Foundations of Tonality as Situated Cognition, 1730–1830:

An Enquiry into the Culture and Cognition of

Eighteenth-Century Tonality
with
Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony
as a Case Study

N
A Dissertation
Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School
of
Yale University
in Candidacy for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy

by
Vasileios (Vasili) Byros

Dissertation Director: Richard Cohn

December 2009
© 2009 by Vasileios Byros
All rights reserved.
 ABSTRACT

Foundations of Tonality as Situated Cognition, 1730–1830:

An Enquiry into the Culture and Cognition of Eighteenth-Century Tonality
with Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony as a Case Study

Vasileios (Vasili) Byros, 2009

This dissertation investigates the perception and practice of tonality in eighteenth-century Eu-

rope (1730–1830) as a form of culturally situated cognition. Situated cognition research argues for

the ecological specificity of perception — that the information-processing aspects of the mind

are modelled on and formed by interaction with a specific environment. The study brings such

a perspective to eighteenth-century tonality with the view of reconstructing a ‘lost’ musical cul-

ture about the cognition and expression of key. The project is in part a response to Lerdahl and

Jacken­doff ’s generative music theory programme, whose modi operandi are oriented towards ‘uni-

versal’ principles that under-value the social and cultural determinacy of musical practice and its

cognitive underpinnings. By qualifying the mechanisms of the musical mind in terms of innate,

a priori ‘rules,’ their claims of universality and orientation towards ‘theory-building’ further en-

courage cultural distancing.

My research brings strong empirical evidence to argue that the knowledge structures underlying

the cognition of tonality in the long eighteenth century are effectively culture-specific, histori-
cally contingent, and predicated on statistical learning: culture and society impose a structural

modification on the mind that is responsible for different modes of listening and understanding.

The argument is built around a single case study involving Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony (1803).

The dissertation documents three competing strains of response to the Symphony’s opening

theme, spanning two centuries of reception. I conducted a corpus study of roughly three thou-

sand musical works, alongside other artefacts, including music treatises and reviews, dating from

1720–1840, in order to reconstruct the knowledge base and ecology that informs the first, previ-

ously unknown, strain of reception that begins in 1807. The causality of this historical response

lies in a ‘lost’ harmonic schema (the le – sol – fi – sol), which functions as a meta­phor for the ‘loss’

of an eighteenth-century tonal practice and its commensurate modes of listening. The project

engages and builds on current schema theory, social psychology, philosophies of cultural mem-

ory (collective memory), the recently developing ‘interface’ of historically informed cognition,

and empirical philosophy and musicology.

 Volume I
——w——
Text
 Table of Contents

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Volume I: Text

Table of Contents iv
Acknowledgements vii
Preface x

PART I. Building a Case

CHAPTER 1: Towards a Case Study: Eroica ‘Readings’ 1

I. Three Strains of Reception History 1
Reception History and Normative Systems 6
II. The Eroica as Case Study 10
Properties of a Case 13
III. Implications of the G minor Strain: The Psychology of Convention 18
Sketch Studies and Poietic Evidence for G minor 18
Tonality as ‘Linguistic Code’ 22
Tonality as ‘Collective Memory’ 27
Rules of Experience (Erfahrungsregeln) and Nomological Knowledge 31
Nomological Explorations in Music Theory: Style and ‘Style Forms’ 34
IV. Implications of the E-flat major Strain: The Psychology of Structural Hearing 38
Towards a ‘Theoretical Fact’ 38
Tonality and the ‘Principle of the Shortest Path’ 50
The ‘Black Swan’ Effect 59
The Culture of Structural Hearing 64
V. ‘Archaeology’ and ‘Spaces of Knowledge’ 68

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PART II. The Collective Memory of a Schema

CHAPTER 2: ‘Förmlich’ and the Eighteenth-Century Culture of ‘Modulation’:

Reconstructing the ‘Interpretational Grid’ 74
I. ‘. . . wo man förmlich nach G moll glaubt geleitet zu werden’ and Gottfried Weber’s
‘Habits of the Ear’ 74
II. T owards an Interpretational Grid 83
The Culture of the Rule of the Octave 94
Cultural Constraint as Cognitive Instrument 114
III. Cognitive Implications of the ‘Grid’ 119
Heinichen and Kellner’s ‘Schemata of the Modes’ (Schemata Modorum) 121

CHAPTER 3. A Chromatic Turn of Phrase: the le – sol – fi – sol Schema 129

I. Defining a Corpus 129
The Corpus as Metaphor for Experience 129
The Culture of the Symphony 132
II. A Chromatic Turn of Phrase 137
Statistical Probability 138
Tonality, Probability, and the ‘Character of Necessity’ 139
Tonal ‘Scripts,’ Cadential Affinities, and Formal Settings 158
le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Instances 166
III. The Collective Memory of the Schema in Space and Time 170

PART III. Theoretic Fallout

CHAPTER 4. Frameworks for Situated Cognition 179

I. Music-Theoretic Precedents 179
Setting the Problem: Lewin’s Phenomenology Programme 179
Nicolas Meeùs’ ‘Music as Language’ and Style Programmes 190
II. Leonard Meyer’s Style Programme: Early Schema Theory in Music 195
Style Systems, Habit Responses, and Ideal Types (Meyer 1956) 195
Perceptual Redundancy and Schemata 200
Schemata and the ‘Language-Character’ (Sprachcharakter) of Music 206
III. The Schema as Epistemological Centre 209
The Historical Imperative 214
‘Perception as the Inlet of all Knowledge’: The Historical Constraint as
Cognitive Constraint 216

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CHAPTER 5: The Schema Concept 232
I. Five Foundational Properties of a Schema 232
The Schema as (1) Image, (2) Knowledge, and (3) Process 232
(4) The Interactivity of a Schema: The Laws of Association and Empirical Philosophy 236
Bartlett’s ‘Social Psychology’ 244
Gjerdingen’s ‘Psychology of Convention’ 248
The Image Metaphor: The Schema as Representation or ‘Copy’ of Experience 249
Invariances: The Schema as Generic Knowledge 257
(5) The Schema as Constraint Network 265
II. The Conceptual Resonance of the le – sol – fi – sol 286
The Augmented Sixth Chord and Augmented Sixth Chord Variants 292

PART IV. ‘Endgame’

CHAPTER 6: Towards an ‘Archaeology’ of Hearing 308

I. The Paradox of Historical Listening 308
History as Knowledge 311
The Historical Resonance of the le – sol – fi – sol 313
II. Complementary Cases 323
Mozart, String Quartet in C Major, K. 465, ‘Dissonance’ (1785) 324
Beethoven, Piano Sonata in E Minor, Op. 90 (1814) 329
III. Classical Scripts and Romantic Plans 332
Il filo: Navigating the ‘Thread ’ 335
Towards an ‘Archaeological ’ Principle 340
The Archaeology and Psychology of Scripts and Plans 343

Notes 349

Volume II: Examples, Appendices, and Bibliography

Examples 362
Appendix A: Music Sources 527
Appendix B: le – sol – fi – sol Schema List 539
Appendix C: Selected Treatises and Manuscripts from Christensen 1992 606
Bibliography 609

vi
 Acknowledgements
w

I extend utmost gratitude to my advisor, Richard Cohn, without whose trust, patience, encour-

agement, and supervision, this project would have never materialised. He was the ideal mentor

in allowing me the freedom to explore the problems and ideas that preoccupied my thinking,

while knowing when to raise the fences when I strayed too far. Any residual problems are entire-

ly of my own doing. It is with great pleasure that I thank my second and third readers — Daniel

Harrison, for his insights throughout the development of my ‘tonality project,’ and for pointing

me to invaluable resources regarding case-study research, with which I will likely be involved in

a lifelong affair; and Ian Quinn, whose own preoccupations and ideas about harmonic function,

tonality, and cognition left a lasting influence on my thinking.

My gratitude to Yale University and the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences cannot be prop-

erly expressed in words: both for the generous support throughout the years, and for its unend-

ing determination to foster an environment that will generate a ‘company of scholars.’ While a

doctoral student, I had the privilege of benefiting from such a company both within and outside

Yale’s walls. Their ideas, guidance in all matters of professional development, and/or friendship

helped make this dissertation and other academic achievements a reality. Were it only possible

vii
to have the necessary space to list the many ways in which the following people influenced and

guided my academic life: Poundie Burstein, David Clampitt, Nicholas Cook, Ian Cross, William

Drabkin, Michael Friedmann, Robert Gjerdingen, Richard Kramer, James Hepokoski, Julian

Horton, Patrick McCreless, Kristina Muxfeldt, Ellen Rosand, Michael Spitzer, and Dmitri Ty-

moczko. Very special thanks also go to my professors at Queens College of the City University

of New York, where I completed my undergraduate and MA degrees before Yale: Drora Persh-

ing, David Gagné, Joel Mandelbaum, William Rothstein, and Joseph Straus.

My friends and family have helped in ways that they might never know. Friends, you know who

you are: I hope our conversations over good drink will continue no matter where our individual

paths take us. My parents, Peter and Caterina Byros, were endless resources of emotional as well

as financial support. My father’s own success story — having left Greece in the 1960s with fifty

dollars in his pocket to make a life for himself in the ‘new world’ — his perseverence, and his ded-

ication to work and family have always served as a model for everything that I do. Dad, you used

to say, ‘You can’t have everything in life,’ but you yourself have already proved that to be wrong:

anything is possible with hard work and honest dedication. Mom, you always knew. Maria, my

sister, you kept me in touch with music, constantly reminded me why; and I’m sorry there isn’t as

much Radiohead in this dissertation as you would have liked.

. . . And, the proverbial best for last: my wife, and partner in life, Grazi, who is behind every one of

viii
my accomplishments, no matter how great or small. Beyond her assistance with the document

itself, her love, emotional support, and tireless encouragement gave me strength and reason to

endure the bleakest moments and to enjoy the good ones. You are my co-author in life, to whom

I owe everything: enfin, notre chemin s’ouvre . . .

ix
 PREFACE
w

This dissertation investigates the perception and practice of tonality in eighteenth-century Eu-

rope (1730–1830) as a form of culturally situated cognition. Situated cognition research argues for

the ecological specificity of perception — that the information-processing aspects of the mind

are modelled on and formed by interaction with a specific environment. In explaining the mo-

tivations, intentions, and style of the project here, I should like to begin by outlining a paradox

in the discipline of music theory. Namely, the publication of Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s seminal

Generative Theory of Tonal Music (1983) marked what some might refer to as a ‘cognitive revolu-

tion’ in the discipline, perhaps because it was among the first and, in many respects, the most suc-

cessful integrations of music perception with ‘mainstream’ music theory. Indeed, David Huron

teaches GTTM as part of week nine in a ten-week course on the ‘History of Music Psychology,’

which is dedicated specifically to the ‘cognitive rev­olution.’ But the GTTM project acquired its

cognitive and psychological ‘authority,’ if you will, somewhat differently from studies both in

music psychology and psychology in general. The latter were by definition predicated on experi-

mentation. By contrast, GTTM is primarily concerned with ‘the­ory-building,’ and this perhaps

further explains why it so strongly resonated with the ‘mainstream’ music-theoretic commu­nity.

x
The psycholog­ical orientation of the theory came not from experimentation but from an explicit

analogy with generative-transformational linguistics in Chomsky’s sense. Lerdahl and Jackendoff

even pres­ent­ed the GTTM project more generally as an extension of Chomsky’s programme:

Beyond purely musical issues, the theory is intended as an investigation of a domain of hu-
man cognitive capacity. Thus it should be useful to linguists and psychologists, if for no
other purpose than as an example of the methodology of linguistics applied to a differ-
ent idiom. We believe that our generative theory of music can provide a mod­el of how
to construct a competence theory (in Chomsky’s sense). . . . Generative linguistic theory
is an attempt to characterize what a human being knows when he knows how to speak a
language. . . . Linguistic theory models this unconscious knowledge by a formal system of
principles or rules called a grammar, which describes (or ‘generates’) the possible senten­ces
of a language. Because many people have thought of using generative linguistics as a mod-
el for music theory, it is worth pointing out what we take to be the significant parallel: the
combination of psychological concerns and the formal nature of the theory.
(Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: xi, 5)

This ‘connection to linguistics’ (ibid: 5) is what gave the theory a psychological or cognitive ori­

entation. Like Chomsky’s linguistics programme, experimentation and empirical data did not

figure into the modus operandi of its theory-building, although, in Lerdahl and Jackendoff’s case,

testing the theory by way of experimentation was certainly welcomed.

The para­dox to which I refer above, then, lies in this or­igin of the alleged psychological authority

and import of the theory — that is, in this ‘connection with linguistics.’ The psychological import

of the GTTM project initially lay in its affinity with a linguistic theory whose own psychologi­

cal significance was all but refuted by the early 1980s, and whose non-empirical basis resulted in a

schism between linguistics and cognitive science. (The latter materialised in the 1970s as a broad,

interdisciplinary extension of cog­nitive psy­chology.) The most revealing docu­mentation of this

schism is perhaps Jack­en­doff’s own article published in 1988, tellingly titled ‘Why are they say-

xi
ing these things about us?’, which argues for at least the potential for linguistic formalisms and

grammatical rules to contain psychol­ogical significance. There, Jackendoff states that ‘they,’ i.e.,

cogni­tive psychologists, send a ‘message . . . that you don’t need linguistics to study language —

that linguistic theory is pretty much irrelevant to (real) psychol­ogy. . . . The idea is that psycholo­

gy . . . can disre­­­­gard everything syntacticians have been doing — that we’ve been wasting our time’

(1988: 436). Jackendoff’s plea was a reaction to a general consensus in cognitive sci­ence, already

by the 1980s, that, as the eminent psychologist George Mandler described it, ‘Chom­­sky showed

us how to do it — wrong (in Baars 1986: 264; original italics). The schism resulted from the dis-

connect researchers found between the formalisms of Chom­sky’s theory and the empirical re-

sults of language-use, or performance, experiments in the 1960s and 1970s.1 The psy­cho­lin­guist

Eric Wanner summarises some of this research as follows:

If the structures and rules of transformational grammar had turned out to be psycholo­gi­
c­ally real, the progress of the field [of psycholinguistics] would have been enormously ac-
celerated. Unfortunately, the story did not turn out quite so simply. . . . The more closely
connected to the transformational model, the weaker the empirical support [in the given
expe­r­­iment]. . . . If transformationally motivated aspects [of the grammar] are psycholo­
g­ical­ly insignificant (and a review of the literature indicates that they are), then there is no
unique evidence for deep structure (Wanner 1988: 146, 151).

These developments, alongside Chomsky’s express ‘neglect of performance’ (Boden 2006: 418),

eventually led to what Jackendoff himself described as ‘a gulf between linguistics and the rest of

cognitive science that has persisted until the present’ (Jackendoff 2003: 652). The larger conse-
1. There is a distinction in Chomsky’s theory between competence, which refers to one’s linguistic knowledge base,
and performance, which specifies one’s use of that knowledge base. The theory was met with such crit­icism when
Chomsky denied any specific performance relevance to generative-transformational grammar but still took the
formalisms themselves to be reflections of some identity in the mind. Furthermore, cognitive science quickly
abandoned the possession and the use of a knowledge base as separate and distinct phenomena. Knowledge was
conceived as mental activity.

xii
quence was, as Margaret Boden describes it in perhaps the most comprehensive and esteemed

history of cognitive science to date, that a ‘firewall’ was erected between theoretical and empiri-

cal studies of language:

[A]lthough theoretical linguistics was hugely important in the origins of cognitive science,
it’s now almost invisible. Various people, including two ex-pupils of Chomsky, have re-
cently tried to effect a rapprochement between theoretical and empirical studies of lan-
guage (e.g. Pinker 1994; Jackendoff 2002, 2003). In Aspects of the Theory of Syntax [Chomsky
1965], however, Chomsky had erected a solid firewall between the two (Boden 2006: 417).

The significance of this research context and the claims of generative theory have several impli­

cations that underlie the motivations of this dissertation. To begin with, Chomsky and Lerdahl

have made identical claims regarding the ontology of Mind from within their respective disci-

plines: that linguistic/musical knowl­edge, or competence, consists of an innate, predetermined

system of ‘rules,’ or ‘grammar.’ Because the GTTM project, which includes its later development

in Tonal Pitch Space (2001), begins from the same epistemological presuppositions as generative-

transformational linguistics, there is, as one motivation, the question as to whether the gener­a­­

tive music theory programme is ‘show[ing] us how to do it [i.e., music cognition] ­— wrong.’ That

Chomsky’s theory met such scepticism in the cognitive scientific community gives reason to

question the validity of the similarly formalised nativist and rule-driven argument that underlies

the generative music theory programme of GTTM and TPS. More specifically, the matter of

doing music cognition ‘wrong’ is most relevant to the present study in this ‘firewall’ between the-

oretical and empirical approaches: the formalisation of a priori ‘rules’ promotes further cultural

xiii
distancing as a symptom of the GTTM project’s modi operandi. Its orientation towards ‘universal’

principles (along with the predilection for ‘theory-building’) belies the social and cultural deter-

minacy of musical practice and its cognitive underpinnings. This becomes most consequential

when dealing with music of the past, because there already exists an inevitable distancing from

the original culture. Historical distance inescapably leads to some degree of ‘loss’ with respect

to a society’s practice or behaviour. Insofar as the object of inquiry stems from the past, the rule-

driven and nativist paradigm will erect a ‘firewall’ not only between empirical and theoretical ap­

proaches, but also between the present and the past. The less culturally concerned and preoccu­

pied, the less empirical will a theory be by nature, and vice versa.

Eighteenth-century tonality plays an especially important role in this equation. The significance

of the GTTM project’s ‘cognitive revolution’ also lies in its position within another, music-theo-

retic research context. GTTM also resonated with the mainstream music-theoretic communi­ty

because the mechanics of the theory were partly modelled on Schenker’s later theory of prolon­

g­ation and voice-leading transformations (1935/1979); as Lerdahl described the ‘genesis and ar­

chi­tecture of the GTTM project,’

[W]e needed to focus on a particular musical idiom, yet with a view to how particular for-
mulations might be generalized. We chose Classical tonal music because it was a well-the-
orized idiom that we knew well. In keeping with the American music-theoretic climate at
that time, we began our collaboration with a consideration of Heinrich Schenker’s ana-
lytic system, which in its final and most influential incarnation could be viewed as a proto-
generative theory (Schenker, 1935/1979).
(Lerdahl 2009: 187)

The institutionalisation of Schenker’s later theory by Salzer (1952) and others resulted in what

xiv
may be described as an ‘annexing’ of eighteenth-century tonality by hierarchical music-theoretic

models, or as Robert Gjerdingen put it, by ‘structural-tone reductionism’ (Gjerdingen 1988: iv).

The GTTM project represents something of a culminating moment in this development. Not

only did it explicitly redefine tonality in hierarchical terms (see e.g. Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1984:

235), but it also ex­plicitly assigned this hierarchical re-def­inition a psychological dimension. Hi-

erarchical modes of listening, or ‘structural hearing’ in Salzer’s terms (1952), became a universal

concept, representative of the very inner-workings of the musical mind in general, upon which

the broader, rule-driven argument about cognition was elaborated. The stakes therefore involve

the very foundations of music cognition and the very meaning of ‘tonality.’

The second and principal motivation of the dissertation is therefore to reconstruct a ‘lost’ musi-

cal culture about the cognition and expression of key in music of the long eighteenth century, by

adopting an empirical methodology (see Clarke and Cook 2004). This ‘loss’ may be attributed,

first, to the inevitable cultural dissolution brought on by historical change. The British musicol­

ogist Charles Cudworth described it in terms of the ‘effect’ of eighteenth-century ‘mannerisms’

having been ‘lost on modern ears’ (1949: 176); or, as Gjerdingen more recently relates it, ‘Strong

habits in the present easily mask differences in the past’ (Gjerdingen 2007: 4). The ‘loss’ of histor­

i­cal resonance, however, may also be a consequence of competing habits influenced by modern

music theories; as Jairo Moreno (2004) has argued, a theory constructs a particular ‘subject’ that

will condition the perception and, by extension, the ontology of the musical object. If Chomsky

xv
erected a ‘firewall’ between theory and empirical method, and therefore one may be tempted to

say even between theory and language, the consequences are far greater in respect to the GTTM

project, because the ‘firewall’ stands between theory and an eighteenth-century ‘language,’ which

no longer exists in the same capacity as does, say, English. In the process of this reconstruction

(mo­ti­vation 1), I sought not only to gain a historically informed pic­ture of tonality as a cultural

practice and cognitive system, but, by using tonality as an exemplar, also to make a larger argu-

ment about the cul­tural determinacy of musical structures and music cog­nition in general (mo-

tivation 2). Too frequently, music cognition studies proceed in terms of ‘raw parameters,’ from

scale structures, chords, etc., and their generalisation in the abstract (cf. Dibben 2004), without

considering the musical structures themselves as situated products of culture.

Because the entire project revolves around and was additionally motivated by a single case study,

involving a small detail from the opening theme of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, the organisa-

tion and unfolding of the study progresses in somewhat unconventional terms. What is gained

by theory-building is lost by empirical method, and this warrants explanation. More specifically,

it is the case study method, in addition to the empirical methodology, that gives rise to the ‘theo-

retically irregular’ nature of the research, as Nicholas Cook (2008: 9) described one of its earlier

incarnations presented in London (Byros 2008a). The case study differs from other research par­

a­digms in that it begins with the smallest of details in ‘real-life’ settings. The idea is that, as the so­­

cial scientist Bent Flyvbjerg (2006) describes this element of the case study,

xvi
 interesting phenomena . . . and those of most general import would be found in the most
minute and most concrete of details. . . . Richard Rorty (1985: 173) has perceptively ob-
served that the way to re-enchant the world is to stick to the concrete. Nietzsche (1969)
similarly advocated a focus on ‘little things’ (p. 256) . . . discreet and apparently insignificant
truth[s], which, when closely examined, would reveal [themselves] to be pregnant with par­
adigms, metaphors, and general significance (Flyvbjerg 2006: 237–238).

The generalisations only emerge later from the particular paths on which the empirical details lead

the researcher. But this is not to say that the researcher is entirely at the service of the study. The

re­searcher, after all, initially makes a selection concerning the method and the subject of inquiry,

based on intuitions, hypothesis, and motivations. Nevertheless, in the end, these may be verified,

challenged, or modified by the particulars of the case.

Finally, the preoccupation with empirical observation, along with the absence of opening theo-

retical generalisations, gives an inevitable narrative quality to the presentation of the case study.

Case studies often contain a substantial element of narrative. Good narratives typically ap-
proach the complexities and contradictions of real life. . . . Narrative inquiries do not — in-
deed, cannot — start from explicit theoretical assumptions. Instead, they begin with an in-
terest in a particular phenomenon that is best understood narratively. Narrative inquiries
then develop descriptions and interpretations of the phenomenon from the perspective of participants,
researchers, and others. Accordingly, such narratives may be difficult or impossible to sum-
marize into neat scientific formulae, general propositions, and theories. . . . [W]hen writing
up a case study . . . [one] allow[s] the story to unfold from the many-sided, complex, and
sometimes conflicting stories [of] the actors in the case. . . . The goal is not to make the case
be all things to all people. The goal is to allow the study to be different things to different
people . . . by describing the case with so many facets — like life itself — that different read-
ers may be attracted, or repelled, by different things in the case. . . . Case studies written like
this can be neither briefly recounted nor summarized in a few main results. The case study
is itself the result. . . . For the reader willing to enter this reality and explore it inside and out,
the payback is meant to be a sensitivity to the issues at hand (Flyvbjerg 2006: 237–240).

With these qualifications in mind, I invite my reader to ‘enter this reality and explore it inside and

xvii
out,’ through my attempts to reconstruct the manner whereby the case study naturally directed

and oriented the nature of the research, by virtue of the specific nature of the questions the case

study and its problems brought to the table, and through my attempts to bring these problems

from the table onto the philosopher’s ‘drafting board.’

New Haven and Bloomington, 2009

xviii
 — For Grazi.
Mais quoi ! n’avons-nous pas la preuve que la tonalité n’a pas été la
même partout et dans tout les temps?
— François-Joseph Fétis (1844)
 Part I
____________________________________________

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Building a Case
 1
w
Towards a Case Study: Eroica ‘Readings’

Three Strains of Reception History

But how precisely formed, how thoroughly organized as language in all its
values must a system of relationships be for a whole form to be decided by so subtle a feature.
— Adorno, Beethoven (1998: Fragment 136).

The anomaly that sounds the premier ‘battle’ of Beethoven’s Heroic Symphony: befalling, as it

does, on so ‘untimely’ a moment, that impress of C-sharp in the depths of the strings prompts a

seismic, if understated, fracture in the principal tonality that, throughout the Symphony’s Rezep-

tionsgeschichte, would reverberate in cognitive response as unexpected as the musical idiosyncra-

sy inviting it (see Example 1.1). Though the more common and well-known reception history of

the Eroica involves imprecise and largely metaphorical descriptions of the ‘misplaced’ C-sharp

that perpetuate the myth surrounding the Symphony (Burnham 1996), such as Donald Francis
Tovey’s ‘cloud’ (1945: 48–50) and Aléxandre Oulibicheff ’s ‘fog’ (1857: 175) metaphors, through-

out two centuries of reception, the anomaly of the opening theme has generated not less than

three competing strains of cognitive response, illustrated in Example 1.2. Stylistically, the com-

mentaries in each of these strains, whether technical or programmatic, indeed ‘slow down’ and

‘stumble . . . when passing’ the events of bb. 6–10 (Burnham 1996: 4–6), and are therefore alike in

their shared inclination to respond to some underlying problematic aspect of the music. But the

groups of responses that lie on either side of the ‘Cloud’ Strain, following Tovey’s qualification

of the C-sharp diminished-seventh chord in bars 7–8, are far more specific and determinate. We

may therefore more properly understand these three strains as lying on a continuum, projecting

outward from a centre of ambiguity (see Example 1.2). In the one extreme, the problematic C-

sharp and its surrounding bars are heard or rationalised entirely within the key of E-flat major. In

the centre, it is perceived as a ‘foreign chromatic note’ which causes an ‘unexpected[] interrup-

tion’ in the tonality, before ‘return[ing] to the native key of E-flat major’ (Brinkmann 2000: 18);

while the ‘Cloud’ strain acknowledges something inherently anti-E-flat about bb. 7–9, or ‘out-

of-key’ (Marston 1991: 214), what exactly constitutes that otherness remains indeterminate. But

at the other extreme, bb. 6–9 are related as modulating ‘formally [förmlich] to G minor’ (Roch­

litz 1807: 321), and even as having ‘settled in G minor’ (Rumph 2004: 90; added emphasis), which

may seem surprising, considering not so much as a G minor leading tone, F-sharp, appears in

these bars. Now, one might simply resign the problem as evidence of some inherent and inevita-

ble subjectivity about perception. But ‘the philosopher,’ as Wittgenstein famously put it, ‘treats a

2
question; as an illness’ (1953/2001: 77).

The ‘question’ is whether, to what extent, and to what capacity these three competing strains of

reception, abstracted in Example 1.2, are symptomatic of a musico-cognitive philosophical prob-

lem. From a more social-scientific perspective, the question, when treated in a Wittgensteinian

methodology, is whether the reception history of the Eroica Symphony’s opening theme offers

anything by way of a ‘case study’ (Flyvbjerg 2006; Ragin and Becker 1992; Stake 1995), and if so,

what would this initial, potential evidence be a case for. Reception history, in the most extreme

renditions of post-modernism, however, would seem to oppose such an enquiry. By way of ex-

ample, Dahlhaus explains this position in his monumental Grundlagen der Musikgeschichte from

1977, as a ‘provocative claim made by extreme relativists that there are as many Eroica sympho-

nies as there are listeners in our concert halls’ (English tr. 1984: 152). By extension, the reception

history to the Symphony’s opening theme would suggest there exist as many tonalities as there

are listeners, for these competing strains of reception all specifically differ in their perception of

key. By the estimations of extreme relativists, seeking anything more than ‘subjectivism’ in these

competing strains of reception would ultimately labour under a misapprehension; and details

in the empirical evidence itself may give cause to challenge the virtues of and even discredit re-

ception history for case study research, as the authors themselves never advance objective crite-

ria to explicate the rationality behind their interpretations. This potential evidence for the ‘sub-

jectivism’ of the situation emerges most dramatically where some authors in one extreme of the

3
continuum react critically to the competing response at the opposite extreme, but without giv-

ing much by way of the reasons for their particular interpretation.

The first documented response to the tonality of the opening theme comes by an anonymous

review, written for the Leipzig Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in 1807, later attributed to the ed-

itor of the journal, Friedrich Rochlitz (Geck and Schleuning 1989: 211; Sipe 1998: 57).1 Though

employing technical language, Rochlitz pens a description of the opening bars as casually mod-

ulating, in prelude-like manner, rather matter-of-factly to G minor.

The symphony begins with an Allegro con brio in three quarter time in E-flat major. Af-
ter the tonic triad has been powerfully sounded two times by the entire orchestra, the vi-
oloncello states, softly, but noticeably enough, the . . . simple principal subject [in bb. 3–4],
which hereafter is to be set up, turned around, and worked out from all sides. Already in
bar 7, where the diminished seventh appears over C-sharp in the bass, and in bar 9, where
the 6/4 chord appears over D, the composer prepares the listener to be often agreeably de-
ceived in the succession of harmonies. And even this preludising deviation [präludirende
Abweichung], where one expects to be led formally to G minor [wo man förmlich nach g moll
glaubt geleitet zu werden], but in place of the resolution of the 6/4 chord, finds the fourth led
upward to a fifth, and so, by means of the 6/5 chord, finds oneself unexpectedly [unvermuth-
et] back at home in E-flat major — even this is interesting and pleasing (Rochlitz 1807: 321;
modified translation from Senner 2001, vol. II: 21; added emphasis).2

Adolph Bernhard Marx voices the same interpretation, and even more casually, in his life-and-

works biography of Beethoven, published in 1859:

[T]he first act of the symphony, the ideal battle, initiates the spiritual image of the heroic
process [Heldengang], which emerges from a quiet, barely noticeable, beginning and soon
traverses the world. After two powerful blows of the entire orchestra (‘Hark! Hark!’), the
heroic idea [Heldengedanke, bb. 3–4.66] appears quietly in the violoncellos under the cov-
er of pulsing eighth notes in the second violins and violas, only to dissipate again with the
sharp breeze that drifts towards G minor. Yet events turn immediately back to the main
key (E-flat major), and the heroic idea sets in again. . . . This sense of ‘not yet!’ . . . this dissi-
pation into the relative minor of the dominant extends the Satz from four bars to thirteen:
this puts us in mind of affairs of great moment (Marx 1859/1997: 159–160).

4
The E-flat hearing has its origins in Schenker’s monolithic Meisterwerk analysis of the Symphony

from 1930, shown in Example 1.3(a). The graph displays a contrapuntal elaboration of an E-flat

major triad (bb. 1–11), by means of rhythmically displaced neighbouring motions in the out-

er voices proceeding in contrary motion, with the lower E-flat–D–E-flat bass (bb. 6–11) ‘prob-

lematically’ elaborated further by its own lower neighbour, C-sharp. Throughout these contra-

puntal elaborations, the Stufe analysis beneath the sketch subsides entirely for those harmonic

changes, or ‘preludising deviations,’ as Rochlitz relates it, that occur in bars 6–10, which further

highlights the E-flat major orientation of Schenker’s reading. Beyond the graphic representa-

tion, the problematic C-sharp — problematic, that is, from the vantage point of an E-flat major

tonality — is rationalised as a contrapuntally stimulated motivic detail: ‘Not until bars 6–8 does

the bass make its first move, a descent to C-sharp. Generally such a descent implies a chromatic

alteration of the kind associated with a tonicization of IV or II, and thus in both cases, in order to

remain within the key of the symphony, a D-flat and not a C-sharp,’ as illustrated by Schenker’s supple-

mentary Figure 5, shown in Example 1.3(b) (1930/1997: 11; my emphasis). Schenker continues,

‘In bar 7, however, the bass, surprisingly, has C-sharp instead of D-flat,’ whose ‘sole purpose,’ he

explains, by somewhat sidestepping the issue, ‘is to enable C-sharp to drive back up to D’ (ibid:

11). The primary significance of the C-sharp–D progression, of this ‘upward drive,’ is motivic;

this ‘initial breath’ of the Symphony ‘continues to be important for the procurement of the con-

tent,’ but is ultimately inconsequential for the ontology of the tonality of E-flat major (Schen­ker

1930/1997: 11ff.; but see below).

5
Nearly two centuries since the original G minor formulation from the AmZ, Brian Hyer, having

read both Rochlitz and Marx, dismisses the G minor hearing as ‘unpersuasive,’ offering no more

by way of an explanation than either Rochlitz or Marx for a G minor hearing: ‘I must admit to

finding the reviewer’s hearing of the 6/4 above D [in bar 9] unpersuasive: I believe our memo-

ries of E-flat are too recent for us to hear D as anything but a leading tone to E-flat’ (Hyer 1994:

81). But if both Schenker and Hyer sidestep the problem of the tendency for C-sharp to impact

the sustainability, never mind the proper articulation or expression of an E-flat tonality, Lewis

Lockwood, in taking issue with Schenker’s reading, advances no more than Rochlitz and Marx

before him for hearing a G minor ‘inflection.’

To return to Schenker’s ‘picture’ of the opening of the first movement . . . [w]hat is obliter-
ated from view is at least one small-scale, but to my mind vital, harmonic implication that
arises early in the piece: this is the momentary inflection of G minor that emerges in bb.
7–9, as the bass reaches its lower chromatic neighbor [Example 1.3(a)], c-sharp, and pro-
ceeds to d while the upper line holds g″; the second violin in m. 9 deftly converts its repeat-
ed g′ into a new figure that alternates g′ and b-flat′. Thus in m. 9 the entire texture lightly
touches upon a I6/4 of g minor before the immediate reassertion of E-flat major by means
of the upper-line motion to a-flat″ (Lockwood 1982: 94 ).

Reception History and Normative Systems

Between these seemingly unsubstantiated Hyer-Rochlitz and Lockwood-Schenker ‘debates,’ if

you will, extreme relativistic epistemologies may find evidence that is internal to reception his-

tory, which belies its significance for case study research. The absence of openly-articulated ob-

jective, or intersubjective, criteria for each of these interpretations in Example 1.2 would render

the Symphony’s reception history insufficient and infertile ground for theoretical inquiry. But,

6
as Dahlhaus continues, following the Czech linguist Felix V. Vodička (1975), reception history

has its principal aim not in the investigation of ‘individual reactions,’ but in uncovering the ‘nor-

mative systems’ that give rise to particular interpretations. Because ‘[f ]or most adherents of re-

ception history and its associated aesthetic, this provocative claim’ of extreme relativism ‘is less

a confession they feel compelled to make than an awkward consequence they fully intend to

avoid’ (Dahlhaus 1984: 152). Vodička favours a middle path that ‘repudiate[s] not only “dogma-

tism”,’ which would privilege, for example, any one of the three competing strains of reception as

the single ‘correct’ interpretation, with ‘the positing of an ideal existence for the message of the

work, but “subjectivism” as well,’ by which ‘the identity of a work . . . disintegrat[es] . . . into count-

less individual reactions’ (ibid). Vodička ‘maintains that the object of reception history does not

lie in individual reactions but in norms and normative systems that determine how surviving texts are

perceived within groups or strata conditioned by history, society, and ethnic origin’ (Dahlhaus 1984: 152;

passim; added emphasis).

In this way, the more apposite question is not whether the documented responses to the Sym-

phony may qualify as initial evidence for case study research in principle, but whether these ar-

tefacts betray general principles or patterns for further investigation and theoretical inquiry. To

begin with, we find in these documents not twenty-five discrete responses or interpretations,

but already a rather significant generalisation with three categories of reception, which by itself

suggests three potential underlying causalities of objective or intersubjective significance, or of

7
theoretical consequence, in the cognitive psychologist, George Mandler’s terms: ‘every difference

among people derives from some application of general principles . . . Atheoretical individual dif-

ferences are uninteresting’ (in Baars 1986: 268). Within this classification, there lies another po-

tentially significant detail that is partly lost to the synchronic distribution of Example 1.2. Exam-

ple 1.4(a) redistributes the three response strains on a diachronic axis, while Example 1.4(b) gives

a ‘quantified’ representation of the number of responses and of their historical situation. In these

representations, something of a historical narrative is brought into relief. First, the G minor re-

sponse is not only contemporary to Beethoven, first appearing within five years of his compo-

sition of the Symphony in 1803, but also shows signs of a Gadamerian Wirkungsgeschichte (Gad-

amer 2003: 300ff.; see also Dahlhaus 1984: 3, 58–60), extending from 1807 till the present with

consistent reiterations of G minor cognition. The less specific, ambiguous interpretation of the

‘Cloud’ strain initially appears at some distance from this contemporary situation, with Ouli-

bicheff ’s ‘fog’ metaphor in 1857, and is also perpetuated rather consistently throughout the fol-

lowing century and a half. But the competing E-flat strain at the opposite extreme of the contin-

uum in Example 1.2, on the other hand, does not materialise until the twentieth century, with

Schenker’s Meisterwerk analysis of 1930, and is otherwise limited to a few isolated responses at

the turn of the twenty-first century.

By this preliminary analysis of the reception history alone, historical distance from the original

cultural setting in which the Eroica was composed seems to be at once significant, giving rise to

8
different responses to the opening theme’s tonality in the ‘Cloud’ and E-flat strains, and incon-

sequential, in that Stephen Rumph, in 2004, not only reiterates Rochlitz’s G minor perception,

but even more categorically so, in relating the ‘chromatic opening . . . [as having] first settled in

G minor’ (Rumph 2004: 90). The historical distribution thereby brings evidence to the histori-

cal contingency as well as the historical resonance of the norms or normative systems, in Dahl-

haus and Vodička’s terms, which are potentially responsible for these competing strains of cog-

nitive response. And so, ‘the criterion for judging competing views of a work does not reside in

how close they come to its alleged “real meaning,” but rather how accurately, subtly, and intensely

they represent the age, the nation, and the class or social group which conditioned them . . . which Vodička

would call the normative system . . . that [initially] supplied a context for the work’s reception’

(Dahlhaus 1984: 154; added emphasis). Not only is reception history therefore amenable to case

study research, but, to the extent that historical differences or the particulars of a historical situa-

tion are deemed a principal factor in what informs and conditions the perception and phenom-

enology of tonality, as already suggested by this reception history of the Eroica, reception histo-

ry is among the few resources available for such an inquiry.

9
 II

The Eroica as Case Study

By a first approximation then, these competing strains of reception seem to bring evidence to-

wards the culture-specificity of tonality as a cognitive system or category of mind. Between the

extremes, in particular, we see a fundamental difference in the way that authors in the G minor

and E-flat strains of reception interpret what Leonard Meyer would call the same ‘sound stim-

ulus’ — as yet uninterpreted acoustic signals or information — as a ‘sound term’ — acoustic sig-

nals ‘interpreted [within] the prevalent style system of the culture’ (1956: 45–47). But the defini-

tion of the latter may be misleading, for, as Meyer himself describes it, ‘all studies in comparative

musicology emphasize that the same sound stimulus often has different meanings, is a different

sound term, in different musical cultures and styles and that seeming similarities are often very

deceptive’ (ibid: 46; see also Windsor 2004 ). The cultural system to which the ‘sound term’ defi-

nition refers is not exclusively commensurate with the culture in which the ‘sound stimulus’ first

originated, if these origins are even known. Previous research has already demonstrated the epis-

temological influence of culture on cognition, and the important differences that result when,

for example, Western listeners are confronted with non-Western musics and vice versa. In 1914,

A. H. Fox Strangways was among the first musicologists to conduct a theoretical ethnography

of Hindostan music in extraordinary detail. There, Strangways argues, particularly in respect to

10
tonality, that ‘as soon as we leave Europe the language of music is not familiar to us’ (Strangways

1914: 18), recalling Aléxandre Choron’s well-known aphorism, that the European mind would

forever interpret foreign tonalities by means of its own conception, by its own ‘exclusive system’

of tonalité moderne (Choron 1810: xxxvij).

