regardless of whether or not the technique has been handed down. In the first instance, it is the perfection of the matter that interests him. And if perfection can be reached by no other path than, for example, the very one which the masters have already taken, then he does not shirk from taking the same path. For this reason he composes themes that have been put together from groups, according to the principles of variety and contrast; and insofar as he additionally includes some technical achievements of his own, he still knows how to convey that indefinable irrationality which is the sign of a true masterwork. And what, indeed, has it been, if not this very irrationality which, as we can well remember, made our contemporaries uneasy whenever a new piece by Brahms received its first performance? When Brahms writes a piano concerto or violin concerto, the orchestral tutti continues to play the same role as in a concerto by Mozart or Beethoven. He uses the same range of ideas in the introduction, and again large sections for orchestra in the course of the concerto: and all this comes from an understanding that things cannot possibly be otherwise. But if Mendelssohn and Brahms, just to name these last two, are in this respect conservative, as is commonly said this is also expressed by the offensive word `epigones' then the artistic intelligence that led them to a style that had previously been established and verified did not, however, kill off the individuality in these masters, nor did it prevent them from inventing new problems. For does not Mendelssohn, {41} in his cyclic works, have a style of his own, which cannot be mistaken for that of any other master, and indeed in spite of the fact that he had the sense to remain faithful to the stylistic accomplishments of the great masters? Did the technique handed down prevent him from writing a symphony with a programme of Scottish moods, or Italian tarantellas? And are not these moods indeed new in the symphonic literature? I ask further: did the technique prevent him from writing overtures which even Richard Wagner admitted to be artistically accomplished which, though not always new in their form, were certainly new in their material, i.e. in their mood and colour? It is the same with Brahms: did he not write the German Requiem from an entirely new spirit? And likewise the great choral odes, etc.?57 And in creating these new values was he hindered by the fact that he was clever enough to take what was good from the old composers, merely because it was good? And is not Brahms the `epigone', in spite of everything, his own master? Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 67 Cyclic Forms in the Hands of Inferior Composers As favourable as things stand with Mendelssohn and Brahms, they do not unfortunately go so well with the other composers who would like to take the same path. One should indeed not make it a point of criticism that a composer cannot do something better than he can actually do. If I admit this, out of

generosity, then I have the right to disparage a point of view that elevates itself so far as to use the masters' credit to bolster a bad work, and merely because of a common title. It is truly high time that we dropped the absurdity of a classical formal scheme and, even restricting ourselves to the realm of cyclic works, distinguished the good from the bad with all the greater artistic and critical judgement. It is high time that a symphony by, say, Glazunov did not earn more respect because it is called `symphony', and thus is believed to hold fast to the form that was so sacred to our masters. Oh, no: Glazunov's symphony has nothing at all to do with the true symphony.58 There only a schematic plan unfolds, {42} a predetermined form. It is by now a puzzle how, over the course of the decades, a false view about the ostensible form of the classical composers could have developed. But once the absurd irony came into the world, and the bad works were thrown into the same pot as the good ones on account of an ostensibly common form, it was already too late to sense how much the way in which this Glazunov writes and the listener hears his work, and the critic reviews it merely compromises the masters. And so today, whenever a symphony or a quartet is first performed, we hear from composer and audience alike that this is a piece in the classical form. Oh, how happy would be the time if this were the case, as it last was the case with Brahms. But no: we are mixing up a live form and a schematic pattern, merely because of the appearance of the title. What is missing from bad modern cyclic works is in fact very easy to say. While the masters wrote both their individual themes and their groups of themes in a joined-up way, the modern cyclic composer writes his melodies straight as an arrow and without connectedness, from a single idea and as far possible without groups. He is still proud of this mistake beyond all measure, and does not realise how much it ruins his own plan. There arises in this way, first of all, the monotonous construction of the modern long melody, which proceeds ad infinitum in superfluous repetitions and only in such repetitions and additionally gives the impression of a foolish sentimentality. This `melody' is now followed by a mechanical transition to the so-called subsidiary area, void of themes and as short as possible, verily corresponding to a miserly provision of ideas. Now the second vanity follows: the so-called subsidiary area, another pretty melody, as far as possible not put together from smaller elements, filled with a narrow-minded sentimentality, conferring all honour upon its nickname, the `lyric theme'. It is now self-evident that the time for the closing theme has thus arrived, a short motive or another short melody, so that Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 68 HEINRICH SCHENKER the first section may be seen as having come to an end. The development section restricts itself to the task of working over the material of the first section, to `develop' it. And that means that {43} what had been said and chewed over a thousand times must be chewed over yet again, for the thousand-and-first and -second time, wallowing about in the melodic sentimentality of the first or second theme. Finally the

recapitulation. Here, thank God, there is no work to be done: simply transpose, back to the home key, leaving the content in all other respects unchanged; that is the watchword. And thus the entire first movement has been erected. The middle movement is constructed in a modest song form; it might also be a variation set, or something like that. Perhaps, to fill things up, a `humorous,' `sparkling', `cheerful' Scherzo will be squeezed in, and a finale. Here the rondo form is popular, according to the plan ABABB or ABACA, etc. 59 Thus the entire cyclic work is now complete. The lucky composer will succeed in getting it performed. The audience will be impressed at the outset by the title `sonata' or `symphony', as this appears to be one of those works conceived along classical lines, full of serious, genuinely artistic effort. They receive it respectfully, but are no less willing to admit afterwards that they found it thoroughly tedious. But where did the tedium come from? Perhaps from its classical construction? Of course not. The tedium is, rather, the consequence precisely of the misunderstanding of what a cyclic work must actually be. The work has indeed not become an organic structure, but rather a potpourri comprising three melodies that seem to have been locked up in cages; and since it otherwise lacks any artistic effect of a higher order, on account of its all too regular construction and philistinism, it is clear that it cannot give rise to that irrationality that draws us to a true work of art in the first place. In the same spirit as the public, who found the work tedious, the official criticism sends out a warm notice that nevertheless does not conceal the tedium that was produced, without failing to underscore the idea that, in the end, the entire `classical form' has survived. So strong is the suggestion of the title, as I have already explained, that in spite of the fact that the great masters have provided and continue to provide the counter-proof of their immortality, which has well withstood the test of time, {44} it is accepted in all seriousness that the tedious work was, at least in its form, just as `classical' as one by a Beethoven. With respect to form, perhaps, only with the difference of genius, namely, on the part of Beethoven's. That there can be no place in such works for artistic effects of a higher nature should be clear without further explanation. There are no surprises in the modulation section or the development section, nor are there effects from the reinterpretation of bars, as arises from the continuous drawing together of new themes with natural force. The contrasts in dynamic serve only the flattest of purposes; in short, the piece works basically as mockery of higher art. This is the way in which composers such as Pleyel, Kozeluch, Wo lffl, Reissiger, Onslow, Spohr and Carl Maria von Weber were disposed to writing cyclic works.60

{46 ctd} Think, for instance, of the piano concertos that were composed after Beethoven. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 69 Apart from those of Mendelssohn and Brahms, of which I spoke earlier, composers usually make the mistake of not keeping the orchestra and piano as equals. I regard this merely as a lack of insight, which I must condemn all the more because it unfortunately results all too often in an atmosphere of wanting to do something completely different everywhere. What else can it have been, then, that makes the piano concertos of Chopin and Schumann, for example, today seem so wanting in a certain sense? For does the content of their themes not remain the same, inviolable in its high poetry, unquestionably borne by the breath of genius, even here? And yet the pitiable orchestra, the miserable role to which the orchestra is reduced, has upset all the composer's plans. There is good reason why we perceive a piano concerto by Mozart or Beethoven today as much more precise and objective than those by Chopin. After the passing of further decades, a similar decadence may be prophesied in the effect on listeners of such currently popular piano concertos as those of Liszt and Grieg; they are so grateful for them from a pianistic standpoint that they cannot drive their composers' stupidity from the world: the orchestra has a poor role to play. For this reason the old masters were right when they kept to concerto form in the way in which we see it in their works. Hector Berlioz and Programmatic Music From all this, however, it is clear that cyclic form may not only be regarded as yet to be superseded, but rather that it presented even to geniuses like Schubert, Schumann and Chopin difficulties of the highest order. That, however, artistic impotence is the last authority with the right to proclaim victory over such an inimitable `form' must be taken for granted. At the start of the nineteenth century, the Frenchman Hector Berlioz found himself in such a state of impotence with regard to the cyclic problem. He possessed from the outset61 very few musical red blood {47} cells; but, by way of compensation, he had a more developed sense for the external features of musical meaning. As a sophist of instrumental music he was seduced by all manner of musical paradox and aphorism. He was able to think of musical effects even independently of their location in the synthesis; that is, independently of their place in the living work of art. And thus he could take pleasure in the effect of, for example, three

flutes, four flutes, several timpani, all this at the expense of a future work of art, as if a true work of art could ever admit such musical calculations on demand. This frame of mind is itself enough to show that he appears neither to have sensed, nor to have known, that it is only the synthesis of form that is in any way capable of affirming and justifying the musical sound. In addition, there arose a very serious misunderstanding with regard to the putative simplicity of Beethovenian `melody'. To be sure, this master derived his structures from the idea of the triad. And yet: can things possibly be different? And is it not still far more important to note the characteristic irrationality, which expresses itself repeatedly in the melodic design? And further, as it is self-evident that the theme of the Eroica is created from the E[ major triad: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 70 HEINRICH SCHENKER was it not Berlioz's duty to observe what follows on immediately: and always to consider the totality as such? Is it acceptable, then, to cut the first triadic construction loose from the whole in the most childish way, and to see in it, so to speak, the top trump-card of ingeniousness? When one now considers that Berlioz was possessed by the idea of imitating the supposed simplicity of Beethoven even in his own melodic constructions, then the scope of this disaster can in fact hardly be overlooked. {48} Thus Berlioz was naturally drawn towards a different outlet, namely, programmatic music. Neither could he in any way suppress his musical talent, nor on the other hand could he achieve the greatness of art, as manifestly embodied in the great masters. Being in this respect brittle, so to speak, only half a musician I should like to think of him as having initiated a series of illegitimate musicians, as opposed to the legitimate musicians, which the masters were and unable to find his place in synthesis, he sought such a place outside of synthesis in programmaticism, as he openly acknowledged. Here he Ex. 7 Beethoven, Symphony No. 3 (Eroica), first movement, bars 36 cresc. cresc. cresc. 5 10 Ex. 8 Beethoven, Symphony No. 3, first movement, bars 515 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 71 believed that he had found the justification and proof of his innovations. In fact, the hoped-for result has come about, insofar as the programme indeed indicates the applied effect, and the composer deceives himself only insofar as the sum of the individual moments, however explicable they may be, fall far short of signifying a work of art. In other words, the relationship between the programme and the individual passages can by no means suppress the postulate that the work of art creates the explanatory power for everything offered in the way of ideas and effects, above all from purely internal, musical sources. It has

been an altogether futile vanity to create for music a freedom of form and expression along any other path except that of artistic irrationality by synthesis, as received from the hands of the masters, as described above. Only someone who could overlook the irrationality that was already available could dream of creating a new one, a first one. Only one who remained unaware of all that music was capable of achieving on its own could now mobilise other arts in a rescue operation, in order to rush to the aid of an art of music that was ostensibly too weak. In fact, however, programme and music are related in the following way: programme, being the product of literature, has a story to unfold according to the strict logic of human events. That this logic is inexorable, that is, that the story cannot be deflected to the right or the left of its course of events without becoming improbable, is perfectly clear. {49} But since music, on the other hand, has its own laws, such as the principle of repetition, harmonic progression, two- and three-part structure, and so on, then in the given case I believe that this struggle can in no way be resolved by complete parity between the two arts, but rather only on the basis of what may be called the principle of hospitality. By this I mean the following: if it is the musician who, for any artistic purpose, should temporarily invite a programme, i.e. the poet, into the house of music, then he must see to it that, under all circumstances, he remains in charge of his house and that, conversely, the poet is merely a guest. If, on the other hand, the poet invites the musician to be his guest, he must assume the right of master of the house and not surrender his art to the musician. This is the way the masters behaved, as I have already said before; they were satisfied with the general idea of the programme, with the help that it could give, with merely a general stimulation, and in all other respects they allowed the synthesis to govern according to purely musical house rules. Without doubt, this stimulation gained an influence on the design of the musical idea, and upon a few characteristic passages and figures; nevertheless, all these points receded into the background compared to the autochthonous rule of musical laws.62 Of course, anyone who does not recognise these can easily sacrifice them to the programme. He follows the course of the programme along the entire story, forcing a foreign logic on the work at the expense of musical logic. The effect of a Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 72 HEINRICH SCHENKER piece of programmatic music may be described with complete precision, objectively and subjectively. Objectively, programmatic music reveals internal associations being set aside, in order to be replaced by external ones. When one considers that our music first became an art only by the victory of purely internal musical associations (see Harmonielehre, 3), and in this respect is perhaps to be reckoned as at most five or six centuries old compared to the other arts, music is much the youngest then {50} the damage that music suffers from programmatic music must be described as all the more terrifying. For before the laws of this young art were even understood and further developed, the

malicious attempt was made to untie this development by referring again to external associations with poetry (i.e. with the word), as in the most primitive times. In other words, programmatic music destroys the creation of musical laws, without being able to give music new laws, precisely on account of the lack of a purely musical synthesis. Subjectively, however, the effect on the world of entertainment is quite complicated. Without doubt, the uneducated layman can actually relate to the programmatic better than to the synthesis-bearing absolute. For the layman basically wants to know always what the tones mean. He wants to gain insight into them, just as he wants to gain insight into a picture or drama, and therefore to be able to have one thought or another about it, whether fictional or material. Because our great masters in the end based their art more upon itself, their works have been distanced from the world at large. Their entire art became aristocratic, and thus not understood by the great masses and only little appreciated. Let us not be deceived about this: the instrumental works of a Johann Sebastian Bach, a Handel, an Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, and so on, have remained unknown to the world, and in truth only because they are not picture books for small children. Compared to music, which had grown up, the world remained the big child, who is glad when it suddenly gets another picture book opened by an artist. Now, people can rejoice in being involved in working out what this series of tones means, and to find confirmation that some musical figure represents a particular object, or that some harmony represents a particular part of the programme; in short, music turns out more agreeably as an art with a clear meaning than as a non-programmatic symphony. This return to clearly denoted music signifies, therefore, a de-aristocratising of our art and, at the same time, a homage to the standpoint of the layman. Now the question arises: is the layman such a profitable gain for the art of music as one might believe? There has been a lot of enthusiasm, especially these days, for the widening of audiences or, what amounts to the same thing, for the raising of the general level. {51} Verily, the point has been reached at which voices are counted, instead of being weighed. And an artist will gladly run after the layman, since every voice that he gains makes him proud. One has Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 73 gone so far as to be willing to reduce the clefs in our notation system to two, at most three, only in order that the much-courted layman can follow the score without difficulty. (God forbid that he should need instruction in reading clefs!) But as much as the artist overestimates the layman in this respect, he certainly underestimates him in another respect, but only [. . .]. For as true as it is that the layman enjoys clearly denoted music, it is no less true that he suspects that, for example, Bach and Beethoven are higher beings puzzles for him, temporarily the pondering of whom must, however, be regarded as an honourable activity. He feels, as it were, the majesty of aristocratic genius as a dark, secret burden upon himself, a genius that seems to live abstractly for art's sake, unconcerned with that approval. Thus we see an irony that is certainly not without humour: the artist lowers himself to the level of the layman, the child, and is pleased if he can give other children pleasure. And now it is these

very children who will leave him ignominiously in the lurch, out of awe and respect for other, true masters. I believe I have thus shown that the layman is, after all, not such a welcome figure in art. Hardly have fifty years passed since [a composer's] principal works were written than we find that, from a musical point of view, they are not sufficiently substantial, i.e. interesting. All charms seem faded, betrayed by the lack of argument such as could only have been provided by an appropriate synthesis. Did this come about all of a sudden? Certainly not. Rather, it is to be understood that, even in the moment of first pleasure, there was a small dose of poison, or discomfort, in the listener. It is all too evident that basic effects seem to have the upper hand, as follows: the very joy of working out the meaning; then the aggressive meaning of this impetuous music, with all the measures of the reality of the programme; and, not least, the supposed revolutionary quality, that seemed to be expressed by these means. On the basis of all these passing impressions, it was now believed necessary actually to establish a school. And if the founding of such a school, {52} understood historically in the driest sense, i.e. in the common sense that history retells everything that has ever happened, has indeed to be accepted, then it is nevertheless painful to realise that clear mistakes and momentary mental lapses could lead to an abortive founding of a school, whereas in fact only musical disadvantages emerged: the banishing of internal associations, the destruction of taste and hearing, the shaking of musical conscience by the irresponsible foundation of schools, by the attribution of historical quality to works of an inferior rank, by the mobilising of unmusical people for the sake of ideas that led away from art, and the like.63 But what is most depressing to observe in Berlioz's works is the complete disappearance of all synthesis-bearing complexity and irrationality. That is, the music as understood in purely musical terms probably stands on the bottom rung when it comes to musical synthesis. Neither the design of the individual themes nor the construction of groups and, ultimately, of the whole exhibits Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 74 HEINRICH SCHENKER any noteworthy features. The briefest of Haydn keyboard sonatas has more musically synthesis-bearing esprit than the entire life's work of Berlioz. This complete deficiency of intellectual complexity would certainly have been intolerable to Berlioz himself (as he was without doubt a man of great ambition, and talent too) had he not lived by the fallacy of using the other measures, which he applied for the sake of the programme, to make music more complicated than was necessary. I am convinced that he regarded his music as more complex than Beethoven's. He took such great pleasure in those very drastic measures that he applied to excess. Oh, the happy child! He had no inkling of what musical complexity means: that, for instance, the technical artistry that I described above makes for a much livelier flow of musical content than does such drastic flaunting of an individual moment for the benefit of an external association. {53} That association, as Berlioz interpreted it, had moreover the appalling consequence of making the tempo of the musical action altogether slower. When Beethoven, for example, surrendered himself to the idea of `storm', he