The differences are quite dramatic indeed: Example 1.5 reproduces a Povada (a chivalric song)

from Strangways’ monograph. Translated into Western notation, each of the song’s three divi-

sions have an A-flat major key signature. To most Western ears, the tonality of the song is pre-

dominantly A-flat major, with implicit modulations to the relative minor, F, in bb. 19–21, and,

in the middle section, to the relative major, C-flat, at bb. 12–13, following a change of mode to

the parallel minor. To native ears, however, the tonality or tonal centre of the song — known as

the Sa in Indian music theory (Jairazbhoy 1971) — as Strangways indicates, is C, with a modula-

tion to E-flat in the middle section, which is all but inconceivable to Western minds — perhaps

as inconceivable, or ‘unpersuasive,’ as hearing a G minor tonality in bb. 6–9 of the Eroica Sym-

phony is for Hyer, and an E-flat tonality is for Lockwood. But above and beyond these surface

differences, elsewhere demonstrated by experimentation (see e.g. Kessler, Hansen, and Shepard

1984; Castellano, Bharucha, and Krumhansl 1984), there are differing conceptions of tonali-

ty as a cultural and cognitive system at work. Tonality in music of Hindostan is principally ex-

pressed through the melody, more specifically, by means of numerous melodic patterns called

rags, which express or derive from larger scale systems called thats. Harmony in the occidental

11
sense has no place in Indian musical culture: and as Strangways relates it, a principal underlying

reason for the difference in Western listeners’ cognition of a tonic in Hindostan music is their

mentally supplying a culturally determined harmonic context (Strangways 1914: 18–19).

The surface differences in these cases are symptomatic of the larger and more significant differ-

ence involving their philosophical and epistemological base — where cross-cultural differences

do occur, they owe to the presence or absence of ‘theoretical’ knowledge acquired through ex-

perience with the idiom in question (see Kessler, Hansen, and Shepard 1984; Castellano, Bha­r­

ucha, and Krumhansl 1984; Krumhansl 1990: 253–70; and Bharucha 1994: 226–27; also Huron

1992 ; and Chapter 4 below, on Bartlett 1932). Though never explicitly characterised in this way,

studies that demonstrate the impact of culture on perception supply evidence towards the in-

herent situatedness of cognition: ‘Situated cognition research claims that “knowledge is not in-

dependent but, rather, fundamentally ‘situated,’ being in part a product of the activity, context,

and culture in which it is developed”’ (Brown et alia 1988: i; cited in Clancey 1992: 24). The so-

cial psychologist Thomas M. Ostrom (1984) went so far to argue ‘that all cognition is inherent-

ly social’ (Smith and Semin 2004: 89). In short, situated cognition research argues for the eco-

logical specificity of perception: that the information processing aspects of the mind are mod-

elled on, and formed by interaction with, a specific environment. Most frequently, such studies

involve synchronic cultural differences investigated in the laboratory. But the reception history

of the Eroica not only offers a resource for studying such differences on a diachronic field, but

12
already advances strong, albeit preliminary, evidence that cultural differences in the conception

of tonality may also operate on a historical axis — that cultural differences play out on a histori-

cal stage, whereby the historical situation is brought into the laboratory. Inasmuch as the differ-

ences in the Eroica’s reception history are culturally-determined, a direct consequence of what

Jamshed Bharucha calls the ‘distal context’ of past experience (1994: 226), then the very mean-

ing of tonality’s concept is at stake in the opposite extremes of the G minor and E-flat strains of

reception. To put it differently, the Eroica’s reception casts historical light on ‘the situational as-

pect of knowledge’ (Brinner 1995: 29), thereby bringing evidence for understanding tonality as

a form of culturally situated cognition (cf. Smith and Semin 2004), whose social situation transpires

not only geographically, but also historically. To lay such a responsibility onto these competing

strains of reception may seem to make more of an otherwise ‘harmless’ detail in the reception

history of the work. But further analysis of the case will only indicate that these differences are

indeed far less ‘innocent’ than they might initially appear.

Properties of a Case

The social scientist Bent Flyvbjerg (2006) outlined several common properties of a case study:

it may be ‘t ypical,’ ‘extreme,’ ‘critical, ’ ‘paradigmatic,’ or, following Karl Popper’s (1935/2002) fa-

mous hypothetical case for falsifying an existing theory, it may behave as a ‘Black Swan.’ The

Eroica is in some measure a combination of all of these except ‘t ypical,’ and as Flyvbjerg himself

qualifies the matter, ‘a case can be simultaneously extreme, critical, and paradigmatic’ (233). Be-

13
cause the opening theme of the Symphony is non-conventional in some capacity, it elicited nu-

merous documented responses, which qualifies it as an extreme case:

When the objective is to achieve the greatest possible amount of information on a given
problem or phenomenon, a representative case or a random sample may not be the most
appropriate strategy. This is because the typical or average case is often not the richest in
information. Atypical or extreme cases often reveal more information because they acti-
vate more actors and more basic mechanisms in the situation studied. In addition, from an
understanding-oriented and an action-oriented perspective, it is often more important to
clarify the deeper causes behind a given problem and its consequences than to describe
the symptoms of the problem and how frequently they occur (2006: 229).

Beyond affording the possibility to study cognition on a historical spectrum, the reception his-

tory of the Eroica has certain advantages over music psychological studies that take place in the

laboratory. That is, the Eroica allows for a gathering of ‘real-life data’ (cf. Mandler in Baars 1986:

265), as opposed to data culled from controlled experiment. ‘The advantage of the case study is

that it [may] “close in” on real-life situations and test views directly in relation to phenomena as

they unfold in practice’ (Flyvbjerg 2006: 235). Not one of the authors listed in Examples 1.2 had

to make a choice from a predetermined list of options, but rather the G minor, ‘Cloud,’ and E-

flat responses emerged naturally from their interaction with the musical environment, with the

work: or, as Nattiez puts it, ‘If the musical fact gives rise to a multiplicity of discourses . . . this is

because commenting on music is a universal anthropological given of the musical fact. We could in

this context paraphrase Paul Ricoeur: as soon as someone dances, sings, or plays an instrument,

someone else gets up and talks about it’ (Nattiez 1987/1990: 183; added emphasis). Moreover,

the ‘sound stimulus’ applied in a controlled experiment is often not a ‘musical fact’ at all, but an

artificial construct, such as, for example, the well-known ‘probe-tone’ method (see Krumhansl

14
1990). Because the competing responses are products of this ‘natural’ setting described in Nat-

tiez, this ‘real-life data,’ so essential to a social-scientific perspective, is the only means for gauging

norms and normative systems in Vodička’s sense. The response data of Examples 1.2 and 1.4 is as

ecologically authentic as possible. To draw on a parallel in literary theory, each ‘artefact’ abstract-

ed in these examples invokes what Wolfgang Iser calls a ‘real reader’:

The real reader is invoked mainly in studies of the history of responses, i.e., when attention
is focused on the way in which a literary [or musical] work has been received by a specific
reading public. Now whatever judgments may have been passed on the work will also reflect var-
ious attitudes and norms of that public, so that literature [i.e., these responses] can be said to
mirror the cultural code which conditions these judgments (1978: 28; added emphasis).

The paradigmatic component of the Eroica as a case study emerges in its capacity to independ-

ently articulate a specific research problem — namely, the culture-specificity or situatedness of

tonality on a historical continuum. ‘No standard exists for the paradigmatic case because it sets

the standard’ (Flyvbjerg 2006: 232). But at the same time, a paradigmatic case is further defined

by its capacity to ‘highlight more general characteristics of the societies in question’ (ibid: 232).

Although the reception history does not yet demonstrate these characteristics by itself, it sug-

gests the competing responses are consequences of these characteristics, norms, or normative

systems. It ‘sets the standard’ for further research in this direction. And it is this further research

that ultimately determines the breadth and disposition of the case, for it ‘is not possible consist-

ently, or even frequently, to determine in advance whether a given case . . . is paradigmatic,’ or

otherwise (Flyvbjerg 2006: 233). More importantly, when all is said and done, it is the picture of

15
the study in its entirety that finally determines its critical component: of what precisely the case

is a representative problem. The advantage of case study research fundamentally lies in the abil-

ity to generalise an argument from a single case — in ‘generating and testing of hypotheses’ from an

exemplar (Flyvbjerg 2006: 229). The critical component of a case involves precisely this deduc-

tive implication: ‘To achieve information that permits logical deductions of the type, “If this is

(not) valid for this case, then it applies to all (no) cases”’ (ibid 2006: 230). Towards that end, the

Eroica’s reception history is all the more intriguing in that these competing responses each sug-

gest, imply, or resonate with research contexts that lead to commensurately diametric concep-

tions of tonality as a cognitive system and in the philosophy of mind.

Reader-response theories often invoke several categories of ‘readers’ in attempts to reconstruct

some implicit structure or facet of a work, or — as already seen with the concept of a ‘real read-

er’ above — to reconstruct a larger underlying socio-epistemological, or ‘cultural code,’ in Iser’s

terms (see e.g. Iser 1978: 27–38; Eco 1979). Among these, Michel Riffaterre (1971) advanced

the concept of a ‘superreader,’ as a way of identifying a literary ‘stylistic fact.’ The ‘superreader’ re-

fers to a collectivity of readers who respond to a given aspect of a text in precisely the same way,

much like the strains of reception in Examples 1.2 and 1.4; or, as Iser describes it, the ‘superread-

er’ specifies ‘a “group of informants” who always come together at “nodal points in the text,” thus es-

tablishing through their common reactions the existence of a “stylistic fact.”. . . By sheer weight

of numbers, Riffaterre . . . tries to objectify style, or the stylistic fact as a communicative element’

16
(Iser 1978: 30; added emphasis; Riffaterre 1973: 46ff.). Further pursuing the implications of the

‘superreader’ extremes in Example 1.2, by examining the responses in greater detail, leads to epis-

temological presuppositions that are as disparate as the responses themselves. Inasmuch as the

problem in the reception history of the Eroica is ‘hermeneutic,’ the ‘[r]esearch implications’ of

these competing strains ‘may be of generalized importance in so far as [they] serve[] to elucidate the

nature of agents’ knowledgeability, and thereby their reasons for action, across a wide range of action-con-

texts’ (Giddens 1984: 328; cited in Flyvbjerg 2006: 224; my emphasis). Waiting for us at the end of

either line of inquiry, we will find history at the centre of the problem.

17
 III

Implications of the G minor Strain: The Psychology of Convention

Sketch Studies and Poietic Evidence for G minor

The potential historical resonance of the G minor strain emerges in correlating evidence from

artefacts documenting the compositional process. Besides their contribution to the perceptu-

al evidence documented in Examples 1.2 and 1.4, Lockwood, Lawrence Earp (1993), and Alex-

ander Ringer (1961) document a corresponding degree of ‘poietic’ evidence (Gilson 1963; cf. al-

so Nattiez 1990) for G minor, through study of Beethoven’s sketches, as well as, in Ringer’s case,

through influences that Beethoven drew, consciously or unconsciously, from a G minor Piano

Sonata of Clementi: Op. 7 no. 3, composed on sojourn in Vienna between December 1781 and

May 1782 (Ringer 1961; cf. Derr 1984). Among other studies that bring poietic testimony to G

minor as a ‘stylistic fact,’ those by Lockwood (1981) and Constatin Floros (1978), both of whom

follow initial work by Gustav Nottebohm (1880) and Nathan Fischman, (1971; 1978; 1962; see

also Schwarz 1970), have isolated a critical compositional fact, now long accepted, which recog-

nises that the Symphony’s first three movements were conceived against the Finale, ‘the essen-

tial invariant concept to which the remaining movements of the symphony were then adapted’

(Lockwood 1981: 461). The theme for the Finale, although closely modelled on the so-called

‘Prometheus’ Variations for Piano, Op. 35, ultimately derives from the opening theme of Clem-

18
enti’s G minor Piano Sonata (Example 1.6), as Ringer has demonstrated (1961: 458ff.), and these

original G minor associations reverberate throughout the movement:3 the Finale begins unex-

pectedly in G minor, on its dominant (Example 1.7); includes a self-enclosed March (bb. 212–

258, Example 1.8) in the same tonality, roughly one third into the movement (in real-time per-

formance), as a variation of the theme that is presented in the manner of a set piece; and, be-

fore the concluding fanfare of bb. 437–475, a G minor trespass, of sorts (bb. 419–433, Example

1.9), which is closing-like in character and which leads to a perfect authentic cadence (bb. 421–

22) as well as codetta (bb. 422–33) in G minor (Example 1.9), intrudes as a ‘premature’ ending,

subsequently ‘amended’ by the later festivities of E-flat major. But the forty bars of E-flat major

music (bb. 435–75) that follow are less the product of a developmental denouement than a sec-

ond ending, as it were, that results in the broadest and largest G minor–E-flat major juxtaposi-

tion in the entire Symphony. So the ‘dissipation into the relative minor of the dominant’ at the

very opening of the Symphony, which puts to mind Marx’s ‘affairs of great moment,’ as well as

Tovey’s imperative to ‘remember this cloud’ (Tovey 1935 : 30) is — in light of these sketches — in

part a condition of the Symphony’s having been ‘composed from the finale forward to the other

movements from its ‘incipient stage,’ as Lockwood characterised it (1981: 461).

But from its earliest conception already, some realisation of G minor was to mark the Sympho-

ny’s disposition of key relations as antithesis to E-flat, as witnessed in the key-design underly-

ing the ‘movement-plan’ drafts, or ‘tonal overviews,’4 that constitute the work’s earliest sketches

19
in the so-called Wielhorsky sketchbook of April 1802 to March 1803, among which is drafted

a third-movement ‘Menuetto serioso’ in E-flat with a G minor Trio. Absence of a fourth-move-

ment draft led Floros (1978) and Lockwood (1981) to argue that the Op. 35 Variation set, whose

sketches directly precede the movement-drafts for the Symphony in Wielhorsky, consequent-

ly provided the initial content for the Finale and the idea for the Symphony itself. The two rel-

evant pages from Wielhorsky (pp. 44–45; cf. Lockwood 1981: 464) are reproduced in Example

1.10; the third-movement draft from staff IX is followed by a reworking of the first-movement

material from staves III–V, within staves X–XIV, which contain a draft for a complete sonata-

form exposition, with the sketches for the remainder of the first movement continued on p. 45.

The G minor Trio that forms part of these earlier sketches5 antedates the ‘continuity drafts’ of

the later Landsberg 6 which more closely approach the Symphony’s final version,6 and therefore

precedes the composition of the anomaly that surfaces in bb. 7–9 of the first movement, as well

as all things concerning G minor in the work as a whole. Both the Symphony’s opening bars and

those of its Finale are related but discrete individuations of the initial concept first penned in the

Wielhorsky sketchbook, and characterised by the opposition of G minor to E-flat, The sketch-

es reflect what Barry Cooper inferred as a general principle in Beethoven’s compositional proc-

ess and consequently his musical thinking. No sooner than Beethoven committed to a principal

tonality — with the Eroica, the E-flat major already determined by the Piano Variations, Op. 35

— ‘the first and most fundamental feature of any instrumental composition was the question of

subsidiary keys — both those in the first movement and the main keys of middle movements. . .

20
. The character of a work was determined as much by its combination of keys as by any themat-

ic feature’ (Cooper 1990: 124).7

Working only from Landsberg 6,8 the only available Eroica sketchbook in the nineteenth cen-

tury, Nottebohm was nonetheless the earliest to demonstrate the enduring working-out of the

initial concept even before the rediscovery of the Wielhorsky drafts in 1939 and its publica-

tion in 1962. Landsberg 6 first shows the Finale in the form of a movement-plan (Example 1.11).

‘According to this sketch,’ Nottebohm writes, ‘the movement should start with an introducto-

ry passage beginning on the dominant of G minor’ (1880/1979: 94). The G minor ‘principio’

Beethoven initially sketched little resembles the Finale as it now stands both in terms of figura-

tion as well as instrumentation (compare Examples 1.7 and 1.11), and, throughout the next ten

pages of the sketchbook, he would ‘return repeatedly’ to it. The last of these sketches is shown

in Example 1.12. But whereas the ‘versions of this section are all different,’ Nottebohm observes,

‘all have the common feature of beginning on the dominant of G minor and reaching the dom-

inant of E-flat major,’ a feature which remained into the Finale’s last conception (1880/1979: 95;

compare Examples 1.7, 1.11–1.12). Finally, when minding the G minor significance of C-sharp

and bb. 7–9, the ‘preludising deviation’ related by Rochlitz and others, we see the displacement of a

G minor dominant by one belonging to E-flat already transpiring in bb. 9–10 of the Symphony’s

opening Heldenthema, where the dominant 6/5 chord of bar 10 ‘unexpectedly’ (Rochlitz 1807:

321) unseats the dominant of G minor represented and anticipated by the immediately preced-

21
ing 6/4 on D, which operates as a cadential 6/4, but that never literally comes to pass until later

in the Symphony. Besides the important G minor music in the Finale, the same tonality prom-

inently appears in the Sturm und Drang section of the first movement of the development (Ex-

ample 1.13), which also, crucially, reintroduces the syncopated Sturm und Drang topic from bb.

7–9 of the opening theme, a topic that, perhaps not coincidentally, forms the basis of the princi-

pal theme from Mozart’s own G minor Sturm und Drang Symphony, K. 183 (Example 1.14). The

Eroica Scherzo also features G minor in a more immediate opposition to E-flat, as occurs at the

end of the Finale, by once again placing a G minor dominant in immediate juxtaposition with

an E-flat dominant (see Example 1.15). But the most momentous, in Marx’s terms, of the G mi-

nor episodes is the grand perfect authentic cadence in G minor that occurs at around the Gold-

en Section of the Funeral March (bb. 153–154, Example 1.16).9

Tonality as ‘Linguistic Code’

‘To understand Beethoven,’ writes Adorno, ‘means to understand tonality. It is fundamental to

his music not only as its “material” but as its principle, its essence: his music utters the secret of

tonality (1998: 49; original emphasis). Endorsed beyond mere face value, Adorno’s sentiment

would place Rochlitz, Marx, and others in the G minor strain of reception among the knowl-

edgeable, in light of the preceding cognitive and ‘poietic’ evidence. For inasmuch as Beethoven’s

music is a direct expression and representative of tonality of the long eighteenth century, rec-

ognising the G minor implications of the problematic C-sharp and bb. 6–9 is to see the idea in-

22
tended and originating in the pages of Wielhorsky — that is, the mutual opposition of G mi-

nor to E-flat — expressed and communicated by the Symphony’s very first utterance (cf. also

Lockwood 1991: 94ff.). By extension, the G minor strain must be symptomatic and a metaphor

of some larger underlying, common, and potentially historical conception of tonality. To illumi-

nate the matter once more by analogy with literary theory, Rochlitz, Marx, and others seem to

represent instances of what Umberto Eco calls the ‘Model Reader’: 1314

To organize a text, its author has to rely upon a series of codes that assign given contents
to the expressions he uses. To make his text communicative, the author has to assume that
the ensemble of codes he relies upon is the same as that shared by his possible reader (hereafter
Model Reader) supposedly able to deal interpretatively with the expressions in the same
way as the author deals generatively with them. At the minimal level, every type of text ex-
plicitly selects a very general model of reader through . . . a specific linguistic code [or] . . . a
certain literary style (Eco 1979: 7; added emphasis).

To the extent the ‘readers’ in the G minor strain are fragmentary images of ‘The’ Model Reader

or listener of the Symphony, the underlying causality of the G minor response would potential-

ly lie in the same capacity of tonality as a ‘linguistic code.’ But, as Danuta Mirka has argued, to

maintain that music is communicative is a less obvious ‘position’ to take, particularly ‘in view of

the diverse approaches to musical scholarship current today.’

For many, a musical piece is an object to be contemplated, an organism to be examined, a

mechanism to be deconstructed or a product to be consumed. None of these metaphors
allows one to speak sensibly of musical communication. Yet none of them was in use in
the late eighteenth century. At that time theoretical and aesthetic discourses about music
were based upon the metaphor of music as language. . . . The musical repertory labeled by
later generations as the ‘Classical style’ was thus an expression of the aesthetic stance which
conceived of music as communication between composer and listener. . . . In order to suc-
cessfully address a given audience, it is necessary for composers to avail themselves of an
appropriate set of conventions (Mirka 2008a: 1; cf. Chapter 4 below).

Not only does the G minor strain therefore point to the existence of a ‘normative system,’ ‘sty-

23
listic fact,’ or ‘cultural code’ in Vodička, Riffattere, and Iser’s terms, respectively, but against the

communicative component of the ‘poietic’ evidence, represented by the sketches and all the G

minor music throughout the Symphony, whatever the ‘stylistic fact’ responsible for the G minor

response, it seems to have a linguistic as well as historical resonance, which is commensurate with

saying that the ‘stylistic fact’ is firmly predicated on a psychology of convention; that Beethoven

‘availed [himself ] of an appropriate . . . convention’ (Mirka) in ‘calculating listeners’ expectations’

(Bonds 2008: 39), in order to elicit the G minor response, at least inasmuch as compositional in-

tent may be reconstructed from the sketch evidence in both Wielhorsky and Landsberg 6. The

communicative act which appears to have metaphorically transpired between the Beethoven

sketches and the documents in the G minor strain suggests, in light of the historical orientation

of the problem implied by Examples 1.2 and 1.4, the underlying operation of a historically-de-

termined musico-linguistic code.

Further evidence of such a code may be seen in some of the descriptive details of the G minor

responses: namely, in the tacit recognition of something conventional about the phenomenon

of bb. 6–9, while nonetheless taking the actual convention responsible for granted. In 1880, the

British composer-musicologist, Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry, describes the opening of

the Eroica as a ‘t ypical example’ of a ‘transitory subordinate modulation,’ for the entry on ‘Mod-

ulation,’ from the first ever edition of the lauded Dictionary of Music and Musicians that was edit-

ed by Sir George Grove:

24
 The great use which Beethoven made of such transitory subordinate modulations [and] .
. . [t]he force with which he employed the device . . . is shown in the wonderful transition
from E-flat to G minor at the beginning of the Eroica (bars 7–10 [sic]), and the transition
from F to [G-flat]10 at the beginning of the Sonata Appassionata (Parry 1880: 350).

Rochlitz unmistakably had something similar in mind when describing bb. 7–9 as modulating

‘formally to G minor’ (see Chapter 2), which suggests something ‘t ypical’ about the phenome-

non, as Parry describes it, and, by extension, the underlying operation of a stylistic fact or con-

vention. Noteworthy, in this connection, is the self-evidence and matter-of-factness by which

authors in the G minor strain describe the, albeit fleeting, modulation. The self-evidence about

the matter witnessed in descriptions by Rochlitz, Marx, Parry, Lockwood, and Rumph above, is

a feature shared by all the G minor responses:

[T]he basses rise from c-sharp to d . . . [and] we are deluded into thinking that the key is G
minor — though only for one bar, it is true, for the a-flat of the first violin brings us back to
E-flat major (Riezler 1936/1938: 249).11

The key of G minor itself plays a major role in the total scheme. As early as measure seven
of the symphony the C-sharp of the bass causes a temporary deviation in the direction of
G minor (Ringer 1961: 460).

[O]ne of the purposes of the [G minor] Introduction [in the Finale] is to further stress the
G-minor region that has been important to this work since the fleeting appearance of G
minor in the opening measures of the first movement (Lockwood 1991: 96).

[T]he potential of a modulation . . . [and] implied motion to G minor suggested by the ini-
tial C-sharp–D is a crucial aspect of the Eroica (Earp 1993: 76, 70).

Beethoven appends a powerful continuation to his naïve Klang [i.e., E-flat major and its ar-
peggiation in bb. 1–6]. The chromatic descent and local tonicization of the mediant (G
minor) suggests, as Marx commented in 1859, ‘great situations’ (Sipe 1998: 99).

There may be variations in the immediacy and impact of the different G minor responses to be

sure, at least by comparison with Rochlitz’s original, as some of these descriptions are softer in

25
terms of the conclusiveness of the modulation. These variations further justify conceiving the

responses as lying on a continuum that projects outward from a centre of ambiguity, as in Ex-

ample 1.2. Rochlitz, Parry, and Rumph would perhaps be situated towards the extreme left in a

further graded distribution of the responses. But the more important matter is, whether a con-

clusive modulation that has ‘settled in G minor,’ or a ‘temporary deviation in the direction of G

minor,’ every author in the G minor strain presumes self-evidence about the phenomenon, of-

fering no apology for the absence of an F-sharp leading tone in these bars, which presupposes a

tacit or unconscious recognition of a musico-linguistic code. In sum, three properties of the G

minor strain suggest the underlying operation of a culturally-determined and situated knowl-

edge base: 1) the compositional intent, reconstructed from the sketches, being realised in the

G minor responses; 2) the tacit acknowledgement of something conventional about the G mi-

nor modulation, seen in Rochlitz and Parry’s qualifying terms, ‘förmlich’ and ‘t ypical example’;

and 3) the self-evidence in each of the readers’ descriptions. Against the historically differenti-

ated and competing ‘Cloud’ and E-flat strains of reception (Example 1.4), this tacit knowledge

base or ‘normative system’ appears to be historically situated or historically contingent. Tonali-

ty, as a form of culturally situated cognition and category of mind, would appear to operate on

both historical and linguistic axes.

26
Tonality as ‘Collective Memory’

But at the same time, although the G minor strain may be traced to 1807, and is therefore con-

temporary with the culture in which the Eroica Symphony was composed, as seen in Example

1.4, there follows no substantial disruption in the reception history of the response to properly

qualify it as historical, that is, as limited to a particular historical period. The ‘stylistic fact,’ whatev-

er it may be, appears to be at once historical and having transcended history, suggesting that the

‘linguistic code’ in which the ‘stylistic fact’ is situated is similarly historically determined but nev-

ertheless still available to present-day modes of listening. To the extent a singular ‘stylistic fact’ is

responsible for each of these G minor responses, as Riffaterre would maintain, because the re-

sponse originates within the cultural milieu of the Symphony’s production and is perpetuated

throughout the Symphony’s reception history, the ‘stylistic fact’ as well as the ‘linguistic code’ of

which it is a part are elements of a potential category of mind that is historical in origin but that

has somehow transcended historical differences — differences that were consequential for au-

thors in the ‘Cloud’ and E-flat strains of reception. Hyer, for example, is rather categorical in dis-

agreeing with Rochlitz: ‘our memories of E-flat are too recent for us to hear D as anything but

a leading tone to E-flat.’ Whatever ‘stylistic fact’ may be operating for the G minor responses, it

seems to be unbeknown or absent to the knowledge base of the ‘Cloud’ and E-flat strain of re-

ception, whether consciously or unconsciously. But despite the consequence of historical dif-

ference in these strains, in itself, the G minor strain suggests a socio-epistemological framework

in which socially and historically situated knowledge somehow transcends historical change, in

27
the form of a collective memory: a socio-cognitive concept engineered by the French sociologist

Maurice Halbwachs, in the 1920s and 1930s (Halbwachs 1925/1975; 1939/1997).

The monograph known to sociologists today as La mémoire collective was only published as a se-

ries of articles during Halbwachs’ lifetime, but these were originally conceived as the basis for a

monograph on the social determinacy of memory. In this context, Halbwachs styled music as a

language, owing to its being similarly predicated on a psychology of convention (Simmel 1917;

Gjerdingen 1988). ‘Musical language is a language like all others, which is to say, it presupposes

an agreement among those who speak it’ (1939/1997: 31).12 Halbwachs’ conception of language

is Saussurian in this regard, echoing Saussure’s definition of langue as ‘a social product, and a set

of necessary conventions adopted by the social body to allow the exercise of this faculty among

individuals’ (Saussure 1922: 25).13 These ‘necessary conventions’ are what Halbwachs attributes,

explicitly, to the linguistic component of music — ‘Musical signs . . . result from of a convening

among several men. . . . [They] result from conventions and are meaningful only in relation to

the group that invented or adopted them’ (1939/1997: 25, 31).14 When treating language-mem-

ory relations in the earlier Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire of 1925, Halbwachs deems the conven-

tions of language the ‘most elementary’ yet the ‘most stable’ of social frameworks that underlie

the construction and preservation of a collective memory (Halbwachs 1925/1975: 82).15 In the

simplest terms, collective memory specifies nothing other than, as Jean-Claude Filloux defines

it after Halbwachs, ‘the knowledge of a common background that one presupposes inherent to

28
the group’ (Filloux 1969: 51).16 Not a concrete object, but a socially derived and therefore im-

plicit consciousness and knowledge base, a collective memory is a synthesised network or amal-

gamation of ‘stylistic facts,’ cultural codes, practices, or conventions that are not reconstructed

from history, but rather sustained throughout history as some ultimately tacit and intangible knowl-

edge base that one takes for granted, such as language.

The first of Halbwachs’ essays, however, and therefore the first chapter of the proposed mono-

graph, was dedicated not to language but entirely to music: ‘La mémoire collective chez les mu-

siciens’ (‘Collective Memory Among Musicians’). Moving well beyond analogy, Halbwachs ap-

propriated music to ‘The’ philosophical base of the monograph, recognising something more

fundamental in it than language itself where cultural memory and conventions are concerned,

upon which a more general argument respecting the deep-seated socio-cultural functioning of

memory may then be elaborated. Because of its ‘aconceptuality,’ or its not being conceptual in

the same way as language, its conventions not being referents of things and actions in the world

as are words, the culture of music is considered the greatest testament to the resources of collec-

tive memory.

Despite these analogies, so real and important as they may be, there is a great difference
between the society of musicians and all other communities that also use signs. When at-
tending a theatre-piece [for example,] . . . text, words, sounds — here they end not in them-
selves: they are the paths of access to meaning, to sentiments, and expressed ideas. . . . We
have other means of retaining in memory what we then experience. In other words, the
collective memory of these gatherings, the presentation of theatrical pieces, undoubted-
ly retains the text of works, but above all what these texts have evoked, which are no lon-
ger language, nor sounds. . . . Musicians, on the contrary, stop with sounds, and seek noth-

29
 ing beyond them. . . . Whether he performs or listens [the musician] at this moment, is
plunged in the middle of those occupied simply with creating or listening to combina-
tions of sounds: he is entirely within this society. . . . To assure the conservation of mem-
ory of musical works, one cannot make recourse, as in the case of the theatre, to images
and ideas, that is to say, to signification, since such a series of sounds has no other significa-
tion than itself. . . . Music is truly the only art on which this condition imposes itself. . . . Nowhere
else does one perceive more clearly that, to retain a multitude of memories in all their nuances and in
their most precise detail is possible only on the condition of engaging the resources of collective mem-
ory (1939/1997: 49–50; added emphasis).17

More significantly, not only does a collective memory allow for the preservation of ‘a multitude

of memories,’ but these culturally-determined memories — once acquired — assume a cognitive

function. The ‘condition of engaging the resources of a collective memory’ involves a passive-

retentive as well as active-constructive dimension: ‘To learn to perform, or to decipher, or even

when they only listen, to recognise and distinguish sounds, their significance [valeur, also mean-

ing] and their intervals,’ Halbwachs writes,

musicians need to evoke a quantity of memories. Where are these memories found, and
under what form are they retained? We would say that, if one examines their brains, one
would there find a quantity of mechanisms. . . . To explain these mental devices, one must
place them in relation to corresponding, symmetrical, or complementary mechanisms, that func-
tion in other minds, among other men. Moreover, such a correspondence has only been
realised because an agreement among them has been established: but such an agreement
presupposes the conventional creation of a system of symbols or material signs, whose definition is
well-defined [cf. Eco’s ‘linguistic code’]. . . . The memories existing in musicians, memories
of notes, signs, rules, are found in their brain and their mind only because they exist as part
of [a musical] society, that has allowed them to acquire such memories; they have no oth-
er reason for being than their relation to the group of musicians, and they are therefore re-
tained within them because musicians are or have been part of this group. This is why one
can say the memories of musicians are retained in a collective memory that extends in space and
time, as far as their society (1939/1997: 47–48; added emphasis).18

Halbwachs’ ‘collective memory’ raises another epistemological mirror onto the psychology of

convention that underlies the G minor strain. That the G minor response both is of historical

30
origin and has transcended history is an indication of the capacity for tonality to partake of, if

not operate as a collective memory. Beyond that however, the significance of memory, and fur-

thermore of collective memory, lies in the absence of a fully-realised G minor modulation. Be-

cause the key of G minor is never fully articulated in the acoustic substrate of the Symphony’s

opening bars by way of a cadence, or at very least by the presence of a leading-tone, F-sharp, G

minor cognition must be a consequence of a ‘corresponding mechanism’ in the mind, as a cog-

nitive product of society, in Halbwachs’ terms, which consists of evoking a ‘memor[y] . . . of [a]

rule’ from the larger, shared cultural consciousness. To adapt Eco once more from the literary

side of things, the ‘semantic affinity [of bb. 6–9 to a G minor tonality] does not lie in the text as

an explicit linear linguistic manifestation; it is the result of a rather complex operation of textu-

al inference based upon an intertextual competence. . . . [A] well-organized text . . . presupposes a

model of competence coming, so to speak, from outside the text’ (Eco 1979: 4, 8; added empha-

sis). The authors in the G minor strain seem to have evoked the memory of some socially-de-

termined rule from such an extraopus or intertextual competence that has resisted the passing

of time but whose historical resonance nonetheless stands out against the competing E-flat and

‘Cloud’ strains, as seen in Example 1.4.

Rules of Experience (Erfahrungsregeln) and Nomological Knowledge

The German sociologist Max Weber famously argued that determining the underlying causal-

ity of an event is often better achieved in a negative capacity. That is, the historical determina-

31
cy of a social fact reveals itself in the materialisation of change when that purported historical

fact is removed from the equation: ‘The judgement that if a single historical fact in a complex

of historical conditions had been missing or altered would have brought about . . . a divergent

course of historical events is crucial in the determination of the “historical significance” of that

fact’ (M. Weber 1906 : 268, 273; translated in F. Ringer 2004: 83–84). To the extent that the G mi-

nor strain of reception represents the historical situation of eighteenth-century tonality, the ‘di-

vergent course of historical events’ may be seen in the competing and historically differentiated

‘Cloud’ and E-flat strains, which function as evidence for the ‘historical significance’ of the G mi-

nor response and, by extension, for the ‘stylistic fact’ as its underlying cause; as Fritz Ringer inter-

prets this ‘counterfactual reasoning’ in Weber’s argument: “‘historical significance’ means some-

thing like “causal influence”’ (F. Ringer 2004: 84). In this way, Riffaterre’s ‘stylistic fact’ amounts

to a ‘historical fact’ in Weber’s sense; removing the historically-situated stylistic fact is what po-

tentially initiated the divergent course of events. By Weber’s estimation, the ‘stylistic fact,’ ‘cul-

tural code,’ or ‘corresponding mechanism’ in Riffaterre, Iser, and Halbwachs’ terms amounts to a

‘rule of experience’ that operates as the ‘causal influence’: ‘The weighing of the causal significance

of a historical fact begins with the question: whether its elimination from the complex of factors

under consideration . . . or with its alteration in a certain manner, the course of events could, ac-

cording to general rules of experience, have taken a direction that somehow diverged in character’

(M. Weber 1906: 282–283; in F. Ringer 2004: 87; added emphasis). In the end, all social causes

and effects are inextricably related to ‘rules of experience’ (Erfahrungsregeln), which Weber de-

32
fines as a form of nomological knowledge (F. Ringer 2004: 84–85) — that is, principles governing

human conduct as defined by culture or custom, from the Greek nomos (nÒmow). These ‘laws,’ as

Maria Crespo explains Marx’s position, ‘are cognitive instruments for interpretation and causal im-

putation of individual phenomena’ (Crespo 2008: 111; my emphasis).

Beside Weber, the fin-de-siècle German sociologist Georg Simmel argued, as Raymond Bou-

don summarises it, that ‘no social phenomenon can be conceptualized other than as an aggregate effect,

that is, as the result of actions, attitudes, and individual behaviour’ (Boudon 1990: 42; added empha-

sis). Nor may any cognitive phenomenon be analysed otherwise, because ‘Mental processes de-

pend both on historical circumstances and on the situation or social environment in which the

actors are,’ as Cynthia Hamlin relates the Simmel-Boudon position (Hamlin 2002: 31 ). When

the ‘actors . . . [are] classified into types,’ as in Examples 1.2 and 1.4, describing the ‘behaviour of

these ideal-typical actors’ — in our case, the strains of reception — ‘will always involve, as Sim-

mel points out, an “abstract psychology” or a “psychology of convention.” In short, individual

explanations always involve the construction of models’ (Boudon 1990: 42 ). The model for the

G minor strain, or for the G minor ‘ideal-typical actors,’ seems to involve an intersection of the

interdisciplinary contexts outlined in the preceding, which all fall under the blanket concept of

the ‘psychology of convention.’ Viewing the situation of the G minor strain analogically — that

is, against Eco’s ‘linguistic code,’ Halbwachs’ ‘collective memory,’ and Weber’ Erfahrungsregeln

— suggests that the competence model or knowledge base underlying and projected by the G

33
minor response-strain is culturally determined or, following Weber, that the knowledge base is

nomological through and through.

Nomological Explorations in Music Theory: Style and ‘Style Forms’

‘The historian or sociologist utilises the resources of a common knowledge, or a nomological

knowledge [un savoir nomologique], one associated with a psychology of convention, along with

a nomological knowledge of experience [un savoir nomologique d’expérience] in order to interpret be-

haviours of given situations’ (Watier 2007: 101). Robert Hatten is among few music theorists to

acknowledge the nomological determinacy of musical knowledge and the necessity of its re-

construction — the necessity of utilising the resources of a nomological knowledge in Watier’s

terms. In point of methodology, Hatten maintains that ‘music interpretation must be ground-

ed within a semiotic framework, and that framework . . . is a musical style’ (Hatten 1996: 27; see

also Hatten 2004; 1994; 1982). The grounding principles of Hepokoski and Darcy’s sonata the-

ory are predicated on a similar argument: a ‘culturally aware reading should seek to reconstruct

the historical norms . . . of the relevant genre’ (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006: 605). But it was on-

ly in research by Leonard B. Meyer (1956; 1967; 1973; 1980; 1989) and Robert O. Gjerdingen

(1988; 2007) that the reconstructive component was explicitly given a psychological orientation

— that socially-determined rules were explicitly viewed as ‘cognitive instruments,’ and that the

‘psychology of convention’ became explicit. Beyond a desideratum in methodology, the impli-

cations of ‘grounding interpretation’ (Hatten 1996) reach cognitive as well as interpretative di-

34
mensions, when realising that a psychological correlate of reconstructing historical, cultural, or stylistic

norms may exist in the act of listening. That is to say, the cognitive equivalent of reconstructing the

‘ideal type’ (Meyer 1956: 248, 251–252) of an utterance would be a historical, culture-, or style-

specific mode of listening that, by process of association, would position a given ‘sound stimu-

lus’ within a series of what Meyer called ‘memories of relevant musical experiences’ (1956: 88).

In view of Meyer’s formulation, history, style, or culture becomes memory in the domain of psy-

chology. Much the same as history grounds interpretation, a historical mode of listening regu-

lates, tempers, or mediates cognition.

The ‘rules of experience’ underlying Max Weber’s ‘nomological knowledge,’ and the ‘conven-

tions’ responsible for the production and dissemination of a ‘collective memory’ in Halbwachs’

terms, find a musical analogue in what Meyer called style forms. The more well-known of these

musical paradigms, the so-called 1–7, 4–3 archetype (Meyer 1980), which later became the ob-

ject of Gjerdingen’s A Classic Turn of Phrase (1988), is shown in Example 1.17, from the opening

of Mozart’s G major Piano Sonata, K. 283 (1774). The ‘style form’ is based on a tightly-knit pair

of sub-phrases, consisting of a tonic-dominant, dominant-tonic parallelism, which is articulated

by the 1–7, 4–3 ‘rhyme’ in the top voice, the structure’s most characteristic feature. The harmon-

ic parallelism, what William Caplin would call the ‘statement-response’ aspect of the ‘style form,’

is shared by several of Meyer’s other archetypes, such as the caesuraed form of the ‘Adeste Fide-

lis,’ which Gjerdingen more recently calls the ‘paired do – re – mi,’ given in Example 1.18 (Meyer

35
1989: 53–54; see also Gjerdingen 2007: 85, 108, 119, 120). Meyer argued that the perception of

music is fundamentally conditioned by these ‘rules of experience’ in Weber’s terms — specifical-

ly by the ‘internalization of [these] style forms’ (1989: 96), which resulted in an ‘identification of

music cognition with style analysis,’ as Michael Spitzer summarised it (Spitzer 2004: 43): ‘[T]o

understand Mozart’s theme [at the opening of the Piano Sonata in G major (Example 1.17)] is

to compare it with a representation in the mind formed by memories of themes like it — impos-

ing a learned conceptual template’ (ibid: 31), which is synonymous with Halbwachs’ argument

that in listening musicians ‘evoke a quantity of memories.’ More significantly still, also like Hal-

bwachs, ‘Meyer and Gjerdingen presuppose that eighteenth-century consciousness is immedi-

ately accessible’ (Spitzer 2004: 49) by means of these ‘style forms,’ owing to their historical situ-

atedness (Meyer 1989) — in Halbwachs’ terms, because the ‘corresponding mechanisms’ are ‘re-

tained in a collective memory that extends in space and time.’ And like Eco, Meyer also argues

that communication obtains by means of a code, through the

internalization of gestures . . . which allows the creative artist, the composer, to communi-
cate with listeners. It is because the composer is also a listener that he is able to control his
inspiration with reference to the listener. . . . It is precisely because he is continually taking the
attitude of the listener that the composer becomes aware and conscious of his own self, his
ego, in the process of creation. In this process of differentiation between himself as com-
poser and himself as audience, the composer becomes self-conscious and objective. . . . Fi-
nally, and perhaps most important of all, this analysis of communication emphasizes the
absolute necessity of a common universe of discourse in art [cf. ‘linguistic code’]. For without
a set of gestures common to the social group, and without common habit responses to
those gestures, no communication whatsoever would be possible. Communication de-
pends upon, presupposes, and arises out of the universe of discourse which in the aesthet-
ics of music is called style (Meyer 1956: 40–42; added emphasis).

36
In light of the implicit historical determinacy of the G minor strain in the Eroica case study, as

well as the implicit underlying presence of a ‘stylistic fact’ in Riffaterre’s terms, the G minor re-

sponse may well be a consequence of the internalisation of some ‘style form,’ in Meyer’s sense, of

some ‘rule of experience’ in Weber’s terms, or of some mechanism in Halbwachs’ terms. In oth-

er words, everything at this stage appears to point to the ‘situatedness of knowledge’ underly-

ing the G minor response — to its nomological determinacy. In short, G minor appears to be

the product of a ‘socially indexed’ (Hamlin 2002: 18, 31) and, therefore, ‘corresponding mecha-

nism’ (Halbwachs), something of a musical analogue to the culturally determined mechanism

of language, or langue, that Saussure, anticipating Halbwachs, characterised as a ‘social product

lying in the mind’ (1922: 44). To put it differently, the picture of tonality that emerges from this

preliminary assessment of the G minor strain is as entirely socially and historically situated be-

cause of its predication on a psychology of convention. The epistemological base of the G mi-

nor strain seems to be ecologically motivated, to the extent that only a comprehensive ethnogra-

phy of the musical culture could truly bring the ‘style form,’ ‘stylistic fact,’ or ‘cultural code’ into

clearer focus, because the more culturally engrained, the more tacit and implicit will any given

knowledge base be. As Pierre Bourdieu put it, ‘one of the major difficulties of the social history

of philosophy, art or literature is that it has to reconstruct [the] spaces of original possibles which, be-

cause they were part of the self-evident givens of the situation, remained unremarked and are there-

fore unlikely to be mentioned in contemporary accounts, chronicles, and memoirs’ (Bourdieu

1993: 31). For the time being, however, the more relevant issue at hand concerns this picture of

37
tonality that is gradually emerging from the G minor ‘superreader’ — if admittedly preliminary

— as entirely socially determined and culturally and historically situated through and through.

When attending to the G minor response-strain alone, the problem of tonality as a category of

mind appears to be one of nomology — of the laws of mental operation that are determined by

custom, culture, and society.

IV

Implications of the E-flat major Strain: The Psychology of ‘Structural Hearing’

Towards a ‘Theoretical Fact’

The implications of the E-flat major strain must be pursued differently from the beginning, be-

cause, unlike the G minor strain, the E-flat ‘superreader’ or ‘ideal-typical actor’ cannot isolate a

‘stylistic fact’ in Riffaterre’s sense per se, because no similarly communicative component exists

or may be reconstructed for the E-flat response. That is to say, to the extent the Eroica sketches in

Wielhorsky and Landsberg 6 are an indication of compositional and communicative intent in

Eco, Mirka, and Meyer’s sense of the term, then only the G minor ‘superreader’ signals the pres-

ence of an underlying ‘stylistic fact,’ which is a ‘communicative element’ by Riffaterre’s estima-

38
tion. The ideal-typical actors in the E-flat strain of reception are therefore qualitatively different

‘real readers.’ Because a communicative element seems to be absent (again in Eco’s sense of the

term), the concept of a ‘linguistic code’ does not apply. But in the absence of a stylistic fact, the

E-flat ‘superreader’ does imply the underlying operation of a theoretical fact, one whose episte-

mological base and competence model involves a rather different linguistic component. In de-

scribing the tonality of bb. 6–9 and thereabouts in the opening theme, each of the ‘actors’ in the

E-flat strain of reception implicitly, or explicitly, projects elements of structural hearing, in Fe-

lix Salzer’s sense of the term (1952/1982), and ‘generative’ tendencies, as Fred Lerdahl and Ray

Jackendoff have defined the term in the seminal A Generative Theory of Tonal Music (1983), Ton-

al Pitch Space (2001), and elsewhere (e.g. Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1984).

In Schenker’s case, it almost goes without saying that the generative component is self-evident,

for as Lerdahl and several others have argued, Schenker’s later theory, as developed in the Meister-

werk essays and Der freie Satz (1935), is a ‘proto-generative’ theory (Frankel et al. 1976; Kassler

1963; Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 337; Lerdahl 2009: 187; Meeùs 1993(a); Smoliar 1976; Snell

1979). Leaving Schenker’s reading aside for the moment, we may begin the investigation of the

E-flat actors’ implications by isolating two seemingly trivial details in Brian Hyer and Barbara

Barry’s essays, and Michael Klein’s discussion. Together, these ‘ideal-typical actors’ negotiate the

influence of the G minor 6/4 chords in bb. 6 and 9, potentially relevant to the G minor hearing,

in a way that removes them from the equation. To begin with, the uppermost excerpt of Exam-

39
ple 1.19 reproduces Hyer’s representation of the Symphony’s opening theme: ‘Example 5.3 is a

representation of thirteen measures from the opening of the movement’ (1996: 88). The reduc-

tion is not yet ‘analytic’ in any proper sense of the term, but analogous to eighteenth- and early

nineteenth-century skeletal representations of a composition’s ‘harmonic groundwork,’ as seen,

for instance, in Carl Czerny’s well-known reduction of Beethoven’s ‘Waldstein’ Sonata (1854),

and Rochlitz’s own representation of the ‘harmonic groundwork’ to bb. 6–11 of the Eroica open-

ing theme from the Leipzig AmZ, given in Example 1.20. In contrast to these skeletons, howev-

er, Hyer’s reduction and representation of the music already contains an element of, most like-

ly unconscious, interpretation, for the G minor 6/4 chord on D which occurs in bar 6 is omit-

ted from the notated representation of the sound stimulus. Secondly, Barry describes the ‘iii6/4’

of bar 9, which Rumph describes as having ‘settled in G minor,’ as being ‘functionally extraneous . .

. in terms of voice-leading and harmonic progression. . . . [T]he diminished seventh chord of C-

sharp could be resolved onto the first inversion dominant seventh in m. 10’ (Barry 2000: 109–

110; my emphasis). Hyer gives the same interpretation of this second G minor 6/4 chord, stat-

ing that at bar 9 ‘we . . . expect G to move to F above an A-flat, forming a dissonant 6/5 above D

in m. 10’ (Hyer 1996: 88). Likewise, Klein describes the G minor 6/4 chord of b. 9 as participat-

ing, along with the C-sharp of bb. 7–8, in the creation of an ‘unheimlich apparition’ (Klein 2005:

82). And like Schenker, Hyer, and Barry, Klein hears ‘the underlying harmonic progression [as]

mov[ing] directly from the chord with the C-sharp in the bass to the dominant [of E-flat] with

D in the bass [b. 10] — the G-minor harmony of m. 9 is an apparent chord that results from the

40
staggered motion of the upper and lower voices’ (Klein 2005: 83; added emphasis; cf. Example

1.3). In a word, Hyer, Barry, and Klein’s perception of the tonality in bb 6–9 seems to have been

influenced by a cognitive reduction of G minor related elements from the ‘sound stimulus’ or

acoustic substrate.

By these two otherwise incidental details already, the E-flat major strain of reception appears to

resonate with, or project, a very different competence model insofar as tonality is concerned,

one that is hierarchically determined; as Lerdahl and Jackendoff describe it,

A reduction in music theory is a way to represent hierarchical relations among pitches in

a piece. Pitches perceived as relatively embellishing can be ‘reduced out’ recursively, leav-
ing at each stage a simplified residue of structurally more important material. At the end
of this process only one event remains — the most stable structure, or tonic [original em-
phasis]. The term ‘tonal ’ can be broadly defined as referring to music that is heard in such a hierar-
chical fashion (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1984: 235; added emphasis).

But remarkable, in the descriptions of Barry, Hyer, and Klein, is that such a hierarchical concep-

tion of tonality appears to underlie their E-flat hearing despite other factors in their analyses that

are conceptually consistent with a G minor hearing. This is so, in the case of Barry and Klein, in

spite of their acknowledgement as well as analytical investigation of the significance of G minor

elsewhere in the Symphony (Barry 2000: 109ff.). In Hyer’s case, it is so in spite of an explicit and

central preoccupation with the phenomenology of the moment: specifically, with moment-by-

moment strategies of listening as displayed by Gottfried Weber (1832/1994) and David Lewin

(1986; see Hyer 1996: 92, 88, passim). But whereas both Weber and Lewin are preoccupied with

momentary changes in the tonality, Hyer’s concerns fall on the transformation of the bass in bb.

41
7–8 from a D-flat, as a passing tone, to C-sharp, as a lower neighbour, and all within the context

of a single E-flat tonality. The language of Hyer’s description, despite the moment-by-moment

perspective of the reading, strongly resonates with Lerdahl and Jackendoff ’s hierarchically ori-

ented definition of tonality above:

[T]he relation between a given event and the larger context in which it occurs is circular:
the larger context determines the significance of the given event, but at the same time that
event is crucial to the significance of the context as a whole. In Example 5.3a . . . [repro-
duced in Example 1.19] we hear the chroma as a D-flat in relation to the tonic that controls
the entire context. . . . When . . . the chroma moves to D in Example 5.3b [Example 1.19] . . .
we adjust our description of D-flat to the larger context [i.e. the E-flat hierarchy], hearing it
as a lower neighbor to D, and as a C-sharp (1996: 91; added emphasis).

More specifically, Hyer’s description recalls Lerdahl’s definition of harmonic function as

being a matter of hierarchical posit

Functions depend not on root identity but prolongational role. . . . The tree generates the
functions (2001: 217, 220). . . . This top-down procedure is necessary because the prolonga-
tional function of an event is determined by its larger context (1989: 71). . . . ‘[H]armonic
function is equivalent to hierarchical position’ (1991: 280 )

It is under the influence of this ‘larger context,’ the tree, as it were, that both 6/4 chords of bb. 6

and 9 appear to be reduced out in Hyer, Barry, and Klein’s hearing, which amounts to a cognitive

phenomenon. Lerdahl describes the psychological component of reduction as follows:

[T]he specific content of an event degrades and generalizes into memory, depending on
the framework in which it is experienced. Consequently, at any prolongational level, on-
ly what is needed in that context is retained through a transformational operation. . . . The
transformations in question are deletion (2001: 35–36).

Neither of the G minor 6/4 chords is necessary to the elaboration of the predominating E-flat

major context, which sits at the top of the hierarchy, and therefore operates as a ‘top-down’ in-

42
fluence. And it is this top-down influence that requires C-sharp to be a D-flat, that is, ‘in order

to remain within the key of the symphony,’ as Schenker describes it. In fact, Schenker’s accom-

panying illustration of in Example 1.2(b) is equivalent in concept to Hyer’s 5.3(a), reproduced in

Example 1.19. In the former, D-flat is clearly labelled ‘Dg,’ for Durchgang (passing tone), which

is consistent with Hyer’s initial reading of bb. 7–8 (compare Examples 1.2(b) and 1.19). That C-

sharp must resolve as D-flat is a generative argument that Lerdahl also sustains, at least implic-

itly, while making a passing reference to the Eroica Symphony within a larger discussion of ‘line-

ar completion’ in Tonal Pitch Space, conceived in light of Schenker’s theory of the Zug (or linear

progression): ‘The famous C-sharp in bar 7 motivates a number of dramatic passages in its var-

ied search for linear completion’ (2001: 53), which implies, as Hyer’s analysis makes explicit, that

the chromatic anomaly is an ill-functioned or misbehaved D-flat. But in the end, C-sharp is sub-

ordinated to D in bar 10 which carries a 6/5 chord, thereby functioning as a lower neighbour, as

illustrated in Schenker’s graph and Hyer’s analysis (Examples 1.2(a) and 1.19(b)). Either as a de-

viated passing tone D-flat, whose initial path is to descend on C, or as a lower neighbour to D,

the problem remains accommodated to or ‘deleted’ by a single E-flat hierarchy, or prolongation.

The enharmonic change is immaterial to the integrity of E-flat major, because bb. 7–8 are incon-

sequential towards altering the function of the two 6/4 chords that surround the C-sharp, which

are subsequently ‘deleted’ in the form of a ‘transformational operation.’ The insignificance of bb.

7–8 against E-flat major is perhaps most emphatic in Hyer’s case, who thereby stands at the op-

posite extreme of the response-strain continuum in Example 1.2, as the inverse of Rochlitz and

43
Rumph’s more pronounced G minor hearings.

The E-flat ‘actors’ consequently show signs of an implicit or tacit operation of a fundamentally

different rule than that seemingly operating behind the G minor strain — that is, not a socially-

determined rule, but a universal rule functioning as part of the ‘natural propensity of the musical

mind,’ the cornerstone of Lerdahl’s generative music theory programme:

[The] thrust [of the theory] is to model understanding beyond the response to any partic-
ular idiom. Along the lines of Chomsky (1965), it attempts to distinguish between rules
that are specific to a musical idiom and rules that apply universally. The term ‘universal’ is
meant not in a geographical or historical sense but in a psychological one. To assert that a
rule is universal is to claim that it represents a natural propensity of the musical mind. . . .
What is required . . . is that a putative universal apply in the same way whenever it is called
into play. . . . The general picture emerges of a theory whose details change with musical
style but whose underlying constructs are constant, reflecting permanent features of mu-
sical understanding (Lerdahl 2001: 4–5).

The linguistic component of GTTM and TPS lies in identifying the mechanism of the musical

mind to the underlying philosophy of Chomsky’s generative-transformational grammar: to ar-

gue that the knowledge underlying the perception of music, like language, is fundamentally in-

nate and driven by rule-based processing — that ‘these principles might be unvarying beneath

a capacity’s many different cultural manifestations’ (Lerdahl 2009: 187). Indeed, the theory was

and remains an exercise in the philosophy of mind: ‘Beyond purely musical issues, the theory is

intended as an investigation of a domain of human cognitive capacity. Thus it would be useful

to linguists and psychologists, if for no other purpose than as an example of the methodology

of linguistics applied to a different domain. We believe that our generative theory of music can

44
provide a model of how to construct a competence theory (in Chomsky’s sense)’ (Lerdahl and

Jackendoff 1983: xi). The competence model involves a series of innate rules that comprise the

primary component of the cognitive mechanism. Like Chomsky’s theory of generative-trans-

formational linguistics, generative music theory models ‘unconscious knowledge by a formal

system of principles or rules called a grammar’ (ibid 1983: 5). This set of rules or principles is what

constitutes the universal component in generative theory’s philosophy of mind:

We are concerned here . . . with universals of musical grammars — the principles available
to all experienced listeners for organizing the musical surfaces they hear, no matter what
idiom they are experienced in. Though it is possible to attribute grammatical universals to
cultural diffusion or to mere historical accident, another explanation is that they reflect
cognitive similarities among all human beings — innate aspects of mind that transcend
particular cultures or historical periods. Thus universals of musical grammar, especially
those of the abstract sort presented here, can be taken to represent innate aspects of musi-
cal cognition (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 278, 282). . . . Essential to GTTM’s psycho-
logical orientation is its rule system (Lerdahl 2001: 6).

That Lerdahl intends the theory as an exercise in the philosophy of the musical mind is explicit

in having presented its analytic machinery as predictive of the intuitions and therefore of the ex-

periences of sophisticated listeners. The ‘musical grammar . . . comprises a system of rules that

assigns analyses to pieces’ (1983: 3). Example 1.21(a) sketches the basic form of generative the-

ory, with the innate rule-system situated at its middle, functioning as its epistemological centre.

There is a ‘musical surface’ (cf. ‘sound stimulus’) to which a ‘rule system’ is applied, which gener-

ates the predictive ‘heard structure’ of an experienced listener (2009: 188): the intuitive judge-

ments and (implicit) musical structuring of an experienced listener:

45
 GTTM’s aspiration, largely realized, is for the rules to be predictive enough to be adapt-
able to empirical testing (Lerdahl 2001: 7) . . . The theory seeks to be sufficiently precise in
its formulations that its concepts, rules, and predictions can in principle be tested by the
methods of experimental psychology (ibid: 4). . . . The rules would be motivated psycho-
logically and would represent cognitive principles of organization. The structural descrip-
tions would correspond to predicted heard structures. The theory would in principle be
testable (Lerdahl 2009: 188) . . . [as a] formal description of the musical intuitions of a listener who
is experienced in a musical idiom’ (1983: 1; original emphasis).

Because the E-flat responses already (implicitly or explicitly) exhibit generative tendencies, the

principal question at this stage of the case study is whether the E-flat strain of reception brings

evidence in support of the theory and its underlying epistemological base, in a ‘real-life’ setting;

as Flyvbjerg argued, one of the primary functions of a case is to test the hypotheses and predic-

tions of a given theory (Flyvbjerg 2006: 227 and passim). Not only do the ‘ideal-typical actors’

of the E-flat strain exhibit generative tendencies, but, in projecting a hierarchical interpretation

of the tonality, they reflect Lerdahl’s definition of a model or ‘experienced listener’: ‘Let us as-

sume, broadly speaking, that naïve listeners stay close to the surface while experienced listeners

tend to hierarchize it’ (2001: 43). Because the E-flat actors in the case study already betray these

characteristics, the case itself invites the question as to whether the rule-system of the generative

musical grammar would have predicted the E-flat response. The prediction, in turn, if success-

ful, would be an indication of the underlying functioning of the epistemological base or com-

petence model of generative theory. More importantly, the E-flat major strain would be a ‘real-

life’ barometer for evaluating the theory’s philosophical ‘corroboration’ in Popper’s terms (Pop-

per 1935/2002: 275; passim).

46
Towards that end, Example 1.22 presents an analysis of bb. 1–14 of the Eroica, which applies the

machinery of GTTM and TPS in its most ‘principled’ (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 340), or

‘preferred’ application. The theory powerfully models and therefore would have undoubtedly

predicted an E-flat major hearing. The ‘prolongational structure,’ which as yet does not proffer

a tonal interpretation as such, consists of the four principal, hierarchy-deriving components of

the rule system in GTTM, elaborated in Example 1.21(b) (compare to Example 1.21(a)). These

include: 1) a ‘Grouping structure [that] describes the listener’s segmentation of the music into

units such as motives, phrases, and sections’; 2) a ‘Metrical structure [that] assigns a hierarchy of

strong and weak beats.’ Together, the grouping and metrical structures generate a ‘Time-span

segmentation’ that leads to 3) a ‘Time-span reduction . . . which establishes the relative structural

importance of events within the rhythmic units of a piece’; the end product of this algorithmic

process is 4) a ‘Prolongational reduction [which] develops a second hierarchy of events in terms

of perceived patterns of tension and relaxation’ (Lerdahl 2001: 3). It is within this prolongation-

al context that the most crucial rule of the rule-system comes into play, insofar as the tonality of

the opening theme of the Eroica is concerned.

The ‘stability conditions’ lying beneath the four components of Example 1.21(b), which stand

outside the otherwise predominantly algorithmic orientation of the flowchart, are the learned

components of the system that serve as ‘input’ which ‘triggers’ the rule-based mechanism (2001:

4, 41). These ‘stability conditions’ were presumed in GTTM but form the centrepiece of TPS.

47
Their components include scale degrees, chords, keys, and numerical distances between them

that serve as a metaphor for cognitive tension. The edifice of ‘tonal pitch space’ that provides

the stability conditions taken for granted in GTTM is predicated on the concept of the ‘basic

space,’ shown in Example 1.23, which builds on previous work by Krumhansl (1983; 1990 ) and

Deutch and Feroe (1981). It represents a hierarchical organisation of pitch-classes determined

by the hegemony of the triad. Levels a–e of the space represent the hierarchical structure of and

organisation of pitch-classes around a C major triad within the key of C major. The ‘levels’ cor-

respond to ‘steps’ (2001: 48–51) within ‘octave space,’ ‘fifths space,’ ‘triadic space,’ ‘diatonic space,’

and ‘chromatic space’ respectively (2001: 47). Example 1.24 displays the levels of embedding and

distance of pitch-classes to the tonic. The numerical format in Example 1.23, however, is the ba-

sis for measuring distances between chords, both within and between keys or regions. Within a

key, the distance between chords is measured by what Lerdahl calls the

chordal circle-of-fifths rule Move the pcs at levels a–c of the basic space four
steps to the right (mod 7) on level d or four steps to the left (2001: 54)

But ultimately the distances between chords are calculated by a numerical algorithm:

chord distance rule (first version) δ(x⇒y) = j + k, where δ(x⇒y) = the distance be-
tween chord x and chord y; j = the number of applications of the chordal circle-of-fifths
rule needed to shift x into y; and k = the number of distinctive pcs in the basic space of y
compared to those in the basic space of x (2001: 55).

Example 1.25 shows the derivation of some chord distances within a key. By way of example, a

IV chord requires only one application of the chordal circle-of-fifths rule, and has four distinc-

48
tive pcs in levels a–c of the basic space, to result in overall distance of 5:

δ(I⇒IV) = 1 + 4 = 5.

Distances between chords at the regional level, that is, between keys, operate by the same princi-

ple, but with the addition of another step to the algorithm, which applies the circle-of-fifths rule

to level d, ‘diatonic space,’ as well as level c, ‘triadic space’:

regional circle-of-fifths rule Move the pcs at level d of the basic space seven
steps to the right (mod 12) on level e or seven steps to the left (2001: 59).

This results in the full version of the ‘chord distance rule’:

chord distance rule (full version) δ(x⇒y) = i + j + k, where δ(x⇒y) = the distance
between chord x and chord y; i = the number of applications of the regional circle-of-fifths
rule needed to shift the diatonic collection that supports x into the diatonic collection that
supports y; j = the number of applications of the chordal circle-of-fifths rule needed to shift
x into y; and k = the number of distinctive pcs in the basic space of y compared to those in
the basic space of x (2001: 55).

Because regional distances are conceived on a dual circle-of-fifths that pairs major-mode keys

with their relative minor modes, as first proposed by David Kellner (1732), the i component be-

tween relative major and minor keys is always 0, because no shift in diatonic collection occurs.

Example 1.26 supplies a number of inter-regional chord distances. IV, when a tonic stands at a

distance of 7 in relation to an original I — for example, F major as tonic compared to C major as

tonic — because one application of the regional circle-of-fifths rule is added and five distinctive

pitch-classes result in the basic space of F major when compared with that of C major — i.e., a

B-flat is added at level d. Chordal sevenths are accommodated at the triadic space; and so-called

borrowed chords, that do not properly cause a regional change, or change of key, are accounted

49
for by retaining a value of 0 at the level of i — i.e., the regional circle-of-fifths rule — and the chro-

matically altered tones of the basic space are added to k: the number of distinctive pcs in the ba-

sic space of y compared to those in the basic space of x. For example, the augmented sixth chord

has a distance value of 8, when compared to the tonic: δ(I⇒Aug.6) = 0 + 2 + 6 = 8 (Lerdahl 2001:

63). In order to differentiate between Roman numerals that designate chords and those that

specify keys, Lerdahl uses boldface type to represent the latter:

δ(I/I⇒Aug.6/I) = 0 + 2 + 6 = 8
δ(I/I⇒i/ii) = 1 + 2 + 7 = 10

Tonality and the ‘Principle of the Shortest Path’

These distances between chords and regions and their algorithmic calculation are the principal

mechanism for gauging tonal tension, and, more importantly for the Eroica case study, the per-

ception of key, or tonal orientation. But because the calculations themselves have no regulative

mechanism, Lerdahl advances a preference rule to regulate distance:

principle of the shortest path The pitch-space distance between two events is
preferably calculated to the smallest value (2001: 74).

Not only does this element of the rule-system ultimately determine the perception of key, but

it ‘provides the crucial link between pitch space and prolongational structure’ (ibid: 74). ‘Pitch-

50
space distances are input to prolongational structure via the principle of the shortest path. The

idea is that listeners construe their understanding of melodies and chords in the most efficient

way; in other words, they interpret events in as stable and compact a space as possible (Lerdahl

2009: 332). In TPS, Lerdahl explains the interpretation of chordal and regional distances as in-

volving the ‘simplest interpretation [that] requires the least cognitive effort’ (73). The same rule

applies for the perception of key:

I approach the issue [i.e., ‘tonic-finding’] through the principle of the shortest path. In this
view, events are interpreted not only in the closest possible relation to one another but al-
so in the closest proximity to a provisional tonic (2001: 193–194).

[T]onic orientation is established by shortest path measurement (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007:
332; added emphasis).

The more elaborated form of the ‘tonic-finding rule’ is as follows:

tonic-finding rule To establish tonic orientation in any time span or prolongation-

al region at any level,
(1) if single pitches are under consideration, prefer the interpretation that places the
pitches at the highest locations in the current basic-space configuration.
(2) if chords are under consideration, prefer the interpretation that connects the
chords by the shortest chordal/regional paths, both
(a) with respect to one another and
(b) with respect to the putative tonic at that level (without violating charac-
teristic diatonic inflections in minor)
(3) if two events within a region are equally close to a tonic under different interpre-
tations, or if the events do not fit in the same region, prefer the interpretation that forms the shortest
path to the governing tonic at the next larger reductional level
(2001: 198–200; added emphasis).

The last of these (No. 3) reflects what Lerdahl describes as the influence of ‘reductional impor-

tance’ on tonic orientation. This ‘powerful factor’ in determining key perception specifies that

‘[j]ust one of the events [in the musical surface or ‘sound stimulus’] will make the best connec-

51
tion in the prolongational reduction, which is to say that just one of the events will be closer to

the tonic orientation of the next larger level . . . [R]eductional importance hangs on a supposi-

tion about the global tonic of the piece’ (2001: 198). But ultimately, this notion of ‘reductional

importance’ — compare to Barry, Hyer, and Klein’s view of the G minor 6/4 chords — relates

to another and perhaps the most decisive factor in the manner that Lerdahl’s generative theory

programme approaches the phenomenon of key: tonal tension. The ‘harmonic tension model’

is presupposed by and a corollary to the tonic-finding algorithm because, in the end, it alone de-

termines the relative stability of an interpretation in an overall prolongational context, which is

determined by the four components of GTTM.

Tonal tension is dealt with in a three-fold manner that involves three additional rules. The first

concerns the degree of psychoacoustic dissonance or tension associated with a given harmonic

event, which Lerdahl gauges using the ‘surface tension rule’:

surface tension rule Tdiss(y) = scale degree (add 1) + inversion (add 2) + non-har-
monic tone (add 1 for sevenths, 3 for diatonic nonharmonic tones, and 4 for chromatic
nonharmonic tones), where Tdiss(y) = the surface tension associated with chord y; scale
degree = chords with the third or fifth of the chord in the melodic voice;19 inversion =
chords with the third or fifth of the chord in the bass; and nonharmonic tones = any pc in
y’s span that does not belong to y [for example a 4–3 suspension] (2001: 150–151).

The second concerns the tension of a harmonic event when perceived sequentially, that is, on a

moment-by-moment level. This involves simply adding the value derived from the surface ten-

sion rule to the distance of some chord (y) in relation to the immediately preceding harmony.

Thus, the ‘sequential tension rule’:

52
 sequential tension rule Tseq(y) = δ(xprec⇒ y) + Tdiss(y), where y = the target
chord, xprec = the chord that immediately precedes y in the sequence, Tdiss(y) = the ten-
sion associated with y, and δ(xprec⇒y) = the distance from xprec to y.
(Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 335)

The last component concerns the tension a harmonic event will accrue in the overall prolonga-

tional context. This involves taking the value derived from the surface tension rule and adding

all the values for that given event ‘inherited down the prolongational tree’ (Lerdahl and Krum-

hansl 2007: 334), by means of the ‘hierarchical tension rule’:

hierarchical tension rule Tloc(y) = δ(xdom⇒ y) + Tdiss(y); and Tglob(y) =

Tloc(y) + Tinh(xdom) where y = the target chord, xdom = the chord that directly dominates
y in the prolongational tree; Tloc(y) = the local tension associated with y; δ(xdom⇒ y) =
the distance from xdom to y (= i + j + k); Tglob(y) = the global tension associated with y; and
Tinh(xdom) = the sum of distance values inherited by y from chords that dominate xdom
(Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 335).20

By applying all of the preceding rules in their most principled or preferred form, the analysis of

Example 1.22 results, which indeed powerfully models the E-flat major hearing. The previously-

thought ‘problematic’ C-sharp diminished-seventh chord, for example, is no more tense or dis-

tant to the V6/5 chord of bar 10 that dominates it at level x than a diatonic submediant seventh

chord. Nor is it more distant than the more common of S-function harmonies: the IV chord,

which relates to V at a distance of 8. For this reason alone, the C-sharp seventh chord may op-

erate as an S-function chord within an E-flat major context; as Barry states, it ‘could be resolved

onto the first inversion dominant seventh in m. 10.’ In Lerdahl’s terms, the C-sharp diminished

seventh assumes S-function because it ‘left-branches to’ a dominant (2001: 216). Now, in this

53
context, the implications for C-sharp to have behaved as a D-flat are not incorporated into the

analysis, because the rule-system of generative music theory offers a ‘final-state’ representation

of an experienced listener’s intuitions, and is therefore not a real-time processing theory (Ler-

dahl and Jackendoff 1983: 3–4; Lerdahl 2001: 5; 2009: 188). Further reasons for its S-function

involve, first, that it ‘left-branches’ to a dominant within the larger context of what Lerdahl has

called ‘normative prolongational structure’ (2001: 28–29; Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 197ff.):

the five-branch structure abstractly represented in Example 1.27(a), which surfaces in bb. 1–11

of the Eroica (Example 1.22) in slightly more elaborated form. Secondly, by means of ‘transfor-

mation to an underlying event not present at the musical surface’ (2001: 36), the C-sharp dimin-

ished seventh ultimately reduces out to a diatonic submediant. Lerdahl demonstrates such in-

stances of ‘transformation’ with bb. 21–23 from Sebastian Bach’s C major Prelude, WTC Book

I. The chromatic chords in bb. 22–23 of Example 1.28(a) are explained as alterations of the un-

derlying diatonic ii6/5 chord in 1.28(b). By a similar estimation, at a more abstract transforma-

tional level ‘where such details [as chromatic alterations] play no role,’ the C-sharp functions as

a C-natural (Lerdahl 2001: 35–36). Finally, not only does the C-sharp diminished seventh chord

appear as a left-branching S within a ‘normative prolongational structure,’ but it contributes to

two other aspects of branching as well that, together with ‘normative prolongational structure,’

constitute what Lerdahl calls ‘prolongational good form.’ These other ‘preferred’ branching at-

tributes include the ‘balance constraint,’ which obtains in bb. 1–10 and 10–14 of opening theme,

and the ‘recursion constraint’ (2001: 28–29), whereby event 3 ≈ 8; 4 ≈ 9; 5 ≈ 12 and 6 ≈ 13, in terms

54
of prolongational structure and harmonic function (Example 1.22); abstract representations of

both constraints are shown in Examples 1.27(b) and (c).

But the more conclusive element involves the pitch-space distances that serve as input to this

prolongational structure via the principle of the shortest path, which determines tonal orienta-

tion and the perception of key. The quantitative analysis in Example 1.22 that displays distanc-

es between chords at the sequential level (δ), and tonal tension values at the sequential and hi-

erarchical levels (Tseq and Thier in Example 1.22), all conform to the principle of the shortest

path; every value is the lowest value that can possibly be attributed to each event, and in accord-

ance with the prolongational structure, derived from the four components of the GTTM rule-

system. At the hierarchical level (Thier), the C-sharp seventh chord of bb. 7–8 once more reveals

itself as far less significant a factor in the sound stimulus than one would initially have had, for it

possesses the same tension value (13), and, as a corollary, the same influence on the perception

of key and tonic orientation as does the ii6/5 chord in bar 12, its analogue in the recursive struc-

ture. Furthermore, the second peculiar detail in the opening theme, the G minor 6/4 chord at

bar 9, is less dissonant or tense within the overall prolongational context than the passing E-flat

6/4 chord in bar 12, carrying a tension value of 22, versus 25. The analysis therefore reads noth-

ing exceptional in the opening theme; on the contrary, all the tension values are within normal

range, and the prolongational structure is entirely normative. In consequence, the rule-system

and musical grammar of the theory would undoubtedly have predicted the E-flat responses, in

55
producing a structural description that corresponds to the intuitions of the experienced listen-

ers in the E-flat strain of reception. The ‘actors,’ in turn, reciprocally ‘corroborate’ the theory in

Popper’s terms, giving rise to the potential identification of a theoretical fact, and, insofar as the

theory is an exercise in the philosophy of mind, to the identification of something more funda-

mental about music cognition in general — that the knowledge base of the mind operates ac-

cording to, or is commensurate with, these universal, innate rules.

But a problematical paradox emerges with this current analysis of the case study: whereas the G

minor strain implicitly seems to be the result of nomological knowledge, the consequence of a so-

cially-determined rule, the E-flat strain of reception is even more patently seen as the result of a uni-

versal musical grammar, and therefore of an innate rule-system, as a form of what Immanuel Kant

called ‘metaphysical cognition’ (1783/1951). These competing strains of reception, according to

our working hypothesis, project very different models of listeners and models of competence.

But if the musical grammar of generative theory were capable of predicting both the E-flat and

G minor responses, it might dismiss the problem as a red herring. After all, the learned compo-

nent in the rule-system — that is, the stability conditions of the ‘diatonic basic space’ — would

have been internalised by every ‘actor’ in Example 1.2, as a Western listener (Krumhansl 1990).

Lerdahl himself has indicated that, despite there ‘normally [being] considerable agreement on

what are the most natural ways to hear a piece,’ and that generative theory should be ‘concerned

above all with those musical judgements for which there is substantial interpersonal agreement

56
. . . it should also characterize situations in which there are alternative interpretations’ (Lerdahl

and Jackendoff 1983: 3). There is some indication this may be possible — Examples 1.29(a) and

(b) graph the distances between events and the sequential tension of events for bb. 1–14 of the

Eroica, respectively, when incorporating a G minor hearing for bb. 6–9. The solid and dotted

lines represent values for the strictly E-flat major analysis of Example 1.22 and one incorporat-

ing a G minor hearing in bb. 6–9, respectively. Although the data in Example 1.29 is as yet con-

sidered independently of a prolongational analysis, in terms of sheer numbers, as can be seen, the

differences between a G minor and E-flat tonal orientation in bb. 6–9 are virtually inconsequen-

tial at the moment-by-moment or sequential level: the increase in distance is too minimal to tru-

ly contradict the principle of the shortest path.

But the sequential analysis misses something entirely fundamental to a G minor hearing: to the

extent one has ‘settled in G minor’ at bar 9, as Stephen Rumph describes it, this presupposes a

complete reconceptualisation of the E-flat major tonic in bb. 3–6 or thereabouts, from a tonic to

a submediant — which effectively turns the underlying hierarchy on its head. That is, to the ex-

tent that ‘our memories of E-flat’ as tonic are inconsequential in bb. 7–9 or thereabouts, then E-

flat as chord must be retrospectively operative (at least on a first hearing) in favour of a G minor

tonality. In a ‘final-state’ representation that accounts for a G minor modulation, E-flat major

must, at some point, be represented as having been retrospectively reinterpreted as a submediant

in G minor. The prolongational structure may account for this by structurally connecting one

57
of the later E-flat major triads from bb. 3–6 either to the G minor 6/4 chord sounding at bar 9,

or to the C-sharp diminished seventh of bar 7. Two ways of achieving this are shown in the pro-

longational structure of Examples 1.30(a)–(b). Both branching structures actually build on a de-

tail and a potential contradiction in Schenker’s graph of the opening in Example 1.2(a). Schenk-

er slurs the ‘problematic’ C-sharp to the E-flat of bar 6, suggesting that a linear progression (Zug)

transpires in the bass between bb. 6 and 9, and, more importantly, that E-flat and C-sharp stand

in a harmonic relationship —­according to Schenker’s later system, the boundary tones of a linear

progression must always express a harmonic relationship (1935/1979: 74; passim; cf. Rothstein

1991). In consequence, a veiled G minor connotation emerges in Schenker’s analysis whereby,

inasmuch as E-flat does stand in harmonic relation to E-flat, the diminished third of the Zug, E-

flat–C-sharp, constitutes a linear expression of an augmented sixth within the key of G minor.

(When minding, further, that Schenker also describes this ‘upward drive’ and ‘initial breath’ of

the C-sharp–D progression as ‘mysterious’ (1930/1997: 13), the Meisterwerk analysis from 1930

might be situated in all three strains of reception of Examples 1.2 and 1.4.) The two branching

patterns in Examples 1.30(a)–(b) that correspond to Schenker’s Zug also amount to an instance

of ‘linear completion’ in Lerdahl’s terms:

linear completion consists of one-directional stepwise motion at any level in the ba-
sic space, such that the boundary pitches of the line are superordinate in the space.

This linear completion between scale degrees –6 and +4 in G minor underlies the elaboration of

E-flat through C-sharp, on the one hand, in Example 1.30(a), and C-sharp through E-flat, on the

58
other, in Example 1.30(b). (Because on a first hearing E-flat major is retrospectively reinterpret-

ed for the G minor ‘actors,’ the latter interpretation may be preferable.)

The ‘Black Swan’ Effect

This reinterpretation of one of the E-flat major triads from a tonic to a submediant gives rise to a

dramatic shift in the hierarchical tension values for both G minor analyses when compared with

those of the E-flat hearing. The diametric shift that results is most dramatically seen in the their

graphic representation in Example 1.31. G minor interpretation 1 causes a 2600% increase in ten-

sion for event 2; a 311.1% increase for event 3; and a 53.9% increase for event 4; G minor interpre-

tation 2 causes a 2200% increase in tension for event 2; also a 311.1% increase for event 3; and a

130.8% increase for event 4. Now, the question becomes, not whether the generative music the-

ory programme of GTTM/TPS may model the G minor hearing ex post facto, but more fruitful-

ly from a philosophical perspective, whether it would have predicted it, and, once again, as an ex-

ercise in the philosophy of mind. Because of the unadulterated violation of the principle of the

shortest path, which lies at the centre of the ‘tonic-finding’ algorithm in the rule-based-system of

the musical grammar, it stands to reason that, because the G minor analyses discernibly favour

the longest path, the theory could not reasonably, if not possibly, have predicted a G minor hear-

ing for bb. 6–9 of the Eroica’s opening theme. Beyond violating this most important ‘principle of

the shortest path,’ the G minor analyses also have poorer or non-preferred branching structures.