the most accomplished of all synthesisers knew first of all to choose all the tone-painterly values in such a way that they would became motives in the same sense in which other values were otherwise motives, even if they had nothing at all to do with tone-painting, as for instance in the Second Symphony. In other words Berlioz, proceeding from the opposite notion that a storm could be expressed with greater musical similarity than we find in Beethoven, and indeed by the application of stronger measures, also had to make a greater effort to realise this similarity. To underscore the similarity, however, he had to allow more time for the depiction. To put it briefly: the measures have become denser, and the time required for them to take effect has become greater. Merely the depiction alone lasts longer and retards the music, making it slower. To the same extent that purely musical synthesis became more tightly compressed, the general nature of programmatic music thus became slower, as regards its inner character. It is always individual points that preciously peer out from outside the musical frame, so to speak, and attempt to come as near as possible to an alien truth, no matter what the cost. [31/87] The fussiness, then, with which the programmatic composer traces every individual association, merely to be perfectly truthful, perfectly clear, also makes the pieces longer to the same extent that the tempo has been made slower. For this reason, programmatic composers write only long pieces, whether overtures or symphonic poems. They actually use up large stretches of time for individual events, and so the sum of the individual events leads to a general lengthening of the piece. Inexperienced laymen, whether or not they write about music, are apt to err in calling long pieces `large forms'. But the two are quite different things. Thus, for example, a large form exists only when the content is expressed by unusually large group constructions, or when the Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 75 individual themes are put together in an unusually varied way, as for instance the first theme of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. That a large number of bars does not, however, signify a large form may perhaps best be proved by the fact that it would be possible to stuff the content with superfluous repetitions and similar triflings, and then to add these up to make a large number of bars in order to gain a large form. Thus the programmatic composer gives the impression of being more complex, `more generous in his forms', as one so often hears said today. {53 ctd} The self-delusion that consisted of believing that his works were permeated by musical progress, because he found them more complicated than previous music in terms of the measures that he applied, is a delusion that Berlioz also managed to communicate to the rest of the world. The world thus began to believe that here, at any rate, lay a form of progress, and that an ostensibly greater complexity was the very thing that explained why new music did not work so satisfactorily and could not claim an immediate victory. And it is here that we can see perhaps the greatest damage caused by programmatic music: that it succeeded in giving the illusion that the art of portraying a Witches' Sabbath is a much more complicated task than the organisation of the content of a First Symphony. {54} Since time immemorial, charm has been an

enemy of wisdom in the following sense: that, for instance, a symphony by Haydn or Mozart, because its high degree of perfection makes the most charming impression, in no way permits the layman to recognise what an extraordinary degree of complexity is hidden behind this charm. Mozart's symphonies give pleasure because they are `so pretty'. But the same person who has just enjoyed these symphonies can allow himself to be impressed by an aggressive, drastic programmatic music, without realising that there was actually more in Mozart's symphony by which to be impressed. However much, in fact, the grounds for being impressed by Mozart's music lie deeper and are resolved so wonderfully in its perfection, to an even greater extent do the apparent grounds on which programmatic music makes its effect lie on the surface. And that appearances have an easier chance of victory is well-known. But as I have already said, in the long run the nemesis of truth will of course prevail over all previous victories of appearance. The introduction of programmatic music was also accompanied by other unacceptable qualities, which have unfortunately remained stationary in the realm of the art. Indeed, I said earlier that the new, impetuous method which seemed to taste so much like greatness of thought and artistry, like a passion for truth and progress, made an immediate impression on many people; but that, nevertheless, in some corner a small proportion of revulsion still remained, without those so affected being able to account for it. One knows from history, to put it briefly, that Berlioz's programmatic music could not win those pure feelings of love, awe or respect, that the works of our masters were capable of Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 76 HEINRICH SCHENKER gaining from the world. From the very first moment, had not the cleft been opened? One could be impressed, but one had a secret feeling that, for example, Haydn was an entirely different world, a higher and purer one: and this indeed in spite of all the charm and `Papa Haydn' qualities that the stupid world imputed to him and which it thinks it has long since outgrown.64 But now such pure feelings as were conveyed to the masters, even when from time to time they [had] appealed in vain to the listeners' reason, {55} can certainly not be imposed with force. The friends of programme music, and of Berlioz, and above all Berlioz himself, might have felt or recognised the true, sorry state of affairs, for nothing was so near to their hearts as to win the people's love for their master in the name of progress, of novelty, etc. How, by contrast, were our masters moved, without knowing how and when this happened! Their works came like rays of the sun, not by announcing their advent but by suddenly being there, offering nourishment. And, conversely, they gained renown without having to make any particular effort at it. Since Berlioz, things are different. Here practically everything must be forced: the listener's love, and the recognition of mastery. For the first time, a kind of eminence by force was being practised. And the preparation for this compulsion became the occupation of a musical party, which was by no means always free from political beliefs. Franz Liszt After Berlioz, a further step leading away from the honest and lofty art of our

classical masters was taken by Franz Liszt. One can take it as read that the former had the stronger initiatives, the latter basically restricted himself to following a path already trodden. If, however, I leave the question of priority to one side, that unfortunately does not change the fact of the matter, namely, that Liszt also continued to promote programme music with great zeal. The effect of his personality, furthermore, contributed the most to help the supposed `reform music' to gain respect. For me, perhaps the strangest puzzle about this artist is how he managed to take this wrong turning in spite of so much specifically musical talent, which places him actually higher than Berlioz. Liszt was very well acquainted with almost the entire output of classical music, better than Berlioz and better even than Wagner who followed him. He sought constantly to remain in touch with the masters and their works, in order to learn honestly from them and to perfect his own art. In spite of all the other features of his character, which, to be sure, do not place Liszt in the ranks of the greatest men, I am convinced of his great integrity in pursuit of a high art. {57} This speaks to me from all those countless transcriptions of works by Bach, Beethoven, Schubert and others. These were, for him, certainly not just transcriptions in the superficial sense, pieces full of a brilliant new technique, Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 77 which he may have wanted to distribute to virtuosos and pianists for concert performance, but also the equivalent to copies of masterful paintings made by budding artists. It was his way of studying the masterworks, precisely by turning them simultaneously into piano transcriptions. Utility took many directions: he learned himself, and pianists benefited from his work. Nevertheless, I should like to maintain in spite of all circumstances, that this self-study occupied him more than did transcribing. But then how was it possible that he, who availed himself so intensively of the opportunity to examine the works of the classical composers, did not unlock their intensity to the extent that he noticed the crux of their technique, as did Schubert and Schumann and, more remarkably, Mendelssohn and Brahms? How was it possible, I ask, that he did not feel precisely that quality which makes the works of the classical composers distinctive: the plan of action, all the techniques that make the necessary effect in the shortest possible way, and the various artistic techniques of which I expressly spoke earlier? In order to answer this question, I trace this fact back to a defect in Liszt's artistic personality. He was unfortunately burdened with a large measure of superficiality and vanity, which worked detrimentally, at cross purposes to his undisputed idealism. It was the piano, and pianism, that gave rise to his vanity and nourished it. To his piano belonged the whole world, which he was unfortunately too weak to resist. He had also achieved for himself a magnificent cultural upbringing; but it was merely an upbringing of the salons, not a powerful, permanent, original one. Cosmopolitan man of the salon that he was, he developed a corresponding eclecticism, compared to which the much-reviled Meyerbeerian eclecticism seems to be in the purest German tradition. In his melodic lines are incorporated rather trivial Italian tunes. But it was not that high {58} Italian art of a Domenico Scarlatti, which is in no respect inferior to German art.65 No,

this was just Italian melody per se, stretched out at length and lacking in artistry, perhaps useful only for the purpose of opera, and certainly not for cyclic works. Beside this Italian touch, a staunch Frenchness: all the elements that one finds time and again, such as his farcical irony, his mania for showiness, worship of women and worldly things, the femininely sparkling piano texture, in short the sentimental feminine in him and in his works. In addition, a mad Hungarian character with which his youth was associated, with all the recollection of the original, ingenious gipsy style. And thrown in with this, a piece of German art: Bach, Beethoven and Schubert. The eclectic standpoint actually eludes him only rarely. Where he frees himself from it, he can virtually make his way to an original ingeniousness. And the heart of this ingeniousness is irony, and the sovereignty that is contained in it, which thirsts after the amazement and the veneration of people, no matter who these people are. Thus for example I admire him for the second etude, in A minor, from the Transcendental Etudes, perhaps the piece that most outstandingly reflects his Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 78 HEINRICH SCHENKER specific talent. Here he is original, excellent, the sovereign lord not only of the instrument but also, at the same time, of music. And however small the piece may be, it credits him with the highest honour and bears witness to a disposition imbued with genius much more reliably than his largest works, the oratorios not excepted. For it is actually in these larger works that eclecticism again comes to the fore, along byways that arise from the need to create long stretches of music, insofar as he often must, for example, imitate the learned style of Bach in order to get through certain sections of his oratorios. In such works, then, all the features of Liszt's musical personality create the contradiction that has ensnared them from the outset: German, Italian, French, Hungarian music, all mixed together and, unfortunately, never harnessed by a higher organisational instinct. {59} A second, better nature may have struggled within him, seeking isolation, depth and an element of German character; but it was actually suppressed by the inferior nature in him, and thus he lacked the logical education of an inalterably high character. Traits such as these that he took leave of the world for a long time, in order to perfect his piano technique; that he gave up performing in public at a relatively early age, apart from offering his services most generously for good causes; that he was drawn to religion; that he loved, honoured and promoted all that was great and endowed with genius, regardless of whether it was old or recent art, or whether the artists were famous or still unknown all point to a great being, to whom destiny denied the finishing touches, when we consider all the other traits that are mixed in with these. And so I deduce, finally, from his half-finished character the half-finished quality of his musical instincts; that is to say, however much he studied and imitated the classics with the most awesome, deepest love, his instincts were halved, intermixed and insufficient to see everything that needed to be seen with a logical presentiment and inspiration. Drama, Music Drama, Gluck But the final blow, which threw the masters from the saddle, was struck by Richard Wagner. By offering the specific genre of music drama, he is more

kindly disposed towards the layman than Berlioz and Liszt with their programmatic music: for what sort of miserable clarity may be found in the latter compared to the clarity that the stage can offer? If, in programmatic music, only the ear and the intellect are active in working out what the music is supposed to represent, in music drama the sense of sight makes a decisive entry. Now, accordingly, there is no longer any puzzle: to the eye and the ear, everything is clear and every atom of music can be controlled by being equated with the association that the composer has given to it. That this series of notes is dedicated to the Rhine, that one to the sword, still another to the Rhine journey, all of this is, so to speak, clear to the ear and the eye. If a Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 79 puzzle possibly remains, it can only be {60} the highest one, hovering over all the senses, namely the dramatic one: the nub and the significance of the drama itself a question, moreover, that the world, the audience at large, avoids. But this last puzzle does not in the least nullify the fact that everything else offers the layman a clear picture, of the sort that music can approach only in the genre of song where, namely, the word explains and contains. That comes, of course, from the stage, which is so arranged that the viewer need only keep his eyes and ears open to get closer to the things that are played out before him. The layman loves the theatre above all, precisely because of this convenient access to a work of art. If, on the other hand, he has to read a book, he must collect his thoughts, make a certain amount of effort, seek out peace and quiet, and then place his imagination at the author's disposal, whereby the support from the eyes and ears is withdrawn. When confronting a painting, he must shift his imagination again into a similarly heightened and active state if he is to comprehend the sense; and, finally, when confronting a piece of music he must rid himself of every self-evident truth. But the theatre, alone among all artistic sites and artistic possibilities, offers him the advantage that, by being supported by all of his senses and having less of a struggle than in all the other cases, he can just get on with the reality of things. The fact that one does not have to make a serious effort offers us a sufficient explanation as to why, for the world in general, art is, plainly and simply, the theatre, and why all the people of the world, from the emperor to the lowliest worker, are equally drawn to the theatre to enjoy art, rather than to a performance of a symphony or string quartet. I can say with perfect equanimity that, for audiences at large, Goethe and Schiller, for example, are known only by their plays, Mozart only by his operas, but that the other works of these masters, because they require more effort, have remained unknown, both in their time and ours. The question now arises, however, whether the arts actually present their best work in the form of drama, as the stage demands. Poetry is still able, with reasonable help from the other arts insofar as one might wish to consider set-designing as a branch of painting to pursue {61} its own life, even on the stage. And when a poet is overcome by a desire to speak to the people, in order to instruct them or to give them artistic edification, he can attempt this precisely from the stage without further ado, for he will find no more wide-ranging

organ than the stage to satisfy his purposes, without exacting a sacrifice from poetry. Even on the stage, poetry can remain poetry, and the world at large may draw advantages from it because it is possible to enjoy it without making any great effort. However, this advantage is in fact only a property of the art of the spoken word: the plastic and musical arts are excluded. On the stage these two are not entirely in their own element, as poetry can be. Rather, when they are obliged to work on the stage, especially with the considerable presence of Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 80 HEINRICH SCHENKER poetry or dance, they must make significant sacrifices with respect to their essential qualities and the laws that govern them. Instead of appearing with their innate effect, painting and music on the stage, in such circumstances, merely serve as applied arts, and from the outset their fate is sealed. They must serve the spoken art, which is the only one that works just as innately on the stage as in the novel and in lyric verse. What might possibly be the reason for this? I believe that there is no other reason than that poetry uses language as a tool, the same language that we use in our daily life for purposes of communication. Under all circumstances it is this language, which is understood must be understood by the audience at large. In this way a minimum of clarity and sense is guaranteed to the poet from the outset. From this it follows that, by means of a language that is generally intelligible, the plot, the anecdotal features of drama, must succeed in being realised. Now even if the poet dare not hope that the audience will ever understand the specifically poetic aspects of his work his art of abbreviation, the elevation from a free structure towards a highly organised one, and all the countless indefinable artistic techniques that are part and parcel of a dramatic poet's me tier one can nevertheless say that a sufficient result has been obtained if, at the very least, the story, as an imitation of life, is recognised and appreciated through the medium of language. {62} Unfortunately the comfort of an equally favourable result is not granted to those who work in the fine arts, or in music. One might object, saying that even painting has its subject matter, which it takes from life and nature in the same way that poetry does. Yet between the two types of subject matter lies a fundamental difference: in poetry, the event retains its plasticity by moving forward in time, so that time forms the embodiment of the event, so to speak, in the same way as it does in real life. By contrast, the element of time is excluded from painting, which is ruled only by the plasticity of the instant; from here one can of course point forward into the future, or backwards into the past but to do this must already mean an act on the part of the viewer. Thus in painting that which is material, even though taken from real life, is a very small quantum, too small to seize the public's attention for a length of time; for the artistic moment, the abbreviation of an instance in life or nature is, for the brushstroke and the application of colour, no more the subject of general interest than it is in poetry. The material of music, however, is no more than the motive, from the outset an invention that is alien to the real world and of which one certainly takes no note on its first appearance, even one that is possibly derived from life or from

nature especially in the case that it is so derived. Universal clarity, so to speak, has completely disappeared, and all that remains is art repetitions and forms in which, as I have said, the audience shows no interest at all. From this standpoint, music surely has the worst position among the arts. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 81 Unfortunately, the opposite of all this is believed. For one likes to think that music in particular, through the sensuous effects of its elements, has no less wide-ranging relationships to the real world than does poetry. One goes even further and declares that a stronger effect on audiences at large is contained in the indefinable qualities of musical content than in the clarity of poetry. And yet I believe I can maintain that all this is only an illusion; for if one observes carefully, {63} one finds that music achieves such an intensive effect less by standing in relationship to itself than by striking up a relationship with functions of life which, precisely because of their greater power (the power of life and also of speech), raise the effect from the outset. This is the case when, for instance, music is placed in the service of religion, or war, or dance, etc. Without the clear basis of the religious action (in ancient times, one could also reckon on drama), which on account of its own character disposed the mood of the listener towards the most intensive artistic effect, the music that was supplied would never have created that effect that one mistakenly attributes to it alone. Similarly in the case of, for instance, the Marseillaise, the effect of the music is overrated if one underrates the political intention of this all-powerful song. And cannot also all dance music, with all its sensual charm, be traced back to the effect of the dance itself, more than to its content? Thus at an early stage, the fine arts and music have learned to recognise that, in the wide, wide world, they can never achieve the popularity of effect for themselves, as is granted to so great an extent to poetry on the stage. They were driven by necessity into a partial retreat, in order to pursue their own essence in peace. And so they were successful in developing laws of their own, and in bringing forth ever more effects, which were no longer effects for the world at large. In this way these arts achieved an emancipation, if one wishes to use a different term to designate their flight from the real world. I should like to call this transformation `aristocratism', insofar as they were content to give up, once and for all, feeling entirely at home in the world at large. In this respect, then, opera is a limited genre. To speak now of this art alone, we may characterise it as the renunciation of the aristocratism that had been won following a long struggle. Because of its common and general clarity, the art of speaking, i.e. poetry in opera (in common parlance: the action, the text) is the strongest force at work, and there remains nothing more for music to do {64} than to use its measures to give further help to the effects that are already guaranteed. When one considers all that music has won in being differentiated, in its aristocratism with regard to laws and effects, and when one further considers that it is hindered in opera from thus showing what has indeed become of it, merely because the poetry does not need this, then one must define the position of music in opera as an art that merely serves. And one can very easily derive from this the fundamental principle that the hybrid genre of

opera, where music can never entirely come into its own, can allure most easily Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 82 HEINRICH SCHENKER only those who do not perceive the aristocratism of music, and who do not know all that music is capable of doing, and what they therefore owe it in short, those who do not have very much to lose thereby. In a similar situation was Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck. To him the aristocratism of music was, for sure, entirely unknown, as regards all that music had already achieved through [Domenico] Scarlatti, Handel and Bach. He knew, too, that theatre audiences in general have nothing in common with all these accomplishments. It was easy for him to sacrifice what he was incapable of doing, and so he gave in to his inability when he appeared on the scene as the apostle, so to speak, who would teach music to be truthful. As if music, as art, should not in the first place be beautiful music, above all and as if its truthfulness should not reside in its beauty! As if music must only be forever judged on this matter by poetry, as if it were being asked to make a confession of its truthfulness before an examining magistrate! Is not music the best judge of its own matters? And must it give evidence of its truthfulness in a poetic forum? Does poetry, conversely, thus subordinate itself in a musical forum? {65} In this way, Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck had truthful music. I ask now: where did this truthfulness get him? Has it not disappeared, along with the corresponding truthfulness to life in the libretti he set? And, indeed, disappeared for ever, in spite of the ardent efforts of Wagner and his followers?66 Was it therefore necessary to play this truthfulness as the highest trump-card of art? To set the entire world on fire in the name of truthfulness? And did not those do better who sought to give music what belonged to it, leaving it alone in its aristocratism, with the result that they continue to live in our midst today, as if on the first day? What is the point, I ask, to rob music of its most beautiful, its most innate qualities, in order to be punished later for this betrayal? But, of course, lack of ability and lack of aristocratism are also forces and, moreover, they are pernicious forces. But even more pernicious is the law of the audience, which will, like a wicked woman, drag an all-too-weak artist down with it. Yes, from the standpoint of music, opera may be defined as the admission of inability, lack of aristocratism, and servitude before the audience. Mozart Now Gluck's music was truthful, as I said, and it was also beautiful in many respects; but when measured against what music was at that time, it could not in the least be called high art. And now the very thing came along that did poor Gluck more harm than his fanaticism for truthfulness had helped him: for now came Mozart! Ah, this divine one knew what was truthful; but as a musical aristocrat he also knew what beautiful music was. And so he taught Gluck a lesson in how one can write music that is truthful and at the same time of high quality, even in the service of the accursed genre of opera, where music is by no Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 83 means in its element. And in my view Mozart's greatest accomplishment is, by virtue of his higher operatic art, to have made Gluck unviable once and for all.