59
Examples 1.30(a) and (b) violate both the ‘balance’ and ‘recursion constraints’ of ‘prolongation-

al good form,’ while the hierarchical tension values for both G minor hearings in Example 1.31

contradict the preferred ‘rise and fall tension pattern at the phrase level’ (Lerdahl 2009: 192). The

G minor analyses, as most strikingly seen in Example 1.31, do not rise and fall in the first of the

two phrases but spike and slope, whereas the E-flat major hierarchical tension values rise and fall

normatively at the phrase level: that is, in events 1–8 and 8–14. In sum, a G minor hearing vio-

lates not only the principal rule or algorithm for finding or cognising a tonic in generative theo-

ry, by taking the longest, as opposed to shortest path, but also the ‘principles of prolongational

good form’ (cf. Lerdahl 2009: 192).

The machinery of GTTM and TPS, flexible as it is, may be nuanced and revised ad infinitum to

more properly model a G minor hearing. But once more, the question is less a matter of model-

ling per se, than of whether the theory, as it stands, would have predicted the response: one may

confidently answer in the negative, as it remains quite impossible to represent a G minor hear-

ing without violating or contradicting the fundamental tenets of the theory. Lerdahl himself has

emphasised that, where data and predictions do not correspond, theoretical or analytical mod-

ifications must be ‘principled,’ not Procrustean. In a recent experimental study conducted with

Carol Krumhansl at Cornell University (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007), for example, the pre-

dictions of the generative programme were empirically tested, specifically with a view towards

‘modelling tonal tension.’ There, Lerdahl and Krumhansl write,

60
 If the data suggest that the predictions are faulty, principled ways are sought within the mod-
el to reach predictions that achieve a better empirical result. These reevaluations are princi-
pled in the sense that they are constrained by the general assumptions and specific formalisms of the
theory. This process can go back and forth a number of times. One must of course be care-
ful not to adjust the theory simply in order to fit the data (2007: 340; added emphasis)

In this same study, Lerdahl and Krumhansl not only argue that ‘prolongational,’ as opposed to

‘sequential,’ analysis is ‘theoretically preferred’ (2007: 341), but the conclusions of their experi-

ment were that listeners perceive tonal tension, and, by extension, key, not in sequential but in hi-

erarchical terms. Therefore their research findings support the initial motivations of the theory

in 1983: the ‘support . . . for prolongational structure suggests a deep parallel between music and

language’ (2007: 356ff., ‘Discussion,’). The E-flat strain of reception would bring additional and

arguably more substantial evidence with ‘real-life’ data to support this research.

But at the same time, the G minor strain of reception serves not to ‘corroborate’ the theory in

Popper’s terms, but to ‘falsify’ it in some capacity. That is, the G minor strain has something of

a ‘Black Swan’ effect about it — as Flyvbjerg argued, some cases operate as ‘Black Swans’ (2006:

224ff.). Popper famously maintained that, given a theory which claimed that ‘all swans are white’

on the basis of having perceived only white swans in the world, the observation of a single black

swan would be enough to falsify the theory (1935/2002). The G minor strain brings real-life da-

ta in that regard, which also perpetuates earlier critiques of generative theory, particularly where

tonality is concerned. In 1988, Gjerdingen insisted that Lerdahl and Jackendoff ’s tree-structur-

al analyses ‘cannot represent tonality . . . unless it happens to coincide with a root-position triad’

61
(1988: 30). More recently, Nicholas Cook, following Uwe Seifert (1991) and Roy Harris (1980;

1981), views ‘the whole idea of a formal grammar . . . [as] a theoretical artifact, an illegitimate ab-

straction from the real-world phenomenon of language’ (Cook 1994: 78). Even more recently

and more importantly still, Emmanuel Bigand and Richard Parncutt (1999) conducted a study

rather similar to Lerdahl and Krumhansl’s experiment at Cornell (2007), and came up with en-

tirely opposing results; namely, that listeners perceive tonal tension and, by extension, key, not

hierarchically, but sequentially: ‘musical events are perceived through the frame of a short win-

dow sliding along a sequence, so that events perceived at a given time are negligibly influenced

by events outside the window’ (Bigand and Parncutt 1999: 237). Ian Quinn (2008) has provided

additional, computationally modelled evidence in support of the sequential determinacy of key

perception — not only did the model work by ‘windows’ corresponding to local harmonic pro-

gressions, but the results of the computational model, trained by the Riemenschneider corpus

of the 371 Bach chorales, ‘suggests that reductionist approaches to tonality may be off the mark.’

Together, the Bigand-Parncutt, Quinn, and Eroica case studies behave as ‘black swans’ in relation

to the hierarchical argument.

But it would be inappropriate to say that the G minor strain, as yet incompletely studied in its

full implications, falsifies the theory in any absolute sense: the theory does powerfully model the

E-flat hearing, which suggests that hierarchical listening is influential on the perception of key in

some capacity. What it would falsify is the larger claim that this hierarchical listening represents

62
a ‘natural propensity of the musical mind’: that prolongational structure and the rule-based sys-

tem of the musical grammar are universal properties of the (musical) mind. Try as one might,

the formalisms of GTTM and TPS would never predict the G minor hearing in the absence of a

Procrustean methodology that contradicts the theory’s fundamental tenets. Nor would it, cer-

tainly, be able to explain why listeners in the G minor strain would prefer such an unstable inter-

pretation as revealed in Example 1.31, and so matter-of-factly at that.

But how and why, then, does the theory so strongly predict and model the E-flat hearing? I be­

lieve the path to an answer may lie in viewing the problem as being not one of natural science,

but of social science. Towards that end, consider that Lerdahl and Krumhansl insist that their study

contradicts the results of the earlier experiment conducted by Bigand and Parncutt, and explain

the discrepancy as being a problem in methodology: ‘It is possible that their [Bigand and Parn-

cutt’s] methodology encouraged moment-to-moment listening’ (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007:

357; my emphasis). But the more important question — outside the laboratory — is not wheth-

er methodology may have encouraged or biased a particular way of listening, but whether culture

may predetermine and influence moment-to-moment or hierarchical listening strategies. In this

connection, it is perhaps not coincidental that all the students in the Bigand-Parncutt experi-

ments were French (musicians with a theory and performance background and non-musicians)

while the Lerdahl-Krumhansl students were all at Cornell (all performers with little training in

music theory), a factor that Lerdahl and Krumhansl left unnoticed in their response. When cul-

63
ture is introduced into the argument, the hypothesis emerges that generative theory may itself

‘mirror the cultural code’ and ‘normative system’ in Iser and Vodička’s terms: that the theory it-

self may be a symptom or symptomatic of ‘a’ modern listening culture.

The Culture of Structural Hearing

Mature research disciplines are becoming increasingly self-reflective and more sensitive to the

possibility that theories are themselves products of culture. The eminent cognitive-psychologist

George Mandler, in putting ‘Cognition in Historical Perspective,’ argues that, ‘Scientific events

are a function of the particular society in which they happen. You can’t divorce science from the

rest of the world’ (in Baars 1986: 264). The same theme pervades his History of Modern Experi-

mental Psychology (Mandler 2007). There, Mandler illustrates that ‘noticeable developments are

symptomatic of the influence of the general culture . . . by showing a few instances where the

same notions and approaches were developed independently but contemporaneously by differ-

ent groups of people. These cooccurrences are good examples of how the pervasive culture in-

fluences new developments’ (Mandler 2007: xix). In relation to Lerdahl’s generative theory pro-

gramme, Schenker and Chomsky immediately come to mind as instances of the independent

articulation of similar ‘themes,’ later to be further adapted and formalised in the GTTM project

(Lerdahl 2009: 187–188). ‘Theories and their waxing and waning speak to the bigger and major

themes of the period’ (Mandler 2007: xix). Nineteenth-century philosophers, for example, be-

gan to speak of the mind in terms of a machine, which was undoubtedly a consequence of the in-

64
dustrial revolution. The major ‘theme’ in the present context is that of structure and, more spe-

cifically, of structural hearing. Much like Nicholas Cook argued, while building on Robert Snar-

renberg’s (1994; 1996) research, the biological metaphors of procreation from Schenker’s earli-

er essays on music (1895/1988) were eventually replaced by ‘terminology closer to architecture

or engineering, in which the central metaphor — a metaphor nowadays so familiar that we hardly

recognise it as a metaphor at all — is that of structure (2007: 277; added emphasis). To be sure, both

structural and biological metaphors have ‘generative’ resonances in the most general sense. But

the ‘generative’ component in Schenker’s later theory and in the GTTM project involves a spe-

cific kind of generation: deriving surface structures from more abstract structures via a series of

transformations, or ‘re-writing’ rules. In view of these social scientific circumstances, the gener-

ative rule-system of the musical grammar would be a reflection not of the ‘natural propensity of

the musical mind,’ but of another cultural code: the Culture of Structural Hearing.

In 1952, Salzer explicitly redefined tonality in structural terms in such a way that, with hindsight,

now cannot be seen but as a background that, beside the even more consequential intellectual de-

velopments in Chomskian generative linguistics (Chomsky 1957; 1959; 1965; 1968; 1980; 1982;

2006), prompted a formal generative music theory with a cognitive orientation. In the fol­­lowing

discussion on ‘Tonality,’ which touches on the twenty-third of J. S. Bach’s chorales, ‘Zeuch ein zu

deinen Toren’ (Example 1.32), we find a reconceptualisation of tonality’s concept that is no less

— if not more — disparate than the differences between Western and Hindostan conceptions

65
of tonality discussed above:

Using the conventional method of harmonic analysis to explain this passage, a difficul-
ty arises in connection with the use of a G-Major chord (meas. 2) in a phrase in A minor.
What is its status, since it evidences no harmonic relationship to the A minor chord?. . .
If we hear structurally, we find that the D major chord is not a modulatory agent to the key
of G Major . . . it does not in any way affect the continued existence of a single key. . . .
From this point of view, the G-Major chord does not indicate a new tonal center. The G
chord has a contrapuntal, not a harmonic, association with the preceding and following
A-minor chords and represents an integral part of one single prolonged A-minor tonic
[Example 1.32]. . . . This example offers an excellent illustration of the different results at-
tained through chord grammar and [conventional] harmonic analysis on the one hand,
and structural hearing on the other. To hear the G-Major chord, even as a temporary depar-
ture from the key of A minor, destroys the underlying significance of this tonal unit express-
ing a single prolonged chord. . . . Based, however, on the fundamental conception of struc-
ture and prolongation in general and chord prolongation in particular there evolves an en-
tirely new and far broader concept of tonality, by which the G-Major chord is explicable as an
organic part of the whole passage. This concept of tonality actually demonstrates what the
structural coherence of music means. . . . To regard the G-Major chord as a modulation,
even if temporary, robs the motion of its unity by splitting it into two different keys (Salz-
er 1952/1982: 17–19; added emphasis).

By the same estimation, ‘if we hear structurally,’ the G minor 6/4 chords in bb. 6 and 9, and the

C-sharp diminished seventh chord of bb. 7–8 of the Eroica, are ‘not modulatory agent[s] to the

key of G’ minor. Both the E-flat major responses in the reception history of the Eroica and the

theory that models them so vividly are consequently ‘real-life’ and more formalised instances of

structural hearing as Salzer defined it. Even Schoenberg’s notion of monotonality (1969), albeit

different in letter (see Dudeque 2005), is similar, if perhaps not identical, in spirit, and therefore

also a part of the broader culture of ‘structural hearing.’ In particular, Lerdahl’s contention ‘that

listeners construe their understanding of melodies and chords in the most efficient way,’ and

therefore ‘interpret events in as stable and compact a space as possible,’ as well as the theoretical

apparatus underlying the argument, are more formalised instances of Salzer’s argument, that, in

66
hindsight, is now seen as standing midway between Schenker’s original, metaphysically oriented

argument, and Lerdahl and Jackendoff ’s later reformulation in cognitive terms:

The concept of the ‘key’ as a higher unity in the foreground is completely foreign to the-
ory: it is capable of designating a single unprolonged chord as a key. To be sure, the great
composers spoke of keys in the incorrect sense in their letters and notes. . . . The coher-
ence of the whole, which is guaranteed by the fundamental structure, reveals the develop-
ment of one single chord into a work of art. Thus, the tonality of this chord alone is pres-
ent, and whatever we may regard as a key at the foreground level can only be an illusory
one (Schenker 1935/1979: 6, 8, 12).

Some readers may balk at extending the notion of reduction to ‘background’ levels — so
that, for an example, an E-flat major triad is ultimately all that is left of the first movement
of the Eroica. . . . If a phrase can be reduced, so can the Eroica. . . . A complete reduction of
the Eroica is . . . an idealization (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 109–111).

To the extent the generative theory programme is a reflection of the ‘cultural code’ of structur-

al hearing, then the critical component of the Eroica as case study, in the current analysis, only

returns the problem to the original hypothesis at the opening of this chapter: that there is a his-

torical resonance to the ‘normative systems’ which underlie the competing strains of reception,

which operates as a culturally-determined epistemological influence on cognition; that above

and beyond the surface differences of the reception history there are competing conceptions

of tonality at work; that cultural differences in the conception of tonality may also operate on a

historical axis. The same discrepancy between sequential and hierarchical modes of listening in

Bigand-Parncutt and Lerdahl-Krumhansl may also be operating beneath the G minor and E-flat

strains of reception, respectively. The idea that key perception operates ‘through the frame of a

short window sliding along a sequence, so that events perceived at a given time are negligibly in-

67
fluenced by events outside the window,’ for example, strongly resonates with eighteenth-centu-

ry strategies of listening. In 1782–93, Koch acknowledged even momentary changes of key as ab-

solute changes in the tonality, no matter how fleeting (cf. Lester 1992: 283).21 Mozart himself dis-

played ‘exceptional sensitiv[ity]’ to both momentary key-changes, and to their relations, as seen

both in the pedagogical writings and letters.22 These things were culturally engrained; as Gjer-

dingen most recently describes it, ‘The lodestar of galant music was not a tonic chord but rather

a listener’s experience,’ and ‘global tonality . . . was foreign to their more localized preoccupations’

(2007: 21; original emphasis). Whatever normative system or cultural code may have been that

influenced such a strategy of listening, the ‘theme,’ in Mandler’s terms, of ‘deep structure’ which

underlies Schenker, Chomsky, and Lerdahl and Jackendoff ’s theories, in admittedly in different

capacities, appears to be entirely foreign to it.

‘Archaeology’ and ‘Spaces of Knowledge’

To the extent the dissonance between the G minor and E-flat strains of reception results from

historically competing normative systems, the case study, in bringing history into the laborato-

ry, brings evidence of an ‘archaeological’ disconnect in Michel Foucault’s sense of the term. In

the The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, Foucault describes the archaeo-

68
logical method as an activity that moves beyond reconstruction of the ‘history of ideas’ and the

reconstruction of a knowledge base, by navigating those moments of disconnect between nor-

mative systems, and therefore brings them into relief by way of negation: ‘archaeology, address-

ing itself to the general space of knowledge, to its configurations, and to the mode of being of the

things that appear in it, defines systems of simultaneity, as well as the series of mutations necessary

and sufficient to circumscribe the threshold of a new positivity’ (1966/1994: xxiii; my emphasis).

The ‘positivity’ refers to what Foucault, in The Archaeology of Knowledge, would later describe as

the ‘historical a priori ’ (Foucault 1969/1972: 126ff.), that is, the ‘a priori of a history that is given’ as

a ‘condition of reality for statements’ (127); or, as Ian Hacking describes it, the ‘historical a priori

points at conditions on the possibilities of knowledge . . . conditions whose dominion is . . . inex-

orable’ (Hacking 2002: 5). In other words, the historical situation is not only a ‘causal influence’

(in Weber’s terms) for the particular shape of knowledge but is the very condition of knowledge —

what constitutes knowledge in the first place.

History constitutes, therefore, for the human sciences, a favourable environment. . . . To

each of the sciences it offers a background, which establishes it and provides it with a fixed
ground and, as it were, a homeland; it determines the cultural area — the chronological
and geographical boundaries — in which that branch of knowledge can be recognized as
having validity (Foucault 1966/1994: 371).

To the ‘archaeological’ way of thinking, Lerdahl and Jackendoff ’s generative music theory pro-

gramme is but one individuation of a form of historically-determined, supradisciplinary, or do-

main-transcendent knowledge — savoir — which Foucault differentiated from domain-specif-

69
ic knowledge — connaissance (e.g., Foucault 1969/1972: 15). That is, to the archaeological way

of thinking, the gradual institutionalisation of Chomsky and the Americanisation and institu-

tionalisation of Schenker (Rothstein 1990; Cook 2007), since the 1950s, are more than coinci-

dental occurrences. Nor may one dismiss European characterisations of Schenkerian theory as

a theory of musical ‘competence in Chomsky’s sense’ as mere coincidence (cf. Deliège 1984: 51).

Célestin Deliège’s Fondements de la musique tonale, whose ‘post-schenkerian’ assessment of tonal

music views Schenkerian theory as such a competence model, was published, significantly, just

one year after GTTM, in 1984. While acknowledging the obvious surface differences between

the concept of ‘deep structure’ and ‘transformation’ in either theory (e.g. Sloboda 1985; Meeùs

1993a), many scholars have interpreted the striking parallels between Schenker and Chomsky’s

thinking as an indication of some more fundamental correlation between music and language.

But the relation may have less to do with analogies or homologies between music and language

involving hierarchy or recursion, than it does with the historical situation of both theoretical de-

velopments. Both Schenker and Chomsky, perhaps not coincidentally, were also critically re-

acting to the dominant paradigms of their time in their respective disciplines; in Schenker’s case

to Riemann (see Schenker 1921–1923/2004; 1921–1924/2005: 27ff.), and in Chomsky’s to Skin-

ner (Chomsky 1959). In view of the academic climate, the historical situation must be viewed as

critical both to the formulation of the GTTM/TPS theory and to the modern strategies of lis-

tening or structural hearing it aims to model. In the end, the Foucauldian savoir is nothing other

than ‘a domain in which the subject is necessarily situated and dependent’ (Foucault 1969/1972:

70
183) — a ‘historical a priori,’ which, as regards the culture of structural hearing, appears to have

influenced both a hierarchical mode of listening, as well as the commensurate theory-building

which models it so effectively. But the theory is incapable of predicting the G minor hearing, on

the other hand, because it not only aims to model but in fact privileges hierarchical modes of lis-

tening, or as Richard Cohn argues in respect to TPS, because of the ‘overriding commitment to

a hierarchic theory’ (Cohn 2007: 107).

The archaeological method, finally, ‘questions the already-said’ — in the case of the Eroica Sym-

phony, the responses in Examples 1.2 and 1.4 — ‘at the level of its existence: of the enunciative

function that operates within it, of the discursive formation, and the general archive system [cf.

normative system] to which it belongs’ (Foucault 1969/1972: 131). To view the generative mu-

sic theory programme as a mirror of the cultural code is to investigate the theory, the respons-

es it models, and, more importantly, the conception of tonality which emerges from them, as

symptoms of their culturo-historical situation: ‘if there are things said . . . one should seek the imme-

diate reason for them in the things that were said not in them, nor in the men that said them, but in the

system of discursivity, in the enunciative possibilities and impossibilities that lays it down’ (Foucault

1969/1972: 129; added emphasis). The normative system, or the system of discursivity, is what

causes Rochlitz to hear a ‘preludising deviation’ and ‘formal’ [förmlich] modulation to G minor,

and Hyer, by contrast, to view the G minor hearing as an impossibility, or ‘unpersuasive’ (Hyer

1996: 81). Motivating the divide between Rochlitz and Hyer specifically, and between the com-

71
peting strains of reception in general, are not the subjective and isolated reactions of individu-

als but competing spaces of knowledge, normative systems, or cultural codes. Both the E-flat

hearing, and the theory that models it, emerge as instances of a ‘new positivity,’ as symptoms of

the ‘mutation’ in the ‘spaces of knowledge’ which underlie the competing strains of reception,

a ‘mutation’ that can be seen to literally transpire in Examples 1.4(a)–(b), with the unprecedent-

ed E-flat strain in the twentieth century. The very meaning of tonality’s concept emerges by ex-

tension as relative in historical terms. But at the present stage in our analysis of the case, every-

thing presupposes that the opening of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony — which, at least since

Wagner’s description of the C-sharp moment as heralding, and containing in it, ‘all of modern

music’ (Wagner 1978, vol. I: 378), has been viewed as representing a philosophy of the new mu-

sic (Adorno 2006) — is, of all things, predicated on a convention, stylistic fact, or style form of

the eighteenth century. Towards that end, an extensive ethnography of the historical situation

surrounding the opening theme is inescapably necessary; and as Lerdahl and Jackendoff them-

selves have argued, ‘In order to invalidate our claims, it is necessary to demonstrate that our prin-

ciples of gram­mar cannot be applied to the idiom to yield analyses that correspond to the intu-

itions of experienced listeners’ (1983: 279). The reception history component of the Eroica case

study already achieves this in some measure with the G minor strain. But ultimately, ‘a genuine

test of [their] claims of universality would appear to require serious historical and ethnomusicologi-

cal research,’ or, one might say, ‘archaeological’ inquiry (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 279; added

emphasis). What follows is a decisive step in that direction.

72
 Part II
____________________________________________

N
The Collective Memory of a Schema
 2
w
‘Förmlich’
and the
Eighteenth-Century Culture of ‘Modulation’
Reconstructing the Interpretational Grid

‘. . . wo man förmlich nach g moll glaubt geleitet zu werden . . .’

and Gottfried Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’

The phraseology of the Leipzig review unmistakably references some unspecified convention

whose identity Rochlitz takes for granted: ‘one expects to be led förmlich to G minor,’ which in

contemporary dictionaries from the turn of the nineteenth century, as in Johannes Ebers’ Hand-

Wörterbuch (Leipzig 1796; Halle 1802), translates as ‘properly,’ ‘formally,’ or ‘explicitly’; the Ger-

man synonym offered, eigentlich, in addition to ‘precisely,’ ‘exactly,’ and ‘distinctly,’ is also ren-

dered ‘properly’; and a variant expression of förmlich, in der eigentlichen Form, translates as ‘in due

or prop­er form’ or ‘according to Rule.’23 By either translation, the qualifying adverb undoubted-

74
ly calls attention to some customary, normative, or familiar way of doing things. The term de-

cidedly brings evidence, by Rochlitz’s own language, that hearing G minor is a consequence of

some prior and furthermore common experience, or collective memory.24 There is an underly-

ing associational connotation to the term that was likely self-evident to contemporary readers;

or as Gottfried Weber would describe it, Rochlitz’s ‘förmlich’ makes reference to ‘certain habits

and reminiscences of the ear’ (Weber 1832/1851, Vol. I: 345 ).

The phrase appears in chapter four of Weber’s Versuch einer geordneten Theorie der Tonsetzkunst

(1817, 1830–32, Vol. II), a chapter entirely dedicated to the subject of ‘Modulation.’ By reason of

inheritance perhaps, Weber retains an older use of the term prevailing in the eighteenth centu-

ry that carried a double meaning. Not only did modulation specify the modern connotation of

moving out from one key and into another, but also the regulating, or expression, of a tonality

in general — how one modulates within a key. Both the noun and verb forms of the term may be

traced as far back as Zarlino, but by 1703 they had adopted meanings particular to ‘modern’ mu-

sic. In the Dictionnaire de musique, Sebastian de Brossard defines la modulation ‘according to the

moderns as not only to make the melody go through the essential and natural intervals of a mode

more often than the others, but also to use these same intervals in the parts which create harmo-

ny more often and preferably to others one must avoid’ (1708/1992, 3rd ed.: 68). Then, almost as

an afterthought, Brossard adds — ‘To modulate is also sometimes to leave the mode, but in or-

der to return properly and naturally’ (ibid). This double meaning would remain in use through-

75
out the better part of the eighteenth century, across all Europe. But by 1817, certainly, among

French-, German-, and English-speaking writers, the term assumed a more or less fixed mean-

ing synonymous with the present-day definition (cf. Blumröder 1995). Beyond aspects of inher-

itance or respect for tradition, the import of Weber’s older usage lies in a correspondingly signif-

icant music-psychological value, one at very least implicit in the historical authors that Weber

honours — namely, that Modulation of either species, that is, within and between keys, equally

concerns the principles and criteria by which das Gehör (the ear), Weber’s term for the faculty of

hearing, or simply the mind, is psychologically grounded in a key :

That arrangement or structure of successive combinations of musical tones by which the

sensation of a particular key, and particularly of one key at one time and of another key at
another time, is excited in the ear, and by which the ear, when once brought into this state
of attunement [in dieser Stimmung], is either retained in it, or is removed from it by passing
from one key to another, we call modulation (1832/1851: 325).

The definition comes in the first of three chapter divisions, immediately followed by a sub-cate-

gorisation in division II, ‘Modulation in the Key,—Modulation out of the Key’ (Leitergleiche, —

ausweichende Modulation):

Modulation naturally falls, according to the foregoing definition, into two principal spe-
cies; namely, according as the ear is kept attuned to one key, or is changed from this state
of attunement from one key to another. That modulation in which a composition contin-
ues in one and the same key, so the ear remains uninterruptedly in the state of attunement
once assumed is denominated modulation in the key, and sometimes also modulation in the
scale, or modulation appropriate to the scale. But that species of modulation in which, after the
ear had become attuned to a particular key, it [the ear] is by some means led to the per-
ception of another key, is termed modulation out of the key, or digressive modulation, and the
composition is said to digress into a new key or to make a digressive modulation into a new key.
Digressive modulation is therefore a changing of the attunement of the ear from one key to
another, or the succession of one key to another, or briefly the entrance of a new key (325).

76
But the two species of modulation shortly collapse into an even broader category with division

III, what Weber calls the ‘Attunement of the Ear to a Key’ (die Stimmung des Gehöres in eine Ton-

art). While the earlier sections are dedicated two paragraphs and eight pages respectively, this

last division continues for eighty-nine pages in James F. Warner’s English translation from 1851,

and that does not include the famous essay on Mozart’s ‘Dissonance’ Quartet, which, in the orig-

inal German, is included in the last section of this Chapter, ‘Examples for a Practical Applica-

tion of the Foregoing Principles’ (§ 225, 375ff.). Throughout this ninety-page discussion, Weber

treats numerous conditions, rules, and situations which involve the phenomenology of the mo-

ment: among them, the ‘Habits of the Ear’ (Gewohnheiten des Gehöres ).25

Though Weber never used the German die Tonalität in this context, its French origins having yet

to transcend the borders of the Hexagon where the neologism la tonalité was coined (Choron

1810) and publicised (Fétis 1844; cf. Beiche 1992), in principle, die Stimmung des Gehöres in eine

Tonart ‘is’ tonality as defined by the French school of theory, and, more importantly, as under-

stood throughout the eighteenth century by this twofold sense of Modulation, as plainly seen

by the root-identity between la tonalité and the German, French, and Italian terms for key: die

Tonart, le ton, and il tono. In the Addition au traité d’accompagnement et de composition par la Règle

de l’Octave (1730), François Campion qualified the terms ‘key,’ ‘mode,’ ‘modulation,’ ‘octave,’ and

‘tonic note’ as synonyms which mean the same thing (‘Ton, mode, modulation, octave ou notte to-

nique, sont sinonimes et signifient la même chose.’ 1730: 53). In 1732–36, Jean-Baptise Cappus like-

77
wise treats the terms synonymously — ‘in order to know what mode or key a piece of music is

in one must look at the last note, always in the bass’ (1732: 20).26 By extension, the meaning of

la tonalité is more properly expressed by the English term ‘keyness,’ which designates the quali-

ty or ever-fluid phenomenon of being in a key (cf. Butler and Brown 1994: 194; Hyer 2002: 728).

Throughout the eighteenth as well as the early part of the nineteenth century, tonality, in this

sense of ‘keyness,’ appears in music-treatises and -criticism of the period under the catchphrase

of modulation, which defined the practice of regulating, or expressing, and coordinating keys,

Tonarten/Thöne, tons, or toni. The French neologism la tonalité merely provided a synonym for

Modulation by the same process of deriving a qualitative noun from a verb — whereas die Mod-

ulation, la modulation, and la modulazione signified the process of expressing, or the organisation

of a mode (die Mode, le mode, il modo), die Tonalität, la tonalité, and la tonalità became qualitative

nouns that signify the expression, organisation, or quality of being in a key. The table in Example

2.1 illustrates this etymological derivation whereby the English term ‘tonality’ is, or should more

properly be, understood in the sense of ‘keyness.’

Weber’s Stimmung des Gehöres in eine Tonart is a contemporary definition of tonality, one that

brings a more precise assessment of the concept by a series of questions that, by Weber’s estima-

tion, had yet to be formulated in this way:

How and by what means, and according to what laws, is the ear determined to perceive this or that
harmony as the tonic harmony? or, in other words: by what cause is the ear, in each particular case,
attuned to this or that key, or changed in its state of attunement from one key to another? or in gen-
eral: as what and as belonging to what key does each particular combination of tones present itself to

78
 the ear? (Weber 1832/1851: 332–333; original italics).

More importantly from a present-day perspective, ‘keyness’ reconstructs a more pragmatic and

historically-consistent meaning of the term that, as Nicholas Cook recently described it at the

‘Tonality in Perspective’ conference convened at King’s College London, has assumed or been

associated with connotations of metaphysical proportion, largely owing to theories by Schenk-

er, Riemann, and others, which led to the development of a music-theoretic ‘scarlet letter,’ in a

manner of speaking: the ‘T-word,’ as Cook puts it (2008: 10–11). But in this more practically-

minded orientation, the historical situation is more as Adorno characterised it little more than

a century since the publication of Weber’s Versuch:

What actually is tonality? [Was ist eigentlich Tonalität?] (Fragment 114)

. . . Tonality is the principle on the basis of which key is possible at all. [Tonalität ist das Prin-
zip, auf Grund dessen Tonart überhaupt möglich ist.] (Fragment 130).
(Adorno 1998: 49, 55)

In light of this historical reconstruction of the meaning of term, Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear ’ are

situated and figure in the context of a lengthy chapter on tonality qua ‘keyness,’ whose style of

reasoning (cf. Treitler below), being oriented, as it is, to the cognition of the moment, strongly

resembles Rochlitz’s review for the Leipzig AmZ, a style that also permeates Weber’s own, now

famous essay on the tonality (Modulation)27 from the opening bars of Mozart’s celebrated ‘Dis-

sonance’ Quartet K. 465, and its virtually obsessive preoccupation with the phenomenology of

the moment . Indeed the very addition of the essay to the later edition of the Versuch from 1832

was meant to further illustrate the categories and concepts elaborated in this chapter on Modu-

79
lation.28 Because of its extravagance, Weber’s almost compulsive dwelling on the moment (par-

ticularly in the Mozart essay), may read as a caricature of listening in the decades that frame the

turn of the nineteenth century. But even so, any hyperbole on Weber’s part only helps bring a

contemporary element of a musical culture into relief. Beside its commonalities with Rochlitz,

it betrays a historical mode of listening that is defined not only by the phenomenology of the

moment, but also by the continual encounter between this temporal moment (the object) and

the synchronic knowledge and experience of the listening subject — a subtlety captured by the

double sens of the noun moment, especially in its German form; as a masculine noun, der Moment

is equivalent to the more common English use of the term to mean a point in time and is synon-

ymous with der Augenblick; as a neuter noun however, das Moment signifies a ‘motive force, de-

cisive factor, essential circumstance’ (Inwood 1992: 311) or ‘influence’ (Wenzel 2005: 13–14), as

seen in philosophical and aesthetic applications of the term by Kant and Hegel. When adapt-

ed to a philosophy of hearing, das Moment metaphorically assumes the connotation in physics

of a ‘force,’ represented by the mind of the perceiving subject, ‘acting at a distance on an object’

(Marsden 1999: 137). Weber may never exploit this double-meaning of the term in letter, but the

Versuch is entirely informed by such a conception in spirit, as seen, for example, in the relation-

ship between der Augenblick, Weber’s term for a moment in time, and the synchronic knowledge

base of das Gehör, which operates as the motive force, decisive factor, or essential circumstance

dialogically acting and reacting upon these harmonic moments to attribute them tonal mean-

ing. From the same chapter on ‘Modulation’ (read: ‘tonality’), in one among several passages on

80
die Mehrdeutigkeit der Modulation, Weber writes:

[A] combination of tones, though actually equivocal [mehrdeutig, i.e. contains more than
one meaning] at the moment of its first appearance [im Augenblick ihres Auftretens], still ac-
quires in many cases from the subsequent portion of the musical phrase and of course af-
terwards, a more definite meaning — very much in the same way that very often, in the lan-
guage of speech, a word equivocal in itself [an sich mehrdeutiges Wort] is subsequently ren-
dered definite in its signification by means of the following connection of the discourse,
whereas at the moment [im Augenblicke] of first hearing the word pronounced once was
doubtful as to the meaning in which it might here be intended . Thus it may be said, e.g.
that in the passage in fig. 219 [reproduced as Example 2.2] . . . the fifth chord [G-sharp d f
b], or [A-flat d f b], though at the moment [im Augenblick] in which one first hears it struck
it is really equivocal, still is explained — as the passage stands in i — by the next following
chord, a [Gothic type], as being E7 [Gothic type], while — as the passage stands in k — it
is shown, by the following harmony, to be G7 [Gothic type]. In the case i, the ear [das Ge-
hör] first learns from the sixth chord [of the example], that the preceding harmonic combi-
nation [Zusammenklang] was to be understood as E7 [Gothic]; — in like manner as in the
case k, on the contrary, the ear [das Gehör] perceives from the sixth chord, that the preced-
ing fifth was to be understood as G7 [Gothic] (1832/1851: 372).29

Elsewhere, Weber speaks of the ear ‘put[ting] upon a harmony [its] usual construction’ of the

ear’s ‘inclin[ation],’ (1832/1851: 347) and, finally, of das Gehörsinn, a variation on das Gehör desig-

nating the faculty of hearing in general, as a ‘final arbiter’ (Weber 1832/1994: 162).30

Between them, Rochlitz and Weber project a historical mode of listening that involves the phe-

nomenology of the temporal moment, der Moment, but as determined by the epistemology of

the causal moment (cf. Wenzel 2005: 13–14), das Moment, and its continual assessment and re-

assessment of the tonality. Rochlitz evidently engages both elements in describing the ‘prelud-

ising deviation’ into G minor at bars 7–9: ‘wo’ circumscribes temporal moments, or Augenblick-

en (bb. 7–9, ‘diminished- seventh over C-sharp,’ ‘6/4 over D’), whose meaning (‘be[ing] led to G

81
minor’), derives from the relevant knowledge, association, or ‘Habit of the Ear’ implied by the

term ‘förmlich,’ whose mental representation acts as the motive force, decisive factor, or essential

circumstance that underlies the perception of G minor in bb. 6–9. In Weber’s terms, the men-

tal representation of förmlich possessed by das Gehör ‘puts upon [the progression of bb. 6–9 its]

usual construction’ or meaning. And it is precisely this usual construction that must be re-con-

structed, in order to bring the ‘rule of experience’ (M. Weber) informing the G minor response-

strain into relief. Both Gottfried and Max Weber position experience as the ‘causal influence’

(das Moment) underlying cognition, and it is this experience that requires reconstruction. To-

wards that end, we already see Rochlitz and G. Weber (implicitly or explicitly) discuss the phe-

nomenon of key not in hierarchical terms, but in terms of habits, conventions, and socially-de-

termined rules, and therefore in associational as well as implicative terms, which Lerdahl and Jack-

endoff explicitly reject in favour of a hierarchical orientation: ‘In developing our theory of mu-

sical cognition, we have found it methodologically fruitful to concentrate on hierarchical struc-

tures at the expense of associational and implicative structures’ (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1984:

251–52). To the extent tonality is a relative concept, the historical situation, even by this prelim-

inary assessment, presents a very different image than the hierarchical orientation of structural

hearing and generative theory. Both Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ and Rochlitz’s ‘förmlich’ suggest

mental representations of tonality and listening strategies for key perception that are not only

sequential and implicative, as opposed to hierarchical, but their associational component sug-

gests tonality is a form of nomological as opposed to metaphysical cognition: that key perception

82
is not the product of a ‘natural propensity of the mind,’ but of some ‘rule of experience’ operat-

ing as a ‘cognitive instrument.’

II

Towards an Interpretational Grid

Now, were identifying the convention or musical object of the ‘language area’ of eighteenth-

century music (Schleiermacher 1838/1998) sufficient to reconstruct the mental representation,

associational content, or the signified of the term ‘förmlich’ in itself, then proceeding here with

discussions of Modulation and historical modes of listening would seem to unnecessarily shelve

the most vital piece of potential evidence in the argumentation. The identification of some rele-

vant past experience (Meyer 1956: 88) would seem evidence enough to construct an argument

about the plausibility of G minor for selected listeners. But as the concern is less about the co-

gency of G minor than about the means to G minor, as a means of constructing a larger argu-

ment about tonality as culturally and historically determined category of mind or cognitive sys-

tem, then to isolate the potential convention or stylistic fact from its proper ecological context

by ignoring, if even momentarily, the cultural conditions in and by which it first became knowl-

edge, would miss precisely what is conventional about this object — what exactly was convened

around it. Reconstructing the predicate represented by förmlich, that is, the ‘serious historical

83
and ethnomusicological research’ to which Lerdahl and Jackendoff refer, is not simply a matter

of locating an object within the ‘language area’ as represented by a musical corpus. Everything

lies in the manner of its definition; and defining the mental representation, knowledge, ‘causal

influence,’ ‘rule of experience,’ or ‘style form’ that admits of Rochlitz, Marx, and others to hear G

minor in these few bars of the Eroica is a matter of ‘historical epistemology,’ which, as Ian Hack-

ing defines it, acknowledges the inexorable situatedness of ideas — that ideas are fundamental-

ly situated in contexts (Hacking 2002: 8); that ‘[w]e arrive at a better understanding of a thing,

whether it be a piece of music or our own relation to that piece, by knowing the history behind

it,’ as Dahlhaus relates it (1984: 3). Or, as Friedrich Schleiermacher, Rochlitz and Weber’s con-

temporary, already put it in the early nineteenth century,

Every utterance can . . . only be understood via the knowledge of the whole of the historical life
to which it belongs, or via the history which is relevant for it. . . . Objectively historical [original
italics] means realizing how the utterance relates to the totality of the language and the knowledge
enclosed within it as a product of language (1838/1998: 45, 23; added emphasis).

The musical object as stylistic fact is inescapably conditioned by contemporary habits of musi-

cal practice, or is situated within and representative of a musical culture. Therefore, ‘[i]n order

to give the perception of this sign’ — the material trace represented in bb. 6–9 of the score —

‘its full value’ in Halbwachs’ terms, ‘one must replace it in the totality of which it forms a part . . .

that is to say, that the memory of a page covered in notes is only one part of a larger mem-
ory, or a totality of memories : at the same time that one views the score in one’s mind, one
also discerns an entire social milieu — musicians, their conventions, and the obligation im-
posed upon us to relate and submit to these (1939/1997 : 26).31

84
To re-place bars 6–9 in the relevant ‘totality of memories’ certainly requires that one define the

underlying convention against a relevant musical corpus, but a corpus, in itself, cannot single-

handedly reveal the ‘knowledge enclosed’ in the ‘utterance,’ because, as already seen in Chapter

1, the same ‘sound stimulus’ (represented by a score) will be interpreted differently.

The ‘culturally aware reading’ that ‘reanimate[s] this implicit dialogue’ between a work (or pas-

sage) and its genre (or norm) in a ‘historically and musically sensitive way . . . should seek to re-

construct the historical norms . . . of the relevant genre’ (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006: 605; pas-

sim). Doing so, Hepokoski and Darcy specify, is a matter of empirical study of musical works,

and ‘original theoretical writings’32 such as Weber’s Versuch ‘are to be taken into account, but as

massively reductive generalizations they ultimately prove to be of secondary importance. A more

robust quality of information is to be gained by the close study of actual musical practice. One

goes directly to the sources to learn what the masters do in real composition’ (2006: 605 added

emphasis). Beyond question, the most substantial evidence will lie in a musical corpus. Howev-

er to properly animate this evidence from a historical perspective, so as to reconstruct (even a

modicum of ) a historical reality, more naïve notions of empiricism (e.g., positivism) will not ad-

equately serve our purpose. To begin with, as Nicholas Cook and Eric Clarke have argued in a

long-awaited contribution to the music-theoretic discipline on Empirical Musicology, any musi-

cological endeavour whatsoever will inevitably be empirical in some way. There consequently

exists ‘no useful distinction . . . between empirical and non-empirical musicology, because there

85
can be no such thing as a truly non-empirical musicology.’ Rather, ‘what is at issue is the extent to

which musicological discourse is grounded on empirical observation,’ as evaluated on the basis

of two reciprocally related criteria: the richness of a data set, and adequate, or equally empirical,

means of its interpretation (Cook and Clarke 2004: 3; added emphasis); also at issue is the de-

gree ‘to which observation is regulated by discourse’ in a Foucauldian sense:

The idea of regulation is essential in this context. . . . Foucault [1966] has illustrated this
point through reference to the comparative illustrations of human and bird skeletons in
1555 by Pierre Belon: as Foucault says, these illustrations look like the products of nine-
teenth-century comparative anatomy, but the resemblance is little more than chance, be-
cause the interpretational grids of sixteenth-century and of nineteenth-century thought are
so different. In other words, what we generally think of as empirically-based knowledge
— as science — depends not only on observation but also on the incorporation of obser-
vation within patterns of investigation involving generalization and explanation. (That is
what turns data into facts) (Cook and Clarke 2004: 3–4; added emphasis).