Perhaps, if viewed historically, it is his only such accomplishment, for in the composition of quartets, symphonies, trios and so on he had rivals assuming that it is indeed possible to make comparisons among geniuses. By contrast, the benefit he bestowed on music, by placing Gluck in the corner in which he now stands,67 is something for which we should erect monuments to him. For one cannot imagine the harm that would have befallen music, {66} whose extraordinarily high degree of perfection had only recently been gained through Handel and Bach and taken along new paths by Emanuel Bach and Haydn (no less truthful, even though they were far removed from opera!), had the truthfulness of Gluck failed to be corrected by that of Mozart. Mozart would not have been the musical genius that he was had he been unable to renounce what the art of music of his time amounted to. His instinct positioned itself in relation to opera from the outset in an entirely different way compared to Gluck. Even here, he had to remain the musician that he was anyhow. And so, as early as on the occasion of The Abduction from the Seraglio, he wrote those remarkable words to his father to the effect that `poetry in opera must be the obedient daughter of music' precisely in relation to this opera.68 These words, however, mean something other than what they are generally taken to mean. For The Abduction from the Seraglio was written with an attitude towards art, with the intention of beauty and perfection in art, which fits in very well with his early years, less so with the needs of the drama. The youth within him has, in its tempest, something almost innocently ostentatious: he wants to show all that he can do, namely, all that he could do at the time. A certain forcedness, even exertion, is clearly in evidence the vanity of the bridegroom, to put it in human terms. He therefore wants to write elevated beautiful music at the outset; and in order to justify this, to himself and to his father, he constructs the postulate that music has the greater weight in comparison with poetry. But one must take care when considering these words if one is to understand Mozart correctly. For, as I have said, they apply only to the case of The Abduction from the Seraglio, and his own later practice changes the postulate significantly. For if Mozart had remained true to his vision, then, as his absolute musical abilities increased, he would have had to propose, in principle, a correspondingly richer, more complicated music in his later operas, compared to what he offered in The Abduction from the Seraglio. The heightened art, which he revealed as continually evolving in his symphonies, quartets and trios, {67} would have logically had to lead to an elevated artistic development in his operas as well. And yet we see that precisely these works are free of those heightened elements; they are constructed merely according to the principle of the greatest possible simplicity. In the whole of Don Giovanni one finds Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 84 HEINRICH SCHENKER absolutely nothing of the artifice with which his absolute music is so extravagantly conceived; nothing of the complexities of voice-leading, which become concentrated by embracing the more learned forms, from the simplest imitation right up to fugue;69 and nothing of the indescribable wonders of his synthesis. Rather, the music appears so simple here that it is hard to believe

that the same composer also wrote that artistic body of work. As one can see, he no longer had the compulsion to imbue music with all that it was capable of doing, as he had previously done at the time of The Abduction from the Seraglio; but he no longer wanted this. His mature sense of the theatre required him to moderate his art in such an intelligent way. Don Giovanni: Act 1 Introduction What he preserves of his high art in opera are the principles of diversity and irrationality here at any rate reduced quantitatively but not qualitatively by dramatic necessity as well as the proper conduct of the harmony. In this respect, it is most instructive to examine the Introduction to Act 1 of Don Giovanni, which Bulthaupt has so usefully assessed from a different point of view.70 The piece begins in F major, the orchestra setting up a ten-bar antecedent phrase which ends on a dominant chord. The consequent phrase is taken immediately by Leporello and answers the antecedent precisely, except that instead of closing [onto the tonic] it too ends on the dominant. Thus a continuation is sought, as if the two previous groups of bars had, finally, to be answered by a definitive consequent phrase. A new idea begins in bar 20, this time on the downbeat, in contrast with the first idea, which had begun on the third beat of the bar. This second theme may be partitioned as follows. First of all, three bars plus three bars (2022, 2325). This six-bar group, which itself exhibits a parallel construction, is answered in a general way by a seven-bar group (2532), whose construction begins once more on the third beat of the bar. {68} And here too a parallelism, of two-times-four bars, may be discerned (2529 and 2932), even though the second element appears shortened by a bar. The tonic is finally reached in bar 32, but it is still too weak to be capable of bringing the necessary repose to the musical mass that precedes it. Thus a new group, comprising a further two-times-four bars and beginning on the third beat, is added, its material split between the orchestra and vocal part. Even though all this has occurred for the sake of an effective close, and the sense of closure is satisfactorily secured, Mozart nevertheless had reason to ensure the effectiveness of the great variety contained in the previous material with all the means at his disposal. And how better to accomplish this than simply by a repetition of the entire complex? Thus with the speediest decisiveness, he moves in bar 40 towards a gentle cadence on the dominant, finishing with a fermata (bars 4044). Now, in bar 45, the previous material is repeated, Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 85 with the most notable irrational feature, namely, that the initial nineteen-bar group is omitted. The repetition proceeds exactly, from bar 45 to bar 57, where we arrive at the position reached in bar 32. And since Mozart had previously strengthened the close at bar 32 with the eight-bar phrase leading to bar 40, as mentioned earlier, here too he intends a similar effect, only via a different route, namely by repeating the previous group of bars 5057 (in contrast to the earlier procedure, where they were left unrepeated). Between these two groups, however, he inserts a new one, bars 5763, on the one hand to avoid robbing the repetition of its effect, and on the other hand to achieve a greater diversity. Thus may Leporello's entry be understood in musical terms. All things

considered, the construction is very similar to that of an abstract musical idea: we see the same characteristics found {69} in high Classical art, with full employment of the repetition that is, after all, indispensable but with a considerable number of irrational features: changes [to the starting beats] of phrases, three-bar groups, the abandonment of repetition in one place, the insertion of material between antecedent and consequent phrases elsewhere, and above all the impression of a spirited, rich abundantly rich formation of new ideas, which are assembled to form a larger group. Let us examine the Introduction further. Bars 7074 make up the orchestral prelude to the entrance of Donna Anna and Don Giovanni. For this pair of characters, however, Mozart has a different tonal backdrop, B[ major. Being the key of the subdominant, it satisfies the demands of absolute music; but how does Mozart get to B[? By the quickest route possible, in three bars, by simply adding the seventh, E[, and nothing more. The semiquaver figure, which the orchestra introduces in three bars (7072), is intended to provide the motto, so to speak, for the new situation; and this occurs in such a way that it functions simultaneously as the start of a five-bar group beginning at bar 73. The first exchange between Anna and Giovanni is despatched in the form of an antecedent plus consequent, bars 7377 and 7882. To this group are attached four more bars, 8386, with a new motive appearing in the orchestra and the vocal trio. An internal parallel construction of two-plus-two bars, together with the stationary tonic harmony, are additional features of the new group of bars. In a further three bars, the harmony proceeds by way of VI and II to an imperfect cadence on the dominant in bar 90, giving all the material thus far in B[ major the impression of making up a huge antecedent complex. The dominant is now sustained from bar 90 to bar 101. And indeed this harmony is at first perceived as the dominant of B[, up to bar 96; but the chromatic E\ in bar 97 and especially the creation of a new motive built round an F major chord in bars 98102 give the feeling that the key of F major has been reached. In this group too, bars 9097, a parallel construction is instantly recognisable: bars 90 94 followed by 9497. If we survey all that has occurred in the key of B[, we can marvel at the enormous diversity of {70} ever new elements, which is in Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 86 HEINRICH SCHENKER evidence no less here than in the earlier F major section; the easy animation of these elements; and above all the irrational circumstances in which they receive expression. Even in a string quartet movement or a symphony, the irrationality of the group structure and the move within the group to the dominant could not have been realised differently. Of course there, and only there, this would have been achieved by an expansion of the technical measures, something that would be stylistically inappropriate here. The variety of entries and the vibrancy of all these devices is something that one can see for oneself, in the full score or a piano-vocal reduction. In bar 102, the most important thing is the start of a second group in B[ major, a duel in quavers between Anna and Giovanni, which reaches a textbook cadence in bar 112. The violin figure joins this section to the previous one, which it had actually initiated. Now the whole of this second B[ group is to be

repeated; thus Mozart turns toward the dominant in four bars (112115), set in recitative style, with a cadence loosely appended. And here, though he could have introduced the expected repetition without further ado, he prefers instead to increase the degree of irrationality by including a repetition of bars 98102. The two B[ groups may be thought of, in dramatic terms, as a single large section in B[ major, which provides a contrast to the starting point of F major. But, as is appropriate for the dramatic situation, the second of these groups is more strongly developed; it offers more in quantitative terms. And this quantum is meant to depict the intensification of the struggle between Anna and Giovanni. A further four bars takes us suddenly to G minor: the Commendatore staggers onto the stage. This key, however, is not affirmed until the following bars, with [a perfect cadence in] bar 146. G minor is sustained until bar 152, at which point a two-bar modulation leads to D minor, which lasts from bar 155 to 165. If one considers that, after a further modulation from D minor to F, the very last key is to be used, [in the form of] F minor, then one will understand the rapid changes of key as arising from the quick sequence of events on the stage: the angry exchange between the Commendatore and Giovanni, the duel, and the death of the Commendatore. All these events are played out in an unexpectedly quick {71} tempo, and Mozart is correct in tracking them with equally quick modulations. One should never forget, however, that the speed of the key changes could not have been given musical expression had not Mozart indeed possessed the right artistic judgement in planning the previous B[ section over a considerable length of time. One need only imagine the opposite strategy, i.e. to suppose that Mozart had already made a disruptive modulation within the exchange between Anna and Giovanni, which is after all no less an exchange of words than the exchange between the Commendatore and Giovanni that follows. The result would have been the breakdown of music on dramatic grounds. For however effectively disruption may be set off Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 87 from order, and digression from continuation, the contrast between the two enables both events to appear in their best light, the effect of disruption is dissipated when it has only disruption as its background. Thus a stronger dramatic instinct and a specifically musical intelligence guided Mozart to the principle of contrast and, consequently, to the strategy described above. It is not to be denied that Mozart, with his rapid modulations toward the end of the Introduction, moves in the direction of the specifically musicaldramatic; that is, in a movement of instrumental music such a chain of keys and such a design could not be justified, since the nature of the art simply does not permit them. But we must look at all that he does here to minimise the sacrifice, and be secure in the knowledge that the F major and B[ major sections appear at least to be composed according to all the rules, even those of instrumental music, and are musically saturated in a natural way, and that moreover Mozart's intention led him from the outset to write an Introduction that met the needs of the drama, though not one that could in any way be called a well-rounded form. But what musical techniques would have been more

powerful, in such a rapid unfolding of content, to hold that content together than the principle of parallel construction? Thus, by the creation of a new motive, in bars 149152, the last phase in G minor is connected to bars 155 158. The parallel construction is realised here {72} between two keys, not in the same key, which only adds to the heightened irrationality. In addition, what is most to be admired from a musical-dramatic point of view is the way in which Mozart finds the occasion and means to make space, musically, even for the subtlest dramatic gesture. For the old hothead, the Commendatore, he uses a half cadence on the dominant of G minor in bars 146149, then the modulation to D minor in bars 152155, both times indicating the character's anger with forte. By contrast, Giovanni's replies are kept piano, by which Mozart is able to portray his composure and circumspection. In bars 155158 Giovanni can, of course, contain himself no longer, and while the orchestra remains piano he himself becomes more agitated: Mozart indicates this with the dynamic markings mezza voce and piu voce at the words `Misero! Misero!' But before the outbreak of forte there is a general rest a full bar's rest and only afterwards a forte leading to the cadence in D minor. The duel itself is not made the object of an orchestral set piece; rather, it is intended to give the music the opportunity to modulate, in the space of ten bars, from D minor to F minor.71 The association with duelling is readily suggested and accomplished by the motive, which appears alternately in the soprano and bass registers. And thus the matter must be worked through rapidly, so that the next point in the drama is quickly reached: the death of the Commendatore. That Mozart was dramatically right in this reasoning can be seen from a consideration of the drama as a whole, in which the duel and the death of the Commendatore are merely preliminary matters, merely an Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 88 HEINRICH SCHENKER exposition which, if extended beyond reasonable proportions, would have been damaging to the larger unity. Thus a mere twenty bars in a tempo of Andante are sufficient for him to portray the death of the Commendatore: a short statement in F minor which recovers the motive from the B[ group something of great value for Giovanni and which otherwise strikes a free musical path, as far as the motive is concerned. Even this short statement is in effect punctuated in the middle by a cadence, which thereby makes its musical structure clearer. In summing up these observations, we can conclude: that Mozart has in all respects and at all times been faithful to the interest of music by contrast, by parallel constructions in the large and small, and by saturation of key; that we find the same measures of irrationality that he has used in his purely instrumental music; {73} and that above all this irrationality hovers the spirit of unity in which the individual parts are resolved, just as we find in his instrumental music. Don Giovanni: Churchyard Duet Allow me to comment also on the Duet between Don Giovanni and Leporello in the cemetery. Mozart is not interested in the slightest in portraying death and night, in which the action takes place, in an unsettling way, nor in evoking

gloominess by musical association, though these would undoubtedly seem appropriate. On the contrary, he seeks to indulge Giovanni's high spirits in the brightest E major:72 if Giovanni is untroubled, why should Mozart be? But when, in the midst of this boisterousness on Giovanni's part, the Commendatore casts his shadow, then it is of the utmost interest from a musical standpoint to see how Mozart, too, can cast shadows in his music without extracting too great a penalty, and to give up on making the duet satisfy the highest demands from a purely musical perspective. Broadly speaking, the music unfolds from E major to the upper fifth, B major, in bars 119. It then stays in B major in bars 2044, followed by a return modulation to E major, whose tonic appears in bar 48 and is used at the cadence in bar 59. At this point E major is maintained with a short section, which gives this key the opportunity to show that it has predominated over B major. In other words, the breadth of the middle section in B major demands of the composer an appropriately stronger expansion of the principal key. A deceptive cadence, VVI in E major/minor in bars 7374, helps postpone the definitive ending. The dominant is sought once more, and it is reached in bar 82. From this point on, the paths to the final cadence are cleared, and the true ending is found in bar 96.73 A short, swift coda is appended. And now for the details: what richness, what irrationality! The first section in E major, bars 119, comprises three sections 110, 1014 and 1419 in Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 89 each of which different motivic material is used. Specifically, however, in the first part, two contrasting elements are juxtaposed, i.e. the very same technique that Mozart regularly used in his purely instrumental compositions. What I mean is that bars 36 are governed by one character, bars 610 by another. One might almost be inclined {74} to elevate the downward leap of a seventh, a pregnant figure conveying Leporello's fearful mood, to a kind of leitmotive, almost in the Wagnerian sense of the term, at least for the duration of this scene. Mozart is able to use this very motive in such a variety of ways in the course of this duet that one could almost forget how it constantly proves to be in the service of the form; that is the triumph of his art! It is less important, then, to note that the said motive appears in the B major group in bars 2327 and then returns in bars 5458 and finally in bars 9195; rather the way in which it is used each time illustrates most clearly how Mozart treated a musical design very much like the modern leitmotive. Thus we see that the second occurrence has precisely the same function, the same relationship, as the first, except of course that it is transposed to B major. At its third appearance it may be said to conclude the return modulation from B major to E major. And likewise at its fourth appearance it is placed at the end of the extended cadence. Depending on its position in the form, the same motive can achieve a different effect; conversely, by the exact placement that it assumes within the form, it fulfils very clear obligations to the form. But all these inestimable benefits derive from the art of creating one theme from several (here, from two) different types of material. Had Mozart not known this technique from his experience in composing absolute music, had he lacked the skill acquired