And so, among its objectives, empirical musicology also has the task of reconstructing the ‘in-

terpretational grid’ or ‘interpretational frame’ (Spitzer 2004: 8) as an integral part of the ‘collec-

tive memory,’ by way of documents, or data. Because one must anticipate the meaning of any

evidence under consideration will be shaped differently by various ‘subjects,’ not in ‘the general

sense of listeners and music theories’ ‘ideal listeners,’ but as Jairo Moreno has defined the term,

‘in a broader sense as historically unfolding cognitive configurations that condition what and how listen-

ers listen, what and how hearers hear, what and how perceivers perceive, and how the subjects of

an aural experience negotiate that experience’ (Moreno 2004: 8; added emphasis). Because the

interpretation of an entire corpus may be subject to similarly profuse attributions of meaning

86
by the ‘interpretational grids’ or ‘subjects’ of different musical cultures, music theories, etc., in

Moreno’s, Foucault-inspired sense of the term, the looming and presiding question centres on

defining the nature and determinacy of historical relevance — on outlining what makes an em-

pirical study truly historical, that is, other than its preoccupation with works being from the past,

and, thereby, to determine the place of history in cognition and the philosophy of mind.

Leo Treitler was among the first English-speaking musicologists to define history in expressly

epistemological terms: history not as the ‘pastness’ of music but, approaching a Foucauldian con-

ception, as a ‘principle of knowledge’ — history as the ‘interpretational grid’:

It isn’t the pastness of our objects that distinguishes them as ‘historical,’ or us as ‘histori-
ans’ . . . but music in the past, music in contexts, as a principle of knowledge. . . . The dif-
ference turns on the question of what it is to understand the music of the past, particular-
ly on the matter of context again. There is a causal, positivist sense in which music is under-
stood as a precipitate of its context. And there is a hermeneutic sense [added emphasis], in
which it is viewed as a meaningful item within a wider context of practices, conventions,
assumptions, transmissions, receptions — in short a musical culture, which serves to en-
dow its constituent aspects with meaning while attaining its own meaning from the com-
bination of its constituent aspects. . . . the meaning of its structure, interpreted as a concep-
tion against the background of norms and models, stylistic and semiotic codes, expectations and re-
actions, aesthetic ideals, circumstances of transmission and reception [added italics]. Not just the
score is evidence for such analysis, but the scores of other music, manuscript traditions, ev-
idence about performance practice, the writings of theorists and pedagogues, read in un-
derstanding of the nature of their tasks, their readerships, and the style of their reasoning,
critical writing, chronicles, and more (Treitler 1982: 154–155).

By insisting on ‘the nature of their tasks, their readerships, and the style of their reasoning,’ while

also casting a wider net in defining who ‘they’ are — embracing scores, theory, pedagogy, criti-

cism, transmission, etc. — Treitler goes beyond softer notions of empiricism, in extending the

limits and thereby the import of historical relevance. Robert Hatten has adopted the same posi-

87
tion, maintaining that ‘an artistic style has a historical dimension, which must be reconstructed

from evidence of historical practice.’ To do this, ‘[o]ne draws from treatises, performance manu-

als, contemporaneous reports, as well as analyses and comparisons of works “belonging” to that

style — not merely from dedicated acts of listening’ (1996: 29–30). By Treitler and Hatten’s cri-

teria, the meaning implicit in Rochlitz’s förmlich should equally form part of this reconstruction,

not only as evidence that Rochlitz potentially had a stylistic fact in mind, but also as a repre-

sentation of the underlying ‘principle of knowledge’ that determines a historically conditioned

perception of that object; that is, förmlich as a representation of ‘the style of their reasoning’ — as

a representative instance of the underlying interpretational grid. These, more elaborated forms

of reconstruction are what allow history to offer ‘rules of experience’ as cognitive instruments,

and empiricism to become properly emic.

For the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss, the answer is ethnography — ‘empirical categories

. . . can only be accurately defined by ethnographic observation and, in each instance, by adopt-

ing the standpoint of a particular culture’ (1964/1969: 1). In beginning his own archaeological

‘excavation,’ Gjerdingen adopts a similarly ethnographic standpoint, citing the anthropological

methodologies Henry Glassie applied to folklore as appropriate for eighteenth-century music:

Serious study of a community’s history does not begin with a raid to snatch scraps to add
color or flesh or nobility to the history of another community. It begins when an observ-
er adopts the local prospect, then brings the local landmarks into visibility, giving the crea-
tions of people — the artifacts in which their past is entombed, the texts in which their past
lives — complete presence (Glassie 1982: 621; cited in Gjerdingen 2007: 18).

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But as soon as documents become the means of ‘adopt[ing] the local prospect,’ and of recon-

structing the ‘style of their reasoning,’ the historian, operating as a sociologist and anthropologist,

encounters a methodological problem. In the case of the Leipzig review, it is a matter of gener-

alising an argument from a single document. By itself, the review is but a single ‘tile’ in an as yet

unknown or ill-defined cultural ‘mosaic,’33 and its reconstructive value will therefore ineluctably

be met with some degree of scepticism, as should any document that is offered as a testament

to, as Dahlhaus phrases it, ‘the way it really was’: ‘Doubtless the local colour which exudes from

the documents is seductive. But a document, strictly speaking, does not reveal “the way it really

was,” but rather only what its author thought of an event’ (1984: 34). But Dahlhaus intends this

rhetorically as a matter of course, as one among many dialectical strategies employed through-

out the Grundlagen der Musikgeschichte. In addressing the question as to what constitutes a ‘fact

of music history’ (1984: 33–43), Dahlhaus concedes that data which is culled from documents

may be doubly biased — by the particular interpretation of the document’s author and, in turn,

by the interpretation of the musicologist’s use of that document. But the latter is nevertheless

conditioned by some ‘reality conveyed’ by these documents collectively, or by the richness of,

and agreement among, the surrounding or complementing data. No document could single-

handedly represent ‘the way it really was,’ not least because ‘the way it really was’ lies precisely ‘in

the things said not in them’ in Foucault’s terms; that is, in those aspects that a culture takes for

granted, assumes to be self-evident, unworthy of mention. Hence, Rochlitz presumes the refer-

ent of förmlich to be self-evident.

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But as Dahlhaus continues:

‘the fact that the structure of history depends upon the language in which the historian dis-
closes it should not be taken in the sceptical sense to mean that the discoveries of historians
are nothing more than inventions: history is an empirical science, and as such rests entirely
on facts, however much these facts depend for their existence on the categories of human
perception. Even structures and sequences are predetermined in the reality conveyed to
the historian by his sources (Dahlhaus 1984: 42; original emphasis).

In Cook and Clarke’s terms, such ‘[a]pparently trivial information’ as an adverbial description,

for example, ‘may turn out to be musicologically valuable — but only if appropriately interpret-

ed. The contribution that an empirical approach can make is not to be endorsed (or dismissed)

simply because of its empiricism, but rather for what it can help to discover or reveal’ (2004: 13).

Towards that end, the value of förmlich — as datum — ‘lies in the larger research context within

which [it] occur[s]’ (ibid: 13) and which it simultaneously helps to define. As Dahlhaus states, ‘It

is one of the tenets of the historical sciences that documents — the data at an historian’s disposal

— must be distinguished from the facts which he reconstructs from these data: not the source

itself, but the process it refers to, represents an historical fact’ (1984: 34; added emphasis). In the case of

Weber’s Versuch, the related problem is what Thomas Christensen described as a

dilemma inherent in any history of music theory. The dilemma arises in trying to under-
stand the proper context for interpretation: Are we to read any given theory as a theo-
retical text or as a historical document? Neither choice alone seems particularly satisfying
(Christensen 1993a: 9).

The same question may be asked of the Leipzig review: that is, whether there is some theoretical

significance to Rochlitz’s description by way of nomological knowledge, in addition to its docu-

mentary function. The solution, insofar as ‘archaeology’ is concerned, relies on the degree to

90
which these documents betray similar patterns of behaviour, which would allow one to regard

them as cultural artefacts with theoretical significance.

Necessary to the documentary lot is the gathering of complementary artefacts — documents

in the reception history of tonality that, by means of their complementarity, begin to, if not yet

fill in the cultural mosaic, lay down a pattern for its generalisation, a principle upon which the

mosaic may be constructed, or a predictive blueprint whose full details are yet to be accumu-

lated. Together, the review from the Leipzig AmZ and Weber’s Versuch become data towards

the ‘uncovering’ of a fact. Their reciprocally complementing attributes ‘disclose’ elements of an

underlying ‘normative system’ and ‘cultural code’ in Vodička and Iser’s terms — that is, as ‘real

readers’ not of the Eroica Symphony but of tonality, or Modulation. Had Weber encountered

Rochlitz in Leipzig, they may have dwelled in conversation on matters more involved than the

likeness of each other’s business. For one thing, Weber, as Beethoven,34 likely read the review,

since the Leipzig AmZ was, as the Répertoire international de la presse musicale (RIPM) describes

it, ‘the principal German language resource for information on musical life and criticism during

the first half of the nineteenth century,’ and Weber eventually entered the same profession by

founding his own journal, Cäcilia, in 1824, which contemporaries regarded as second only to the

Leipzig AmZ. Indeed, Weber consistently cites the journal (1832/1851 vol. I: 29, 57 ), and had

published in the Leipzig AmZ (Weber 1832/1851, vol. I: 3).

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But one may imagine a lengthy conversation on the G minor implications of the 6/4 chord in

bar 9 of the Eroica. Among the five categories that Weber advances as ‘Habits of the Ear’ is the

‘Position of an Occurring Harmony’ (Lage einer auftretenden Harmonie). Weber maintains that

certain frequently occurring inversions of chords, or ‘Well-Known Positions’ (Besonders bekan-

nte Lagen), are of themselves already ‘stamped’ with tonal meaning, irrespective of any immedi-

ately preceding context, because of their key-functional probability. The situation is even more

categorical than Bigand and Parncutt’s description of the negligible influence of information

lying outside the sequential ‘window.’

Certain harmonies are accustomed to occur very frequently in certain particular forms
[Gestalten] and positions [Lage], but in others very rarely. Hence it is natural that the ear
should recognize a harmony which appears under a well known form and in a well known
position, as actually being the harmony that it thus seems to be. . . . [C]ertain harmonies oc-
cur with special frequency under certain forms and . . . our ear is, for this reason, inclined to
put upon a harmony [note the active function of das Gehör] the usual construction as soon
as it makes its appearance (Weber 1832/1851, vol. I: 347).

The first and most extensive example Weber treats is the major or minor triad in 6/4 position,

which functions almost as a self-contained ‘window’:

A remarkable example of this species is found in the fourth-sixth position [Quartsextenlage]

(the second inversion) [zweite Verwechslung] of a major or minor three-fold chord [triad].
That is to say, the tonic harmony (I or i) very frequently occurs in the second inversion
(in the fourth-sixth position) [in zweiter Verwechslung (in Quartsextenlage)], particularly on the
heavy portions of the measure [original italics], and that too in such and similar ways as those
in the following example (ibid: 347).

Weber’s Figure 198, reproduced in Example 2.3(a), displays four instances of a ‘cadential 6/4’ —

in present-day terminology — resolving to V, for a half cadence, and to V7, for a perfect authen-

tic cadence, in both the major and minor modes:

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 Our ear is so accustomed [gewohnt] by this means to hear a tonic harmony occur in such
a way, that it has become thereby inclined to take every [original emphasis] major or mi-
nor fourth-sixth chord that occurs in this way, as a tonic harmony, I or i. Hence it comes to
pass, . . . that if a small three-fold chord a [Gothic type], e.g. occurs in the above described
form [Gestalt], in a piece of music which was previously in C-major, as in fig. 199 [Example
2.3(b)], the ear is inclined to regard this harmony as a new i, notwithstanding it is, in itself
considered, to be found also in the previous key C-major; and hence, on the appearance of
the harmony a [Gothic type] in this harmonic succession, the ear is immediately led to per-
ceive or at least to anticipate, a digressive modulation into a-minor (347–48).

The concept is elaborated by supplementing additional examples that demonstrate changes of

key or digressive modulations (Ausweichungen) from G major to A minor, E minor to C major, G

major to C major, and G major to B minor (Example 2.3(c)), where chords that abstractly ‘be-

long’ to the former immediately act as cadential dominants in the latter key by virtue of their 6/4

inversion (as well as metric position). Figure 200, l. in Example 2.3(c), which involves a digressive

modulation that rises by major third, corresponds exactly to the key relation at the opening of the

Eroica, whose cadential 6/4 falls not only on a metric downbeat at the metric level — Weber’s

‘heavy portions of the measure’ — but more broadly on a hypermetric downbeat in 6/4 time, as

established by the ‘opening blows’ (Example 1.1).

Whatever Rochlitz meant fully by the term förmlich, he clearly had something of this in mind

ten years sooner35 when describing an absence of resolution between bb. 9 and 10 of the Eroica

Symphony (‘in place of the resolution of the 6/4’), and an ‘unexpected’ return to E-flat. Were

the Symphony to continue as expected — or ‘formally’ — the 6/4 would naturally resolve to a G

minor dominant. But the more relevant point for the time being — upon encountering the 6/4

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of bar 9, Rochlitz’s ‘ear,’ in Weber’s terms, ‘is immediately led to perceive or at least to anticipate a

digressive modulation into [g] minor.’ From the other way round then, that is, beside its commo-

nalities with Weber, the Leipzig review and the meaning of förmlich must be symptomatic of the

same cultural constraints, or ‘rules of experience,’ underlying Weber’s chapter on ‘Modulation;’

conversely, Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ would refer not to the habits of a single individual, but

to those of a musical culture; those of the ‘normative system’ or ‘interpretational grid.’ Together,

the Leipzig review and Weber’s Versuch are two ‘tiles’ indicating that das Gehör and its Gewohn-

heiten are social categories in some as yet undefined cultural mosaic.

The Culture of the Rule of the Octave

Before publishing the ‘music-review’ (Rezension) of the Eroica attributed to Rochlitz, the Leip-

zig AmZ published a shorter, and likewise anonymous, ‘concert review’ (Konzertberichte) of the

Symphony in the preceding month’s edition, for a performance that took place in Mannheim

on 3 January 1807. Here, the author similarly lights upon a temporal moment: the G minor af-

fair not at the opening of the Symphony, but of its Finale.

[N]o composer before Beethoven has dared to begin a piece in E-flat major in such a way
that the instruments begin al unisono on the leading tone,36 and then continue with pro-
gressions that belong entirely to the scale of G minor [in Gängen, welche ganz der Tonleit-
er von G moll angehören], until finally the fourth and the following measures are merciful
enough to extricate our ear [unser Ohr] from this predicament and remove us to the prop-
er (eigentlich) key (in Kunze 1987: 51; translated in Senner 2001: 19, added emphasis).37

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The similarity between das Gehör and the German verb for ‘belong,’ angehören, is more than a

happy coincidence in this context. That key perception, tonal cognition, or die Stimmung des

Gehöres in eine Tonart, involves a psychological response to harmonic progressions that properly

belong (angehören) to a scale (Tonleiter), mode, or key, is the principal idea underlying the eight-

eenth-century concept of Modulation. The language of the concert-review might as easily re-

late the opening of the entire Symphony, as interpreted by Rochlitz, who displays the same ‘style

of reasoning’ in Treitler’s terms, by also touching on a ‘progression’ (Harmonieenfolge) presu­m­

a­­bly ‘belong[ing] to G minor.’ The resonances between the two reviews become all the more

pronounced when cross-interpolating their phraseology.

[N]o composer before Beethoven has dared to begin a piece in E-flat major in such a way
that the instruments begin [with the tonic triad of E-flat major], and then continue with [a]
progression[] that belong[s] entirely to the scale of G minor [— in m. 7 where the dimin-
ished-seventh appears over C-sharp in the bass, and in m. 9, where the 6/4 chord appears
over D —], until finally [— in place of the resolution of the 6/4 chord — ] the [tenth] and
the following measures are merciful enough to extricate our ear from this predicament
and remove us to the proper key [by means of the 6/5 chord].

By cross-interpolating language from both reviews particularly, the underlying similarities be-

tween the two G minor responses become all the more revealing : ‘wo man förmlich nach g moll

glaubt geleitet zu werden’ patently resonates with ‘Gängen welche ganz der Tonleiter von G moll an-

gehören.’38 But the broader and more significant implication that arises between them: the same

‘interpretational grid’ or normative system seems to be operating for both G minor responses,

that is, the immediate, one-to-one identification of a given harmonic progression with a key. In

consequence, Weber’s commentary on the ‘Well-Known Positions,’ and the 6/4 chord in par-

95
ticular, may be generalised as a psychologically motivated ‘rule of experience’ which is pervasive

to the entire musical culture.

Not only may a well-known chord-form be stamped with its tonal meaning, irrespective of the

surrounding context — as a sort of imprint of a key — but chord progressions, as ‘windows’ in

Bigand, Parncutt, and Quinn’s terms, would ostensibly have the same property. Indeed, Weber

makes precisely this argument. Third among Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ is ‘Customary Modula-

tion’ (gewohnte Modulation):

Regarded in the same point of view [that is, ‘as the position of an occurring harmony’], it is
natural also that the ear should become accustomed [gewöhnt] to many modes of modula-
tion in the most common use [häufig gebräuchlichen Arten von Modulation] and should be-
come thereby much inclined to understand a harmonic succession [Harmonieenfolge] in the
customary sense [in dem gewohnten Sinne] (1832/1851: 355).39

It follows that well-known modulations would conform to the same culturally motivated psy-

chological principles that hold by the ‘Well-Known Positions.’ And these ‘rules of experience’

or ‘Habits of the Ear’ would be taken by the ethnographer not in a restricted sense, that is, not

as mere special cases of listening. They rather would be interpreted as symptomatic and repre-

sentative of the larger underlying ‘interpretational grid,’ which emerges from the now triangular

resonance among the Leipzig review, Weber’s Versuch, and the Konzertberichte and the common

‘style of their reasoning.’ Before engaging any details about Modulation, Weber describes die

Stimmung des Gehöres in eine Tonart in terms that directly mirror the concert-review’s descrip-

tion of the G minor deviation, that is, as the consequence of ‘progressions that belong entirely

96
to the scale of ’ some key X — ‘the perception of a particular key arises from the introduction of

harmonies which are peculiar to that key’ (1832/1851: vol. I: 333). In view of the metalanguage

of Weber’s Roman-numeral system, one might simply understand this as the triads and seventh

chords that may be built on each degree of the scale.40 But in light of the larger discussion of

Modulation and the ‘Habits of the Ear,’ the argument is somewhat subtler while at the same

time more specific. The notion of ‘harmonies which are peculiar to [a] key,’ as already intimat-

ed by Weber’s discussion of the ‘well-known positions’ and ‘customary modulation,’ involves a

more refined definition of chord which specifies its particular form, or Gestalt. The 6/4 chord-

form, or Quartsextenlage, for example, has the immediate implication of a cadential 6/4 because

it is frequently formed on scale degree five. The notion of gewohnte Modulation, then, is a specific

iteration of a far more general eighteenth-century principle of Modulation, a principle by which

Fétis, in 1844, explicitly defined la tonalité: ‘Each tone of a scale, having a particular function and

carrying out a special function [fonction] in music, is accompanied by a harmony analogous to

this character and to this function [fonction]. The collection of harmonies proper to each degree

of the scale determines the tonality (1844/1879: 3).41

Most anyone familiar with eighteenth-century thoroughbass pedagogy will recognise the like-

ness of these arguments to the French règle de l’octave, or as the Italians called it, la regola dell’ottava

— ‘progressions that belong entirely to the scale of’ some key X, and the ‘collection of harmonies

proper to each degree of the scale,’ summarise the main outlines of the philosophy underlying

97
eighteenth-century harmony that gave rise to the pedagogical device and abstraction. The ‘prin-

ciple of knowledge’ or ‘interpretational grid’ representative of the style of the culture’s reasoning

may be appropriated to this single concept widespread in eighteenth-century European musical

circuits. But the argument may be misunderstood were the following not made explicit: inso-

much as an empirical approach to tonality is concerned, as outlined by Clarke and Cook, our

interest lies less in the Rule of the Octave in any commonplace sense of the term — that is to say,

in its theoretical or pedagogical dimensions per se — than in the culture of the Rule of the Octave.

The difference turns on reconstructing the cultural habits of the eighteenth-century musical

mind with regard to harmony and harmonic progression as a general principle of Modulation,

on the one hand, versus evaluating and contextualising a detail within a self-contained historical

narrative that is the history of music theory. The question that empirical musicology brings to

the règle de l’octave concerns of what significance is its widespread publication and dissemination

for the ethnographer, who seeks to ‘adopt the local prospect’ about tonality. What is the ethno-

graphic relevance of its statistical frequency, of its presence ‘in virtually every eighteenth-century

thorough-bass and composition treatise’ (Christensen 1992: 91)? In other words, as Gjerdingen

framed the question, in respect to the related eighteenth-century artefact of the partimento: règle

de l’octave, que me veux-tu? (Gjerdingen 2007a).

‘The figure is our unique language,’ writes François Campion, in the Addition au traité d’accompa-

gnement from 1730 (1730/1976: 5). Throughout the eighteenth-century, thoroughbass and com-

98
position manuals ‘regulate’ harmonic practice by means of a single ‘discourse,’ in Foucauldian

terms. Harmony was conceived as a diversity of chord-forms that belong to particular scale de-

grees in the bass: a chord-form is, in the first place, a combination of intervals above a bass that

was represented by figured-bass or thoroughbass notation; secondly, a chord-form represents

the particular identity of a chord, determined by the quality of its intervals (perfect, major, mi-

nor, diminished, or augmented), what Campion referred to as the ‘species of each figure in the

octaves’ (‘l’espece de chaque chiffre dans les octaves’ 1716: 19). These chord-forms stand in a recip-

rocal association with the scale degrees of the major and minor modes, as determined by the

particular arrangement of the scale degrees in the bass and the particular intervallic progression

of a bass. By means of these culturally codified associations, one expresses a tonality, or modu-

lates. By way of example, the oft-cited paradigmatic model of the règle by Campion, from the

Traité d’accompagnement et de composition of 1716 (Example 2.4), locates the chord-form known

as l’accord de la grande sixte, or the 6/5/3 chord (with a major sixth and third and perfect fifth, or

ii6/5) on scale degree four, or fa, when ascending to the dominant scale degree, carrying a 5/3

chord. While descending, the same scale degree takes l’accord du triton, or a 6/4/2 chord (with a

minor sixth, tritone, and major second, i.e., a V4/2) directed at scale degree 3, which takes a 6/3

chord, and so forth. In both cases, the chord-forms immediately express the same key by proc-

ess of representation, because they belong exclusively to scale degree four. That is, l’accord de la

grande sixte and l’accord du triton are in themselves ‘stamped’ with tonal meaning because they are

customarily built on scale degree four, and are therefore a harmonic expression or representation

99
of the two different, ascending and descending, functions of that scale degree.

In the entry on ‘accompagnement’ from the Dictionnaire de musique, Rousseau, writes, ‘Th[e] bass

is touched with the left-hand, and, with the right, the harmony indicated by the progression of

the bass’ (1768 : 6).42 The principle underlying the Rule of the Octave is precisely this notion of

indication or expression — that is, what chord-forms are indicated by the specific progression of

a bass, and, reciprocally, what scale degrees in the bass are indicated by any given chord-form

progression. Harmonic function had nothing to do with ‘hierarchical position,’ but everything

to do with the reciprocal association between chord-forms and scale degree permutations in the

bass (Chap. 3). This ‘rule’ has a long history dating back to the so-called ‘rule of mi ’ at the turn of

the eighteenth century, which specified that the first of two chords over a semitone progression

in the bass must take a 6/3 chord, or, more generally, a ‘chord of the sixth,’ and the second a 5/3,

or ‘perfect’ chord. In one of the earliest eighteenth-century compendiums of thoroughbass, for

example, Johann David Heinichen (1728) first elaborates six rules for harmonising unfigured

basses outside the context of a key, by specifying eight ‘general rules’ for chord-form harmonisa-

tions that are specifically based on the characteristics of a bass. ‘When the bass of a triad [ordi-

naire Accord] descends a semitone, ascends a third (or descends a sixth), the next bass note has

a sixth’ (No. 1); or, ‘When the bass of a major triad [ordinaire Accord dur] ascends a semitone,

descends a major third (or ascends a minor sixth), the next bass note has a sixth. If the major

triad descends a whole tone, the next bass has the 6/4+/2 chord’ (No. 2); and so forth (1728:

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734–37; translation in Buelow 1986: 225–27). These ‘general rules’ are then followed by six ‘spe-

cial rules’ (special-Regeln) that situate the same ‘style of reasoning’ in the context of a key. Here,

we encounter the so-called ‘rule of mi ’: ‘The third degree of major and minor scales uses a sixth

chord’ (No. 4) (1728: 742; Buelow 1986: 228). These ‘rules’ are then abstracted and summarised

in Heinichen’s illustration of the Rule of the Octave, which he calls the Schema Modi (‘Schema

of the Mode’; 1728: 744–50; discussed below).

The Rule of the Octave is a concatenation, summary, and contextualisation of these rules of the

octave; and, when minding the synonymy among the terms ‘key,’ ‘mode,’ ‘modulation,’ ‘octave,’

and ‘tonic note,’ as Campion and others stated, it is a synopsis of the ‘rules of Modulation,’ and,

by extension, the ‘rules of tonality.’ ‘The Rule of the Octave,’ as Gjerdingen reassesses the situa-

tion most recently, ‘was really a collection of rules woven together into a code of conduct . . . not

a fixed set of chords, but rather a summary of central tendencies in the fluid and highly contin-

gent practices of eighteenth-century musicians’ (2007: 467, 469; added emphasis; cf. also Gjer-

dingen 2005). The Italian-influenced (Christensen 1992: 113) French thoroughbass manual by

Jean-François Dandrieu, Principes de l’accompagnement du clavecin of 1719, realises Gjerdingen’s

interpretation literally in its structural layout. Towards the end of the volume, Dandrieu pro-

vides two tables of octaves (Example 2.5), one each for the major and minor modes. The figures

for each scale degree correspond precisely to Campion’s model (cf. Examples 2.4 and 2.5), but

Dandrieu also concludes each octave by appending a cadence — the so-called cadenza composta

101
(Gjerdingen 2007: 141). But unlike Campion, Dandrieu gives these octaves as mere summaries

of the preceding 21 Tables. Each of these twenty-one exercises concentrates on a single chord-

form (accord) in a specific bass-line context, with the knowledge or chord-form from each pre-

ceding table assimilated in those following. Each chord is learned by association with a distinct

harmonic progression, not in a fixed series as in la règle de l’octave; one memorises the ‘chord of

the sixth’ (l’accord de la sixte simple), for example, as the proper chord-form for harmonising, or

expressing scale degree 3, in the context of an arpeggiated bass progression from scale degrees 1

to 5 (Example 2.6). These twenty-one exercises are divided into three categories of chord-form

types: 1) ‘the most ordinary, whose use is regulated by the modulation, that is to say, they have a

fixed place on certain degrees to which they are allocated’; 2) ‘the mostly dissonant’; and 3) ‘the

extraordinary chords’ (1719: 3).43 Of these, only eight chord-forms from the preceding exercises

are included in the Octave Tables at the end of the manual — seven from the ‘most ordinary’

category, as well as the 5/4 chord (the predecessor of the more commonly used cadential 6/4

chord in the Galant Style).44 Dandrieu’s Tables are therefore deliberately abstracted abbrevia-

tions of the major- and minor-mode tonalities, particularly in view of the above reconstruction,

of the term Modulation. Their headings read: ‘Table of Major-Mode Modulation ascending

and descending by the seven scale degrees,’ and ‘Table of Minor-Mode Modulation ascending

and descending by the seven scale degrees’ (see Example 2.5). The Italian composer Francesco

Gasparini applied a similar strategy in the earlier Armonico Pratico al Cimbalo of 1708. Chapters

4 and 5 instruct the harmonisation of unfigured bass progressions by step and by leap, by way of

102
‘if —then’ type propositions, in the manner of Heinichen’s general rules (1708/1963: 26–40). In

Chapter 8, following discussions of dissonance treatment and forming cadences in Chapters 6

and 7, Gasparini abstracts the ‘rules’ discussed in these earlier chapters into a series of ‘incom-

plete’ rule-of-the-octave progressions in twenty-one keys (see Example 2.7), whose purpose is

to facilitate the ‘technique of modulating through all the keys’ — once more the term modulate

appears in the general sense of expressing a key (1708/1963: 73).

The general principle, or ‘rule’ that emerges from all these artefacts, no matter of what national

origin or school of pedagogy, be it Italian, French, German, Austrian, or British (see below), is

that certain chord-forms belong to each degree of the major and minor scales, or that only a certain variety

of chord-forms may be realised on each degree, depending on their particular permutation or intervallic

arrangement in the bass. Because of this reciprocal relationship between chord-form progressions

and bass scale-degree patterns, a chord-form progression also reciprocally defines which scale

degrees lie in the bass, and, by extension, situate or attune the ear to a key. The Rule of the Oc-

tave was but one artefact among many, one pedagogical device among several others within

a larger Culture of the Rule of the Octave that disseminated this principle of Modulation, or,

tonality, in various forms and throughout all Europe. The rule, in the Rule of the Octave, is not

the particular chord-form harmonisation of the scale in Example 2.4, but the principle underly-

ing its construction. And when eighteenth-century pedagogues spoke of its efficacy, it was less

the actual object in Example 2.4 to which they referred, than this principle of the ‘manner in

103
which harmony expresses a key’ (Lester 1992: 72).45 Lorenz Mizler described it as ‘contain[ing]

the whole essence of music and thorough-bass’ (1739: 100; translated in Christensen 1992: 101).

And Campion suggested that ‘a musical work is an assemblage of a part of these octaves’ (1716:

8).46 Before the recent ‘renaissance’ of Italian music theory and of its partimento tradition (Holt­

meier 2007), earlier accounts of the règle by Thomas Christensen (1992) and Joel Lester (1992:

49–89), while acknowledging its significance, would also find these claims made by eighteenth-

century pedagogues or theorists to be ‘categorical,’ ‘overly enthusiastic’ (Christensen 1992: 100),

and ‘extravagant,’ insisting that ‘the règle does not work in all circumstances’ (Lester 1992: 74),

as, for example, when the bass leaps. Therefore one should not be too readily ‘seduced’ by these

documents, in Dahlhaus’ terms. But as Ludwig Holtmeier has more recently argued, in wake of

the newly-rising discipline of ‘historically informed theory’ and the partimento and Italian music

theory ‘renaissance’ (Holtmeier 2007; Gjerdingen 2007; 2007a),

It is a still widespread misunderstanding that the Rule of the Octave is only a ‘model har-
monization,’ one among several possibilities for furnishing major and minor scales with
chords. But that view recognizes only the most extrinsic aspect of the Rule of the Oc-
tave and overlooks its intrinsic significance for music history and the history of music the-
ory. At heart the Rule of the Octave is not merely ‘pragmatic’ legerdemain (Christensen
1993[b], 170), but the critical step toward a theorization of thoroughbass . . . an instrument
of harmonic analysis. The Rule of the Octave codified what is generally understood by the
terms ‘major-minor tonality,’ ‘cadential harmony,’ or ‘modern tonality.’ . . . The Rule of the
Octave is a theory of harmonic functionality (Holtmeier 2007: 11).

I would add, further, that the ‘rule’ in the Rule of the Octave is not an object, that is, the specific

harmonic progression in Example 2.4, but the principle underlying its construction. That is its

‘intrinsic’ component. The Rule of the Octave progression (in Example 2.4) is one among many

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rules of the mode, rules of the key, or rules of tonality based on a single, widespread, cultur-

ally ubiquitous principle — the reciprocal association between chord-forms and scale-degree

progressions in the bass; or as Holtmeier has described it, ‘Particular types of motion [in the

bass] are assigned to particular sonorities’ (2007: 30). The ‘default form’ of the règle was often one

among several other octave harmonisations. In the chapter on improvisation from the Versuch

über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (1753), for example, Emanuel Bach provides numerous

diatonic and chromatic scale harmonisations in addition to the ‘default form’ of the règle (Exam-

ple 2.8). Not only is the ‘rule’ not limited to the diatonic octave, but these octave harmonisations

were not conceived as progressions in the strict sense, as seen in Bach’s instruction that, when

improvising, one may ‘arrange the scale of the key [Tonleiter der Tonart] in or out of its normal

sequence’ (‘in, und ausser der Ordnung’; 1753: 328; Engl. tr., 1949: 431).

These octave harmonisations, or the Rule of the Octave progressions, were only one of several

means for disseminating this culturally determined knowledge about Modulation, or tonality.

Throughout the eighteenth-century, thoroughbass manuals systematically enumerate the vari-

ous chord-forms and to which scale degrees they belong, in sections whose heading commonly

reads, ‘The Chords and to which Degrees they belong or are appointed.’ The Méthode pour l’ac-

compagnement du clavecin of Laurent Gervais, from 1733, methodically goes through the process

on several occasions, and each time in a slightly different capacity. First, in a section titled ‘Des

Dégrez affectez à chaque Accord,’ Gervais specifies that ‘[a]ll the chords have their appointed de-

105
grees,’ and lists sixteen chord-form types and the scale degree to which they customarily belong,

as shown in Example 2.9. L’accord de Quarte & Sixte (six-four chord) and La septième (seventh-

chord), for example, are both built, or literally, ‘made on the dominant’ (1733: 8; Example 2.9).47

Then, Gervais reverses the process, illustrating each scale degree and the different chord-form

types associated with it (Example 2.10). The third method is the actual Rule of the Octave in

all twenty-four keys (Example 2.11), and the last appears in a section which reads: ‘Example of

all the Chords and of the degrees to which they are appointed’ (Example 2.12). Here, the same

knowledge of the preceding sections is recast, but, crucially, in specific bass-line contexts, as in

Dandrieu’s ‘gradus’ method of Tables. L’accord de Quarte & Sixte is now clearly introduced in a

cadential setting; la fausse quinte (‘the chord of the false fifth,’ or V6/5) is shown in the context of

a 1–7–1 tonic expansion in the bass, and so forth.

The last of these expositions in Gervais’ Méthode is a species of artefact that is nearly as signifi-

cant as the règle itself: namely, the chord-form table. Example 2.13 reproduces Chapter XIV from

Michel Corrette’s Le maître de clavecin from 1753. The Chapter reads, ‘All the Chords in general

and on which degrees they are suited’ (‘Tous les Accords en general et sur quel degrés ils conviennent.’

1753: 48). Corrette systematically demonstrates the proper scale-degree location and therefore

the key context for twenty-six chord-form types distributed in four categories — 1) ‘consonant

chords’; 2) ‘dissonant chords’; 3) ‘the four chords of the sixth as well as their alterations’; and 4)

‘the chords that only occur only in the minor mode.’ The third category shows la sixte simple on

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mi; la grande sixte on fa; la petite sixte on re; and la sixte doublée on la; all these are to be found in

the règle. But while such chord-form tables may simply summarise the information codified in

the règle, they also disseminated knowledge about those other chord-forms not encountered in

the règle such as the augmented sixth. Corrette introduces la sixte superflue in the fourth category,

which involves chord-forms that only occur in the minor mode (Example 2.13). In the later Ad-

dition to Corrette’s treatise from 1754, titled Prototipes, we find an especially significant variety of

table that frames the principle of Modulation in terms of chord-form probability, as seen in Exam-

ple 2.14, whose heading reads, ‘Table of the Succession of Chords, and the manner of figuring

them one after the other’ (‘Table de la succession des accords, et la maniere de les Chiffrer les uns après

les autres.’ 1754: 12). Here, Corrette systematically provides the default chord-form succession

for more than two dozen chord-form situations — once more, many will be found in the règle,

but others serve to enrich the vocabulary of syntaxes and chord-forms already codified in the

Rule of the Octave. For instance, one learns, at ‘G’ in the Table, that la seconde — that is, a minor

seventh chord in second inversion — is formed on the tonic scale degree and is followed by la

fausse quinte on the leading tone.

These supplements to the règle indicate an obvious pedagogical necessity to expand its vocabu-

lary; as Gjerdingen describes it, ‘Cadences and the Rule of the Octave alone do not constitute

a rich enough vocabulary for galant practice’ (2007: 470). But the supplements are always con-

structed by the same principle. The English treatise by John Frederik Lampe, A plain and compen-

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dious method of teaching thoroughbass (1737), illustrates the principle through a series of musical

excerpts dubbed ‘Lessons,’ similar to Dandrieu’s graded Tables. He describes to which ‘Note’ each

chord-form is ‘founded’: ‘The Scholar should remember, that the sharp 5 is always founded to

the third Note of a flat Key, as the extream sharp 6 is founded to the flat Sixth Note of the Key, as

shewn by the Minum in the first Barr of the 21st Lesson’ (1737: 43; see Example 2.15). Whereas

Campion and the French school of pedagogy in general supplied additional chords not repre-

sented by the règle mostly in separate Tables (see also Example 2.16), the artefacts which specify

a particular bass-line context, such as Dandrieu’s graded progressions (Example 2.6), the last of

Gervais’ illustrations in Example 2.12, Corrette’s Probability Table (Example 2.14), and Lampe’s

‘Lessons’ (Example 2.15), are more characteristic of and particular to the Italian partimento tradi-

tion of ‘instructional basses’ (Gjerdingen 2007; 2007a). These treatises contain graded exercises

of increasing complexity, all involving the proper harmonisation of bass progressions and, in

turn, realising more complex musical textures from the harmonisations by supplying figuration,

motivic detail, imitation, etc., ultimately leading to entire compositions — not unlike the more

complex chromatic octaves in Emanuel Bach’s Versuch (1753), which served as the basis for im-

provisation and constructing entire fantasies (Example 2.8).48

The more involved and complex bass progressions, or ‘movimenti,’ treated additional rules that

Gjerdingen dubs ‘special moves’: ‘If the Rule of the Octave described, by analogy to the game

of chess, the simple straightforward moves of pawns, movimenti described all the sequences of

108
leaps and/or steps available to a Knight or Queen’ (2007: 472). In the Italian treatises, la regola

dell’ottava is but one abstraction among many, and was often the first topic covered in a manu-

script of partimenti. Francesco Durante’s Regole di partimenti (1761–1797) includes three regola

variants (ascending, descending, and minor), as but three rules among fifty. But in the end, the

same principle is inferred from all these regole — only certain chord-forms belong to each degree

of the major and minor modes, depending on the specific progression of a bass. Indeed, Giovan-

ni Furno explicitly described it in these terms and outside the specific context of the règle. His

Metodo facile breve e chiaro delle prime ed essensiali regole per accompagnare Partimenti senza numeri

from 1817 contains a section called ‘The Rules of Scale Steps’ (Regole delle Corde del Tono), where

chord-forms are assigned to scale degrees within a specific bass-line context. Fedele Fenaroli’s

Regole musicali (1775) similarly gives a description of chord-form assignment both within and

outside the context of the regola, first, at the opening of the treatise, and then, in the context

of scale harmonisation (Della scale). The special moves, or movimenti, that follow these simpler

expositions contextualise more complex chord-forms. Fenaroli, for example, explains the aug-

mented sixth in the context of a partimento with a descending chromatic bass (Example 2.17).