from that very experience to place a motive in different contexts with a clear understanding of its effect each time, the world would have been the poorer for not having this splendid piece. The B major section initially reproduces the E major music, with light variations. But en route to the dominant, what an effective use of modal mixture, with B minor in bars 29 and 30! And how effective is this stroke, despite its simplicity! When the dominant is reached, a second idea belonging to the B major group is heard; it is a kind of pedal point on the dominant. Following the minor-mode feature of which we have just spoken, this second passage in B major (without mixture) has a delightful psychological mission: Mozart despatches this key {75} in order to simulate, as it were, the condition of Leporello's involuntary courage. Poor Leporello is actually in a very unpleasant frame of mind: he cannot overcome his fear, but the commands of his master require him to pull himself together and at least summon his courage artificially. A painful minor-mode relapse still awaits him, at the words `Ah, ah, ah, che scena e questa!' at bar 44 in the transition. But precisely between these two incidents of B minor, the major mode fulfils its obligations, using a thoroughly easy-going motive, one that works in a natural, amiable Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 90 HEINRICH SCHENKER way. Thus the genius-endowed Mozart understood the delightful necessity of giving B major a broader base, in order to unite it with the dramatic effect. I already mentioned that the return modulation to E major must briefly take up E minor, as Leporello is so afraid at this moment. Giovanni returns him to the major mode, so that Leporello, however fearful, can nonetheless sing his little phrase in bar 60 in E major. We now come to the deceptive cadence where the dramatic situation intensifies: Giovanni himself intervenes and addresses the statue: `Parlate, se potete!' How appropriately is this turn of events expressed by the deceptive cadence, which must also prepare a new development in the form. After the Commendatore's `S !', the two main characters sing together until the final cadence: this passage begins in E minor, so that the tonality can put itself right, with some effort, and end in E major. Don Giovanni: Act 2 Finale I cannot refrain from pointing out places in the Finale to Act 2 that will offer proof of the purely musical principles underlying Mozart's compositional technique. Even the very first section, in D major, shows the greatest diversity and irrationality in the way it has been put together from groups. Three motives are joined to form a kind of antecedent phrase, whose consequent is taken only by the second and third motives. There now follow the three wellknown quotations, in D major, F major and B[ major. Now for the wonder of Donna Elvira's entry, again a three-part group in the [new] principal key of B[ major. The first part moves to the dominant, the second finishes on the tonic, and the third modulates to F major. Even the F major section is made up of groups. Altogether this is an amazing confluence of three parts. In the return modulation to the principal key of B[ major, {76} the motive from the first part of the group has a role to play. Just before the repeat of the first group in B[ major, a new motive is introduced, which is treated in the course of this scene

as a kind of leitmotive for Don Giovanni, analogous to Leporello's in the churchyard duet. The reprise in B[ major also introduces new elements. An elaborate modulation, containing numerous chromatic features, leads by stepwise motion from B[ via B\, C and C] to D minor; a half cadence is finally made in this key. Immediately thereafter, the key of F major is introduced, the music mainly taken by Leporello. Here, too, we can but marvel at the richness of motives, their assemblage into larger groups, and also features of parallel construction. Now for the scene with the Commendatore. In four bars, an orchestral introduction leads back to D minor. Here the most difficult problem for Mozart lay in wait: to balance the [dramatic] demands of this unusual scene with the demands of musical logic. For how severely did the appearance of the Commendatore, Don Giovanni and Leporello three such disparate elements strain a Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 91 musical synthesis! Was there not the danger that unity could scarcely be achieved if the music were to give to each of these characters that which belonged to him? Should not the Commendatore have his own, heavy rhythm, a more astonishing harmony, a more ceremonious instrumentation? Should not Giovanni and Leporello be given, by contrast, features of rhythm, harmony and also orchestration that stand out from these, and, if so, how could all these disparate characteristics be put together in a unified way? Without doubt, the gravity of the assignment was somewhat lessened from the outset by the fact that Giovanni and Leporello's music had to be attuned to the mood of the supernatural powers. That is, once the Commendatore has appeared, it is impossible for the other two characters to appear as they have previously, i.e. boisterous and high-spirited. Rather, this complete contrast to the epiphanic ceremoniousness could be omitted, as the mood emanating from the Commendatore could tolerate earthly resonances in no mortal being. Although the composer still had a great task ahead of him, Mozart was fortunately the genius who knew precisely about the artistic means at his command. {77} And who better than he knew what a blessing resides in the assemblage of a group from several motives, a secure progression of harmonies and, above all, a secure tonal design. With these means, he dared also to overcome the difficulties here, and the challenge paid off. What a broad arc he conceives right in the first group! Thanks to its diversity, not only the Commendatore but also Giovanni and Leporello are comfortably accommodated, and each with his own characteristic expression. It may be noted in passing that this group also makes up the first section of the overture. And it is instructive to study the differences between these parallel constructions. At the words `Non si pasce' a modulation to A minor is conceived with strong dramatic measures, but in agreement with all the rules of a musically ordered structure. This last-named key, however, soon passes into G minor,74 from which D minor, the starting key and principal key will finally be reached. Note that the modulations regularly follow the [words of the] Commendatore: he has the power to change the course of fate. To the last part of this scene, the struggle between the Commendatore and

Giovanni, falls the task to put it in plain terms of winning back D minor and ending in this key. And if it is quite natural for the harmonic progression IIVVI, with the usual chromatic tones, to be called upon to fulfil such a task, I would still ascribe a higher, almost emblematic significance to Mozart's bass line DF]GC]DG]AD, which is, strikingly, used three times in succession. And if I might also point out that this last passage is dominated by the motive that had been used to portray the duel in the Introduction, then that too may be taken as further evidence that Mozart, without giving offence to the music, could on the contrary use the most appropriate musical means to underscore matters that, strictly speaking, lay outside his remit and which were also basically inaccessible to the poet. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 92 HEINRICH SCHENKER Opera Composers After Mozart {78} Of the artists after Mozart who concerned themselves with opera, only Beethoven was in the similarly fortunate position of being a complete musical aristocrat. On the other hand, precisely Beethoven's approach reveals a contrast that makes Mozart's dramatic effect all the more comprehensible. Beethoven had not the slightest idea that his aristocratic manner would only be out of place in opera, and so we see him composing his Fidelio with almost the same effort at high art as that which he used for his symphonies and string quartets. Here he might use a canon, elsewhere even a variation movement: what are these artifices doing in an opera? For the opera audience, the worst of all theatre audiences? For people who, generally speaking, have a truly intimate understanding of neither poetry nor music nor painting, and who are thus easily satisfied and can live cheaply with half-measures of poetry, music and painting, and who, for a moderate fee, are able to flatter themselves that they are connoisseurs in all these arts? Beethoven's situation in Fidelio is identical to that of Mozart in The Abduction from the Seraglio, at least as far as musical principles are concerned: the music has too much art. But one should not suppose that Beethoven, had he composed a second or third opera, would have abandoned that principle and taken the path that Mozart later took, i.e. that he would have given the music only as much as it needed for such ignorant theatregoers as are found in the opera house. Beethoven was too high-minded, too stubborn, too perfect an aristocrat to be willing to do a deal, or even be capable of such a thing. We see him often in other genres, for example in vocal music both solo song and choral music rebelling against nature herself, which is certainly more of an achievement than resisting all the audiences of all time, with a sense of impulsiveness that, had it not been inspired by such lofty ideals, would have also had to manifest itself to us as unstylistic and perhaps even as frivolous. Did he not, from time to time, believe that in such audacious moments he could wrest effects from nature, though she would never concede these effects, not even to him? Should he concede music itself, his beloved high art, to his audience? He? No, not in a million years! Probably he never even contemplated this problem; and merely being at one with his natural self, he wrote his {79} Fidelio according to his best artistic standards; and for this we ought to be grateful. Equally, however, it is

abundantly clear that audiences are certainly not in the least grateful to him, since they take infinitely greater pleasure in Wagner's Lohengrin. And before they enjoy Fidelio once, they would rather listen to Lohengrin a hundred times. Viewed from a Beethovenian perspective, Mozart might be said to appear in an unfavourable light, in that one could criticise him for his lack of high artistic character, the lack of an equally high aristocratic presence, as was characteristic of Beethoven. And yet I am inclined to take the composer of Don Giovanni Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 93 under my protection, in spite of everything, and to explain him as follows: nature sent him out into the world as a prodigy, with the sunniest disposition, and he seems throughout his life to have accomplished his marvels under her beneficent guidance. Nature, who brought him up, accompanied him in his works. She never abandoned him, and he in turn never had the presumption of being ungrateful to her. In his bloodstream, there is not a single corpuscle of spite or rebellion. And thus if nature has set a limit, say, on the singing voice, he avoids exceeding it in any way. Even his greatest extravagances, his highest revelations, all lie within the boundaries of art itself and its technical means. Without suffering damage in any way, his genius was always able to gain access to the nature of musical materials and instruments in such a way that the resultant work reveals a perfect balance between the highest artistic perfection, on the one hand, and an untainted naturalness, on the other. I would go so far as to call him the greatest practical politician that music has known, without of course implying any of the unpleasant attributes that are commonly associated with that term. Anything forced was utterly foreign to him, unknown both to his will and to his art. In this respect alone he was the complete opposite of Beethoven who, being less musically spontaneous, often had to compensate this shortcoming by a certain forcedness. That is enough to explain to us why, in his later operas, Mozart was at all able to disown music, up to a certain point. {80} The clarity of his instinct knowing exactly what to do in every situation prevented him from writing canons, variations and fugues in his operas. And if, in The Magic Flute, he occasionally touches on the learned style, this is only to use secretive means to give representation to secrets, namely, the secrets of freemasonry. For in order to convey a secret to an operatic audience, nothing is indeed more appropriate than do not laugh a short fugato. Would not such a piece of art sound to an audience in and of itself mysterious, as high art? To this we may add his upbringing as a youth, which came at a time when there was no higher goal than to fulfil a commission, in one theatre or another, to compose an Italian opera. Thus it was from an early age in his blood, almost a habitual instinct, to compose operas on commissioned texts for his dear audience. And if he retained that instinct toward operatic composition even in his later years, one may nevertheless make allowances for the fact that he never had the opportunity to free himself from that instinct, either by living longer or by becoming financially better off. So much is clear, at any rate: that he set to music subjects that were close to him, such as Don Giovanni and The Magic Flute, differently from Titus. To Beethoven, however, such an upbringing was unknown; he lacked that mischievous theatrical daemon, against whom he

would have had to put up a struggle, so to speak. In this respect he had an easier time relating himself to operatic composition in the way that he did. Of the opera composers who followed Beethoven, none can, unfortunately, be placed on that high plane of musical aristocracy, on which we have just seen Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 94 HEINRICH SCHENKER Mozart and Beethoven. Even Carl Maria von Weber was not sufficiently intimate with the essence of cyclic composition to apply the blessings of this technique to the benefit of operatic music, at least in relation to its new framework, as Mozart had been able to do. To the extent that his technical ability in purely instrumental music fell infinitely far short of that of Mozart, he was excluded from the possibility either of writing dramatic music only with the means of high art or of achieving dramatic effects with means that are also rooted in and validated by absolute music. {81} The operatic music of Weber thus shows a tendency, for example, towards longer drawn-out melodies which, lacking variety and the quality of being put together from smaller elements, remain small forms that dispense with a higher art of group construction. He introduces that cantabile element straightaway, which is in direct conflict with instrumental music in the higher sense, and whose principle, when combined with an increasing impoverishment of material, leads perforce to the complete trivialisation of art. The melody to Agathe's words `Leise, leise, fromme Weise' stands in relation to the higher realms of art forgive the severity of the standpoint taken no differently from an aria from Bellini's Norma, so small-minded is the approach to melodic invention and the treatment of compositional problems. In Weber's music the smaller song forms lack features of higher stylisation. And as a substitute for this lack of art we find already in Weber the impulse toward the folksy and the na ve. I should, rather, say: towards the too-folksy and the too-na ve. I daresay that Mozart, had he had the idea of writing in such a folksy way, would have solved the problem of the peasant waltz, the bridesmaids' chorus, the hunters' chorus and the many other choruses, without harm to their [dramatic] effect but with significantly greater artistry (mark you, still without high art!) than Weber had done. I need only point out that Don Giovanni continues to work its magic on an audience no less successfully than Weber's Der Freischu tz. From this it follows that a higher art must by no means relinquish its position if, like Mozart's, it merely avoids being the highest art itself, something which of course must remain ineffective in opera at all times. Thus even from the standpoint of opera, it is not necessary to do what Weber did, namely, to strip away from music the modicum of art of which it is still capable, even in the realm of opera and actually to sacrifice music to audiences in the name of Romanticism, or realism, or nationalism. I repeat: the beauty and effect even of Weber's art is something that I accept, not only for audiences but also for myself; but anyone who believes that such beauty had to be paid for by such a lack of art is mistaken. For does not higher {82} art also have its beauty? Then what justification is there, if all forms of beauty are to be regarded as equal, for celebrating in the name of progress that very technique that evinces a lesser degree of art? Merely because of the material, because of

the story, because of Romanticism, because of patriotism? There may indeed Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 95 be a degree of progress in the eyes of patriotism, but progress in patriotism does not always have to coincide with progress in music. And if the material of Der Freischu tz is really more folksy than that of The Marriage of Figaro, am I therefore also obliged to indicate an improvement in Weber's music in comparison to Mozart's? Where only the joy of conquering well-known legendary material is given expression? And what, I must ask, does the audience's new joy which, as one can see, is mainly influenced by the material ultimately have to do with the question of whether a given work signifies progress also from an artistic perspective? If Weber at least had one foot in the doorway to instrumental music and he is also well known for his cyclic music, including sonatas and chamber music that was unfortunately not the case with Meyerbeer or Wagner. On the contrary, these two came into the world with a secret predestination toward the hybrid genre of opera. Neither had any impulse to cultivate music merely for its own sake, free of theatrical effect. Also, to both the artistic experiences gained by our aristocratic masters were almost entirely unknown. One can probably even assert that this repertory was, to a large extent, unknown to them. They lived with the theatre-going public and for the theatre-going public, in so far as their life may be summed up. That which Handel and Bach created, that which Haydn and Mozart and Beethoven bequeathed to us, this simply did not exist for them since it did not proceed along the path of the theatre.75 On this basis alone, however, i.e. that the points of departure of both composers were negative, it by no means follows that they had to take the same path. Yet the inevitably ill consequences had to befall both, however different their paths turned out. Meyerbeer wrote his grand operas, Wagner his music dramas, and it would appear that these directions are diametrically opposed to one another; yet the distance between them is closer than the space separating them from music in general, and from the type of music that Mozart wrote for the opera. Wagner had by no means criticised his operatic rival on account of {83} compositional technique, but rather for his artistic character, his common eclecticism, etc. In this, I believe, he was entirely mistaken. For it would have been at most of interest to learn whether more damage is done to the audience's taste by a compositional technique such as Meyerbeer's than, conversely, their joy in the melodies and in theatrical effect. The level of melodic construction in Meyerbeer's music, considered from a sophisticated standpoint, is so low and the lack of art is so widespread that for this reason alone one should pity any audience that takes pleasure in it. And if there is such a thing as artistic politics, and a kind of musical dictatorship, then it would be only too understandable that it turned against Meyerbeerian opera. But to perceive confusion in these works is, for sure, taking things too far. Each of his effects is, surely, as honestly conceived and carried out in theatrical terms as, say, one of Gluck's. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 96 HEINRICH SCHENKER

Does not his music still always arouse in his audience the feelings of dramatic truth? Do not The Huguenots, and The Prophet create tension in the theatre? And where does the music contradict the text? Wherein is an artistic lie to be perceived? On the contrary, did he not often seek to arrive at the truth to the best of his ability, and often by the application of new orchestral effects? And if music does not in any way openly contradict dramatic truth as is certainly not the case with Meyerbeer then all music in opera must in every instance be perceived as true. Or, to put it in different terms: can one, then, speak about a type of music from any other point of view than merely a purely musical one, and is not dramatic truth of secondary importance to it? The deceitfulness of a melody rarely reveals itself; but its inferior construction is all too apparent. And it is for this reason that I believe that Wagner would have done better to speak about the latter, rather than the former. Did not Meyerbeer do everything that he believed necessary to fulfil his theatrical obligations in the best faith? Must not the effect be heeded? Must not the great artistically ignorant masses not merely be persuaded about the effectiveness, but also forced to accept it? Are not all these things laws of the theatre, laws made by the audience, which must indeed be upheld? Then why fault a dramatic composer for fulfilling his obligations? Everything else, however, lies with the {84} destructive character of the hybrid art in general, against which no dramatic composer can hold out, unless he is a Mozart who is capable of offering the intrinsic nobility of music some protection, at least, even from a theatre audience. I thus find it proper to leave the question of truth versus untruth in Meyerbeer out of consideration, and to develop consistently a musical standpoint, the measure of which must always remain absolute music viewed dispassionately and nothing else. Wagner's Music Dramas The time has now come to judge Wagner himself from a purely technical standpoint. With his music, the error of the entire artistic genre has been raised to the highest power, and discoloured most irresistibly. It is beyond dispute that he was an immeasurably stronger personality than Meyerbeer, that his goal was full of imagination and greatness, and that for his determination and originality he must certainly be reckoned among the greatest artists of all time. Yet it must be regretted that, like the first Mozart who corrected Gluck, he was not similarly followed by a second Mozart, who corrected him in the same way.76 Just as he found happiness in his entire life, so, too, he found it after his death. Until now he has been spared having his work refuted by a music drama of musically higher quality. And perhaps we can only attribute the blame for this to Wagner himself, as he made it impossible for there to be a foundation upon which a musically higher phenomenon could take root. I do not in the least deceive Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 97 myself that it would be ill-conceived and unfruitful even to raise purely technical considerations against Wagner, since he has been raised to the level of national god in Germany, even from a purely musical perspective, and is

celebrated even by our lexicographers as the greatest musician since Beethoven. Nevertheless, a higher moral duty compels me not to shirk from setting out my arguments against his colossal presence. I said earlier that the exchange of truth between poetry and music, as occurs in opera, is only of rather vague, limited and ephemeral value. The operas of Lully, Gre try and Monteverdi were indeed also true in their respective time, and even then theatre audiences were impressed above all by the agreement {85} between music and poetry, which is what we call musical-dramatic truth. Since those earliest operatic times, things have remained the same up to the present day: that the world mainly speaks only about that which it understands, and thus only about truth in opera. Even so, the course of history has proven that it is not musical-dramatic truth that is the determining and decisive element in the development of the genre, but rather the purely musical. That which is musically more differentiated, stronger and richer, has always driven the all-too-weak and uncomplicated off the stage. Here, too, as in all of art, we have a victorious affirmation merely of that which manifested its perfection by a wonderful, mysterious irrationality that nevertheless is rooted in the deepest instinct towards art. Of course, the catchword `truth' has always served very well as a temporary weapon, so long as one may reckon that the audience will likewise join the battle for or against in the name of truth, of which it is supposed to have some understanding. In this way, Gluck's revolution was artificially constructed; and so, too, was Wagner's battle: truth was the point about which the battle was waged. If Gluck battled against the existence of coloratura, he overlooked the fact that not every coloratura had to be deprived of dramatic expression, and that often enough it may relate to truth just as much as the simplest series of tones in any of his purified works. We know this much better today than Gluck could in his time. Thus, for example, Rossini's music did not always deceive, even though he used coloratura passages in his Barber of Seville; they only needed to be sung dramatically, say, the way in which one was able to hear it sung by Patti.77 But one cannot of course derive a truth from a poor performance of coloratura; thus it has almost become a general principle that every musical coloratura is deceitful with respect to poetry. {86} But even with Wagner it is a good idea to leave the question of dramatic truth entirely out of consideration. For who knows whether at some point even his form of truth will become more a burden to the world than a source of enjoyment. Admittedly, with his instinctive, ingenious cleverness, he seized upon the old sagas, which were supposed to remind the German nation of its glorious days of yore. He hoped and counted on making the fluids of old Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 98 HEINRICH SCHENKER circulate once again, and so kept continuously in a state of renewal. In doing so he seems to have forgotten a basic law of nature, which plays a part not merely in the life of an individual being, but also in that of entire nations as individual beings of a higher category, so to speak. For if it is supposed to be true, as is so often asserted by scientists, that an organism completely replaces its fluids after the passing of so many years, why should this not apply to a nation as well?