The ‘penultimate note of the partimento will be the minor sixth of the key. And the resolution

of the accompaniment that will be above it should move to an augmented sixth, which will then

rise to the octave of the subsequent note of the partimento’ (38–39; slightly modified transla-

tion from Gjerdingen 2005).49 In other words, Fenaroli’s ‘chromatic descent’ regola codifies la

sesta superflua as a harmonic expression of the minor sixth scale degree, just as the règle codifies

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l’accord de la petite sixte as an expression of scale degree 2, and so forth.50 The penultimate note of

the partimento in Example 2.17 takes an augmented sixth because the bass has the minor sixth

degree of the scale, la sesta minore del tono, descending on the dominant.

Emerging from the structural arrangement of these thoroughbass manuals is not a single cultural

artefact that is the Rule of the Octave, but, if not the ‘basis of a music-theoretical system’ (Holt-

meier 2007: 28 ), the basis for reconstructing a mentalité about harmony and Modulation. This

culture of the Rule of the Octave, that is, the principle of chord-forms over scale-degree progres-

sions in the bass — ‘les veritables Accords que doivent porter chaque Note’ (Gervais 1953: 27)

— lies at the centre of the eighteenth-century European conception of modulation, widespread

throughout the Continent and Britain. Holtmeier views the internationality of the situation as

making it ‘scarcely possible to draw clear boundaries between them [that is, the partimento tradi-

tion, the Italian thoroughbass tradition, and the Rule of the Octave].

If one refers to partimenti as the didactical thoroughbass exercises themselves, it is not dif-
ficult to show a continuous traditional context throughout Europe . . . in which the dif-
ference between Italian, French, and even German theoretical approaches . . . [is] of sec-
ondary importance. If one takes partimenti as a didactic tradition, however, in which the
accompaniment of unfigured basses is of fundamental importance, the ‘partimento’ also
contains a theoretical approach that is inseparably tied to the principles of the Rule of the
Octave and the compositional models (Holtmeier 2007: 25).

Example 2.18 displays a geographical and historical distribution of artefacts containing the Rule

of the Octave, a corpus of treatises and manuscripts from Christensen’s seminal study of 1992,

as a representative sample of the cultural mosaic, which embraces French, German, Italian, and

110
English traditions. The slope-like graph of Example 2.18(a), which results from plotting the his-

torical distribution of the treatises and manuscripts, indicates an average frequency of roughly

one treatise per year, even for this entirely random sample in Christensen 1992, while the geo-

graphical distribution of Example 2.18(b) displays a ‘continuous traditional context throughout

Europe.’ Even by this small sample, the sheer statistical frequency of the règle is a metric for the

significance of its underlying principle for the musicologist, sociologist, and ethnographer who

seeks to reconstruct an eighteenth-century mentalité about harmony and tonality. The value of

these documents for empirical musicology lies neither in their theoretical capacity, nor in their

pedagogical efficacy as such, but in their complementary data towards the reconstruction of

an ‘interpretational grid.’ As Christensen himself put it, ‘For an understanding of eighteenth-

century musical thought . . . the règle de l’octave remains indispensable’ (1992: 117). The collective

value of these thoroughbass manuals lies foremost in their documentary status, as records of

a musical culture: not in the generalised product, the actual octave progressions of la règle de

l’octave, but in the generalised ‘principle of knowledge’ one derives from them in Treitler’s terms,

which remains invariant across French-, German-, Italian-, and English-language treatises. The

rule of the octave progression was but a means of objectifying the knowledge of Modulation, of

expressing a key, within a larger Culture of the Rule of the Octave. 51

The widespread circulation of the règle has less to do with its efficacy than its derivation from a

common European musical practice. By 1768, Joseph Riepel claimed to have encountered the

111
Rule of the Octave in every thoroughbass manual he read (1768: 1; see Christensen 1992: 102).

And in 1808, the Franco-Englishman John Jousse deemed the règle ‘universally accepted,’ ‘fol-

lowed by every theorist and in every country,’ and explained its great currency by way of empiri-

cal insight: namely, that ‘the natural harmony of the scale prevails in the greatest part of musical

pieces’ (Jousse 1808: 35). The widespreadedness of the pedagogical device is less an indication

of its pedagogical fluency than a barometer for the ubiquity of the principle about Modulation

underlying its construction, which derives from musical practice. Each of the pedagogical con-

cepts and schools in the preceding follows social design, preoccupied with rules or conventions

abstracted from practice so as to perpetuate or objectify a thoroughly European practice. Even

Beethoven committed to writing a thoroughbass (as well as counterpoint) manual for his own

teaching purposes, specifically for his only student, the Archduke Rudolph, which includes the

little-known Materialen zum Generalbass of 1809 (excerpts in Nottebohm 1872 ), where he copi-

ously drew from Fux, Emanuel Bach’s Versuch, Türk, Kirnberger, and Albrechtsberger (Notte-

bohm 1872: 154–203; Lockwood 2003: 301; Kagan 1988 : 53ff.). In the sketches, Beethoven also

consistently uses nothing more than figured-bass notation when drafting harmonic concepts, as

seen in the sketches for the Lamentations for Jeremiah (discussed below). 52

No matter what the context may be — outside of speculative theoretic traditions of course —

the interpretational grid or principle of knowledge persists. Even theorists who dismissed the

theoretical efficacy of the thoroughbass only use different metalanguages to describe the same

112
principle behind the Rule of the Octave. Weber, who is considered among some nineteenth-

century theorists who were involved in ‘thoroughbass bashing’ (Holtmeier 2007: 6), uses Ro-

man numerals to elaborate the same principle. In § 202 of the Versuch, he writes, ‘We know that

the arbitrary elevation of the third is appropriate only to the four-fold chord with a minor fifth on

the second degree of a minor scale; hence, if the ear perceives an harmonic combination as a four-

fold chord with a minor fifth and an arbitrary elevated third, it of course directly recognizes it as

oii7, and not as ovii7’ (Weber 1832/1851: 343). In the tradition of Rameau’s basse fondamentale,

like Sorge (1745–1747) before him, Weber describes the ‘rule’ that the augmented sixth chord

belongs to scale degree six in the minor mode by a more circuitous route: in terms of their ‘root,’

which Weber assigns to scale degree two. In other words, the metalanguage of Roman numer-

als requires an Italian augmented sixth, for example, to be described as a ii/o7 chord in second

inversion, with a raised third and omitted root (see Example 2.19). This somewhat awkward

derivation is one instance of the many tensions in Weber’s treatise between a strong tendency

for Linneaen taxonomy with Roman numerals and the empirical objectification of practice

(cf. Moreno 2004: 128–160; cf. also Harrison 1995: 179–181).53 Indeed, the very category of the

‘well-known positions’ in Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ remedies the cognitive problems that are

built into the Roman numeral, root-oriented conception of the metalanguage. The ‘Habits of

the Ear’ illustrate that in the end, the metalanguage is subordinated to the linguistic objectifica-

tion: the ‘rule’ that raised scale degree four, or the ‘arbitrary elevation of a third,’ in Weber’s root-

oriented description, is customarily formed on scale degree six, as Weber’s musical example il-

113
lustrates (see Example 2.19). ‘The figure is [their] unique language,’ in Campion’s terms. Weber’s

‘Habits of the Ear,’ la règle de l’octave, chord-form tables, partimento exercises, and the Beethoven

sketches are all recorded objectifications of the musical culture’s understanding and construc-

tion of harmony and harmonic progression as socially convened ‘scripts’ for expressing a key, or

for modulating. The phenomenon of being in a key is culturally determined by this codification

or rule of conduct, to the extent that Choron doubted whether a European mind would ever

understand other tonalities outside the mindset of la tonalité moderne, which he too explained

as the orientation of ‘tonal harmony’ (cf. chord forms), against the degrees of the two principal

modes (Choron 1810: xxxvij). In Campion’s words, ‘Nôtre basse continuë ressemble à la terre

des Philosophes’ (Campion 1729: ij).

Cultural Constraint as Cognitive Instrument

To return now, informed by the preceding, to the potential meaning of the term förmlich in the

Leipzig review, we see that it is by no mere coincidence that Rochlitz describes the progression

allegedly belonging to G minor in terms of chord-forms or figures above a bass. The manner of

the description is ‘regulated’ by the ‘interpretational grid.’ There must be a tacit recognition of

the diminished-seventh and 6/4 chord-forms over a C-sharp–D bass as constituting a ‘script,’ or

gewohnte Modulation, in Weber’s terms, for expressing G minor. And so, at least one of the as-

114
sociated meanings of förmlich outlined at the opening of this Chapter now assumes richer con-

notations: förmlich, and its variant expression, in der eigentlichen Form, as given in Eber, to mean

‘according to [the] Rule’ of the Octave in the above-defined, broader sense of the term. G minor

is a potential consequence of this culturally conceived constraint. Both Weber and Vogler also

betray instances of hearing in terms of the constraint, that is, in terms of chord-forms over scale

degrees in the bass — in terms of Gestalten und Lagen. Corrette described la règle de l’octave as a

‘compass for the accompanist, who must always know which key one is in, which of its scale de-

grees one is on, and the chord that suits it’ (1753/1976: 22).54 Rochlitz, Weber, and Vogler all give

indications that this principle underlying the Rule of the Octave is also a ‘compass’ for the ear.

Because a chord-form is a harmonic expression of a scale degree, upon encountering the chord-

form, the ear immediately has the impression of the relevant tonality in any variety of contexts.

Under the category of the ‘Position of an Occurring Harmony,’ Weber treats the inverse situa-

tion of the ‘well-known positions’: Ungewöhnliche Lagen (‘unusual positions’). Here, the ‘chord

of the small sixth’ is encountered on a would-be scale degree 3 of a presiding A minor context,

in bar 4 of Example 2.20. Weber argues that, in spite of the preceding context, and despite the

chord’s potential to function as an augmented sixth in A minor when inverted — that is, under

a different form (Gestalt) or position (Lage) — the ear perceives B-flat major immediately upon

meeting the chord-form of bar 4, by virtue of its unusual position with regard to A minor and its

well-known position apropos B-flat. As James Warner, Weber’s translator, also puts it, ‘a digres-

sive modulation from A minor into B-flat major is naturally produced by the chord in the fourth

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measure, and in . . . [Figure 204](k), it is actually continued on in this latter key’ (Weber 1832/1851:

351). But in Weber’s Figure 204, i, the perception of B-flat major as a tonic in bar 4 is impervious

to the absence of a I or I6/3 in B-flat major either before or after the ‘chord of the small sixth,’

because the ‘principle of knowledge’ underlying la règle de l’octave applies through and through.

Weber’s commentary is regulated by the same interpretational grid abstractly represented in the

règle — only certain chord-forms belong to each degree of the major and minor modes and their

chromatic transformations.

The listening exercise is evidence of the music-psychological value that Gervais had attributed

to the concept already in 1733, with language that anticipates Weber’s own style in the Versuch:

the règle de l’octave is ‘a sure means for conditioning the ear to Modulation [read: tonality;], for

acquiring the habits of chords [l’habitude des Accords; cf. Weber’s gewohnte Modulation] and the

knowledge of the scale degrees [degréz] that suit them’ (Gervais 1733: 14).55 Even the most un-

suspected of contexts are negotiated by the same ‘principle of knowledge’: Vogler’s chromatic

circle of so-called ‘omnibus’ progressions (Telesco 1998; Wason 1985), shown in Example 2.21(a).

In the Kuhrpfälzische Tonschule of 1778, Vogler provides a moment-by-moment reading of the

tonality for each of the 42 chords of the circle, which also appeared in the earlier Tonwissenschaft

und Tonsetzkunst from 1776 (Example 2.21(b)). When reading the circle clockwise, and there-

fore when ascending, the first chord on the downbeat of each bar is interpreted as a dominant

seventh on sol, the second as a diminished seventh on the leading tone, and the third as a caden-

116
tial 6/4 also on sol. The tonality for the uppermost measure in Example 2.21(a) is therefore C

major, a minor, and d minor, when read on a purely moment-by-moment level. Vogler writes, ‘It

must be noted that these changes of key are based more on the position than on the harmony’

(‘Zu bemerken aber ist, daß diese Ausweichungen mehr auf die Lage als Harmonie gründen.’ 1778: 176–

17). The tonal meaning of each chord derives less from the harmonies than from their ‘positions’

(mehr auf die Lage als Harmonie). Die Lage, in this context, refers to the inversions of the chords

and their resulting forms realised over each bass, or, more simply, to the figures.56 Weber employs

the same term throughout the Versuch to designate the same meaning. The German expressions

for the well-known and unusual positions as well as for the 6/4 chord already discussed above

are, respectively: Besonders bekannte Lagen, Ungewöhnliche Lagen, and Quartsextenlage. Further-

more, in § 55, titled ‘Changes of Position’ (Umgestaltungen der Lage), Weber discusses chordal

inversion in general using the same terminology, and in both sections, he explicitly identifies

chordal inversions with chord-forms by interchanging the terms Gestalt and Lage:

[T]he positions or forms [die Lagen oder Gestalten] (E c g), (G e c), and the like, are as it
were only transformations of that which we have taken as the original form of the harmony
C [gothic type], namely the position [Lage] (C E G) (Weber 1832/1851: 169).

In Vogler’s reading then, die Lage plainly refers to the inversion of the basse fondamentale, while

Gestalt designates the intervallic identity and quality of the resulting chord, or its form. Vogler’s

interpretation of the chromatic omnibus circle defaults to the statistically most probable func-

tion of each chord-form. The major-minor-seventh chord most frequently occurs on scale de-

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gree 5, the diminished seventh on scale degree 7; and the 6/4 also on scale-degree 5. Treatises

by Campion, Corrette, and Gervais all introduce these chords as most frequently occurring on

these scale degrees. Further evidence that one heard by means of the constraint may be recon-

structed from the opening of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 31 no. 3, from 1801–02 (Example

2.22), which reads almost as a commentary on the underlying culture of the Rule of the Octave.

To an eighteenth-century mentalité about Modulation, the opening chord is immediately per-

ceived as l’accord de la grande sixte, as a ‘well-known position,’ in Weber’s terms, which belongs to

scale degree four, and, in consequence, one hears the tonality oriented in E-flat major, which is

confirmed by the ensuing harmonic progression. It is precisely this ‘forgotten culture’ (Holtmei­

er 2007: 6), defined as the ‘style of their tasks,’ and the ‘style of their reasoning,’ which seems to be

operating behind the meaning of Rochlitz’s förmlich.

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 III

Cognitive Implications of the ‘Grid’

To reconstruct the ‘interpretational grid’ in this way may well bring one closer to the cultural

knowledge base underlying a G minor response to bb. 6–9 of the Symphony, by reconstructing

at least one dimension of the underlying ‘stylistic fact’ to which förmlich potentially refers. But

should one allow without any further concession that the meaning behind Rochlitz’s förmlich,

Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear,’ etc., is symptomatic of the same cultural constraints outlined in the

preceding and generalised as the Culture of the Rule of the Octave, then, because of the grid’s

culture-specificity or cultural determinacy, this would in some ways seem to distance, or ques-

tion, the relevance and suitability of the Eroica as a case study for making a cognitive argument

about tonality as a category of mind. For psychological and cultural constraints are said to be

diametrically opposed to one another, as in the oft-cited binary between nature and nurture, or

the ‘gap between the natural and social sciences’ (Clarke 1989) or Naturwissenschaft and Geistwis-

senschaft (Spitzer 2004: 13). As Michael Spitzer addresses the matter:

[T]he broad discipline of cognitive science[] is concerned with the formation of catego-
ries and concepts of perception and thought. With its interest in the mechanisms and pro-
cesses of the mind, it would seem to be oriented toward natural absolutes, toward uni-
versals. How do we square this with the orientation of modern approaches to meaning in the arts,
which are overwhelmingly directed toward the social and historical groundedness, particularity,
and contingency of human thought? (Spitzer 2004: 13; added emphasis).

To state it otherwise, the very necessity of a culturally-determined ‘interpretational grid’ might

119
paradoxically compromise a cognitive argument. For example, Eric Clarke maintains that, too

often, there is a ‘tendency to confuse cultural norms (such as the norms of formal design) which

are established by convention, with perceptual norms which are a consequence of the characteris-

tics and limitations of perceptual systems’ (Clarke 1989: 11).

Effectively, one may contend that these preceding deliberations on the meaning of Rochlitz’s

förmlich have proceeded in two contradictory directions. The one is cultural and emic, by pursu­

ing historical definitions of Modulation and the Culture of the Rule of Octave, ultimately to-

wards understanding the meaning of förmlich as ‘according to rule’ — as the consequence of a

cultural constraint; this direction is thereby concerned with a collective memory. The other is

cognitive and etic, by suggesting, through Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear,’ that ‘förmlich’ implies the

underlying operation of some mental representation, and is therefore concerned with the informa­

tion proc­essing aspect of the mind, or individual memory. Indeed, by treating the causality of

Rochlitz’s G minor response, as well as Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ and das Gehör, as evidence of

a cultur­al and social phenomenon, on the one hand, and a cognitive phenomenon, on the other,

the preceding has effectively confounded culture and psychology. But an ecological approach

that understands mind and environment as inextricably imbricated dismisses these oppositions

(Clarke 2003: 119); as Spitzer continues, such ‘critiques are . . . predicated on a narrow definition

of music psychology based on the perception of the sonic materials of music, such as the recog-

nition and memory of melodic “probe tones” or rhythmic patterns. But cognition, in contrast

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to perception, involves thought, and so cuts across rigid demarcations of nature and culture’

(2004: 13; my emphasis). David Huron independently voices a similar argument, in a chapter on

to­nality from the recent Sweet Anticipations, by describing scale degrees as cognitive, as opposed to

perceptual categories: ‘Each scale degree evokes a different psychological quality or character. . . .

The ability of listeners to imagine a single tone as serving different tonal functions indicates that

scale degrees are cognitive rather than perceptual phenomena. That is, “scale degree” is how minds

interpret physically sounding tones, not how tones are in the world (Huron 2006: 143). What

emerges implicitly by Huron’s argument, outlined explicitly by Spitzer, is that ‘musical listening

. . . is never an act of unmediated perception. Rather, it is perception informed with knowledge’

(2004: 9; cf. Meyer 1956: 77–79). And it is precisely this mediating factor that the interpretational

grid provides. To speak of cognition is precisely to address perception as mediated by knowledge.

The term itself derives from the Latin cognitio and gnosco, and from the Greek gnosis (‘knowledge’)

and gnosco (‘I know’). By its very definition, cognition presupposes epistemology: co-gnitio, with

knowledge. Further pursuing these apparently contradictory avenues towards a reconstruction

of förmlich will only suggest a further cognitive dimension to the interpretational grid.

Heinichen and Kellner’s ‘Schemata of the Modes’ (Schemata Modorum)

What Gasparini, Dandrieu, Campion, Fenaroli, and others abstracted as rules — regole, règles —

Heinichen classified by the more lofty ‘Schemata Modorum’ (‘The Schemata of the Modes’ ).

Throughout the Neue erfundene und gründliche Anweisung of 1711 as well as the later Generalbass

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in der Komposition of 1728, Heinichen freely interpolates Latin and French designations among

the German, reflecting his outstanding education at the Thomasschule in Leipzig, and later at the

closely affiliated Universität Leipzig. These Latin terms quite possibly resonated for Heinichen in

ways that German equivalents would not, especially when minding that German met a dilem-

ma similar to Latin: when faced with translating concepts already articulated in Greek, lacking

synonyms to express the same meanings, Latin transliterated Greek terms and German simi-

larly adopted from both languages. More importantly, turn-of-the-eighteenth-century Leipzig

hosted a thriving intellectual and academic climate between the two institutions. As Christoph

Wolff describes the situation in the context of Sebastian Bach’s life and music:

There had always been considerable overlap of the St. Thomas senior faculty and Leipzig
University, and more often than not the school’s rector and conrector simultaneously held
professorships at the university. The palpable effect this connection had on the level of in-
struction and the atmosphere of learning at the school led a significant number of its grad-
uates to continue their education at one or more of the four faculties of Leipzig University
— theology, law, medicine, and philosophy. The faculty of Philosophy, formerly the Facul-
ty of Arts, had a particularly close curricular relationship with the Schola Thomana, as the
origins of both institutions were firmly rooted in the seven liberal arts as defined since me-
dieval times: the trivium, consisting of grammar, logic, and rhetoric, and the quadrivium,
comprising arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. The age of humanism and the
spirit of the Lutheran Reformation had brought about changes in the school’s curriculum
that led to a more comprehensive study of the classics, a closer study of the Scriptures, and
a new respect for scientific knowledge (Wolff 2002: 306–07).

The intellectual climate and culture of the curriculum — particularly the exposure to the Clas-

sics — suggests the term Schema may have resonated with philosophical, or even cognitive, as-

sociations. The Latin ‘schema’ is a direct transliteration of the Greek σχήμα, which had a variety

of connotations in antiquity as still it does today. Two are especially apposite to the matter at

hand. In the Metaphysics, Aristotle often uses the phrase ‘schemata of the categories’ (σχήματα

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τῆς κατηγορίας), to refer to representational instances of categories such as substance, qual-

ity, quantity, time, etc., that underlie or determine essence, being, and interpretation; e.g., ‘red,’

‘intelligent,’ and ‘beautiful,’ are schemata of quality, while ‘man’ and ‘woman’ are ‘schemata’ of

substance; ‘son’ and ‘daughter’ ‘schemata’ of relation, etc. ‘The senses of essential being are those

which are indicated by the schemata of the categories’ (Aristotle, Metaphysics, 1017a.23).57 More

significantly still, in a short treatise ‘On Memory and Recollection’ (De memoria et reminiscentia)

Aristotle uses the term ‘schema’ to describe a mental representation of the outside world: ‘We

know things . . . by a psychic process analogous to them. . . . There exist in the mind schemata

(σχήματα) and movements corresponding to the external objects’ (De memoria, 452b.8–15;

slightly modified translation from Aristotle/Ross 1906: 115).

Heinichen may or may never have read Aristotle directly, but Latin-German dictionaries from

the period indicate these meanings were absorbed into the Latin connotations of the term. In

Adam Friedrich Kirsch’s (d. 1716) Abundantissimum cornu copiae linguae latinae et germanicae se-

lectum, the term translates not only as the more common die Figure and die Gestalt, but also as

die Abbildung, a term which, like ‘schema,’ has a variety of meanings recorded in both historical

and modern German-English dictionaries, including — ‘representation,’ ‘image,’ ‘copy,’ and ‘re-

production,’ all of which capture the meaning of Aristotle’s argument. That Heinichen intends

the ‘Schemata Modorum’ not only as scripts for composing or realising a bass according with

the Culture of the Rule of the Octave, but as mental representations approximating the Aris-

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totelian notion, is sustained by a number of centred observations on the General-bass. Having

advanced the six ‘special rules’ (special-Regeln ) for harmonising unfigured basses, according to

the common eighteenth-century practice of assigning particular chord-forms to the degrees of

the scale, Heinichen puts forth two schemata, one each for the keys (Claves) of the principal

modes (Haupt-Modorum), C major and A minor. Reproduced in Example 2.23, the two Sche-

mata are simpler variations on the more common form of the règle (Holtmeier 2007), with an

ambitus from the leading tone to scale degree 6, and the ‘special rules’ supplied beneath the staff.

The phrase ‘Schemata Modorum’ immediately follows as the heading for illustrations of the

remaining twenty-two keys, shown in Example 2.24. And in a later chapter on improvisation,

which anticipates Emanuel Bach’s final chapter on improvisation in the Versuch, Heinichen de-

rives other, more extended, schemata (‘wir können uns in ein ander Schema zu gehen’) from the

Schemata Modorum by ‘mixing-up’ (Verwechslung) their bass-notes; as Bach would later put it,

one may ‘arrange the scale in or out of its normal sequence.’

Example 2.25 reproduces one solution from a ‘copious stock of [possible] transformations’ (ein

reichlicher Vorrath der Veränderung) which derives from the Schemata for F major and D minor

(Heinichen 1728: 905). Each of the new patterns derived from the Schema Modi is designated

‘Schema’ in Heinichen’s illustration, which generalises the term to broadly describe all harmonic

progression as the representation of a key, or mode. Much like ‘red,’ ‘intelligent,’ and ‘beautiful’

are different schemata representing ‘quality,’ so are chord-form progressions different ‘schema-

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ta’ that represent a key. Heinichen’s discussion of Modulation in the second sense of Ausweic-

hung, that is, as changing keys, gives the same impression of a progression as a kind of ‘stamp’ of a

tonality To modulate from B-flat major to G minor, for example, one simply applies the figures

(Signatur-en) from the ‘Schema Modi’ of G minor (‘also applicir-et man nunmehro die Signatur-en

ob­i­gen Schematis g moll’; Heinichen 1728: 756). Much like the French and Italian schools, both

the Rule-of-the-Octave- and the ‘mixed-up’-Schemata are presented as scripts for expressing or

representing a key. More than prescriptions however, all twenty-four of the ‘Schemata Modo-

rum’ are to be ‘committed well to memory’ (diese Schemata nach aller Modis wohl ins Gedächt-

niss fassen; Heinichen 1728: 750). By a commonplace or superficial reading, this simply makes a

condition of mem­orising the prescribed patterns in order to realise a proper accompaniment or

extemporise. But in light of Heinichen’s more reflective and philosophically-minded introduc-

tion to the General-bass (Enleitung, oder musikalisches Raisonnement vom General-Bass und der

Music überhaupt) this ‘memory,’ or knowledge, speaks to a higher cognitive order.

In the ‘Introduction,’ Heinichen likens the study of music generally to that of the four faculties

at the Universität Leipzig also cited by Wolff (theology, law, medicine, and philosophy). In this

more humanistic context, he speaks of ‘establish[ing] all our musical rules,’ e.g. those abstracted

into the Schemata Modorum, ‘according to the ear’ (dem Gehöre) (1728: 4; Buelow 1986: 311).

Thoroughbass is qualified as an empirical ‘musical science’ whose knowledge more broadly ap-

plies to the ontology of music in general, its cognitive repercussions moving beyond the prac-

125
tice of realising an accompaniment (cf. Gjerdingen 2005, ‘Rule of the Octave’).

No music connoisseur [Music-Verständiger] will deny that the Basso Continuo or so-called
thorough-bass is, next to (the art of ) composition, one of the most important and most
fundamental of the musical sciences. For from what source other than composition it-
self does it spring forth? And what actually is the playing of thorough-bass other than to
improvise upon a given bass the remaining parts of a full harmony, or to compose to (the
bass)? As noble as the origin of the thorough-bass is, so equally great is the benefit and ad-
vantage accruing to all musicians from this knowledge. . . . [M]any a singer became more
secure in pieces where previously he groped around considerably for a difficult interval
or modulation before apprehending the exact tone; but certainly one need only consider
that the thorough-bass, like composition itself, leads to a complete investigation of the entire musical
edifice. Herein one learns to recognize precisely the ordinary consonances and dissonances
of music, their nature and distinction, and their harmony and alteration. One investigates
the nature, digression, and modulation of all keys and modes in such a way that one is capa-
ble of proceeding further in all other types of vocal and instrumental music and of attain-
ing greater perfection. . . . [T]he firm knowledge of the thorough-bass gives each and eve-
ry musician a true perfection and many-sided advantages in music—whether or not one
makes a profession of the keyboard or the thorough-bass.
(Heinichen 1728: 1–2; Buelow 1986: 309)

In view of this more philosophical orientation, applying the figures of a ‘schema’ must equally

concern the faculty of hearing as it does the faculty of accompanying. To cognise, as opposed to

realise, a digressive modulation from B-flat to G minor, for example, involves mentally applying

the figures of a ‘Schema Modi’ of G minor, whereby the physical activity is transposed to a psy-

chological one. Because ‘from the accompaniment,’ Heinichen writes, ‘one will acquire a habit’

[Habitum] (‘im Accompagnement einen Habitum erlangen,’ 1728: 901), or, as Weber might put

it, die Gewohnheiten der Modulation. In Kirsch’s Latin-German dictionary, ‘Habitum’ translates as

die Gewohnheit, to mean ‘custom’ or ‘habit.’

Reading Heinichen against Weber and vice versa, and within the larger Culture of the Rule of

126
the Octave, the Schemata Modorum bear a strong affinity if not synonymy to Weber’s gewohnte

Modulation. And as it happens, Weber’s Gewohnheiten des Gehöres have themselves been likened

to ‘schema-producing rules,’ on the basis of several parallels between Weber’s treatise and prin-

ciples elaborated in music cognition studies from the 198os (see Saslaw 1991). But Weber’s use

of ‘habit’ brings an even earlier resonance than these studies to mind: Leonard Meyer’s Emotion

and Meaning in Music from 1956. There, Meyer defines ‘habit responses . . . [as] the life stream of

musical perception and communication’ (1956: 62; cf. Chap. 4 below), and in the later Music, the

Arts, and Ideas (1967) and Explaining Music (1973), following Meyer’s readings in information

theory, the ‘habit responses’ from 1956, as well as the ‘style forms’ discussed in Chapter 1 above,

are explicitly described as ‘schemata.’ Not only do the historical documents therefore provide

the means towards reconstructing an ‘interpretational grid,’ but history itself proposes a cogni-

tive framework for tonality as a category of mind in the ‘schema.’ To return to Christensen’s di-

lemma, whether one should regard historical theories of music as theoretical texts or as histori-

cal documents, the preceding would fundamentally indicate that, when reconstructing a social-

ly-determined cognitive knowledge base, both are ineluctably necessary. Together, Heinichen’s

Schemata Modorum and Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ in general and ‘Customary Modulation’

in particular recall Aristotle’s predication that ‘we know things by a psychic process analogous

to them’; that ‘in the mind there exist schemata corresponding to the external objects.’ Weber’s

‘Habits of the Ear’ in the context of ‘Modulation,’ or die Gewohnheiten der Modulation des Ge-

höres, amount to Schemata of Tonality, to the mental representations of Heinichen’s Schemata

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Modorum. Heinichen’s General-bass, furthermore, is not the only eighteenth-century artefact to

associate the term schema with the Rule of the Octave. David Kellner’s famous Treulicher Un-

terricht im General-Bass (1732), reissued in numerous editions and translations throughout the

eighteenth century (Christensen 1992; Lester 1992), and part of Haydn’s library, gives a graph-

ic representation of the règle similar to Heinichen’s ‘Schemata Modorum’ that illustrates the de-

fault scale-harmonisations for all twenty-four keys. The two Tables in question, displayed in Ex-

ample 2.26, are labelled ‘Schemata der zwölf Dur-Thöne’ and ‘Schemata der zwölf Moll-Thöne,’ re-

spectively: ‘Schemata of the Twelve Major Keys’;’ Schemata of the Twelve Minor Keys.’ Thus,

Rochlitz’s description of being ‘led to G minor förmlich’ may well mean being led to G minor by

way, or because, of a schema — or being ‘led to G minor schematically,’ especially when minding

that the noun form and radical of förmlich, die Form, has always been something of a sister term

of ‘schema.’ The preceding suggests that hearing G minor in bb. 6–9 of the Eroica must be the

consequence of mentally applying the figures or Lagen of some gewhonte Modulation or Schema

Modi of G minor. Further investigating the historical situation has only returned the problem

to our initial approximation in Chapter 1, that G minor must be a consequence of the internal-

isation of a ‘style form’ or ‘schema.’ But all this presupposes that such a ‘stylistic fact,’ ‘style form,’

‘schema,’ or gewohnte Modulation exists which corresponds exactly to the opening progression of

the Eroica Symphony.

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 3
w
A Chromatic Turn of Phrase
The le – sol – fi – sol Schema

Defining a Corpus

The Corpus as Metaphor for Experience

By adopting a programme of empirical musicology, as outlined by Cook and Clarke (2004: 3–

14), not only may one specify the Culture of the Rule of the Octave as a historically determined

constraint for reading the corpus, but, inasmuch as there exists an identification of Mind with

its objects of perception, following Aristotle’s position, in the process the corpus also assumes

a higher-level ontology as a metaphor for experience ; as Meyer describes it, ‘granted listeners who

have developed reaction patterns appropriate to the work [or corpus] in question,’ or, to state it

otherwise, having defined a proper interpretational grid and ‘schemes of action’ (Piaget 1979:

129
23–24 and passim) appropriate to a historical listening subject, ‘the structure of . . . response to a

piece of music can [then] be studied by examining the music itself ’ (Meyer 1956: 32). Ian Cross

formulates it similarly, acknowledging that ‘structure can be thought of as inherent in music,’ but

only when presupposing or ‘accept[ing]’ that ‘music is essentially a social activity[, whose] exist-

ence, function and form are determined by the nature and values of the culture that enfold it,’

and whose ‘conduct’ is predicated on socially determined ‘rules’ (1985: 1). By defining the cultur-

al constraints of the interpretational grid beforehand, a corpus study and pattern detection may

become metaphors for pattern recognition, or for ‘the ways in which the mind, operating within

the context of culturally established norms, selects and organizes the [acoustic] stimuli that are pre-

sented to it’ (Meyer 1967/1994: 7; added emphasis). To define the geographical and historical

peripheries of a corpus is therefore no less demanding or necessary an exercise than reconstruct-

ing a well-defined interpretational grid for its ‘reading,’ not least because most any process of se-

lection will ineluctably fail to represent ‘The’ experience of ‘a’ single listener. For example, Clarke

proposes a solution towards reconciling the culture-psychology opposition in ecology, by priv-

ileging the situation of one kind of listener:

The aim of such an approach would be to describe musical events for a particular kind of
perceiver, taking account of the stimulus material [i.e. the musical corpus], the perceptual
systems that exist, and the cultural systems within which evaluations of musical function
are made [cf. The Culture of the Rule of the Octave]. This is in essence an argument for an
ecological description, since it proposes that . . . the kind of description that is of primary in-
terest to us will be at a level, and of a breadth appropriate to human beings, their musical
artifacts and activities, and the natural and cultural environment within which they are sit-
uated (1989: 12, added emphasis).

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To draw either on anthologies (e.g. Meyer 1992; Temperley 2007; 2001) or otherwise works of

individual composers (e.g. Rohrmeier 2006; Rohrmeier and Cross 2008) would do little to real-

ise such a programme. Both lack the potential ‘richness’ of a data set (see Cook and Clarke 2004:

4–5). The former are too narrow in number while too broad and fragmentary in their focus. The

latter, being too centred, may risk confusing composer-specific devices for culturally generic

norms from the opposite extreme, notwithstanding the representative value composers’ works

may have for penetrating the larger culture generally speaking.58 The Eroica problem might con-

ceivably be addressed by study of Beethoven’s corpus alone, were the Symphony the only sub-

ject of inquiry. But as the problem surrounding the Eroica is deemed representative, a case study

for eighteenth-century tonality in general, a broader compass seems all but indispensable: Gjer-

dingen’s statistical survey of the 1–7, 4–3 changing-note archetype (1988), for example, exceeds

one thousand compositions covering almost two centuries, from 1720–1900. But even that cor-

pus serves less as a metaphor for the experience of a particular kind of listener, recalling Clarke’s

ecological programme (see also Clarke 2005), than as data for building an argument about style

change (Meyer 1989; 1992) and the relationship between the prototypicality of a convention

and its historical population (Gjerdingen 1988: 99–269). The underlying problem for situated

cognition is to define ‘whose phenomenology of music’ is in question (Biancorosso 2008, add-

ed emphasis) — to outline a musical corpus adequate for representing the long eighteenth-cen-

tury Culture of Modulation, a culture the Eroica would simultaneously inhabit, as well as inde-

131
pendently represent. Ideally, the sample ought to equal or exceed Gjerdingen’s in quantity while

being concentrated into a shorter time period capable of sustaining a significant degree of sty-

listic or cultural consistency, both geographically and historically, thereby corresponding to the

spatial and temporal dimensions of Halbwachs’ collective memory (1939/1979: 48: cf. Chapter

1 above) — in other words, a corpus analogue to the Culture of the Rule of the Octave abstract-

ly represented in Example 2.18.

The Culture of the Symphony

Towards that end, the ‘Music Sources’ itemised in ‘Appendix A’ contain roughly three thousand

compositions from circa 1720 to 1840, whose regulating factor across geographic and historic

domains is the Symphony — not the genre of the Symphony, as the corpus includes every con-

ceivable genre of the period, but the Culture of the Symphony. The century framed by the larg-

er time period (1730–1830) may be styled this way in particular, not simply because the genre

began to stabilise circa 1730 and then dwindled or met a ‘crisis’ in the 1830s (LaRue 2008; see al-

so Jones 2006: 155–209; and Bonds 2006: 1–4), but as Jan LaRue and Eugene Wolf see the situa-

tion, the Symphony came to represent musical culture of eighteenth-century Europe.

To understand the development of the Classical style there is no better exercise than to
follow the long evolution of the 18th-century Symphony. Firstly, the symphony was culti-
vated with extraordinary intensity throughout most of the century: the Catalogue of 18th-
Century Symphonies (see LaRue 1959, 1988) contains over 13,000 distinct works. In Europe
at the time there was hardly a princely, ecclesiastical, civic or even private musical establish-
ment that did not possess a stock of symphonies. Valuable collections have been discov-

132
 ered from Finland to Sicily. . . . The leading area of symphonic production was no doubt
Vienna and the rest of the Habsburg Monarchy, followed by Germany, Italy, France and
England; but significant activity also took place in the Low Countries, Scandinavia, Spain,
Poland and Russia. . . . [T]he characteristically large-scale, public nature of the sympho-
ny, together with the fact that it did not depend on soloistic virtuosity to achieve its effect,
gave it a weight and significance that seemed to call for a composer’s best efforts. The in-
creasingly prominent position accorded the symphony during the 18th century appears
tangibly in both the importance it occupies in publishers’ catalogues and the conspicu-
ous role it plays in writings of the time, including those of Scheibe, Riepel, Burney, Schulz,
Koch and many others (LaRue and Wolf 2008).

The idea is that the ‘stuff ’ of a Symphony embraces the cultural elements of other Classical or Ga­

lant (cf. Heartz 1995) genres at an equivalent level of order where tonality is concerned. Not on-

ly did the Symphony’s development coincide with or contribute to the ‘formation’ (Wolf 1981)

of a so-called ‘Classical’ style however, but the latter end of its ‘life-cycle’ also betrays symptoms

of a tradition now having advanced into a ‘late’ stage of development: composers writing Sym-

phonies in the early nineteenth century were in one sense conservative while ambitious in an-

other (Bonds 2006: 2), when considering the unfavourable social circumstances that surround-

ed both their production and dissemination (Jones 2006: 168 and Chapter 7), as well as the de-

mands levied by the genre owing to its new-found ‘aesthetic prestige’ (Bonds 2006: 2) as ‘The’

representation of music’s ‘autonomy principle’ (Dahlhaus 1984). The genre’s persistence despite

adverse socio-economic factors mirrors, or metaphorically accounts for, the eighteenth-centu-

ry ‘lateness’ of music from roughly 1800–1830, or the perseverance of an increasingly fragment-

ed yet pronounced eighteenth-century ‘mentalité’ (Gjerdingen 2007: 19) in the earliest decades

of the nineteenth century. To speak of the ‘eighteenth-centuriness’ of early nineteenth-century

music is simply to acknowledge a moment when eighteenth-century ‘rules . . . are enshrine[d] .

133
. . at their most fundamental,’ as Spitzer characterises Beethoven’s late style, for example (2006:

3; cf. also Gjerdingen 2007: 237–40, on the dissemination and assimilation of galant practices in

the nineteenth century). No longer mere means for the production of music, conventions took

centre stage as objects for contemplation in themselves. Rules were applied but now also made

transparent, objectified (see Spitzer 2006: 3, passim). The history of the Symphony is therefore

representative of, and commensurate with, the development, codification, and the later, simul-

taneous objectification and decline of the Classical style itself. In this way, the life-cycle of the

Symphony represents the life-cycle of a social memory — as Halbwachs originally put it, ‘The

memory of a society extends as far as it may, which is to say, as far the memory of the groups of

which it is composed reaches (1939/1997: 134).59 The deaths of Beethoven (1827), Catel (1830),

Clementi (1832), Pleyel (1831), Schubert (1828), Vanhal (1813), Carl Maria von Weber (1826),

and others, shortly before, or around the time when the Symphony was dealt a crisis in the 1830s,

are more than coincidental: rather they are causal factors in the dissipation of an eighteenth-cen-

tury mentalité. As Gjerdingen described it, the ontology of style is predicated on a ‘historical en-

vironment’ where ‘an infinitely complex array of events (economic events, political events, artis-

tic events, etc.), composers’ lives, and various trends’ intersect, as abstractly represented in Exam-

ple 3.1 (1988: 99; see also Meyer 1989). The Culture of the Symphony specifies the historical and

geographical outlines not of a genre, but of a thoroughly European eighteenth-century style —

albeit broadly defined.