Should not the German nation thus have replaced the fluids of its youth long, long ago? And what significance should Wotan and his circle have for a highly developed nation? Had not the gods been long forgotten before Wagner's time? What meaning can the truth of such an artificially freshened-up saga hold for us in our times, apart from a purely aesthetic one? At first sight, of course, precisely these materials helped Wagner secure his victory; yet even today one can see clearly that it is no longer the saga that allows the victory to assert itself but the music alone, which had previously seemed to be no more than a modest, trusty ally in the decisive battle. I fear that Wagner had undervalued the significance of music to the same extent as Gluck and that, conversely, he overvalued the significance of the saga as much as Gluck. What he hardly dared to think is the only truth: that in opera, or in music drama, only the value of the music matters. It is only through the music that history may be written, and a higher-ranking music will always suppress the less significant.78 {87} Thus from the outset it is actually only a question of judging the standpoint taken by Wagner in his music. In this respect, what actually matters is the technique that he used after Lohengrin. And if I were to sum up in a few words the cultural situation of music as found in his later works, it is enough for me to say: no synthesis anywhere, not, at least, of the sort handed down to us by the masters of absolute music or in Mozart's operatic works. All musical movement and continuity are basically thought processes set to music [vertonte Gedankenfolgen]. His music follows the logic of thoughts and events incomparably more than the laws that reside in music itself. Since he devotes himself entirely to drama, he does not bind himself to the needs of a purely constructive nature. He does not put together ideas from various elements, he builds no groups, he takes no care of the succession of keys, since he never has in mind a higher unity that is equivalent to any form. One should indeed not be deceived by the construction of lengthy preludes, interludes, or postludes. These, too, do not represent any group constructions, since in most instances they consist of just a few immensely extended harmonic degrees, with which length and therefore the illusion of an adding together is achieved where in fact only a single thought is expressed. To these belong, for example, the prelude to The Rhinegold, which is based on a single harmony; the postlude to the second scene of the same opera, which is likewise supported by a single bass note; and the prelude to The Valkyrie with the usual progression of IIIV. Where this is, however, not the case, where several motives are Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 99 joined together, this does not happen with the same means that, for example, Mozart uses when building a group, but is based rather on the principle of what in musical terms would be called a very loose potpourri, which at any rate finds its partial justification in the succession of moods to be expressed. Wagner could not have done this any other way, since the individual components of such a larger unity are usually rather small motives, which are created in a different place. The origins of his technique are found in the very way in which his motives arise. {88} Whereas in all music, including Mozart's operatic music, every musical

idea is a part of the form in the strictest sense whether it represents the antecedent or consequent, the middle section of a song form, a cadence, the first or second theme of a group, or a modulation section, etc. in the case of Wagner such a motive would in this sense be musically without foundation, i.e. without past and without future: a musical atom in itself. If in addition Mozart, for example, gives the key in which each motive is set a special mission in the overall course of the harmonies and keys by being set, say, in the key of the fifth so as to portray the mounting tension that is developing in a movement, in the key of some other degree according to its relationship to the whole with Wagner, all meaning of tonality is lost because the musical atom is without foundation. It is entirely sufficient for him to make the keyword on stage the begetter of motives, to reply to a dramatic association, be it a mood or an object, with a musical atom. Thus for example he is able to dedicate to the magic hood [Tarnkappe] a musical association of visionary beauty. But see how this musical construction appears there without foundation, even when it is used for the first time. Hardly has the keyword been uttered on stage than the [musical] construction is conceived, beginning with itself, ending in itself, and thus without any capacity for synthesis. The motives arise in his music at various points, precisely in relationship to the drama. And it is therefore clear that, when he occasionally places them beside one another on purely dramatic grounds, the synthesis is thus still unable to gain anything of a purely musical value. Consider the following example. After Fasolt and Fafner have made their entrance in the second scene of The Rhinegold, the orchestra plays an associative phrase that appears to be constructed irregularly, even though it represents an eight-bar phrase that is clearly in F major/minor. It begins with the dominant, and seems to reach an imperfect cadence at the end of bar 3 before seeking its conclusion with a kind of consequent phrase; nevertheless an imperfect cadence is introduced again in bar 6, one that requires the composer {89} to make a sort of repeat of the consequent phrase to bring it to a definitive conclusion the second time round. Still, at any rate, the next five bars may be read as a transition to the next group, in D minor; but suddenly, at Fasolt's words `deckt und schliesst im schlanken Schloss den Saal', the Valhalla motive Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 100 HEINRICH SCHENKER is sounded in B[ major, for the simple reason that Fasolt points to the castle. The collision between these two motives, each completely self-contained, does not however evoke the impression of an absolute musical synthesis. For neither motive, when it was formed, was predisposed to take account of the other, nor did the two stand in any kind of relationship to one another. To no greater extent are the keys developed from the point of view of a past or a future; instead, both motives function as set pieces, which happened on this occasion to stand next to one another. Thus while Fasolt's thought process follows a normal course, prescribed by the nature of human reasoning, and at the same time his speech follows this logic to the letter, in so far as it delivers the correct sentence construction and grammatical expressions, the music must on the contrary be content with a rupture, since that which does not belong together is

joined by force to form a connection, for the simple reason that this is what agrees with the logic of the drama. Is there, on the contrary, a single instance in the whole of Wagner's work in which the words have suffered a similar rupture, in order to allow music a life of its own, for once, in accordance with its own logic? Did Wagner ever miss out just one subject, or verb, or comma, for the sake of the music? And why must music, which also has its subjects and predicates and commas, renounce its laws of grammar and break into hundredths and thousandths, merely because the poetry wills it so? It is well known that Wagner granted the sovereignty of poetry over music not only by letting it rule music drama in such a way as to make music actually superfluous: in order to prevent music from gaining anything from poetry, he went so far as to do without any word repetition whatever: that ordinary word repetition which may be understood in all previous opera as an indispensable concession of poetry to music. {90} In short: in his theatre, poetry remains what it is, whereas music is no longer what it otherwise would be. At any rate his set pieces manifest themselves in ever new variations, and these too are always combined with each other in ever different ways. But their makeup is never determined on a purely musical basis, but rather from a dramatic-poetic viewpoint. The unceasing industry of combinations and variations gave rise to the much-discussed concept of `unending melody', which Wagner himself gave the pretence of being a kind of symphonic development. Since then, a serious confusion and bewilderment has arisen. In a [sonata form] movement, for example in a symphony, all the ideas initially lie together, either in the womb of the first or second or third group, and their significance is defined precisely by the fact they are only part of a higher entity, so that the development can itself take what was previously undifferentiated (or insufficiently differentiated) and portray and characterise it in an independent state of differentiation, and the parts that had been so explained and brought into proximity can finally be presented to us in the recapitulation as firmly joined units; but Wagner utterly squanders his most genius-endowed Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 101 combinatorial gifts in a vain attempt to solve the unsolvable: to differentiate what is already differentiated. Do you not see that there is a contradiction here? Should not that which is to be differentiated appear at first undifferentiated? Is this contrast not [. . .], and is this not also the case in nature? And how is it even possible to speak of differentiation in Wagner, if he introduces every motive as equally differentiated, and indeed on account of its jurisdiction in the drama? In other words, his motives are far too independent at the time of their first appearance, and they retain this birth defect throughout the entire piece. As often as they appear in this or that form, one recognises them over again as that which they merely were, i.e. merely independent motives. In the so-called symphony of the pit orchestra, then, no development in a truly symphonic sense takes place since, as I have just shown, variations on leitmotives {91} are something different from thematic development in a symphony. Overjoyed by his variation technique, Wagner had apparently forgotten that he was always applying this only to an individual element, and not to an organism. Thus one

could, if one likes, say rather that the endless melody represents a summation of variations on leitmotives, whereby each motive and every variation give evidence of true genius. But on no account does this come anywhere near the construction of a true musical organism, which resolves all its relationships within itself as the sentence resolves its problems, a painting resolves what it depicts, and music in a symphony resolves again within itself. Wagner on Mozart, Beethoven, Weber: Opera and Drama That Wagner could regard the symphonic aspects of his music as a true symphonic style is naturally only the result of his utter failure to understand to have any idea of the genuinely symphonic. One need only consider how he defined Mozart in Opera and Drama: He was so completely and thoroughly a musician, and nothing but a musician, that we can see in his work, most clearly and most convincingly, the only true and correct position of a musician, even in relationship to a poet. His most important and decisive achievements in music are, unquestionably, in opera in opera, for whose construction it did not in the least occur to him to act with quasi-poetic sovereignty, rather to accomplish precisely that which he was able to accomplish by purely musical means. But by compensation, precisely by the truest and purest engagement of the poetic intent where and as it was available he expanded his purely musical capabilities to such an extent that in none of his absolute musical compositions, namely, not even in his instrumental works, do we find his musical art so broadly and richly developed as in his operas.79 Now we have it: how facile his judgement! Did Wagner never hear Mozart's string quartets, his quintets, which would have enabled him to judge that his instrumental music, when one considers musical art in absolute terms, stands Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 102 HEINRICH SCHENKER on an infinitely higher plane than all his operas and that {92} in the latter only the most indispensable means of continuation in absolute music are found, and no more? And even if it is true that Mozart's `most important and decisive achievements' are actually in the field of opera, that is by no means in the sense that Wagner intended, but merely in the sense that I explained earlier: namely that he transplanted into opera though this does not represent his highest art (as Wagner would have it) at least a high enough degree of artistry that music could finally be recognised as such, even in opera. That for Wagner, moreover, this high degree of artistry actually appeared to be the highest may be taken as sufficient proof of its stature, but at the same time a proof of his lack of insight. But his thoughts on instrumental music themselves show, even more clearly than the above definition of Mozart, how far he was from understanding the way in which the intrinsic laws of instrumental music work. Whereas operatic melody, if not truly fertilised by poetry, proceeds from one forced situation to the next, capable only of supporting a life of drudgery, incapable of procreation, instrumental music gained the capacity of dividing the harmonic dance and folksong into smaller and smaller parts by a new and varied way of combining, extending or abbreviating these parts, to make a special language; this remained arbitrary and incapable of expressing the purely human so long as the demands for a clear and intelligible portrayal of specific,

individual sentiments was not the sole authority for the construction of those melodic speech-parts. That the expression of a quite specific, clearly understandable, individual content was in truth impossible in this language, which had developed only as far as conveying the general sense of a sentiment, was something that was first realised by the instrumental composer in whom the demands to express such a content became the all-consuming, fiery life-force of artistic creation. The history of instrumental music is, from the point at which that demand first manifested itself, the history of an artistic error;80 {93} yet it was one that ended not with a demonstration of the powerlessness of music, like the error of opera, but rather one with the manifestation of its limitless inner powers. Beethoven's mistake was the same as Columbus's, who only wanted to find a new way to India, an old land that was already known; even Columbus took his error with him to the grave, by making his fellow voyagers swear an oath that they take the new world for the old India. But however much he was caught in the fullness of his mistake, his deed nevertheless loosened the blindfold from the face of the world, and taught it to recognise in the most incontrovertible way the true shape of the world and its undreamed riches. To us, now, the inexhaustible power of music has been unveiled by this fundamentally powerful error of Beethoven's. By his intrepid efforts, to achieve the artistically necessary within an artistically impossible, the limitless capacity of music has been revealed for the solution to any imaginable problem, so long as it remains precisely what it really is, and no more: the art of expression.81 Now, precisely the opposite of all this is true. That Wagner could arbitrarily indicate that putting together, expansion or abbreviation of smaller and smaller Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 103 parts, as mentioned at the beginning of the quotation, as the source of higher artistic meaning shows how little feeling he had for the action of a motive, for the laws of tonality and the way the parts interact with each other insofar as they are meant to serve a whole; and above all how little he realises that it is not a matter of arbitrariness when, for example, Bach writes a fugue in a particular way and not in some other way, or orders the tonality in his choruses and not in some other way, or when Emanuel Bach or Haydn or Mozart or Beethoven organise the details of their themes in a particular way and not some other way, and then build the groups and the whole in a particular way and not some other way; rather, that in all these artistic revelations, the higher artistic meaning is expressed in precisely the opposite way, in the servitude one could say slavery in which the composer finds himself when confronting a problem. This is something that music learned precisely when it achieved its freedom from `individual human feelings' {94} and the `purely human'. But Wagner was not the man who was capable of feeling or judging the purely musical. And herein lay the greatest shortcoming of his artistic being: that in order to enjoy music, he had to interpolate a word or a picture. In this respect he was just like his dear audience, which prefers to regard all absolute music as artificiality and arbitrariness, simply because it does not know what it might represent. That is why Wagner too, as we saw above, enjoyed imputing to Beethoven the desire to express `a quite specific, readily comprehensible individual content', whereas

Beethoven in reality thought of form only in absolutely musicals terms and, when the occasion arose, additionally used impulses of life, moods and images. He appears not in the least to have recognised that Beethoven's technique represents a mere extension of that of Haydn and Mozart, that furthermore this is less a qualitative than a quantitative extension, and that it is precisely Beethoven who shows most clearly how important it is to organise musical content into two or three parts (a five-part form will of course be understood by the listener as dividing two plus three or, conversely, three plus two) if one wished to transmit to the listener more than two or three small themes. In other words: the greater the thematic richness, the more important it becomes to control it in a two- or three-part form, since it is only by this plasticity that one can come to enjoy this richness; otherwise, the sum of ideas will pass by the ear of the listener like an incoherent swarm, without making any impression. Just consider the chaos the many, many motives would have created for the themes in the first movement of the Eroica had Beethoven not placed some in the main subject, others in the transition, still others in the development, etc.; some in E[ major, others in B[ major or E minor, in that one grants another its proportionate tonal expansion and sense of directedness. Would these themes, I ask, have been better, more expressive themes if they were mixed together, proceeding without purpose? If abbreviation is indeed a necessity of human creation, {95} then it seems to me that order in general belongs to the business Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 104 HEINRICH SCHENKER of abbreviation much more than disorder, in the sense that one could almost say that abbreviation can be expressed only by order: how could it be otherwise? It follows from this that, even for the receptive listener, the joy of abbreviation is an artistic and aesthetic one, but this is probably true to the same extent of the joy of ordering, which made abbreviation possible in the first place. By contrast, the lack of order in a work of art always unleashes a sense of discomfort, since the listener has the instinctive feeling that the creative artist has somehow neglected to deal with abbreviation properly. Thus I do not believe that the time could ever come when ideas expressed by disorder worked better than ideas expressed by order. If only one could understand, just for once, that musical form does not actually exist for its own sake but rather for themes, like the division of a drama into acts and scenes, the framing of a picture, etc. Wagner was entirely oblivious to the very idea that musical themes must create an order, that the tones must, so to speak, already be working towards that order so long as they remain in the servitude of dance and song, and that they had to work twice as hard at this when they were finally left alone, as absolute music. He was only in a position to gain insight into that order by which the word forced itself upon music, and he imagined in this case that he had perceived order in music, whereas he was de facto again perceiving only order in poetry. In other words, he imported into music the necessity of a poetic logic, and everything that he was not able to justify in terms of this logic appeared to him arbitrary. Conversely, he did not understand that there lies a necessity, albeit a purely musical one, that for instance a given tonality can only

be understood as such when it is set in contrast with another tonality, and that, similarly, the principles of contrast and variety represent a necessity of musical nature in general, which is of equal validity to the logical necessities of poetry. And so we see him groping in the dark not only when he asks whether musical {96} forms are or are not arbitrary formations, or whether, furthermore, Beethoven's technique differs from Haydn's or Mozart's, but also when he mistakenly thinks that the music of the later Beethoven is the result of a different compositional technique than what in reality underlies it. Thus he explains: In the works from the second half of his creative life Beethoven is not understood or is rather misunderstood when he seeks to express an especially individual content in the most comprehensible way. He goes beyond the musically absolute, which ordinary convention recognised as comprehensible, i.e. in some recognisable form of dance or song in order to speak in a language that often appears as an arbitrary omission of mood and, not belonging to a purely musical relationship, is connected only by the bond of a poetic intent, which, however, cannot in fact be expressed with poetic clarity in music. The majority of Beethoven's later works must be understood as Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 105 involuntary efforts to create a language for his [artistic] needs, so that they often appear like sketches for a painting of which the artist was quite clear about the subject but not about the rational way of arranging it.82 What blatant misunderstandings is Wagner guilty of in these remarks! For the works from the second half of Beethoven's life are, above all, very comprehensible; they become incomprehensible only if one cannot recognise the same synthesis that marks out his works from the first half of his life. Although the themes may have become bolder, the part-writing richer, also thicker and more convoluted, nevertheless there remains in all these pieces an adherence to two- or three-part form, and to the principles of contrast, variety and group construction; and it is very much to be regretted that a genius like Wagner does not see the two things in these works, namely (1) the way in which they are the same as the early works with regard to musical necessities, and (2) the way in which, in spite of this identity, they are so very different. But precisely the example of Wagner ought to teach us {97} how musical content can work in such different ways, in spite of the fact that the laws of music remain the same, and how much room for play these laws allow, if they can give rise to a string quartet by Haydn and to one of the late quartets of Beethoven. And what rich creative possibilities must be granted by the same musical laws if a Wagner could deceive himself about Beethoven's works to such an extent that he presumed that they were governed by a different technique from those of Mozart and Haydn. And, furthermore, what little imagination he shows in continuing to speak of `dance and song tunes', where the emancipated art of music had long ago created laws of continuity of its own that for a long time have had nothing in common with them, and which the art of music has no intention of sacrificing if it happens to be joined once more with the word or the dance. And, finally, to maintain that musical content in the works from Beethoven's