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The corpus is designed accordingly around every significant genre of Haydn, Mozart, and Bee­

thoven, including: Symphonies; Quartets and Quintets for Strings and other chamber ensem-

bles; Piano Sonatas; Piano Trios; Concertos for Piano as well as String-, Wind-, and -Brass Instru-

ments; Operas, and other selected Vocal Works, sacred and secular.60 Beyond these, thirty-sev-

en volumes from Barry S. Brook’s The Symphony, 1720–1840, covering Italy, France, Austria, Ger-

many, Great Britain, Bohemia, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Denmark,

and Norway, as well as the two-volume Mannheim Symphonists collection edited by Hugo Rie-

mann, formed the basis for a thoroughly European circuit, alongside other symphonic selec-

tions. Building on this framework, the corpus includes several volumes which focus on the Lon-

don Pianoforte School; numerous keyboard works of Emanuel Bach — including the entire

Für Kenner und Liebhaber collection — and Muzio Clementi; the complete Piano Sonatas of Jan

Ladislav Dussek (Dusík), and selected Sonatas of Jiří Antonín Benda, both well-travelled com-

posers from Bohemia; a rather substantial corpus of music by Schubert; operas and other works

of Luigi Cherubini; selected compositions by Felix Mendelssohn and Carl Maria von Weber,

among others, which total more than one hundred composers throughout the Continent and

England, roughly over the course of a century. Together, the sources metaphorically define the

experience of an idealised historical listener: idealised, that is, not in the sense of learnedness, for

both Kenner und Liebhaber are already taken for granted, but in the consistency of the corpus in-

sofar as the foundations of Modulation or tonality are concerned, as specified by the Foucauldi-

an interpretational grid. The corpus outlines a long eighteenth-century style that sustains a con-

135
sistent ‘mode of behaviour,’ as Dahlhaus might have characterised it (1984: 61), in that whatev-

er stylistic variables may exist — be they owing to regional or personal dispositions, or sub-his-

torical or sub-cultural factors — are mere surface ‘variations’ on a constant underlying ‘theme’ of

eighteenth-century tonality, whose presuppositions and the sense of a continuous musical tra-

dition, or a single ‘ethos,’ if you will, about tonality and expressing a key, remain impervious to

any ‘localised’ differences. In brief, the corpus metaphorically represents a collective memory:

an uninterrupted present continually identifying with its past (cf. Butt 2002: 168–69; and pas-

sim). But ultimately, the uniformity of the corpus, as a metaphorical representation of experi-

ence in particular, should be reciprocated and refined in its definition by the results of the study

itself (cf. pp. 170–177, The Collective Memory of the Schema in Space and Time).

136
 II

A Chromatic Turn of Phrase

By the criteria of the Culture of the Rule of the Octave, the question brought to the corpus in-

volves the determination of the chord-forms, or figures, that properly belong to the chromatic

bass at the opening of Beethoven’s Symphony. By following the partimento tradition, for exam-

ple, one might approach the problem as a movimento in Fedele Fenaroli’s terms (Naples 1775),

or as a ‘special rule’ by Gjerdingen’s translation: a regola that turns chromatically about a single

note. But as the progression is already realised with its particular chord-forms in the Sympho-

ny, the question brought to the corpus is less a matter of discerning the totality of ways such a

bass progression may be harmonised than, already given this realisation of chord-forms above

the bass, of determining how the culture conceived the progression in terms of Modulation (as

expressing a key, as chord-forms oriented against a bass) and to which scale degree each chord-

form customarily belongs. By that means, one may then determine the probability for the pro-

gression to define, or express the key of G minor when it sounds at the same pitch-class level of

the Eroica, or whether, and to what extent, the progression is a G-minor defining ‘script.’ By the

French terminology, the chord-forms of the opening are respectively: l’accord parfait majeur (ma-

jor 5/3 triad), bb. 1–6; la quarte et sixte (minor 6/4 triad), b. 6; la septième diminuée (diminished sev-

enth chord), bb. 7–8; and la quarte et sixte (minor 6/4 triad), b. 9, all set above a chromatic turn of

137
phrase in the bass: –1, –1, +1, when measured in semitones.

Statistical Probability

Throughout the entire corpus, the progression, that is, the specific harmonisation of a –1, –1, +1

bass with these precise chord-forms, invariably operates in a single tonal context; or, following the

implied meaning of Heinichen’s schemata modorum, it always ‘represents’ a single tonality: 550 in-

stances of the progression, registered in Appendix B, show the first three chord-forms, corre-

sponding to bb. 1–8 of the Eroica, placed respectively on scale degrees –6, 5, and +4, or in mov-

able solfège terms, on le, sol, and fi. Example 3.2 reproduces excerpts from an eighteenth-centu-

ry Dutch publication of the bass part to Carl Stamitz’s Symphony in G major, Op. 9 no. 2, from

1772 (Siegfried Markordt): with the basso continuo figures also indicated above the bass, the part

literally resembles a partimento exercise which displays each of the relevant chord-forms over a le

– sol – fi bass within a larger progression in G minor. Each of these 550 examples in Appendix B

has a dominant on sol following without exception, as in the Stamitz. 34.7% of the time, the dom-

inant chord-form on sol has a 6/4, as in the Eroica, functioning as a cadential 6/4. The remaining

instances simply have the dominant 5/3 chord alone, without the cadential 6/4 prefix: hence,

the le – sol – fi – sol schema, regola, or movimento, terms that may be understood interchangeably.

The probability for the chord-form progression to express a G minor tonality is therefore a re-

markable 100% within the ‘style system’ (Meyer 1956: 44–46, 55ff.) represented or defined by the

corpus, when pitched at the same level as the Eroica.

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Examples 3.3–3.4 illustrate the regola and its two variations, both in G minor situations. The form­

er reproduces bb. 43–62 from the exposition of the first movement to Haydn’s String Quartet in

C major, Op. 54 no. 2, from 1788. The progression appears in bb. 50–55 at the same pitch-level of

the Eroica within a larger phrase in G minor (bb. 48–56), which closes with an imperfect authen-

tic cadence. Example 3.4 shows bb. 116–125 from the first movement of Dussek’s Piano Sonata

in B-flat major, Op. 45 no. 1, from 1800. There, the schema appears in bb. 122–123, with the ca-

dential 6/4 sounding at bar 123; and as the Haydn, the progression forms part of a larger phrase

in G minor (bb. 121–124) that closes with a half cadence. The 550 instances of this chord-form

progression are not merely data, but in light of the Culture of the Rule of the Octave as ‘inter-

pretational grid,’ they collectively define an empirical ‘fact’ in Cook and Clarke’s terms: ‘what we

think of as empirically-based knowledge — as science — depends not only on observation but

also on the incorporation of observation within patterns of investigation involving generaliza-

tion and explanation. (That is what turns data into facts)’ (2004: 3–4).

Tonality, Probability, and the ‘Character of Necessity’

Beyond this ever-significant empirical fact, the le – sol – fi – sol regola — as it appears in these 550

examples — is the ‘default’ means of harmonically expressing scale degrees –6, 5, and +4, when

they are distributed in the bass in this particular permutation (cf. Appendix B on ‘schema varia-

tions’): of all the possibilities for harmonising the movimento within the culture as a ‘probability

system’ (Meyer 1967/1994: 17, passim), the harmonisation represented by the Stamitz, Haydn,

139
and Dussek examples is by far the statistically most frequent. Not only do the statistics in Ap-

pendix B provide empirical evidence for the progression as a form of gewohnte Modulation, but,

like other ‘special moves’ and movimenti of the Italian partimento tradition, the progression ap-

pears in Book VI, the last and most involved of Fenaroli’s Partimenti ossia basso numerato from

1800 (Example 3.5). Fenaroli would have expected precisely this realisation from his pupils, ac-

companists, etc; and it is indeed precisely the harmonisation witnessed in the Stamitz, Haydn,

and Dussek examples above that the Greek nineteenth-century composer, theorist, and peda-

gogue Nikolaos Halikiopoulos Mantzaros (1795–1872) used to realise the progression (Exam-

ple 3.6), in composing realisations for all of Books V and VI of Fenaroli’s partimenti (dedicated to

Queen Victoria and now housed in the manuscript collection of the British Library; Mantzaros

1850/1856). The significance of this observation turns on the question of keyness and harmon-

ic function, again from the historical perspective — a particular bass line not only regulates the

possible chord-forms or chord-form progressions that may be realised above that bass line, but

a given chord-form progression also reciprocally defines what scale degrees lie in the bass. Be-

tween this reciprocal relationship of chord-forms and bass patterns, the sense of a key emerges.

The ‘script’ or key-defining attributes of a harmonic progression are determined specifically by

this reciprocal relationship. The tonality, or function of a chord, then, amounts to the harmonic

expression of a scale degree in the bass, and its directional redundancies or probability for suc-

cession within a mode, as Fétis summarised it in 1844:

The formula for the law of melodic and harmonic succession in modern music resides in the

140
 major and minor modes of the scale. The scale is at once the rule for the order of succession
of tones, by reason of their most immediate affinities, and the measure of the distance that sep-
arates them. The results of these harmonic and melodic affinities [cf. probability] is to give the
progressions of each mode a character of necessity that is generally designated by the name
tonality [tonalité]. . . . Each tone of a scale, having a particular character and carrying out a special
function [fonction] in music, is accompanied by a harmony analogous to this character and to this
function [fonction]. The collection of harmonies proper to each degree of the scale determines the to-
nality [la tonalité]’ (1844/1879: 2–3; also 14–30; added emphasis).61

In 1817, across the English Channel, John Callcott’s A Musical Grammar similarly explained the

names of scale degrees as a product ‘of the qualities of the notes which compose the scale,’ and

further qualified scale-degree terminology according to the particular orientation or frequency

of succession of a scale degree: ‘in the descending Rule of the Octave, the Sixth of the Key[, for

example,] might be called Superdominant (Sudominante),’ rather than ‘Submediant’ (1817: 136ff.).

Later in the 1850s, John Curwen developed a metalinguistic system for representing and assim-

ilating these affinities, which he described as ‘mental effects.’ Beyond the pedagogical function

of Curwen’s so-called movable-do system, which derived from the dominant system of solfège in

eighteenth-century France, like Fétis’ Traité, it brought a philosophical dimension that sought

to objectify the ineffable phenomenon of scale-degree affinities, particularly in the context of

these ‘mental effects’; as Jay Rahn describes it, Curwen’s ‘“mental effects” involve “relations.” . . .

[E]ach of the seven syllables . . . embodies a distinct mental effect or perceptual category: “doh-

ness” or “ray-ness”’ (Rahn 1997: 134). To speak of the ‘doh-ness’ or the ‘ray-ness’ of a tone, and to

speak of its ‘tone-ality’ are one and the same proposition. Both involve positioning a tone along

axes of relation and affinity to other tones within a key-system that reciprocally define that sys-

141
tem; as Laurent Gervais described it already by 1733, using the leading tone as an example, these

relations ‘cause one to sense what key one is in’ (1733: 7).62

David Huron brought substantial evidence to concretise these otherwise more intuitively driv-

en arguments regarding the probability of melodic succession and tonal affinities, by way of a

corpus study of several thousand Germanic, major-mode folk-song melodies (2006: 158–162).

‘The frequency data’ shown in Example 3.7(a), Huron’s Table 9.2, gives the probability for each

tone of the diatonic scale and its chromatic transformations to be followed by any of the oth-

er diatonic degrees, as determined by ‘more than a quarter of a million tone pairs’ (158) in the

corpus. Example 3.7(b), Huron’s Figure 9.7, graphically summarises the statistically most prob-

able successions among the diatonic scale degrees above a certain threshold of frequency. ‘The

thickness of each connecting line is proportional to the probability of melodic succession,’ and

lines are drawn only for ‘those transitions that have probabilities greater than 0.015’ (160): above

this threshold, one sees the leading tone standing in a relationship only to the tonic. (The great-

er probability of 1–7, compared to 7–1, must owe to the frequency by which the progression ap-

pears at half cadences, in the 1–7, 4–3 archetype, and so forth). Now, statistical samples of this

kind will hardly be encountered in any eighteenth-century theory and pedagogy, but the same

kinds of probability or statistical arguments were formulated otherwise — certainly by la règle

de l’octave, the ‘if-then’-type propositions encountered in descriptions of partimento realisation,

Corrette’s probability table of chord-form succession (Example 2.14), but also by the particu-

142
lar names given the scale degrees by French thoroughbass practice. For ‘in many theoretical sys-

tems the importance of probability relationships is made clear in the way in which the tones of the system

are named. . . . [T]he normative tones, those toward which other tones will probably move, have

been given basic names, while the other tones have been given names related to these, often in

terms of their probable motions’ (Meyer 1956: 56; my emphasis). It is such a system of nomen-

clature found in French thoroughbass practice, and such a conception of tonality that under-

lies Fétis’ definition above — ‘harmonic and melodic affinities’ and the ‘character of necessity’

amount to the probability and probability profile of a tone or harmony.

In the same Chapter from the Traité cited above, Fétis continues:

The degrees of the scale are designated by names, some of which indicate the melodic or
harmonic character of the tones that constitute the scale. Thus the first note of the scale of
any key [ton] is called the tonic [tonique], because it gives its name to the key; the second is
called second degree (and in the language of a few older harmonists, over-tonic [sus-tonique]; the
third, third degree (formerly, médiante, because it is the mediating degree between the first
and fifth notes of the chord called perfect); the fourth, fourth degree (formerly, subdominant
[sous-dominante]); the fifth, dominant [dominante], because it is found in a great number of
harmonic combinations; the sixth, sixth degree (formerly, over-dominant [sus-dominante]);
the seventh, the leading tone [note sensible], when it has an ascending tendency towards the
tonic, and seventh degree in others cases (1844/1879: 2, added emphasis).63

The names for scale degrees 1, 3, 5, and 7 are certainly quite familiar, but the historical terms for

scale degrees 2, 4, and 6 (sus-tonique, sous-dominante, and sus-dominante) as well as their meanings

may not be immediately apparent, particularly in light of Rameau’s substantial reinterpretation

of the term sous-dominante.64 Fétis most likely refers to a largely undocumented aural tradition,

but the terms do arise in print as early as 1719, in Dandrieu’s Principes de l’accompagnement du cla-

143
vecin. Example 3.8 reproduces Dandrieu’s graphic representation of the scale degrees for both

the major and minor modes, along with their chromatic transformations. Each of the degrees

not belonging to the tonic triad is defined by its orientation to the tonic and dominant. Both in

Fétis and Dandrieu, the terms represent metalinguistic functional categories:

The first note of a mode is called the final [Finale], the third the mediant [Mèdiante], and
the fifth the dominant [Dominante]. These notes are called the essential degrees (cordes) of
the mode because they constitute a mode as its fixed points. Besides these notes or essen-
tial degrees there are other subordinate notes or degrees whose knowledge is essential to
the knowledge of tonality [modulation]. These subordinate notes are those found precise-
ly above and below the essential notes of the mode and whose name is easily learned from
the following page [Example 3.8], as well as the from the instructions beneath each of the
Tables [cf. Chapter 2] (Dandrieu 1719: 5–6).65

Not only does Dandrieu use sufinale, soudominante, and sudominante to describe scale degrees 2,

4, and 6, but the same logic applies to the leading tone as well, called soufinale. Thus every scale

degree aside from the mediant is defined by its neighbouring position to the tonic or dominant,

lying immediately above or below. Each term specifies a location within the diatonic scale that

determines the ‘melodic or harmonic character’ of each degree, and by that we may understand

the melodic or harmonic probability, or ‘function,’ of scale degrees, as Meyer as well as Fétis be-

fore him have already characterised it.

The scale-degree terminology is entirely consistent with the statistically most probable melod-

ic successions in Huron’s study: Sufinale/sus-tonique implies an ‘immediate affinity’ with scale de-

gree 1, or that scale degree 2 is most likely to descend to the tonic. Example 3.7(a) gives a val-

ue of 0.04190 for the progression, the highest ratio in the scale degree 1 column, and the third

144
most frequent scale-degree progression in the entire data set (see Huron 2006: 159). Sus-domi-

nante similarly implies an immediate affinity to the dominant, also confirmed by Huron’s analy-

sis with a value of o.o3642, as well as by Example 3.7(b), where scale degree 6 stands in a relation-

ship only to the dominant above the threshold frequency of 0.015. The soufinale, as already seen

above, has the same property in relation to the tonic. The one exception involves the sous-domi-

nante, whose probability to ascend to the dominant is second to its descending tendency to fall

onto scale degree 3 (0.04127 compared to 0.01712), but not without good reason. Huron’s statis-

tics are based on melodies, while thoroughbass practice views scale-degree tendency first from

the perspective of the bass; a sample of bass lines from an eighteenth-century corpus would po-

tentially show greater frequency for scale degree 4 to ascend to 5, as in the cadence galante (Cud-

worth 1949; Gjerdingen 2007: 146–149), than to descend to 3.66

More importantly in the context of the le – sol – fi – sol schema, the functional connotations of

sous- and sus-dominante-ness from the historical conception resonate in other details of Huron’s

study: a number of scale degrees also displayed a unique property whereby ‘a single continua-

tion pitch dominates all other possibilities’ of succession (2006: 161), as already seen with scale

degree six, the sus-dominante, in Example 3.7(b). Example 3.9 (Huron’s Figure 9.8) isolates oth-

er such ‘tendency tones,’ among them +4. But the lowered sus-dominante (–6) exhibited the same

property, in spite of the overriding major-mode context of the study. Both –6 and +4 are most

likely to resolve onto the dominant, with ratios of 0.00021 and 0.00257 respectively, as graphical-

145
ly summarised in Example 3.10. The two scale degrees have nearly identical probability profiles

in relative terms (a statistical study of minor-mode melodies should potentially generate nearly

identical profiles in absolute terms as well). The underlying scale-degree progression of the le –

sol – fi – sol is therefore a chromatic transformation and intensification of the dominant-orient-

edness of scale degrees 4 and 6, as implied by the French scale-degree terminology, and as con-

firmed by Huron’s corpus study. Beyond the commonplace notion that these degrees are inde-

pendently oriented towards the dominant, the significance of Huron’s statistics lies in these near

identical probability profiles, which indicates scale degrees –6 and +4 have a parallel function or

parallel affinity to the dominant, as exact mirror images of one another. The result is a ‘necessity’

for the scale degrees to be coupled into a single syntactic unit that is realised by the le – sol – fi –

sol schema. In addition to coupling these parallel affinities within a single syntactic structure, the

statistical evidence of le – sol – fi – sol regola indicates that the VI chord is the ‘default’ harmonic

expression of the ‘sus-dominante-ness’ of flat scale degree 6, while the diminished sev­enth chord,

+ivo7, is the ‘default’ harmonic expression of chromatic ‘sous-dominante-ness’ (see Appendix B),

when given this particular distribution of the scale degrees in the bass. Together, the two chords

frame a syntactic unit that may be generalised as having dominantising function, or S-ness (de-

rived from sous- and sus-dominante; see Examples 3.3 and 3.4), and whose origins lie in the prob-

abilities and syntaxes determined by the cultural interpretation imposed upon the structure of the dia-

tonic scale.67 ‘In themselves,’ — as Robert Francès related it in La perception de la musique — ‘inter-

vals already constitute a species of sonorous syntax, in this sense that tones are found to be relat-

146
ed to one another in pairs’ (Francès 2002: 63ff.; cf. Huron).68 Francès qualified this phenomenon

in terms of ‘three principal laws’:

1) « Scale Property ». Each tone is integrated in a scale, as a step having a standardized dis-
tance from the scale origin. 2) The steps are differentiated according to a functional hier-
archy. The first and, to a less extent, the fifth steps are prominent, they are the stable ones,
while the others are subordinate and transitory steps. 3) This hierarchy produces polarity
between the first and fifth steps, the former appealing the latter; it produces also a series of
attractive tendencies of the subordinate steps by the prominent ones (2002: 404, original English
summary by Francès himself; cf. Dandrieu above; added emphasis).

The le – sol – fi – sol schema is a product of the combination of le – sol and fi – sol ‘attractive ten-

dencies,’ with fi acting as a chromatic fa.

The implications of this are threefold. First, neither from a conceptual, nor a cognitive-phenom-

enological perspective, can harmonic function be limited to three categories as specified by the

‘functional cycle’ (Sadai 1980); as Gjerdingen argues:

For a variety of reasons, the syntax of harmony in real music is not quite that simple. . . . A
chord is functional to the extent that it suggests a position within a known harmonic pat-
tern. Or put another way, the recognition of the function of the part (a chord) is tied to
recognition of the set of possible wholes (learned harmonic patterns) into which that part
could fit (Gjerdingen 1991a: 553).

By situating the problem in its socio-cultural setting, one sees that ‘known’ or ‘learned harmonic

patterns’ presuppose known or learned scale-degree patterns: chords and chord progressions are

functional to the extent they suggest a position within a known scale-degree pattern in the bass. The

le – sol – fi – sol regola alone brings evidence to this: several instances of the schema are harmo-

nised with octave duplications of the bass in two or more voices, and always in the same syntac-

tic context as its harmonised variants. Example 3.11 shows one instance from the beginning of

147
the second movement to Haydn’s F minor String Quartet, Op. 55 no. 2, ‘The Razor,’ from 1788,

where the movimento articulates the half cadence of the antecedent phrase from the movement’s

period-structured principal theme. But that harmonic function was determined by a scale-de-

gree pattern in the bass was also deeply embedded in the ‘psyche’ of eighteenth-century musical

practice, insofar as one may reconstruct the cultural mentalité by way of documents (as in Chap-

ter 2). For example, Gjerdingen calls attention to the melodic basis that underlies Johann Gott-

fried Walther’s categorisation of the various forms of cadence, or clausulae, such as the clausula

perfectissima, or perfect authentic cadence; among them, Walther describes a clausula cantizans,

a clausula tenorizans, and a clausula altizans; each refers to a V–I progression but with a different

scale-degree pattern in the bass: 7–1, 2–1, and 5–3 respectively. Their qualities, cantizans, tenori-

zans, and altizans are a consequence of the frequency by which these scale-degree successions

appear in the soprano, tenor, and alto respectively. ‘Walther’s treatise [Praecepta der musicalischen

Composition, Erfurt, 1708] was, after all, written in the era of figured bass and partimenti. It drew

attention to specific patterns in the bass that could help a young accompanist recognize the in-

tended type of clausula. . . . [T]hat a bass contained the essential trace of the musical path was

widespread and explains to some extent why partimenti were so common in the training of fu-

ture composers’ (Gjerdingen 2007: 139–140, 380). By no means need one dispose of the func-

tional cycle however, but simply refine or accommodate it to this eighteenth-century mentalité:

modern terminology may have historical resonance so long as it conforms to the historically re-

constructed interpretational grid.

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Towards that end, Example 3.12 gives a synopsis of eighteenth-century harmonic syntax which

accounts for both Fétis’ contention, that tonality and harmonic function are products of scale-

degree affinities realised in the bass and their proper harmonisation, as well as Gjerdingen’s ar-

gument that harmonic-functional memory involves ‘a set of possible wholes.’ Both in terms of

its design and its content, the illustration was inspired by and significantly expands upon a simi-

lar image and related arguments in a paper delivered by Ian Quinn at the Annual Meeting of the

Society for Music Theory in Boston, 2005: ‘Harmonic Function Without Primary Triads’; com-

pare to Swinden 2005; Smith 1981; 1986). By Fétis, Gjerdingen, and Quinn’s estimations and to

my own way of thinking, more faithful representations of eighteenth-century syntax should in-

clude a comprehensive stock of functional cycles, which would refine and further specify the syn-

tax or function of a given chord as a qualitative category determined not simply by its member-

ship to one of three harmonic categories — T, S, D, — but also by the combination of these with

scale-degree patterns in the bass.

Both are historically consistent ­— in addition to the Rule of the Octave and chord-form tables,

eighteenth-century thoroughbass manuals often supplement these by demonstrating various ‘re­

lations among chords.’ Example 3.13 reproduces another variety of table from Gervais’ Me­thode,

bearing the title ‘Rapports des Accords’ (1733: 23–26); among these relationships, one finds af-

finity determined by scale-degree commonality: Example A relates three different forms of C

major in root, first, and second inversion — in Weber’s terms, three different Lagen or Gestalten

149
expressing C major. This type of affinity displays the assimilation of Rameau’s basse fondamentale

(1722) to the larger Culture of the Rule of the Octave by more practically or empirically mind-

ed treatises and pedagogues (cf. Lester 1992: 218, and passim; Christensen 1992: 94; Holtmei-

er 2007). Beyond the basic level conception of chord-forms belonging to a scale degree in the

bass, the basse fondamentale demonstrated affinities between chord-forms by virtue of common

scale-degree content, as seen in Barbara Ployer’s studies with Mozart (1784/1989), David Kell-

ner’s description of inversion as involving a ‘relation of “pitch classes”’ (1732: 32; see Holtmeier

2007: 32), and certain explanations in thoroughbass manuals; chords on scale degrees 2, 4, 5, and

7 of the Rule of the Octave (la petite sixte on re, le triton on fa, la septième on sol, and la fausse quinte

on ti), for example, were all recognised as dominants on a more general level (Corrette 1753: 67–

69). But affinities between chords involved more than the commonality of scale degrees: the

‘rapport’ in Example O of Gervais’ Table involves a functional affinity between the 6/4/3 chord

on lowered scale degree 6 (ii/o) and the French augmented-sixth, or la sixte superfluë. He writes,

‘this chord differs from la petite Sixte [ii/o4/3] only in that one adds a sharp to the sixth, which was

naturally major’ (1733: 24).69 The map of Example 3.12 abstracts both kinds of affinity (scale-de-

gree and functional) into a single category — e.g., the two chords in Gervais’ Example O both

express Sle function.

Example 3.12 is less an illustration of harmonic progressions than harmonic-functional syntax-

es that may be realised by more than one set of chord progressions. For example, the syntax Tdo

150
– Dre – Tmi may be realised by I–V4/3–I6, I–viio6(/5)–I6, or I–V6/4–I6. The diagram thereby

presupposes the knowledge given by Chord-Form Tables, partimenti, and Rule of the Octave

progressions in eighteenth-century thoroughbass treatises, that specify which chord-forms be-

long to what scale degrees in any given bass-line context, knowledge that is summarised in Ex-

ample 3.14, which represents a taxonomy of chord-form types that fulfil the syntactic functions

abstracted in Example 3.12. For example, Sdo – Dti is a syntactic abstraction which recognises

that scale degree 1 may be harmonised either by la seconde, i.e., the 6/4/2 chord (ii), the 6/3 (vi),

or the 6/4 (IV), when it descends to the leading tone, or that it should be harmonised by these

chord-forms in order to create the implication for resolution to Dti, represented either by V6, V6/5,

or viio7. Dandrieu, as seen in Chapter 2, introduces each chord-form type always in the context

of a ‘known harmonic pattern,’ and these chords are introduced precisely in this bass-line con-

text, as shown in Examples 3.15–3.16. Regarding l’accord de la seconde in Example 3.15, beneath

the corresponding Table Dandrieu writes, ‘This dissonant chord is rather frequently formed on the

tonic scale degree when this note [in the bass] is preceded and followed as in this table.’70 Dandrieu unmis-

takably positions the function of the chord within a specific bass-line context that corresponds

to Corrette’s statistically most probable resolution for the la seconde in the probability table of

Example 2.14: to la fausse quinte (Example 2.14, G). Likewise, the network of syntaxes in Exam-

ple 3.12 summarises the most common occurrences, as determined by a survey of the bass lines

in the ‘Music Sources’ of Appendix A; as in Huron’s study, only diatonic progressions were reg-

istered, while variations in stroke distinguish between types of syntaxes, as demonstrated in the

151
legend of Example 3.12. But the culturally-determined knowledge represented in Examples 3.12

and 3.14 is reciprocal; the knowledge represented in Example 3.12 presupposes that in Example

3.14, insofar as the selection of a chord-form for a given syntax is concerned. By way of example,

l’accord de la seconde assumes only one form of Sdo syntax: the interfunctional motion to Dti (see

Example 3.12), because its bass note, a chordal seventh, must resolve down to scale degree seven.

The vi6/3 chord, however, may assume any of the Sdo moves in Example 3.12 — 1) the interfunc-

tional progression to Dti, as in Dandrieu’s partimento; 2) the intrafunctional progression to Sla (as in

vi6–IV6); and 3) the passing-expansive progression, Dre–Sdo–Dti and vice versa (as in V4/3–vi6–

V6/5). Together, the diagrams represent a synopsis of eighteenth-century harmonic syntax and

vocabulary. But in the absence of computationally analysable data, a more accurate account of

probability must be addressed elsewhere.71 The more pressing issue to the matter at hand, how-

ever, involves contextualising the le – sol – fi – sol within this larger background, and once more

with a view towards reconstructing the broader knowledge base that would prompt a historically

situated listener such as Rochlitz to cognise a G minor modulation so matter-of-factly: the 550

instances of the regola registered in Appendix B are not isolated events, but the movimento itself

is part and symptomatic of a larger Culture of Modulation.

In approaching the matter, we may begin by drawing attention to a seemingly incidental detail:

the ‘passing’ G minor 6/4 chord of the regola in Examples 3.2–3.6. By post-Riemannian stand-

ards, assigning tonic-function to the harmony, as in Example 3.3–3.4, is outside of normal prac-

152
tice. For one thing, the larger harmonic-functional syntax that emerges, S – T – S, violates the

normal conception of the functional cycle by regressing a stage in the otherwise unidirectional

cycle; such chords are therefore deemed functionally insignificant (see Sadai 1980: 200–213; cf.

Hyer 1996: 89). But often such ‘infrastructural’ theoretical restrictions (Popovic 1992: 3–4) are

inconsistent with actual musical practice. Huron also performed a statistical study of harmonic

progressions using a sample of Baroque music, whose data is given in Example 3.17 (2006: 250–

52, Table 13.2): not only do the results contradict commonplace notions of the functional cy-

cle, but most root-oriented conceptions of harmonic function as well. To begin with, the IV

chord is nearly equally as likely to be followed by I as by V: 30.4 versus 38%. Part of this may owe

to Huron’s having treated the cadential 6/4 chord as a I6/4 (inversions are not specified). But a

more penetrating reason is that IV – I appears in many other frequent bass-line contexts. Two

schemata in Gjerdingen’s Music in the Galant Style, for example, the galant variation of the Ro-

manesca and the Prinner (2007: 33, 45–60), feature IV – I progressions that are paradigmatic,

or gewohnt, in Weber’s terms. Example 3.18 (reproduced from Gjerdingen’s Example 3.2) shows

both schemata in sequence in a Chamber Sonata by Wenceslaus Wodiczka, from 1739 (Op. 1

no. 3, i). The annotations supplied beneath Gjerdingen’s analysis show I followed by IV in an Sfa

– Tmi – Sre context (cf. Example 3.12). The galant variant of the Romanesca progresses entire-

ly ‘backwards’ through a complete functional cycle. Huron’s analysis also demonstrates that ii is

more likely to be succeeded by I than by vii, and by a large margin — 27.4 versus 4.8% — which

once again violates the unidirectional orientation of the functional cycle. Huron’s data suggests

153
that an S – T progression (ii–I) is significantly more frequent than an S – D progression (ii–viio).

Similar ‘problems’ arise elsewhere in Huron’s statistics, where so-called ‘weak’ or infrequent pro-

gressions (Schoenberg 1969: 6ff.) are nonetheless statistically more probable: vi – V (o.286) ver-

sus vi – IV (o.139), and vi – I (0.155) versus vi – IV (0.139). Here too, the ‘problem’ may owe to

Huron’s possibly having interpreted the cadential 6/4 as a I6/4.

But what all these examples suggest is the strong syntactic affiliation of the tonic with IV and vi

in situations that fall outside the commonplace associations of tonic function with the bounda-

ry stages of a T – S – D – T cycle. The historical situation recognises Tdo, Tmi, and Tsol as related

but nevertheless distinct categories of function, or syntax. Indeed, among the most frequent us-

es of I6 and I6/4 in both the major and minor modes is as mediating chords between sous-domi-

nante and sus-dominante scale-degree bearing harmonies: namely, vi (or VI), IV (or iv), and ii (or

iio). While I6 frequently operates as the initiating stage of a cadence galante, or as Tmi progress-

ing to Sfa, another common use of this chord fulfils a different variety of Tmi syntax, one that

serves to expand S-function in a passive-expansive progression: either as Sfa – Tmi – Sre, or Sre –

Tmi – Sfa (Example 3.12). The former cycle underlies the first three stages of the Prinner sche-

ma, as seen in bb. 5–8 from the first movement of Mozart’s well-known Piano Sonata in C major,

K. 545, shown in Example 3.19, along with Gjerdingen’s analysis (2007: 365). In the same move-

ment, shortly after in bar 10, we see a second inversion tonic functioning as a passing harmony:

Sfa – Tsol – Sla. Like the Sfa – Tmi – Sre harmonic-functional cycle, the Sfa – Tsol – Sla is a par-

154
adigmatic component of a schema, what Gjerdingen calls the ‘Indugio,’ from the Italian indug-

iare, because of its ‘lingering’ on a sous-dominante-based harmony, either ii or IV (2007: 273–283,

464) — a more elaborate instance appears in Mozart’s first Piano Sonata in C major, K. 279, first

movement (Example 3.20). Bars 25–28 expand S-function via exchanges of ii6/5 (Sfa) and IV6

(Sla) that are mediated by I6/4, or Tsol (see Example 3.20). The vi to I ‘problem’ in Huron’s statis-

tical analysis is likewise a consequence of this very frequent syntactic formula, where I6/4 func-

tions as a mediating chord within a larger Sla – Tsol – Sfa, or Sfa – Tsol – Sla cycle, when vi as-

sumes the role of Sla, as seen in its minor-mode form in the opening bars of Mozart’s Fantasy

for Keyboard in C minor, K. 396, from 1782 (cf. Examples 3.21, 3.12). Besides the context of this

very frequent harmonic-functional cycle, the vi – I progression is also a paradigmatic compo-

nent of the Galant Romanesca, as seen in Example 3.18.

By dwelling on this seemingly incidental detail with the ‘passing’ 6/4 chord, we arrive at the sec-

ond of three larger implications mentioned above — chord-function presupposes mentally rec-

ognising a larger harmonic pattern, as Gjerdingen maintains, but individual chord-forms, espe-

cially the ‘Well-known Positions’ (besonders bekannte Lagen) in Weber’s terms (Chap. 2), also re-

ciprocally define that ‘known pattern.’ In respect to the major and minor triads in 6/4 position,

not only are these most frequently realised on sol, as thoroughbass treatises also specify, but the

second most frequent use of these 6/4 chord types in the corpus is as passing harmonies be-

tween Sfa- and Sla(le)-type syntaxes, second only to the cadential 6/4, or Dsol. In other words,

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a passing 6/4 has the capacity to clarify the underlying operation of ‘dominantising’ or S-func-

tional syntax: it marks the chords surrounding it as harmonic realisations of sus-dominante and

sous-dominante scale-degree affinities that converge on the dominante.

The third and last implication follows: if the Sle – Tsol – Sfa cycle is the harmonic-syntactic and

therefore diachronic equivalent of the sus-dominante and sous-dominante synchronic affinities that

inhere in the diatonic scale (cf. Francès above), the Sle – Tsol – Sfa cycle is the diatonic basis for

the Sle – Tsol – Sfi syntax that characterises the le – sol – fi – sol schema: the le – sol – fi stage of

the movimento is a chromatically intensified variant of the progression shown in Mozart’s Fanta-

sy (Example 3.21), one that further dominantises the chord of resolution in a manner parallel

to the augmented sixth chord (itself a chromatic intensification of iv6, etc.), insofar as its ‘char-

acter of necessity’ is concerned. We know that it was understood precisely in this way because,

first, the two syntaxes appear in identical musical contexts, and, more importantly, the corpus

displays numerous instances of a hybrid, ‘associate’ schema (see Gjerdingen 2007: 376, passim)

where the Sfi event is immediately preceded by Sfa: the le – sol – fa – fi – sol regola. Example 3.22

shows the movimento articulating the half cadence of the expositional ‘medial caesura’ (Hepoko-

ski and Darcy 2006) in the Finale of Mozart’s ‘Prague’ Symphony, K. 504. The analogous situa-

tion from the opening of Don Giovanni (Example 3.23), in which a German augmented sixth de-

rives from a diatonic iv6, is something of a mirror image of the ‘Prague’ Symphony example. The

harmonic ‘derivation’ of the augmented sixth from a minor sixth in Don Giovanni is paralleled

156
by the compression of a minor third linear progression to a diminished third in the bass of the

‘Prague’ example. In both instances, the dominantising syntax involves the articulation of a rhe-

torically emphasised half cadence and caesura, and it was entirely common for the two progres-

sions to substitute for one another in such and similar contexts. Example 3.24 provides anoth-

er example of the le – sol – fa – fi – sol by the Italian composer Domenico Cimarosa, from his Pi-

ano Sonata in F major, C. 41 from circa 1775. By extension, the first three events of the le – sol –

fi – sol movimento are a diachronic expression of the dual sus-dominante and chromatic sous-dom-

inante affinities synchronically realised by the augmented sixth chord itself. In other words, the

preceding examples that employ scale degree +4 in highly dominant-oriented or dominantising set-

tings are different individuations of the same underlying concept of sous-dominant-ness. It was

undoubtedly for this reason that Vogler, in first devising the use of Roman numerals as a meta-

linguistic representation of harmony, used ‘IV’ to represent both the German augmented sixth

and the diminished seventh chord on +4, which is represented as +ivo7 in the preceding exam-

ples. Examples 3.25–3.26 reproduce Table XXI, Figure 5 and Table XXVII from Vogler’s Kuhrp-

fälzische Tonschule of 1778, which use ‘IV’ to represent both +4-based chords. In a manner of

speaking, then, the Eroica Symphony begins with an E-flat major triad which transforms into an

augmented sixth and that resolves onto a cadential 6/4. The matter-of-factness behind Rochlitz

and others’ G minor responses partly owes to this phenomenon, to the augmented-sixth conno-

tation of this already very common ‘sound term.’72

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Tonal ‘Scripts,’ Cadential Affinities, and Formal Settings

The key-defining, ‘script’ character of the le – sol – fi – sol thereby operates by way of two stages,

consisting of four events that correspond to the progression of the bass. Events are represent-

ed by scale-degree nodes in the bass of Examples 3.3 and 3.4. Simple lines without arrows be-

tween nodes designate and group intrastage and intrafunctional relations. Bold lines with ar-

rows indicate a higher-level syntactic articulation between the two stages of the schema, which

corresponds to the larger S – D progression (see Example 3.3, legend) and almost invariably to

a metric division. The first stage expands dominantising function by harmonising a le – sol – fi

bass with sus-dominante, tonique, and chromatic sous-dominante chord-forms, that collectively ex-

press the same function as an augmented sixth, whose characteristic harmonic interval is ‘com-

posed-out’ as a diminished third in the bass. The aggregate effect of the three events in the first

stage produces a similar ‘lingering’ as the ‘Indugio’ schema in Examples 3.19–3.20, but on a chro-

matically-intensified and therefore even more dominant-oriented augmented sixth chord. The

second stage of the regola is simply an expression of the dominant, often highlighted by a caden-

tial 6/4. The schema’s ‘character of necessity,’ or tonality-defining ‘script’ character, is constitut-

ed by the negotiation of these two stages. In this way, they resemble Meyer’s changing-note ar-

chetypes, which all follow a T–D, D–T ‘statement-response’ (Caplin 1998: 39) pattern of har-

monic organisation (Example 3.27). If these Schemata Modorum may be generalised as having

an overall tonicising character, a scripted configuration for defining a key via these calculated ex-

changes of tonic and dominant, then the le – sol – fi – sol movimento is driven by an overall dom-

158
inantising character, or S – D, also shared by other schemata, such as the Phrygian half cadence,

the Augmented 6th–V schema, and so forth.