second period are a language held together only by linkage to a poetic intent, unrelated to a purely musical cohesiveness, is even more ridiculous than the very opposite of this is all the more demonstrable. For these works, above all, give evidence of a purely musical cohesiveness precisely according to those laws that Wagner did not understand or refused to recognise; whereas a poetic intent can perhaps be supposed but unfortunately not proven, and in any event plays a secondary role so long as music exists as such. If only Wagner, instead of issuing all these words, had been able to feel how Beethoven, say, prolonged musical laws, demanded new forms of expression from them, nuanced them. But to be forever searching in his works for the art of expression, i.e. Wagner's idea of this, conflicts not only with the nature of music but also with the genius of Beethoven, who embodied it so beautifully. To understand how much Wagner needed the straitjacket of the text to make music may best be shown by the fact that, as I said earlier, he banished word Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 106 HEINRICH SCHENKER repetition from his texts. All of his theoretical pronouncements on the subject are merely a precarious self-delusion that is supposed to help him get round the problem that he cannot so easily extend music into longer forms with a few words. He needed the very signpost of the word {98} as the generator of tones, verily step by step; he could not dispense with the word when he wanted to create new musical content. And it thus sounds like self-consolation when, conversely, he chides earlier melody on the grounds that `the verse was designed to be stretched out by numerous repetitions of phrases and words, as a foundation for operatic melodies, to give them the necessary breadth', and when he says that with his procedure `a far more intimate union of poetry and music takes place than had previously been the case' and `that melody and its form are supplied with limitless riches which are utterly unimaginable without this procedure'.83 Indeed! Even without this procedure there were already limitless riches, and these were with Mozart.84 It is just that he brought these riches along different paths, paths of which Wagner could not possibly have had an inkling. I ask: how could Wagner have denied that such riches were at hand, and to claim to be the first to create them in music? He could do so only because the riches achieved by group construction, whereby various elements are joined together to form a theme and several themes to form a group, were inaccessible to his feeling and beyond the reach of his abilities. And even those who would have no interest in denying Wagner's riches must therefore not join with him in disputing those of an earlier composer; at best, then, these two types of riches may be said to differ according to the way in which they are expressed: in Mozart, by order, and by purely musical group construction; in Wagner, merely by the order in the text, but at the same time, unfortunately, by lack of order in the music. It is now up to everyone to decide in favour of one or the other. It is astonishing that Wagner could have overlooked such a fundamental difference as exists between the nature of poetry and that of music. For the words of language, on account of association, work with lightning speed to make their meaning clear to us, and we must thus comprehend a very long

sentence, in all its elements, as this or {99} that impression of nature and reality; by contrast the possibility of understanding a succession of tones is such a narrower one, that is, the comprehension takes place at a much slower speed, since the succession needs its own imitation (see Harmonielehre, 4) in order to be understood as a series of tones in the first place. Consider, now, that this imitation does not remain for music, even in those instances when verbal association is at work. And if, at best, the understanding of music is facilitated a tiny bit by the assistance of words, then one can understand why I say that it is self-evident that the tempo of music is, by its very nature, slower than that of poetry. While speech can rush forward, introducing new concepts, a new construction and a new impression, music can in the same available time merely Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 107 realise the imitation of an earlier series of tones; thus if at the outset poetry takes no notice of this special quality of music, a clash between the two arts is unavoidable. In the latter case, namely, in the case that the two arts are not in communication, music must remain beholden to poetry for the development of a second theme,85 since it is still busy explaining its own series of tones. This explains, logically and artistically, why word repetitions were an integral part of earlier operatic composition. New conceptual material would have required music to provide new musical associations; and thus music, if it were constantly occupied with explaining what the spoken word offered, would never have arrived at explaining its own material. Thus it came to be that the content of the spoken word was reduced, so to speak, so as not to set music the impossible task of explaining itself and, at the same time, conveying the sense of an overabundance of verbal material. How, nevertheless, richness poetic as well as musical can be incorporated into drama is something that is best explained by Mozart's works. I have already spoken about musical richness; and if I now say that the poetic content would have gained very little if its themes and words were given greater elaboration, then I have said enough: thus I hesitate to think that additional {100} text would have made Mozart's rich musical development possible. Wagner, however, had in his head precisely that which was unnatural; and so he inevitably made the mistake of imitating language musically, which was constantly hurrying forwards, always offering something new; in this way, music was prevented from explaining itself as it had to, and as it had hitherto done. And in this way he developed his orchestral technique of `putting things together', for which he had criticised the earlier masters. But things are still more extraordinary. Wagner's instinct was entirely correct in despising `melody', absolute melody, the naked, ear-pleasing absolute melody, that is, the melody that was only melody and nothing more, which slipped into the ear. We do not know why we pick up this tune, nor why we exchange it for the one we heard yesterday and why we shall have forgotten it tomorrow. Neither do we know why it sounds sorrowful when we are happy, or why it sounds happy when we feel depressed and we hum it to ourselves anyway we just do not know why.86 From this standpoint, he does not shy away from criticising Weber, whom he

liked so very much. So we read in Opera and Drama, which I have just quoted: We saw further that Weber's objection to Rossini was directed at the shallowness and lack of character of this melody, but by no means at the unnatural relationship of the musician to the drama itself.87 How astute his instinct! He feels the curse of a long, expansive melody, overextended and merely concerned with its unity and beauty. He senses how this melody, on account of the all too coquettish, crude emphasis of its own Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 108 HEINRICH SCHENKER individuality, spoils the equilibrium in the work of art, because it must perforce suppress other parts, for example the connective passages, far too much. But he {101} does not realise that the old masters of fugue already knew this well, and that they, too, also knew the curse of the overly long subject; and further that the old cyclical composers also avoided melody in the same way, and that it was only technical considerations that argued against melody. Think, for instance, of a long subject dragged through the numerous developments in a fugue: how ponderous and monotonous would the endless repetition of an overgrown construction be! Thus composers readily avoided excessively long fugue subjects; the repetitions did not tire and the fugue became more fluent. And if they wished to do something musically for fun, they could add a countersubject or use inversions and stretto, as much as they wished, which would only add to the riches. That melodies had no place in cyclic movements has already been shown: the three-part construction would have been made too crude just because of the three melodies, i.e. it would have become a potpourri of melody. For this reason, cyclic composers built their themes with a variety of character and joined them into groups. And so we meet Wagner at the point at which he despised melody out of a correct artistic instinct, but at the same time rejected the counter-technique, so to speak, which the instrumental composers discovered, because he found it artistically arbitrary. Is that not in truth a bizarre contradiction? This inability to understand Mozart's operatic technique becomes in time all the more inexplicable, given that he would have had, almost by necessity, to arrive at the same solution to the problem as that by which he writes about Weber's Euryanthe. Listen to his judgement: Weber's melody had to be everywhere full of character, i.e. true and corresponding to the emotion of the matter at hand. Thus he had to progress to a different procedure. Wherever his long-breathed melody generally conceived in advance and spread over the text like a dazzling garment would have done that text an obvious disservice, he broke up this melody itself into pieces, and put the individual parts of his melodic construction {102} together in an artificial mosaic, in accordance with the declamatory requirements of the text; he then covered this with a delicate melodic varnish, in order to retain for the entire construction, viewed from without, the appearance of absolute melody, as separable as possible even from the text. But he never succeeded in achieving the desired illusion.88 By getting onto the track of Weber's procedure, he clearly betrays how important it is, even for the opera composer, to avoid `melody'. He is able to

sympathise with Weber's difficulty, and as a consequence he is better informed about the solution to the problem that Weber posed. Is it therefore not doubly extraordinary that he failed to recognise in Mozart's technique a solution to the same problem as that found in Weber, only a far more successful one? In Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 109 judging Weber he is perfectly correct; why does he fail to see that the Mozartian way is the only correct one, insofar as it concerns the solution to the problem that he himself had fully sensed and formulated? This contradiction alone is enough to show us that he had to avoid a path that in some way partook of the blessings of absolute music, for which he had the capacity neither to hear nor to understand. For him, then, all there was to do was to avoid all melody partly, as said, on account of his correct artistic instinct; partly because of his insight into Weber's procedures, which he was not prepared to follow. Of course, Mozart's way still stood open to him, if he wished to avoid Weber's. But it was in every respect inaccessible; and so he conceived a new procedure, the so-called Wagnerian one, which lost all connection with absolute music. He writes at one point: These contradictions are: absolute self-fulfilled melody and true dramatic expression. Here one or the other had to be sacrificed: melody or drama. Rossini sacrificed drama; the noble Weber wanted to restore it by the strength of his more contemplative melody. He had to learn that this is impossible.89 But Wagner, of course, sacrificed absolute melody; yet he did not realise the extent to which he had unnecessarily to sacrifice absolute music outright in order to sacrifice this melody. I say `unnecessarily' because, as I have repeatedly said, {103} Mozart was the example by which one could avoid falling into the trap of absolute melody and yet at the same time write convincing absolute music even in opera.90 Now Wagner had destroyed melody and, intentionally, torn up all forms. And the result? The absence of all connection and unity, hence an isolation of individual parts both in terms of their spatial proportions and their tonal relationships. Components took shape particles that were far from capable of collectively presenting a symphonic development. This result is all the more apparent today, since the effect of the text has become somewhat dulled. And one senses all the more acutely the drawbacks that his music presents, precisely in an age when one would want to like it. A strange irony seems to govern his output: one asks about music in it, even though he did not indeed want to make any. That aforementioned rule of opera, which vindicates music unconditionally when it comes to deciding about merits and weaknesses, is now pointed against Wagner himself: the matter had to arise sooner or later, since the law does not ask about Wagner's intentions. This disappointment that stands before the world is not entirely dissimilar to that which Wagner himself expresses so shrewdly with regard to Weber: Even Weber's operas were attended by audiences only for the purpose of hearing as much of this sort of melody as possible. And the master was very much mistaken in flattering himself in believing that that over-varnished declamatory mosaic, which was of such fundamental importance to him, was

 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 110 HEINRICH SCHENKER regarded by his audiences as melody. If, in Weber's own eyes, this mosaic could be justified only by the text, from the audience's point of view (quite rightly, in this case) the words did not, on the one hand, matter at all. On the other hand, however, it turned out that this text was not even completely expressed by the music. Precisely this untimely half-melody turned the listener's attention away from the words and towards the tension of the melodic construction; {104} this tension, however, did not actually materialise, with the result that the listener's demand for the expression of a poetic thought was denied from the start. But the pleasure in a melody was all the more painfully reduced as the demand for it was awakened but not fulfilled.91 [31/138] This critique of Wagner's concerning Weber has, in addition to its importance as a critique, a second meaning, namely an argument that one could effectively use against Wagner if it is said, in defence of his errors, that he wanted his work in just such a way from the outset. To be sure, that he wanted it this way and not otherwise can be seen not only from his musical works but also from his writings. And it is well known that he maintained that, with the composition of Tristan and Isolda, he had actually exceeded the limits of his theory. But see how Wagner himself finds fault with Weber, although it is clear to him that Weber wanted things in such a way, and not otherwise. That is, a composer's clear intent concerning his artistic procedures does not in the least prevent Wagner from criticising him. Why, then, should we not be permitted to have reservations about Wagner's intentions, even when we know what his intentions were? Complete awareness and intent, then, may by no means be taken as an excuse for an artistic deed; on the contrary, they must rather lead to the sharpening of judgement. {104 ctd} It must be admitted that Wagner did not, at first, have an easy time with his audience. That which was specifically Wagnerian was, for a long time, not to their liking. It was the healthy musical instinct that defended itself against some thing in Wagner's procedures. It is important to recall that the world's resistance to Wagner's late style in no respect resembles that resistance which no genius has ever been spared. Even in Leipzig, people grumbled about Bach. Even in Vienna, people were envious of Mozart and Beethoven, and also of Brahms in his last days, etc. But in all these cases, the public had at the same time a secretly founded impression that these were true masters of composition, to whom the respect owed to them should not be denied. It was otherwise in Wagner's case. It was by no means the poorest of musicians who did not wish to believe in Wagner's musical abilities, to say nothing of being able to make up their minds to recognise him as a master of music. And so even today, in spite of his global success, effectively gagging the mouths of all superior artistically thinking musicians, there remains a latent unease one that accompanied Wagner from the beginning which has never been eradicated. Even today, Germany has a strange feeling that, for instance, Beethoven and Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 111 Wagner are two different phenomena. And not merely because one wrote only

one opera and the other created a music drama. Wagner merely succeeded, with his powerful and high-handed delusion, in persuading us that he himself was in one respect Mozart's heir, and in another respect Beethoven's. We know, too, that Wagner by no means let his work mature slowly in the public's favour. He did not have the gift of our honourable masters to create one work after another without the least concern for success or failure. He lacked the nobler sense merely to live for the sake of his art and {105} not to waste time marketing his own works. One is accustomed to tracing this back to his temperament, a specific artistic inclination that has nothing further to do with the matter. I have thought, however, that perhaps the other masters were certainly no less temperamental; if their biographies say nothing about this, their own works tell us all the more plainly. For this reason they all occasionally expressed their displeasure about the failure of their works but never made too much of this, preferring instead to channel their temperament into the works themselves. And it also explains why just two composers Gluck and Wagner were guilty of dispatching writs, communications and manifestos into the world and, through their friends, propaganda of all sorts, in speech and in writing. Is this really pure coincidence? That the last-named composers are thoroughly deprived of the aristocracy that has marked out the German masters since time immemorial? Heine recounts so amusingly how Meyerbeer could never tolerate knowing about anyone who was opposed to his works. Now, then, I confess freely that the imposition of Wagner's works, however much idealism and patriotism may be concealed beneath it, has not made a favourable impression on me. For I need only to remind myself that Beethoven issued his last string quartets, which surely contain music at least as good as Wagner's tetralogy, without imposing them upon his audience. Should we therefore take Wagner's actions as a sign of his vanity? I do not think so. On the contrary, I rather think that their deepest origins lay in his not being sure of his own materials, without actually knowing why. And thus his propagandising temperament strikes me as being a complementary manifestation of his art. This art was in need of propaganda; that of a Bach or a Beethoven certainly was not. Gluck and Wagner had to impose, if they did not wish to run the risk of losing their works. The others could simply let the future decide. Thus what was unhealthy in Wagner's art gave rise, above all, to yet another unhealthy symptom, {106} that art was promoted by societies of intolerant amateurs. [31/141] It was entirely characteristic of Wagner to use all his powers to declare his interests in that which was least organic. It was easy for him to think that it would be possible for an art like music, which was differentiated to such a high degree, to give up its differentiation for sake of his own theorem of the total artwork. How little feeling he had for organicism is already revealed by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 112 HEINRICH SCHENKER the fact that, from a sudden caprice, he hoped to achieve the force by which the music drama would vanquish the instrumental music of a Bach, a Beethoven or a Brahms, as if it were possible to make a child who had already come into the world unborn. How could one? And thus I believe that Wagner could never

have hoped that such complete perfection, such a high degree of independence, could have been driven from the world. In the very conception of the total artwork, there lies such an unhealthy offence against the laws of nature, and also of our art in particular, that, even from this attitude alone, one can without further ado draw a characteristic but unhappy a posteriori conclusion about his compositional method. Anyone who can be guilty of such childish fantasising might very well deal all too fantastically, and thus somewhat irresponsibly, with his own art. Just look at the childishness in the founding of Bayreuth! With what capricious lack of organicism has this idea forced itself into our world! An idea which the world, after it had a Beethoven, a Mozart such splendid crown witnesses cannot however proceed along further festival paths, which are appropriate only for an earlier age, in which all the arts lie together in the womb of a single unity merely because they are still undifferentiated and thus incapable of standing on their own feet. But we can best see today how little fruit Wagner's unorganic vagaries have borne! At the most a Bungert, for instance, is thinking of festival playhouses for his dramas.92 Now, as before, the course of the music business shows that no one is taking any notice of Wagner's grandiose ideas. We still play the Beethoven sonatas and string quartets the way we have always played them, in spite of Wagner having seen an error in them. We still perform the entire corpus of instrumental music in our concert halls and at home, since we cannot satisfy our lives with the tetralogy alone, and since great [31/142] works of art cannot be swept into a corner. What a sad place the world would be if men and women, from morning to night, in the house and the concert hall, could hear nothing but extracts from Wagner's works or, as surrogates for it, the programme music of a Berlioz or a Liszt! All this music is not after all so true that, for its sake, one should have to renounce the beauty of other music, namely the instrumental music practised by our masters. And yet how simple to believe that, in point of truth, a Beethoven is no less realistic than a Berlioz. Should, then, the degree of realism be determined on the basis of such flimsy evidence that, for instance, Berlioz uses four timpani in his Fantastic Symphony to portray a storm whereas Beethoven uses only two? Should the dose of musical realism be, therefore, also contained in this dose of timpani? {106 ctd} But that is perhaps the least of the evils that were attributable to Wagner. That he destroyed the unity of listening and tonal coherence, not only in his own work but also in the listener, has more far-reaching tragic implications. Since we have to live with the unfortunate consequence that, after Wagner, no one came along who might have shown the healthier side of music Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 113 in a music drama, the unfettered dissemination of his works becomes all too understandable. This is, however, accompanied by the inexorable destruction of the musical ear. Custom has done its part in making the offence almost indiscernible. We have learned to come to terms with the individual parts, and to give up the demands of tonality and unity; we have become so demoralised that, for the undoubtedly great enjoyment that this or that passage elicits on account of its indisputable beauty, we confer gratitude upon the whole work of

art, despite the fact that our great masters were so generous as to give us works whose value resides not in an individual passage but in the whole. We have repeatedly grown accustomed to following the individual motives with the same instinct with which we would otherwise follow a banal operatic melody, while at the same time we show little interest in the less significant connective materials. Even in the Wagnerian sense it was always just the melody that captivated the ear of the layman; the rest fell victim to inattentiveness. There arose in this way an unhealthy, almost intermittent attentiveness, i.e. the opposite to that artistic listening that always took and still takes as given that our masterworks are complete organisms in themselves. In other words, in conceding Wagner his principle, we have lost the art of hearing continuously and artistically. Anton Bruckner Not only audiences but also creative artists, however, fell victim to this illness. Blinded by the success of Wagner's music and driven to imitate him in the means with which he was able to conjure such a success, {107} they took so much trouble to get inside the sound of his music that, unfortunately, they thereby lost their powers of listening. Their instincts gradually crumbled away, becoming ever more brittle, and something that has not previously happened in Germany the leading composers of today are making bad music, which is in fact something different from music that is merely boring. While, for example, a Schumann lays out his ideas before us in the most original way, invoking a wealth of new piano textures for the representation of his content, he is still always capable of composing the most daring things with such a somnambulistic confidence that they can be explained in the easiest possible way even in terms of simple relationships. We must be even more amazed by the music of, for instance, Chopin, who often elaborates the content of harmonic steps in the most ingenious way, and not seldom even in such a way that the concept of the harmonic step threatens to disappear altogether;93 nevertheless the most daring ideas are, as it were, underpinned and clarified by the simplest of basic principles. Such splendid instinctive powers as Schumann's or Chopin's have today become impossible I am not afraid to say so in the atmosphere of Wagner. Thus it would never have been possible Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 114 HEINRICH SCHENKER for a Chopin, who has demonstrated his undisputed harmonic ingenuity time and again, to construct such a tonally confused theme or, if you will, groups of themes such as we find, say, in the first group of Bruckner's Fifth Symphony. One should not object to the comparison on the grounds that Chopin never actually composed a symphony, or even tried to write one; for in his larger piano works he developed equally long ideas, if one is in fact talking about length. Basically it is a question of the composer's stance regarding tonality, regardless of whether in a symphony or in a polonaise-fantasy. In this symphony of Bruckner's, how are we supposed to arrive at a feeling that the group is unified (for this is what surely matters, as it was in fact also the composer's basic intention) if we are presented essentially with three distinct sections, the first comprising bars 114, the second bars 1554, and finally the

last from bar 54 to the end of the group, but all three are rather loosely placed alongside each other, without any connecting material between them? {108} The first of the three sections moves clearly enough from the tonic to the dominant, in the manner of a prelude. The second section begins with a new motive, in G[, so that one can imagine a VI of B[. But the further course of events, especially from bar 31 onwards, puts the main tonality more in doubt than is necessary, and presents an unambiguous D minor, whose dominant actually concludes this section. And now from this dominant of D minor, a sudden move to the tonic of D minor, and from here without any scruples to B[ for the third section, which actually shows the most normal structure of a twopart theme. Thus the first two sections appear to be functioning more as a prelude; and the seat of the actual theme is the third section. But now the question arises as to whether the second section, on account of its expansion and because its construction is too self-contained, contributes a perceptible amount of damage to the whole by spoiling the equilibrium. By this I mean that it would have suited the middle section more had the home key been discharged with all the greater breadth and force in the third section itself. But is this the case? No. The antecedent and consequent both move in very moderate dimensions and the composer, on account of his predilection for descending thirds, evidently has difficulty retaining the home key. And now the most crucial of all factors: the consequent phrase itself, as one can clearly see from the development of the content, also wants to provide a modulation section. And yet for the two purposes, the space of 22 bars proves too short, insofar as the home key still badly needed a more emphatic confirmation and a more expansive modulation was surely needed to balance the collective force of the three sections. But how strange it is that the modulation section presents itself so surprisingly in E[, while the subsequent secondary theme apparently aims for the dominant of the home key, i.e. F major/minor. How can all this be squared? And now one only has to look at any of the thematic groups from the classical masterworks, which have just been discussed in Harmonielehre,94 in Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 115 order to see how much each of these parts contributes to the whole, and in order to perceive their origins all the more clearly as to why, in the case of Bruckner, {109} a discrepancy among the individual parts must arise. And thus I maintain that a similarly mistaken disposition would never have crossed Chopin's mind, for his instinct would, so to speak, have been identical with the needs of the principal key itself. He would have certainly been unable to compose the second section of the group in such a wayward manner. Furthermore, it would have been impossible for him to go, apparently, to E[ major and then to introduce a general pause in order suddenly to let the key of F be sounded. Now, as I have said, Bruckner is certainly one of those composers whose musical upbringing was actually founded on a healthy tradition. If, then, even his sense of tonality has gone awry to such a frightful extent, how much lower a result may be seen in other contemporaries, who are certainly not his equal. This matter has absolutely nothing to do with the size of the themes, which so oft comes to light in Bruckner's works. On the

contrary, for me the very force and splendour of the individual theme appears to work against their synthesis. Is it then not roughly the same as with the principle of mass in melody as demonstrated above? That is, is it not similar to the situation that an excessively long melody must be ruled out of cyclic works for technical reasons, also that an all too intensive stress of the individuality of the component part goes against the principle of cyclic composition? It is indeed clear that the group as such will be harmed if its parts are not mutually dependent and, instead of persevering in a balance between serving their own ends and dedicating themselves to the whole, perhaps emphasise their own ends. Somehow, the will of the individual part must be muted if it is to be perceived merely as part of a whole. And thus I believe that Bruckner sins most grievously by individualising and overstretching the beauty of the component part. Is that, then, not ironical, that beauty can be an offence against effect? And yet it is so. If only his intention were, at least, directed at the level of the group, the effect would have been better achieved. But as the matter actually stands, one can see that Bruckner's instinct was not sufficiently strong as to have a feeling for what belonged to the group {110}, and what belonged to the component part. This way of Bruckner's, to luxuriate in the component parts and, beyond these, to lose all sense of form and tonality, leads me to believe that his level of invention was not as high as is commonly believed today in many circles. It was an exalted manner, reckoned in terms of exaltation, so to speak; a symphony by him, taken as a whole, represents a kind of potpourri of exaltations. To him the powers were not given to move from point to point with graceful invention, and to use the weapons of one motive to conquer the next; rather he had to wait for the grace of heaven, which granted to him intense moments of inspiration only in larger time-frames. This explains the very limited number of his works, which would otherwise be inexplicable had Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 116 HEINRICH SCHENKER he been swept along in a flood of invention, like Brahms or Dvor a k. His musical brain consisted, as it were, merely of peaks; and what he conceives as moves into valleys in order to give the listener the illusion of trekking over hill and dale is artistically so improbable that the only impression which remains is that of leaping from peak to peak. He lacks all technique for gaining a highpoint and leading down from it; the gradients have all been incorrectly measured, and nearly all of them are so steep that one is truly at a loss to comprehend how, short of a miracle, one can possibly reach the next peak. And so there remains nothing more for the listener than to hear musical passages in isolation, as with Wagner's art-work, but not as elements of a whole, since hearing them in that way is impossible to realise. This neglect of organisational power is something for which I blame Wagner. And the damage resulting from present and future generations being offered, in the name of `symphony', such inorganic constructions to listen to as a symphony by Bruckner may be demonstrated by the fact that today's audience will be grateful if a composer manages to achieve just two or three appetising passages I say passages in the course of a piece lasting half to three-quarters of an hour. The ear has been destroyed to such an extent that it will even show a preference for individual

passages, when what is ostensibly on offer is a continuous work. {111} Musical conscience is already so spoiled that, in addition to showing respect and gratitude for our great masters, it can even confer the title of `master' on a composer who provides a few attractive passages. Hugo Wolf This iniquity has eaten more deeply into other composers. Take, for example, Hugo Wolf. Born with the fluency of feeling of our more gifted, i.e. more musically literate artists, so to speak, he is in fact able to write, from time to time, in such a way as we never find in Bruckner that the tones do not have a common goal, that one contradicts another instead of mutually helping each other towards an effect. For all the beautiful things that sprang from his head, his creative instinct already brought forth constellations of notes that show that he, i.e. his instinct, no longer understands how to attend to the tone,95 for example in the Italian Serenade, pp. 5 and 4, and Anacreon's Grave. The incapacity for synthesis that originated in Wagner is, moreover, shown further by the fact that, in song, a genre he cultivated to the exclusion of almost everything else, he surrenders the prosody of the poetic foundation apparently for the benefit of a higher truth. The music thus dissolves the poem into prose and we see that, from Wolf's striving to give prominence to strong words by strong musical accentuation, a musical construction arises that is in no way similar to the songs of Schubert, Schumann or Brahms. I do not believe that one can criticise the latter-named masters for a deficiency of psychological Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 117 truth in their songs. It will probably take a while longer for us to realise that truth in no way suffers if, at the same time, art comes into its own. It is merely a higher art, a higher ability and a finer intellect which, when it expresses musical truth in the genre of song, does not of necessity damage the prosody. We know, moreover, from the history of music that both directions take turns rather often. There were schools of composers who respected metre, followed by those who did not care about it; and so even in the most recent times the restraint of Brahms's songs is set in opposition to the all too great a freedom of Wolf's. As with all art that makes a great show in its striving for freedom, the audience is very much drawn to it; on the other hand the restraint of an artist initially deters the listener from participating, {112} only later to win him over more convincingly, and forever. If I am not deceiving myself, audiences hear in Schubert's songs, despite their melodies, the truth no less strongly than in Wolf's. From this it follows that melody and prosody do not rule out truth. Thus one is right to ask why one should rob art of that which belongs to it, if doing so fails to lead to a higher point of development, to a greater victory.96 Everyone can only do that of which they are capable. If Wolf had felt as secure as Schubert or Brahms in the possession of artistic means, he would certainly not have done that, because he simply would not have needed to. But it was none other than Wagner who apparently prevented Wolf from thinking through his problem. And thus, like his model, he was sufficiently undisciplined as to feel compelled to underscore the truth a great deal, and to be little concerned with metre. It is a great pity that it was Wagner and not,

for example, Beethoven or Brahms who took possession of Wolf's intellect. For there is no doubting that we are talking about an attractive, inventive talent. Richard Strauss If Wolf reveals the damage caused by Wagner's principle only in the genre of song,97 Richard Strauss represents, in our own time, the full scope of the error that could be realised in the continuation of programmatic music. To the damages that programmatic music in general causes in itself, a further, special one is added with Strauss for which, again, only Wagner can be held responsible namely the deficiency of a sense of tonality. Not only do his harmonic progressions lack precision, but so much has also been packed into the individual harmonic degree that it is impossible for the ear to gain control of this length. Over long stretches, the fanatical recklessness of this method works all the more banally, since as we know it is not basically a question of a new artistic manifestation that has not yet been overcome, nor is it an erroneous one per se. For so long as a modicum of clarity is brought to the harmony, and the listener is guaranteed each time that it is a question of this harmonic degree and no other, then so far as I am concerned the part-writing can be as reckless as one likes, Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 118 HEINRICH SCHENKER without causing any damage. It cannot be denied, however, that the enormous expansion of degrees has made harmonic progression in music very unwieldy. The spectacle that we have already witnessed before, with respect to contrapuntal technique, has repeated itself once again: {113} the overburdening of the cantus firmus in the past, the over-burdening of the harmonic degree today. Consequently art can again draw no benefit from the fact that the horizontal line is fluent and developed, for now length in music is being misused, and a healthy relationship between the length of the motive and the proportions of the harmonic progression is nowhere in evidence. One need only consider all that, for example, rests on the point of theGharmony in Strauss's A Hero's Life! (See p. 23 of the score.98) It is not that motives cannot also express the G minor triad, and thus be part of the G harmony; rather, too much is expected here of the root insofar as its bearing capacity has been increased, so to speak, neither by what has gone before nor by what is to follow. For the root B[ had just been presented in ample dimension. Now suddenly, after a fermata, we get something which we could almost call a little portrait, again on G, of which one does not know and cannot sense what role is assigned to it in the course of the harmonies and keys and, ultimately, the plan of the form. One might object, in connection with the example cited above, that Strauss was conscious of the irrationality of the part-writing, as well as the fact that the root G bears too little, and that he even wanted, for sake of irony, to be guilty of this mismatch between the bass and the upper parts that portray the scene; for he intended here to represent in a tone-painterly way the self-contradictions, so to speak, of his `critics', that is, the nonsensical chattering that says one thing here, and another thing elsewhere. But by this he merely escapes the frying-pan only to land in the fire; for we must reply that Strauss by no means has the right, if on occasion he wants to use irony for sake of a programme, to turn the point of that irony against music itself. For the result will be an entirely different one from

what he expected. Namely, one will laugh not at the critics, whom Strauss wishes to expose to our ridicule by tone-painterly means, but rather at music itself. And so I ask: does Strauss have the right to make music the subject of ridicule? And was it his intention to do so? I do not think so. One sees, then, that the composer is not in a position {114} to know what means will ensure that his intention is realised (in my view, the first sign of dilettantism); he wanted a particular effect, and something else came out. Ought that to happen to a composer of rank? Look, for example, at how Beethoven depicts the dancing peasants in his Sixth Symphony: how delightfully he is able to draw the dance into the realm of humour, indeed of irony. The accompaniment of the string orchestra, the accompaniment of the violins, the movement of the oboe part and above all the amusing bassoon progressions: how na vely, indeed realistically, everything is portrayed! And yet always the beautiful means of art are at work. Beethoven was sensible enough to take good care to portray the way in which Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 119 the bass part of the peasant ensemble goes awry, as must surely have happened on many occasions. It is well known that Mozart poked fun at dilettantism and all manner of poor musicianship in a work of minor importance, the so-called `Village Musicians' Sextet',99 but it would occur to no one to regard this little piece, conceived from the outset only in jest, as an opus of the Mozartian muse. And so I maintain: a programmatic composer commits a hideous error if he practises irony at the expense of his art. But even here one can see clearly that Strauss would certainly not have done what he did had he possessed higher means, such as were available to Beethoven, for example, in the passage cited above. The escapades of Wagner, based upon the misunderstanding of the artistic principles in force up to his time has, as one can see, led to consequences such as the escapades of Wolf in song and of Strauss in instrumental music. Behind all this lies an inability to think through the problems that the composers set themselves, above all an inability to respect those technical means that had already been in common use by the masters. To sum up: there came to the fore what may be taken as the sign of dilettantism: not following through to the particular goal, and not being intimate with the means that could lead to the intended goal. In the name of a very poorly understood freedom, the most sacred treasures of music and the effects that had been gained and learned by hard work were misunderstood, and all the means that happened to be available were emptied without goal, without choice, without being corrected by synthesis and purpose into one {115} and the same work, if possible into the same passage, not only horrifying the listener, who does not know where to begin with these false riches, but also doing a disservice to the effect, which must suffocate from confusion and overloading. One need only think of today's method of writing for instruments, in which one can in truth discover no principle at all, other than that of having no principles. It is no longer contrast that reveals the individual instrumental colours to the ear, supported further by synthesis; rather the sound is shifted away from the realm of contrast towards that of identity by, for instance, the employment of several parts within an

instrument family as, for example, three or four oboes, or four or five clarinets or by the excessive use of divided strings. One can increase the effect of the part-writing by having it realised by a variety of instruments; but such a technique is not designed to favour the individual instrument. The least that one can say is that the one-sided cultivation of the same instruments can only result in injury to art. To be sure, the ear will initially experience a mesmerising instrumental swell, on account of which one commonly speaks today of a generally well-developed technique of orchestration. Now, the present generation is at any rate in the grip of such a frenzy; the future, however, will certainly teach us that, unless the essence of sonority in itself is based on the principle of contrast, and stands in a healthy relationship to synthesis as the Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 120 HEINRICH SCHENKER legitimising power, all spectre of colour is but an illusion: colours cease to be colours whenever the objective foundation becomes discredited. Wagner's Responsibility for the Present Plight of Music And so Wagner, by his own procedures, taught today's generation a false freedom. The emancipation of music from Beethoven's artistic error, as Wagner imagined it, amounts to the same thing as a strong notion of music as a support for the association of external ideas, namely those of the word in music drama and song, and of the programme in symphonic poems. It is certainly beyond dispute that music, from the beginning, i.e. Gregorian chant, right up to the flowering of vocal polyphony in the sixteenth century, in the accompanied monody of the Florentines, {116} benefited greatly from the stimulation of words. But it is equally beyond dispute that, had an extraordinary power call it chance, or the impetus of play, or whatever not led humanity to polyphony, to the discovery of the canon, i.e. to purely formal technical elements, whose ultimate cause did not lie directly upon the foundations of poetry, music would never have been able to experience a further development. For it is precisely the emancipation from the word, the cultivation of those formal-technical elements and the cultivation of the instrumental motive that underlie the historical development that culminates in those peaks that are represented by a Bach, a Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and so on. It is thus still always imaginable that music, notwithstanding that it has reached such a peak, can expect much new stimulation from a union with the word or the programme; but call it what you will, and let it come as it may none is even to be wished if it means that the accomplishments of our masters thus far are somehow called into question. And so the course of world history is much to be regretted, that Wagner appeared at a time when music was still so young, barely four or five hundred years old, and could have had so little strength to defend itself against his errors. The damage would never have been as great as it actually is if it were a much older art, like painting or poetry, and, as a result of its age and the experiences gained over the course of time, had achieved immunity against poisons of such an extraordinary kind as Wagner's. It is also regrettable that the misunderstanding of the classical composers was a firm base upon which these excrescences could thrive. In any event, the emphasis on extra-musical associations has become a new

wave in history, and the future will tell us whether it is sufficient for the salvation of music. Nothing, however, is more certain than that, between Beethoven and Wagner, there is a difference and not a continuation or a development, as is generally believed. Let that difference be made clear, if from nothing else, from the passage of Wagner's I quoted earlier, where he speaks of an artistic error on Beethoven's part: Beethoven was the error, and Wagner Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 121 wanted to be the truth. And are not {117} error and truth mutually contradictory? Thus there is nothing more absurd than to mention Wagner when one is talking about Beethoven, and vice versa. And precisely on the basis of this contradiction, the question of music history may be expressed as follows: Beethoven or Wagner?100 A compromise between these two positions must be ruled out altogether. And it may also be accepted as certain that, if music is to partake of a further development, it can only do this by first breaking with burdensome, unwieldy extra-musical associations, as it had done earlier at the end of the period of vocal music. I cannot express it in any other way: even Wagner, despite all respect for his genius, must be placed in the same corner in which Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck stands if a Beethoven is to receive his due,101 if we are come out of the current abysmal phase victorious, and if music is once more to resume its normal development, in order to achieve new applications of old laws and to flourish anew. NOTES 1 Meisterda mmerung: a play on the titles of two of Wagner's music dramas. 2 dem Tod geweihten Kultur: another Wagner reference, this time to the text of Tristan. 3 Monte Rosa is a large glacier-covered massif in the Swiss/Italian Alps, with several peaks of over 4,500 metres, the highest in Europe apart from Mont Blanc. 4 This is a viewpoint that Schenker had previously articulated and was to return to. In the 1897 essay `Unperso nliche Musik' (`Impersonal Music'), he wrote: `The talent of the twentieth century will still always be smaller than the genius of the eighteenth century: of that one may be certain!' (see Schenker 1990, p. 221). A quarter of a century later, he wrote: `They [the German masters] have been not just ahead of their own time, but ahead of all times. And so, if I may be permitted to quote myself, for mankind a Sebastian Bach will have more importance for all time than will a talent of the fortieth century' (Schenker 19214, No. 4, p. 22; Eng. trans., vol. 1, p. 160). 5 In the paragraphs that follow, the oeuvre of composers from Bach to Brahms is given in some detail. This information is, of course, based on nineteenth-century scholarship, and I have not noted errors or omissions. 6 Trauerode, on the death of Electress Christiane Eberhardine, in October 1727; in the current Bach catalogues, this work is reckoned as a secular cantata. 7 Beethoven's only work for harp solo (or piano) is the set of Six Easy Variations on a Swiss Song WoO 64, composed in 1790. 8 Thematic catalogues of the works of these composers were to become a focus for

two scholars closely associated with Schenker. Otto Erich Deutsch, who had compiled a documentary biography of Schubert as early as 1914, was the joint Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 122 HEINRICH SCHENKER author of a Schubert thematic catalogue which appeared in 1951. The first volume of Antony van Hoboken's Haydn catalogue appeared in 1957; the threevolume project was completed in 1978. 9 This sheet is the original bottom half of page 5, but was removed to a later point in the typescript, together with the discussion of Berlioz as a composer. I have restored it here not only for sake of textual continuity, but because Schenker's remarks on the creative output of Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner and Bruckner form a group. 10 In Harmonielehre (Schenker 1906, p. 228, n. 1) Schenker describes Bruckner in similar terms (`my teacher, who became a famous symphonist'), thus emphasising the limited range of his productivity. (The English translation renders this inaccurately.) 11 Schenker miscalculated Bruckner's life-span; he died in 1896, at the age of 72. 12 die Zwerglein: Schenker is possibly alluding to a letter by Beethoven written to his publisher Schott of Mainz in December 1824: `while here below people only pour scorn on the mastery of tones: the All-Mighty little dwarves!!!'. The letter is quoted in Schenker 19214, No. 7, p. 43; Eng. trans., vol. 2, p. 74. 13 ein merkwu rdiger Mann fu r jeden philosophischen Liebhaber. This phrase appeared in the June 1788 issue of the Weimar Journal des Luxus und der Moden, in a paragraph about a `Quadro' for piano and strings by Mozart. See Mozart: Die Dokumente seines Lebens, ed. Otto Erich Deutsch (Kassel: Ba renreiter, 1961), pp. 27980. Deutsch believed that the quartet referred to was not the G minor, K. 478, but the more recently published one in E[ major, K. 493. 14 Anton Bruckner. Schenker had mentioned the composer by name in the original version of the typescript. 15 The three verse extracts quoted here are from Goethe's Epigrams, first published in 1790. 16 The translation of the second clause of this sentence is based on the original reading in the typescript. 17 This argument, that the impoverished genius boosts the state's economy in his afterlife, is repeated in the foreword to Schenker 1912, pp. xviixix; Eng. trans., pp. 1213, and also in `State and Genius', in the Miscellanea of Schenker 19214, No. 6, pp. 412; Eng. trans., vol. 2, p. 36. 18 Johann Michael Puchberg (17411822), textile dealer and manufacturer, to whom Mozart repeatedly turned for loans in the last three years of his life. Puchberg lent several small sums, adding up to 1,415 guilders; Mozart's widow repaid these in full. 19 die Hauptursache des Niederganges der musikalischen Kunst im neunzehnten Jahrhundert: a close approximation of the title of the essay, as it was transmitted

in the foreword to Harmonielehre. 20 The section in Harmonielehre to which Schenker refers is subtitled `On the origins of thematic groups'. Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 123 21 Because of a syntactical gap in the revised version, the translation makes slight use of the original typescript at this point. 22 Connected to `=de' on following page, at first possibly to `' on this page. Schenker may be adopting the `Vi=de' connection as found in Beethoven's sketches, which he would have known through the manuscript studies of Gustav Nottebohm. 23 Schenker must be referring to the earlier of Mozart's two trios in G major, K. 496. 24 Marginal note probably refers to the Quartet in C, K. 465 (see notes 28 and 32 below). 25 Marginal note: `give references to Mozart and Beethoven symphonies'. 26 Marginal note: `Ninth Symphony'. 27 Schenker is probably thinking of the Andante, in C major, from the Trio K. 496, a movement that conforms to the construction described here. In the slow movement Andante cantabile from Mozart's only piano trio in C, K. 546, the modulation section is based on new material. 28 In the margins, a list of works: Mozart Piano Quartet in E[ major (to the key of B[ major) Eroica Symphony C major String Quartet by Mozart 29 This is the Trio in A[, Hoboken XV:14. 30 The discussion of cyclic form here includes some remarks on key relationships in the exposition. 31 Pencil note in the blank space here: `Space for examples, quotations'. 32 Marginal reference: `Mozart's Quartet in C major'. 33 An alternative formulation to the paragraph immediately above (see transcription, n. 51). 34 In 130 in Harmonielehre, where the technique of cyclic construction is discussed generally, no analogy with song form is specifically mentioned. 35 Notes at the bottom of the page: `Prejudice it must not only be old, but also new. The word signifies [. . .]'. 36 Text at top of the page only, which is clearly a continuation of OC 31/53 (out of sequence). 37 Unnumbered page, the top of which has been cut off; follows p. 24 in its argument. 38 Schenker writes z.B., `for example', but does not actually provide any examples from Bu low's edition of Beethoven's sonatas. (These were to feature in the Erla uterungsausgabe a decade later.) Marginal note: `Goethe vol. 1, p. 180'; this may refer to the autobiographical Dichtung und Wahrheit. 39 Marginal note: `lawgiving'.

 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 124 HEINRICH SCHENKER 40 The author of this commentary is, of course, Schenker himself; the work was published in 1904, and revised in 1908. The paragraph referred to here, but not actually copied into the typescript, follows on from a discussion of groups of themes beginning variously on strong and weak beats, and concerns the dynamics of light and shade within a group: The dynamic contrast unquestionably reinforces the contrast between the individual components of the group, and also contributes to the expression of the rhythm. Another fact is equally clear: the greater the independence given each part the greater the intensity and beauty of the group as a whole. For does not the whole benefit from the merits of its individual parts? Is it not true that the more lucid and impressive the parts, the more lucid and impressive the whole? `A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation', trans. Hedi Siegel, The Music Forum, 4 (1976), pp. 301. 41 Schenker is referring either to the middle section of the Menuetto (bars 21ff.), or its companion trio section (bars 92ff.), or the main theme of the finale. 42 Two lines have been left blank for an illustration, which Schenker did not provide. 43 This point is amplified in the analysis of this symphony in Schenker 1926, vol. 2, p. 118; Eng. trans., p. 66. 44 Schenker is probably referring to Harmonielehre, Ex. 4 (Beethoven, Sonata in E minor, Op. 90, finale), in which the semiquaver accompaniment figure for the `modulation section' precedes the entry of the `new melody' in bar 33. 45 Schenker is probably referring to the fourth movement, Allegro, whose main melody begins with an upbeat to the second bar. 46 Unnumbered page, but correctly positioned between pages 30b and 32. 47 Marginal notes: `Ninth Symphony chorus, instrumentation', plus some jottings about dynamics. 48 A vertical line has been drawn through the next three sentences, but they provide a context for the argument that follows. 49 Schenker is ignoring the soloistic horn writing in, for example, Fiordiligi's aria `Per pieta ' in the second act of Cos fan tutte. 50 Short blank space for a music illustration. The same point is made in the article `Beethoven-``Retouche'' ', published in the Wiener Abendpost of 9 January 1901; see Schenker 1990, p. 265, where the full range of the three horn parts in the Eroica Symphony is given as Ex. 4. 51 This sentence taken from the original typescript (the pencil revisions not sufficiently legible). 52 Schenker is referring to the introduction to Florestan's aria at the start of Act 2. In the typescript, the pitches are mistakenly given as C and G[. 53 At this point Schenker places an asterisk in the text. The same sign appears in the middle of p. 44, probably to indicate that the material which follows a Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 125

discussion of Schubert, Schumann and Chopin as composers of cyclic works should be moved forward to this point. I have accordingly made this transposition; the page numbers that apply to the transposed material have been placed in additional square brackets 54 Some faint pencil notes in the bottom margin: [. . .] tenses up In the melody, group construction is present, but the material is sentimental and only [. . .] seldom joined-up Song-like, the melody is too melodic. 55 Ruhebank: Schenker may be thinking of benches that are placed at intervals along popular mountain footpaths. 56 Schenker made at least three attempts to formulate the last part of this sentence; I have used a pencil version found in the bottom margin of the page. 57 Pencil note: `Passacaglia in the Fourth Symphony'. 58 Glazunov's eight symphonies were written between 1881 and 1906. At the time when Schenker was writing `Niedergang', the most recent would have been No. 7 (1902), a `Pastoral' Symphony in F. 59 Why Schenker crossed out the top of p. 43 is unclear, since the discussion of the sham cyclic work is now discontinuous. It is possible that he intended to remove more of this discussion, or to replace it with new text. 60 The discussion of Schubert, Schumann and Chopin as cyclic composers has been moved back five pages (see n. 53). 61 Note in the bottom margin, `for the talent of our[?] time[?]', possibly intended as part of this sentence. 62 Pencil note: `Leonore Overture, Coriolan, etc.'. 63 A pencil note in the top margin refers to critiques of Berlioz's music: `Schumann I, 118ff. Fantastic Symphony, Harold in Italy, Kretzschmar'. The books referred to are Schumann's Gesammelte Schriften u ber Musik und Musiker and Hermann Kretzschmar's Fu hrer durch den Concertsaal. Throughout this paragraph Schenker is probably alluding to the `New German School', a loose association of Berlioz, Liszt, Wagner and their adherents, as antithesis to the notion of genius working on its own, without enlisting `political' support. This becomes a major argument in his critique of Wagner towards the end of this essay. 64 Pencil note at bottom of page: `Perhaps the opposite is true: the world plays the role of the stupid ``Papa'' and merely imagines it to be a child'. 65 The genius of Domenico Scarlatti `Italy's greatest musician' is the subject of the introduction to the first two Scarlatti analyses in Schenker 1925, vol. 1, pp. 1279; Eng. trans., pp. 678. 66 Wagner had adopted Gluck's Iphigenia in Aulis for Dresden in 1847, and wrote sympathetically about the composer in Opera and Drama. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005)

126 HEINRICH SCHENKER 67 In Schenker 19214, No. 1, p. 26 (Eng. trans., p. 24), Mozart is said to triumph over Gluck not by his musical superiority as opposed to Gluck's dramatic truthfulness, but rather by his ability to compose bass lines (see also n. 76). 68 The famous letter from Mozart to his father that includes this dictum is dated 13 October 1781; plans for The Abduction from the Seraglio were in place the previous month, and the opera was finished in July 1782. 69 Schenker is discounting the fugato at the start of the final chorus, `Questo e il fin di chi fa mal!', a form alluded to in the preceding line of text (l'antichissima canzon: `the oldest of songs'). 70 Heinrich Alfred Bulthaupt (18491905), writer, critic, dramatist and librettist active in Bremen. His most important contribution, to which Schenker is referring, is Dramaturgie der Oper (1887). 71 Schenker writes `von D-moll nach F-dur', but the harmonies surrounding the diminished seventh, at which point the duel is over, suggest F minor rather than F major. 72 The key of E major favours the brightness of the upper register of the violin. The very first chord in the first-violin part, e1b1e2, requires an open E-string. 73 Takt 92: Schenker has misnumbered the bars at the end of the duet (subsequent mistakes arising from this misnumbering have been tacitly corrected). 74 In fact, more than fifty bars elapse between the establishment of A minor and the cadence on G minor, of which thirty (bars 487516) make up the transition between the two keys. 75 Marginal note: `Wagner's knowledge of the literature'. 76 This statement is repeated, in almost the same language, in the first issue of Tonwille; see also nn. 67 and 101. 77 Adelina Patti (18431919), one of the leading interpreters of the role of Rosina in the nineteenth century. 78 Two notes in bottom margin, `Bulthaupt's refutation of The Prophet', and `Goethe, From my Life XII (64) Book XXIV'. The latter is confusing: Goethe's autobiographical work, which was published under the title Dichtung und Wahrheit (`Poetry and Truth'), is divided into just twenty books, and so Schenker may be referring to Book XII. 79 Opera and Drama, part I, chapter 2. In the recent `Jubila umsausgabe' marking the hundredth anniversary of Wagner's death (Richard Wagner: Dichtung und Schriften, ed. Dietrich Borchmeyer [Frankfurt: Insel, 1983], vol. 7), the quotation appears on p. 37. 80 Pencil remark on p. 93 verso: `Goethe's Italian Journey, p. 33, first paragraph, conclusion'. 81 Opera and Drama, part I, chapter 5 (Jubila umsausgabe, pp. 712). 82 Opera and Drama, part I, chapter 5 (Jubila umsausgabe, pp. 734). Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005

THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 127 83 I have not been able to trace the source of this quotation. 84 und diese war bei Mozart: the wording suggests a biblical tone. 85 die Verarbeitung des zweiten Gedankens: since musical form requires time for ideas to establish themselves as themes, there is no time for a `second theme' to be developed in contrast to the first. Only in the poetry, in other words the text, can there be a `first' and `second' theme. 86 Opera and Drama part I, chapter 2 (Jubila umsausgabe, p. 43). 87 Opera and Drama, part I, chapter 6 (Jubila umsausgabe, pp. 834). 88 Opera and Drama part I, chapter 6 (Jubila umsausgabe, p. 87). 89 Opera and Drama part I, chapter 6 (Jubila umsausgabe, p. 89). 90 Marginal note: `Wagner as Klopst[ock][?]'. The identification of the music dramatist with the classical poet Friedrich Klopstock (17241803) is justified on at least two grounds. Both men were of an independent spirit, and Klopstock's idea of Selbstverlag, an independent publishing house that would free the writer from the tyranny of booksellers, resonates with Wagner's conception of the festival playhouse for the performance of his works independently of the operatic establishment. The poet's nationalist sentiments also drew him to the Nordic myths and early German history, especially in his later writings. Neither of these points of contact is relevant to the present discussion of melody in opera, though Schenker does later berate Wagner for his obsession with the old Norse gods and his `childish' founding of Bayreuth. 91 Opera and Drama part I, chapter 6 (Jubila umsausgabe, pp. 878). 92 August Bungert (18451915), composer of a tetralogy based on the Odyssey, which was to form part of a larger projected set of music dramas entitled The Homeric World. 93 In a much later publication, the Five Graphic Music Analyses, long stretches of Chopin's Etude in C minor, Op. 10 No. 12, are described in similar terms: `All aids to explaining a foreground concepts such as harmony, modulation, and so on, fail with regard to bars 2141 [and bars 6171]' (Schenker 1932; Eng. trans., p. 58). 94 Harmonielehre, 129, includes a long list of Classical works with interesting features in their form; this was deleted from the English edition of 1954. 95 dass er, na mlich der Instinkt, auf den Ton nicht mehr zu horchen versteht, the implication being that the music becomes tonally incoherent. In Anacreon's Grave, he is probably referring to the chromatic passage in bars 810, which leads from the principal key of D major through C minor, en route to the subdominant, G. File 31, item 508, throws more light on this sentence. It is a sheet of paper simply headed `Hugo Wolf', with line-by-line notes and music examples identifying the work in question as the Italian Serenade. On `p. 4' (the second page of the score), he takes exception to the sudden shift from D to C (there is a `false relationship between the two harmonies'). On `p. 5, system 3', he marks the Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) 128 HEINRICH SCHENKER first three bars (bars 7981) as falsch (`wrong') and rewrites the lower parts um nach a = II in Gd motiv[iert] zu kommen, `in order to arrive at A minor, as II of G

major, in a logical way': 96 Marginal notes: `Stadt', `Bild'; these refer to songs from Schubert's Schwanengesang that could serve as counter-examples to Wolf's song-writing technique. File 31 includes typewritten essays on these songs, item 435 (Die Stadt, nine pages) and item 436 (Ihr Bild, six pages), with emendations in Jeanette Schenker's hand. 97 Marginal note at the start of this paragraph: `Variety replaced by other crude measures'. 98 The score was published by Leuckart in Leipzig. Schenker refers to this publication in the galley proofs for text cut from Harmonielehre (File 31, items 1545), which offers a lengthy critique of the same section of music, that is, the passage marked `Etwas langsamer', which begins between rehearsal numbers 13 and 14 (p. 29 in the Eulenburg miniature score). 99 This is the title by which the Serenade K. 522, for two violins, viola, bass and two horns was commonly known in Germany. Mozart himself referred to it as Ein musikalischer Spass (`A Musical Joke'). 100 Beethoven oder Wagner?: this was Schenker's original working title for this essay, as conveyed in a letter to Cotta, the publisher of Harmonielehre. (See above, p. 8). 101 See nn. 67 and 76 above. Ex. A Hugo Wolf, Italian Serenade, bars 7982 Ex. B Schenker's revision (Oster Collection, File 31, item 508 recto) Music Analysis, 24/iii (2005) Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005 THE DECLINE OF THE ART OF COMPOSITION 129