Throughout the entire corpus, the regola appears in the most familiar of situations to express a

key. The degree of its Gebrauchlichkeit, or its being customary, is measured not only by the extent

of its population and the frequency of its occurrence in the corpus, but also by composers’ ex-

ploitation of its particular ‘character of necessity,’ or its dominantising attributes. We might ap-

proach this aspect of the movimento by posing a question to, or attempting to reconstruct the

meaning of, yet another document. By a somewhat extraordinary coincidence, the earliest ex-

ample of the schema in any surviving work by Beethoven appears in the form of a sketch for an

unfinished composition that also contains an only partly realised instance of the regola, which

corresponds exactly to the Eroica opening: The Lamentations of Jeremiah (c. 1791). Page 96 recto

of the Kafka Miscellany (c. 1786–1799) at the British Museum (which contains the Lamentations

sketches) shows a draft of the schema at staff lines 9–10 and 11–12, bars 14–15 and 15–17, respec-

tively. Excerpts of the sketch and its transcription (from Beethoven 1786–1799, vol. 2: 132) are

given as Example 3.28. Bar 11 of staff lines 9–10 contains some worked-out motivic material for

a phrase that begins with a B-flat major triad, but the remaining bars merely draft the continua-

tion of the le – sol – fi – sol by using a short-hand that, once more, shows figures against a bass: 6/4

– 7 – 6/4, over A – G-sharp – A. The music sketched in the first bar of the transcription is further

reduced to resemble a partimento:

159
 As a continuous, mostly one-voice blueprint for realizing a polyphonic composition, an
advanced partimento shares many features in common with what scholars of composers’
sketches often term a ‘continuity draft’ [cf. Chap. 1]. Indeed, someone unacquainted with
partimenti could easily mistake a manuscript copy of an advanced partimento for a com-
poser’s sketch (Gjerdingen 2007: 381).

The draft also shows Beethoven thinking of the schema as a module, which Gjerdingen has ar-

gued also underlies the sketches for Haydn’s G minor String Quartet Op. 20 no. 3 (2007: 383–

397). And as in the opening of the Eroica, the schema extends only to the cadential 6/4 in Ex-

ample 3.28. In the Lamentations draft however, Beethoven writes ‘usw’ (und so weiter) at the mo-

ment where the movimento breaks off, an acronym frequently encountered in the sketchbooks

(see Johnson et al. 1985; Cooper 1990). The 550 instances of the le –sol – fi – sol schema indicate

that the meaning of und so weiter — like Rochlitz’s förmlich — signifies at least a dominant, one

belonging to D minor. But beyond that, it likely implies a broader compositional idea lying in

Beethoven’s ‘long-term memory’ (cf. Derr 1984) of the schema, because the key-defining prop-

erties of the regola are augmented by its calculated application to bring a phrase — or otherwise

structurally significant moment in a relevant form — to a close by way of an authentic or half ca-

dence. The ‘script’ function of the le – sol –fi – sol, or its dominantising character of necessity, is

amplified by its almost invariable promotion of some variety of cadence. While the 1–7, 4–3, for

example, is ‘front-heavy’ in its relationship to phrase-structure, used to begin a phrase as an open-

ing gambit, the le – sol – fi – sol is end- and thereby closure-oriented.

Of the 550 instances, 456 (83%) lead either to a PAC, IAC, or HC. By far, the half cadence is the

160
most frequent of the three cadence types, occurring roughly 62% of the time with 343 instances,

while the PAC and IAC follow with frequencies of 18% and 3% (see Example 3.29). The remain-

ing instances lead either to a deceptive cadence (DC, 1%), serve to expand an already articulat­

ed half cadence (dominant expanding, DE, 2%), or otherwise avoid a cadence entirely by means

of chordal inversion (V immediately followed by V4/2, I6, etc.), or by an abrupt change of key

(14%). Not surprisingly, the movimento typically appears in situations that need conclusively de-

fine a tonality. In the second movement of Emanuel Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in A major Wq.

55:4, from the Kenner und Liebhaber collections, for example, the le – sol – fi – sol assumes the

same function as the more common cadence galante, to produce the concluding perfect authen-

tic cadence of the entire movement in F-sharp minor (see Example 3.30), a particular use of the

schema Bach repeats in three other Sonata movements (Wq. 55:5, i; 65:17, i, ii), and is likewise

seen in Cimarosa’s Piano Sonata in D minor (C. 75, bb. 76–77). The earliest instance of the regola

in the entire corpus also appears in the same context: the Courante of the D minor Suite for Un-

accompanied Cello from 1720, by Sebastian Bach, in Example 3.31. The movimento forms part of

the two perfect authentic cadences in A and D minor that respectively close the A and A′ sec-

tions of the movement’s rounded binary form: the schema is nested within a larger Indugio in

bb. 13–16 and 29–32, as a common further elaboration of a cadenza composta (i.e., a Tme – Sfa –

Dsol cadential formula with a 6/4 chord on scale degree 5; see Gjerdingen 2007: 141–144). The

same strategy would apply nearly a century later, as seen in the final bars of Dussek’s Grande Sym-

phonie Concertante in B-flat major, Op. 60 (1805–06), where the schema arises amid a series of

161
closing codettas (Example 3.32).

The Bach Cello Suite example prefigures one of the more paradigmatic applications of the regola

to later appear in sonata forms, whose ‘antecedents’ lie in these earlier dance forms of the eight-

eenth century, such as the rounded binary. Rather than the final cadence of a movement, the le –

sol – fi – sol was assimilated into the particular narratives and mechanics of sonata practice, which

were oriented less towards the concluding than the ‘more conclusive’ and often the first perfect

authentic cadence in the second theme group of both the exposition and recapitulation. In the

first movement of Dussek’s A minor Piano Sonata, Op. 18 no. 2 (c.1792), the movimento appears

in the context of what Hepokoski and Darcy (2006: 18, 20, 120–124, 232–33, passim), following

Koch (1782–93), Vogler (1778), Reicha (1814, 1818, 1824–26), William Rothstein (1989) and

others, call the moment of ‘essential structural closure,’ or ESC, which designates the PAC, oc-

curring in the recapitulation, that brings a definitive tonal close to a sonata form movement (Ex-

ample 3.33). The expositional equivalent is designated EEC, or ‘essential expositional closure.’

The schema was therefore strongly affiliated with ‘higher-level’ cadences, as part of the ‘foun-

dational caesura’ aspect of Classical syntax (Spitzer 2006: 228) ­— a series of ‘rhetorical punctu-

ation marks’ that function ‘as quasi-metrical markers of structural grouping . . . in a metrical stream

or Schlagfolge (Sulzer and Koch’s paradigm of Classical style)’ (Spitzer 2007: 153; Sulzer 1777,

‘Rhythmus’; Koch 1782–93; see also Spitzer 2004: 236–39, 246–48).

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But the most characteristic use of the le – sol – fi – sol is by far in highly charged, dominant-ori-

ented situations, corresponding to the extraordinary frequency with which the schema advanc-

es a half cadence. The larger part of 342 HC instances serve a broader compositional function.

These are regularly encountered at ‘Medial Caesuras’ (Hepokoski and Darcy 2006: 23–50, pas-

sim; Hepokoski 1997), Cadenzas, Retransitions, Symphonic Introductions, all locations calling

for powerfully articulated half cadences, and regularly sustained, prolonged, or followed by pas-

sages that in Caplin’s terms ‘stand on the dominant’ (1998: 16), what Hepokoski and Darcy call

a ‘dominant lock’ (2006: 30–34, passim), or what Gjerdingen, most recently, following Riepel

(1752–68), calls a ‘Ponte’ schema (2007: 197–215; 461), which behaves as a bridge between sec-

tions. The first symphonic example of the regola in the corpus appears precisely under these cir-

cumstances: the first movement of Sammartini’s Symphony in G major (J-C 44), composed in

the early 1740s. The Sammartini scholar Bathia Churgin classified the movement as ‘[o]ne of the

earliest examples of what Jan LaRue has termed the ‘da capo’ overture.

[T]his work has a unique form in the Sammartini symphonies. The da capo overture, as it
evolved, was a condensation of the standard three-movement Italian overture that became
popular after ca. 1750. The composer interpolates a slow movement at some point after the ex-
position in the initial allegro and then returns to a portion of the allegro movement. Thus,
the three-movement cycle is organized in a grand A-B-A′ form, the finale dropping away.
Here, however, Sammartini still retains the minuet conclusion. The allegro is connected to the
slow movement after the recapitulation by means of a special transition that makes the change to the
minor mode with a rhythmic deceleration. After the second movement ends on V, the alle-
gro recurs in a second, abbreviated recapitulation.
(Churgin 1984: xxxii, added emphasis)

The le – sol – fi – sol is located precisely in this ‘special transition’ between the first and second

movements, where it simultaneously produces the structural half cadence preparing the formal

163
transformation, and sustains the minor mode with its characteristic lowered sus-dominante and

diminished-seventh chords on le and fi, as well as the passing minor tonic on sol (Example 3.34);

The Symphony’s bridge between the interpolated second movement and the ensuing abbrevi-

ated recapitulation is also formed by a variation of the movimento that omits the mediating 6/4

chord between le and fi, or the le – fi – sol regola (see Example 3.35). (This le – fi – sol variant is not

counted among the 550 instances of the basic population; doing so brings the population to 765).

But the le – sol – fi – sol in Example 3.34, involving a structural dominant in Sammartini’s ‘da capo’

overture, appears to be the earliest in the collective memory of the schema, insofar as the sym-

phonic repertoire is concerned.

The le – sol – fi – sol regola would maintain a prominent position in eighteenth-century Sympho-

nies well before the Eroica was born. The Haydn Symphonies alone contain no fewer than 55 in-

stances, that is, 10% of the total population. No. 34 in D minor from 1766 applies two iterations

of the movimento, both in half-cadence forming settings: first to articulate the structural domi-

nant of the introduction (Example 3.36); then once more in the Finale to prepare the return of

the principal theme at the recapitulation, where the schema introduces the retransitional dom-

inant (Example 3.37). The earliest example in any published work by Beethoven follows the lat-

ter arrangement. In the Finale of the G major Piano Trio, Op. 1 no. 2, from 1794–95, the le – sol

– fi – sol serves as a prefix to the retransitional dominant that precedes the recapitulation (Ex-

ample 3.38). Three decades earlier, in 1764–67, Vanhal would use the movimento twice in a sin-

164
gle movement for a Symphony in G minor (g2) in the same way. Both the medial-caesura and

retransitional dominant of the development are expressed by means of the le – sol – fi – sol, and

both happen to be in G minor (Examples 3.39–40). The regola’s affiliation with important ‘caesu-

rae’ became so customary that it was inevitably assimilated into some of the more complex nar-

ratives of sonata form: Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F major, K. 332, from 1778, employs the rego-

la in a more involved instance of a Medial Caesura. Hepokoski and Darcy describe the caesura

cadences that occur in both the exposition and recapitulation as instances of a ‘postmedial cae-

sura (PMC),’ or a medial caesura HC occurring ‘mistakenly’ after the second theme group had

already achieved a PAC, i.e., had already produced EEC and ESC candidates (2006: 159–62).

Both PMCs are achieved by the le – sol – fi – sol schema (Example 3.41), which contributes here

towards rendering the attainment of a PAC problematic, and also towards sustaining the dra-

matic, chiaroscuro shift of mode to minor as well.

In concerto movements, the regola serves a characteristically dual function insofar as a tonality-

to-formal-function correspondence is concerned, by operating both externally to the cadenza,

to prepare the structural 6/4 that announces it, as well as internally, within the solo display. The

second movement from Johann Christoff Bach’s Symphonie concertante in E major (early 1770s)

is an example of the former (Example 3.42). Several of Mozart’s Cadenzas for the Piano Con-

certos use the schema internally, to sustain the dominant already established by the orchestra, or

as a customary marker that signals the ensuing perfect authentic cadence, where the soloist and

165
orchestra rejoin: the le – sol – fi – sol often appears in the final section of what Paul and Eve Badu-

ra-Skoda have identified as a tripartite form in Mozart’s cadenzas, with set-off ‘beginning’ ‘mid-

dle’ and ‘end’ sections (see Eva and Paul Badura-Skoda 1962; Eva Badura-Skoda 1996; Paul Ba-

dura-Skoda 1967; Irving 2003; Keefe 2001). Example 3.43 displays this second type of function,

in the first movement of the Piano Concerto in A major, K. 488, from 1786. Two years earlier

(1784), a cadenza written for the second movement of Haydn’s D major Piano Concerto Hob.

XVIII: 11 — in a copy from Kremsier by an unknown hand (Haydn Werke 15: 2) — also adopts

the same strategy (Example 3.44).

le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Instances

But inasmuch as the Eroica problem and the larger emerging argument about tonality are con-

cerned, the most deeply significant dimension in the collective memory of the schema lies else-

where still. The preceding examples, though absolutely material to the reconstruction of a col-

lective memory, involve the application of the movimento in situations whose tonality is already

well established, whereas the opening of the Eroica involves an albeit fleeting change of key. By

Weber’s terms, the preceding iterations all exemplify ‘modulation within the key’ (leitergleiche

Modulation), or intra-key instances. But of great moment, the le – sol – fi – sol regola also appears

in inter-key circumstances, as a form of ‘modulation out of the key’ (ausweichende Modulation).

Nearly one quarter (23.8%) of the 550 examples show the movimento in modulating contexts in

the present-day sense of the term (Example 3.45). Even more significantly in the context of the

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Eroica as a case study, however, 118 of these (90%) — 21.5% of the total population — involve a

change of key that corresponds exactly to the opening of the Symphony, by causing a modula-

tion to the key of the mediant. In other words, a tonic is reinterpreted, by means of the le – sol –

fi – sol, as a sus-dominante 5/3 chord (that is, a submediant, or VI) in the key lying a major third

above. Example 3.46 reproduces the entire second movement of the fourth Sonata of six that

Emanuel Bach appended to the Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen of 1753: specifi-

cally, the eleventh of 18 Probestücke, each of which serves a musical as well as pedagogical func-

tion. Bars 23–24 show the same schema prompting a modulation from D major to F-sharp mi-

nor, by virtue of a functional reinterpretation that transforms D major from tonique to sus-dom-

inante, or D in the bass from do to le. (In this and all subsequent examples involving a modu-

lation, a functional transformation is indicated by a tilde-like symbol between chords and/or

scale degrees). The underlying pedagogical context is especially relevant in this connection: the

Probestück not only demonstrates the regola’s use as ‘a’ means of modulating up a major third,

but as ‘The’ means of doing so; it not only appears in a modulating context but it advances ‘The’

structural modulation of the movement. The Largo maestoso begins in and returns to D ma-

jor at bar 15, following modulations to the dominant (bb. 5–12) and the relative minor (bb. 13–

14). But the modulation to F-sharp minor at bb. 23–24 causes the movement to end in a differ-

ent key than it begins; the half cadence at bar 24 is sustained via extemporisation and ultimately

transformed into a perfect authentic cadence in F-sharp minor at bar 26. Much like the Rule of

the Octave summarises the central harmonic tendencies or habits of eighteenth-century prac-

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tice, Bach’s Probestück summarises or objectifies ‘the’ customary means of modulating up by a

major third. The inter-key variant is itself gewohnt, or schematic. Modulations to keys were equal-

ly ‘scripted’ or conformed to customary habits as modulations in keys, once more according to

the twofold eighteenth-century meaning of the term.

The modulating-to variant of the regola appears as early as 1749, in Carl Heinrich Graun’s Over-

ture to Coriolano (bb. 21–24). But a modulating-to instance of the le – fi – sol variant (again, not

counted in the basic population) arrives even earlier, in a G major Symphony by Antonio Brio-

schi from 1733 (ii, bb. 62–65). Like the intra-key manifestations of the le – sol – fi – sol regola, the

modulating-to variant was incorporated into the structural seams of sonata and other formal

types. Numerous works use the movimento to tie up the general modulating dynamic of devel-

opment sections with the structural exigency of a retransitional dominant. Namely, when the

minor sus-dominante or submediant is explored as the last key-area in a series of developmental

modulations, the le – sol – fi – sol forms the seam that prepares the return to the ‘home key’: in the

first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 14 no. 1 (see Example 3.47), a de-

finitive modulation to C major, including a perfect authentic cadence at bar 75 of the develop-

ment, leads immediately to a transformation of the C major tonic to a sus-dominante in E minor,

by the le – sol – fi – sol which appears in bb. 75–81. Other works that feature the same strategy in-

clude Haydn’s F minor Piano Trio (1760, XV: f1, i, bb. 38–43), Dussek’s Piano Sonata in B-flat

major, Op. 35 no. 1 (1797, i, bb. 137–143ff.), and Antonín Vranický’s (before 1820) Symphony in

168
C minor (C4, i, bb. 177–179,). In an unfinished Sonata (D. 571, 1817) in F-sharp minor, Schubert

applies the same strategy but in a different situation that also requires modulating up by a major

third. There, the inter-key variant of the regola appears in the expositional retransition, as a way of

returning from the relative major of the second theme group, to the home key of F-sharp minor

at the expositional repeat (Example 3.48). Likewise, Haydn uses the modulating-to form of the

movimento in the retransition of a compound ternary form, just prior to the return of A′, with the

second movement of the String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 71 no. 1, (1793, bb. 30–31). Finally,

yet another common device involved briefly modulating to the key of the minor sus-dominante

via a deceptive cadence on flat-VI at the moment of an anticipated PAC, and then, once more by

way of the le – sol – fi – sol, to modulate back and produce a cadence in the original key. Example

3.49 displays one instance from Beethoven’s Triple Concerto, Op. 56, i, (1804). The PAC evad-

ed at bar 453 (not shown in Example 3.49) is ‘corrected’ by a half cadence in C minor, following

a transient modulation to A-flat major in bb. 453–57. But most often, the phenomenon appears

in the form of a DC-to-PAC strategy, and often in the context of an expected EEC or ESC of

a sonata-form movement. Example 3.50 shows bb. 138–150 from the recapitulation of Haydn’s

String Quartet in D major, Op. 50 no. 6, first movement (1787). The PAC expected at bar 139

is thwarted by a deceptive cadence on flat-VI. Bars 140–43 proceed to transform the sus-domi-

nante into a tonique by means of tonic-dominant exchanges in B-flat major, before the le – sol – fi

– sol returns the tonality to D major at bb. 144–148, in order to finally cadence (PAC) at bar 149.

169
 III

The Collective Memory of the Schema in Space and Time

In 1767, the eleven year old Mozart used the inter-modulating variant of the le – sol – fi – sol re-

gola to depict the expression of roaring thunder, lightning, and flames (‘Brüllt, ihr Donner, Blitz

und Flammen’), in the Aria from his Grabmusik, K. 42, ‘Felsen, spaltet euren Rachen’ (Example

3.51). Even a cursory view of the instances of the le – sol – fi – sol schema in Mozart’s works indi-

cates the convention carried extramusical significance, involving death and/or the afterlife. The

Introit to the D minor ‘Requiem,’ K. 626 (1791) sets the regola to the words ‘et lux perpetua luceat

eis’ (‘and eternal light will shine for them’; see Example 3.52). In Don Giovanni the le – sol – fi – sol

and several of its variants are associated with the Commendatore or Giovanni’s imminent fate;

and similar associations are also to be found in several of Mozart’s other operas (Appendix B).

To say that Mozart was adapting the exigencies of the moment (the expression of a particular

text) to a convention existing in the collective memory of eighteenth-century musicians is rel-

atively uncontroversial. But Beethoven was no less adapting the perhaps more ‘personally mo-

tivated’ exigencies of the opening of the Eroica (whether it be the depiction of the struggle of

the hero, a battle, or what have you) to that same convention: such communicative devices in

art involve a significant degree of social (pre-)determinacy (cf. Mirka and Agawu 2008; DeNora

2004; Peterson 1976; Wolff 1981; Becker 1982; Zolberg 1990 ). The regola was common enough

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that even the Prince of Prussia, Louis Ferdinand (1772–1806), to whom Beethoven dedicated

his Third Piano Concerto, used the Inter-Key Variant twice in his first published composition,

the C minor Piano Quintet (Paris 1803, i, bb. 113–133, 364–382). To return to Halbwachs’ ar-

gument: ‘The memories existing within musicians, memories of notes, signs, rules, are found in their

brain and their mind only because they exist as part of [a musical] society, that has allowed them to acquire

such memories; . . . they are therefore retained within them because musicians are or have been

part of this group. This is why one can say the memories of musicians are retained in a collective memo-

ry that extends in space and time, as far as their society’ (1939/1979: 48; my emphasis). The foregoing

examples are all reconstructed instances of that collective memory, and therefore also represen-

tations of the kinds of individual memories that would prompt Rochlitz to cognise the open-

ing of the Eroica as modulating ‘förmlich to G minor,’ and Beethoven to compose the opening

of the Symphony as he has. Both were acting in and reacting to the possibilities made available

by the surrounding musical culture as a ‘probability system,’ or as what Meyer, following Arthur

Koestler (1968), calls the ‘rules of the game’ (Meyer 1973: 13, 213). Nearly four fifths (77%, 423

examples) of the 550 le – sol – fi – sol manifestations outlined in Appendix B appear before 1803–

07, that is, before Beethoven composed the Symphony and Rochlitz penned his review for the

Leipzig AmZ. We began with the argument that a musical corpus acts as a metaphor for experi-

ence in a general sense. By extension, the particulars of the corpus in Appendix B that survey the

‘history of the utterance,’ or the specificities of the ‘language area,’ in Schleiermacher’s terms, are

metaphorical representations of the actual past experiences or memories and ‘stylistic fact’ un-

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derlying the G minor response.

The statistics bring strong empirical evidence to sustain not only Halbwachs’ cognito-sociolog-

ical argument, but also Bourdieu’s contention (as Randal Johnson summarises it) that, ‘agents

do not act in a vacuum, but rather in concrete social situations governed by a set of objective social re-

lations’ (Bourdieu 1993: 6, added emphasis). The empirical evidence addresses the ‘major diffi-

culty,’ introduced in Chapter 1 above, that Bourdieu identified as plaguing the ‘social history of

philosophy, art or literature’: ‘that it has to reconstruct [the] spaces of original possibles which,

because they were part of the self-evident givens of the situation, remained unremarked,’ the ‘things

not said,’ in Foucault’s terms (Chap. 1), ‘and are therefore unlikely to be mentioned in contem-

porary accounts, chronicles, and memoirs’ (Bourdieu 1993: 31). The extent of this reconstruc-

tion is not limited to the population of Appendix B and its highlights above, however. These ex-

periences or memories of the le – sol – fi – sol regola are ‘retained in a [larger] collective memory

that extends in space and time,’ or as Bourdieu might describe it, in a ‘cultural field,’ that is met-

aphorically represented in Examples 3.53–54. Between them lie the spatial and temporal exten-

sions of the larger collective memory.

Example 3.53 plots the geographic locations where the regola surfaced (cf. Cook 2004: 118–120;

Krims 2007): cities and towns were registered that either featured at least one instance of the

movimento in a composition known to have been composed, performed or published there, or

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that were the residence of a composer whose works employ the movimento. This evidence sur-

rounding the le – sol – fi – sol illustrates that, as Daniel Heartz has argued in his Music in Europe-

an Capitals, the culture of eighteenth-century music was fundamentally European through and

through — ‘What resulted ultimately was an international style that merged French and Italian

currents, along with German ones’ (2003: 23); or as Peter Kivy described it, in respect to Hay-

dn, music ‘was . . . an “international language” — the true lingua franca’ (2007: 215, passim; add-

ed emphasis). Among other things, Heartz viewed the widespreadedness of the cadence galante

in European capitals as support for his argument (Heartz 2003: 32). The le – sol – fi – sol statis-

tics not only bring strong empirical evidence to further sustain such arguments, but also expand

their ramifications in two interrelated dimensions. First, the instances of the regola are frequent

enough to demonstrate its integral presence in the style system, while also infrequent enough

to suggest that the cultural field was a far more tightly-knit social fabric than one might have in-

itially supposed. That is to say, the cadence galante is a regola so common that virtually any musi-

cal encounter in the eighteenth century would guarantee its exposure. The le – sol – fi – sol, on

the other hand, is less frequent or more of a ‘special move’ in Gjerdingen’s terms, and so its cur-

rency throughout all Europe presupposes a rather intimate degree of engagement among Euro-

pean capitals. Secondly, the evidence in Example 3.53 suggests that the network of interactivi-

ty among these capitals was greater, or that the geographical extensions of the collective mem-

ory were more expansive than one might have suspected — the population reaches as far north

as Trondheim, Norway, as far southeast as Lisbon, Portugal, and as far (north)east as St. Peters-

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burg, Russia. To the extent the le – sol – fi – sol schema represents the musical style system of

eighteenth-century Europe, Haydn’s and others’ music would not only be ‘understood’ (Kivy

2007: 214–222) in Austria, Germany, Bohemia, France, Italy, and England, but in virtually any

European empire, kingdom, principality, city, etc., on the Continent and the British Isles.

While the geographical population in Example 3.53 sustains Heartz’s argument respecting the

internationality of style in the eighteenth-century, the historical population of the le – sol – fi –

sol strongly perpetuates Meyer and Gjerdingen’s predictions about the historical contingency

of eighteenth-century conventions. Example 3.54 plots the occurrences of the movimento on a

1720–1840 timeline, with the population distributed at ten-year intervals: like the 1–7, 4–3 ar-

chetype (Gjerdingen 1988), the le – sol – fi – sol follows a ‘life-cycle’; its historical population ap-

proximates a so-called Gaussian, or normal distribution, otherwise known as a ‘bell curve,’ that

peaks in the 1790s, the decade immediately preceding Beethoven’s composition of the Eroica

(Example 3.54). Example 3.55 displays Gjerdingen’s 1–7, 4–3 statistics for the same time period,

adapted to the same criteria of representation, by distributing the population at ten-year inter-

vals, to facilitate comparison. Both populations approximate a normal distribution with peaks

in the 1790s (le – sol – fi – sol) and 1770s (1–7, 4–3), decades that represent the heyday of the Clas-

sical style. But more significantly still, the numbers display a period of overall stylistic consisten-

cy that extends more broadly from 1750 to 1820. Both populations are highly concentrated into

a period of only seven decades, nearly half the overall time — 88.4 and 90.4% of the instances re-

174
spectively occur between 1750 and 1820.

We began with a rather abstract (Example 3.1) notion of the relevant ecology surrounding the

Eroica problem, one whose geographic and historical peripheries were nevertheless predicated

on the life-cycle of the Symphony, acting as a metaphor for the life-cycle of the ‘Classical’ style.

The history of the le – sol – fi – sol is quite remarkable in its capacity to sustain and expand this

first metaphoric approximation. Together, the life-cycles of the le – sol – fi – sol and the 1–7, 4–3

similarly act as metaphors for the rise and fall of an eighteenth-century mentalité. Each schema

instance in Examples 3.54–55 can be read more generally as a symptom of the Classical style. The

statistics are all the more extraordinary when minding the deficiency of the corpora on which

the evidence is based. That is to say, populations of a few thousand compositions are but frag-

mented samples of a culture which generated 13,000 Symphonies alone. The corpus may be far

richer still. Enlarging either one, however, would not contradict these findings, but only pro-

duce more and more consistent results: one of the central tenets of statistical probability main-

tains that an increase in the initial population, or field of inquiry, will generally produce more

stable or more uniform findings (see e.g. Bulmer 1967). The gaps between the actual distribu-

tions of the schemata’s historical populations and the Gaussian distribution they approximate in

Examples 3.54–55 would close proportionately with increases in the population of the corpus

to result in increasingly less jagged and smoother distributions. With the evidence of Example

3.53, one might potentially see the geographic population of the le – sol – fi – sol expanding fur-

175
ther southeast and southwest. The empirical evidence thus remains a representative but never-

theless most compelling filling-in of the abstract historical environment introduced with Exam-

ple 3.1. Each instance of the le – sol – fi – sol corresponds to an ‘event,’ while the Gaussian distribu-

tion represents a ‘trend’ in the historical environment which intersects with the lives of the 110

composers whose works feature at least one instance of the schema: as ‘event’ and as ‘trend,’ the

history of the le – sol – fi – sol expands on the cultural mosaic we began reconstructing in Chap-

ter 2 (compare Examples 2.18(a)–(b) and 3.53–3.55).

Now, what all this suggests is the nomological determinacy (Chap. 1) underlying the G minor

problem and, by extension, the deep-rooted situatedness of cognition: in light of the empirical ev-

idence, one sees that the probability for the historical response x to have been prompted by the

reconstructed historical environment y is a remarkable 100%, where x = G minor, and y = the col-

lective memory defined by the combination of the cultural coordinates outlined above (includ-

ing the Culture of the Rule of the Octave and the Culture of the Symphony) and the le – sol – fi

– sol population in Appendix B, its highlights, and Examples 3.53–54. In a word, the reconstruct-

ed ecology brings a great deal of evidence to ‘treat’ the ‘Why’ question underlying the G minor

problem of the Eroica in Wittgenstein’s terms. It does little, however, to address the question of

‘How’ in the cognitive or psychological sense. Now having advanced the evidence, it is precise-

ly in this problem of ‘How’ that the larger argument about tonality and its place in the philoso-

phy of mind lie. How do these memories or objects of perception become objects or mechanisms

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of the mind in Aristotle and Halbwachs’ terms, respectively? In this connection, a number of fun-

damental questions persist and remain unanswered, each somehow stemming from the follow-

ing interrelated and residual issues: First, it is impossible for any single person to have lived all of

the experiences accounted for by the 550 instances of the le – sol – fi – sol in Appendix B. Nei-

ther Beethoven, nor Rochlitz, nor a present-day listener could have been or be exposed to all of

these. Second, granting that memories do impact or inform cognition, how would such a ‘store

of information’ or knowledge take an active role in the information-processing aspects of the

mind? In a similar vein, how do statistics, particularly cultural and historical statistics, translate in-

to a cognitive argument? Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, what is the cognitive significance

of the fact that the le – sol – fi – sol regola never fully materialises in the acoustic substrate of the

Eroica Symphony? The answer to all these questions converges on the concept of a schema in

its larger cognitive-psychological research context. That is, it remains to examine the Collective

Memory of the Schema not in space and time, but in the Mind.

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 Part III
____________________________________________

N
Theoretic Fallout
 4
w
Frameworks for Situated Cognition

Music-Theoretic Precedents

Setting the Problem: Lewin’s Phenomenology Programme

The G minor problem surrounding the Eroica is structurally homologous to a principal cogni-

tive problem encountered in David Lewin’s essay on phenomenology from 1986 : how ‘past ex-

perience’ that is shaped by cultural practice might actively inform cognition — or, to phrase it

otherwise, how cognition is actively situated in social experience. Motivated by similarly ambigu-

ous a moment as the ‘cloud’ and ‘fog’ in bars 7–9 of the Eroica, the concentration of Lewin’s phe-

nomenology largely falls on bar 12 of Schubert’s ‘Morgengruß’ (see Example 4.1): following a

group-structural division produced by a half cadence in C major, reiterated by the piano and

set off from what follows, a G minor triad sounds in first inversion as something of a tonal non-

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sequitur, despite the phrase-separation between the harmonies in question. Foremost among

Lewin’s preoccupations are the several phenomenological circumstances by which the event de-

rives its functional meanings: the kinds of intentionality a listener would assign to the acous-

tic object according to constraints and influences imposed by various ‘ConteXTs.’ Lewin’s exer-

cise takes a more formal perspective on Dahlhaus’ aesthetics, by qualifying musical meaning as

an intentional act: ‘The musical fact that a G major and a C major triad function as a dominant

and tonic, forming a cadence, a point of repose, is contained as such neither in the notation nor

in the sounding phenomena. Musical meaning is ‘intentional’; it exists only insofar as a listener

grasps it’ (Dahlhaus 1982: 12).73 On the surface, Lewin’s formalisms concern situations that only

arise internally to the song, as seen in the tabulation scheme of his Figure 7 (Example 4.2), whose

context column (CXT) generally references situations within the composition. These contexts

determine the quality of the perceptions (p) of events (EV), described via a series of statements

(ST) — largely presented in graphic form in Figure 8 (Example 4.3) — and situated in relation

to other antecedent and anticipated perceptions, under the ‘Perception-Relation’ (P-R Pair) list.

By way of example, in the context of bb. 9–12, the G minor 6/3 chord, by sharing the root of the

preceding expanded dominant, is considered a minor-mode alteration of that dominant (p2),

expressed in Figure 8.2 (in Example 4.3), as commonly appears in the descending form of the

Rule of the Octave in the minor mode; whereas the context of bb. 9–13, which supplies the A

major triad of bar 13, renders that same object a subdominant of D minor (p3b), thereby negat-

ing the prior perception p2, described as ‘(p2, denial)’ under the P-R List and in Fig. 8.3 (com-

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pare Examples 4.2 and 4.3).

But beyond the contexts enumerated in Example 4.2, Lewin supplements the phenomenolog-

ical model with an ever-significant ‘extraopus’ context, which acknowledges that perception is

informed by more than ‘intratextual’ references — that the cognition of music goes beyond sim-

ple perception (cf. Chap. 2) and is therefore necessarily grounded on ‘past experience’ as a form

of ‘apperception’; constraints also derive from some CXT lying ‘outside’ the work in question:

[F]ormal musical perceptions are what are sometimes called ‘apperceptions,’ since each
one embodies the ‘process of understanding by which newly observed qualities of an ob-
ject are related to past experience’ [from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English
Language]. The model goes even farther in asserting a specifically linguistic component, in a
broad sense, for the way in which past experience is actively brought to bear on observation. Our
sense of the past, in making perception-statements, is thereby necessarily involved with socio-cultural
forces that shaped the language L, and our acquisition of that language.
(Lewin 1986: 342 added emphasis).74

More specifically, Lewin supplies a so-called ‘theoretical component’ to the contexts underlying

cognition: ‘we must be ready to consider the context CXT for perception p as having a theoret-

ical component, along with whatever psychoacoustic component it may possess’ (Lewin 1986:

342). In framing a methodology for the ‘Morgengruß’ analysis, Lewin elaborates the argument

with the hypothetical musical fragment of Example 4.4(a). Examples 4.4(b)–(c) are among two

of the ‘theoretical contexts’ Lewin presents that condition the perception of the last, F major tri-

ad in Example 4.4(a), what Lewin calls ‘Signal 5.’ The ‘theoretical context’ of Example 4.4(b), for

instance, ‘is not projected by Signal 5, yet it is just as much part of the CXT for perception under

examination; it allows the listener to hear “degrees” and to hear F in the bass as the “fourth” one.

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. . . [Example 4.4(b)] carries a long historical/cultural shadow involving the tetrachordal analysis

of the major scale, the Rule of the Octave, and other esoterica of which the listener may well be

“unaware”’’ (1986: 342).

But the larger context-defining and situational significance of Lewin’s ‘theoretical component’

intersects two related dimensions that may not be immediately apparent by more casual read-

ings of the argument. These dimensions emerge from a subtle transformation of the ‘theoreti-

cal context’ in the Schubert analysis, and its contextualisation within Lewin’s broader phenom-

enology project, whose antecedents lie in another essay from 1969: ‘Behind the Beyond: A Re-

sponse to Edward T. Cone.’ There, Lewin speaks of the facility whereby tonal signification may

be ‘coded’ metalinguistically in terms of theoretical categories, or against the ‘common recog-

nition [of such a] theoretical context’: ‘in a tonal piece . . . “meanings” are much more apparent,

and can safely be coded in such terms as “half-cadence,” “tonic arrival,” “passing harmony,” etc.’

(1969: 63–64). Such ‘coding’ recurs throughout the phenomenology essay of 1986, where Lewin

conducts the same practice of framing these metalinguistic codes within quotation marks —

against the theoretical context of Example 4.4(c), for example, the meaning of Signal 5 is cod-

ed as “dominant preparation”: ‘The G in the bass of [Example 4.4(c)] may or may not eventuate

in the acoustic continuation from Signal 5; that is irrelevant [added emphasis], since the G in the

theoretical context is already part of “what is perceived” at the end of Signal 5 by [one] who hears

a “dominant preparation”’ (1986: 343). By this exemplary illustration already, Lewin’s ‘theoretical

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context’ assumes the function of a mental category (dimension 1), an abstraction responsible for

the intentionality assigned to ‘Signal 5,’ described as ‘dominant preparation.’ In other words, the

‘theoretical context’ amounts to the knowledge, acquired from experience, that IV chords syn-

tactically precede V chords with great probability. To put the matter somewhat more elegant-

ly, while building on Lewin’s terminology, the ‘theoretical context’ stipulates that each event in

a work is cognised against some relevant immanent context, or I-CXT: immanent, that is, in the

sense of ‘indwelling’ or ‘inherent’ within the acoustic object in some capacity, but more impor-

tantly, in the sense of an act performed entirely within the mind, as the nineteenth-century Scot-

tish philosopher, Sir William Hamilton, phrased it: ‘Perception is a cognition or act of knowl-

edge; a cognition is an immanent act of mind’ (1859: 349). The ‘immanent context’ refers to an

abstract mental representation of objectifiable and quantifiable information: in this case, ‘dom-

inant preparation’ may be metaphorically represented by the numbers in column IV of Huron’s

chord probability table, reproduced in Example 3.14, where the V chord syntactically follows

IV more frequently than any other harmony — 38% of the time.75

In the ‘Morgengruß’ reading, Lewin takes the ‘common recognition’ and relevance of such in-

formation entirely for granted, by abstracting the multiplicity of ‘theoretical’ or immanent con-

texts engaged by Schubert’s song into a single ‘extraopus’ predicate, what he calls ‘tonal theory’

— a metalinguistic coding once again framed by quotation marks:

“Tonal theory” in some heuristic sense is understood as a component of each CXT. . . .

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 The perception p1 in Figure 7 [Example 4.2], for example, addresses the EVents of meas-
ure 12 in the ConteXT of measure 12 (and tonal theory) (1986: 344–45).

Where the details of the immanent context may cease to be self-evident, however, Lewin does

reference specific ‘extraopus’ contexts in the vein of Examples 4.4(b)–(c), but now likens them

explicitly to mental constructs. The context responsible for hearing the G minor 6/3 chord in bar

12 as a subdominant, and the tonality as changing from C major to D minor accordingly, does

not lie in bb. 12–13 as such, but in the ‘theoretical’ or immanent context (I-CXT) they elicit:

p3a hears the Events of measures 12–13 in their own ConteXT [and tonal theory]. . . . In
this ConteXT, the harmony of measure 12 is iv6 of d minor. d minor, in this [original ital-
ics] context (measures 12–13) is not ii-of-C major; there is no hint of C major tonality in the
context of the two measures themselves. . . . We might also STate, upon hearing measures 12–
13 in their own context, “d minor is being tonicized.” This STatement involves a mentally
constructed d minor tonic, at measure 14 or thereabouts, upon which the dominant-of-d in
measure 13 will discharge. The mental construction is symbolized in Figure 8.4 [Example 4.3;
cf. Example 4.4(c)], a sketch which pertains to a perception p4, a perception of the tonici-
zation satisfied in protension. . . . Perception p4 hears the d minor tonic that we expect to
continue from the EVents of measures 12–13. . . . The d minor tonic event in Figure 8.4 ap-
pears with diamond-shaped noteheads; this symbolizes its contingency in protension on-
ly (1986: 349–50; added emphasis).

The perception p4 is synonymous with cognising a D minor tonality whose tonic never mate-

rialises in the acoustic substrate. But in Example 4.2, Lewin places the ‘absent’ though expected

D minor tonic among the contexts for perceiving the events of bb. 12–13 (p4) nonetheless, and

furthermore describes the statement of Figure 8.4 (in Example 4.3) as a metaphorical image of

a mental category or immanent context analogous to Example 4.4(c): what in reference to Example

4.4(a) was designated as a ‘theoretical context,’ in reference to bb. 12–13 of ‘Morgengruß’ is de-

scribed as a ‘mental construction . . . symbolized in Figure 8.4.’ By placing the anticipated bar 14

and its representation in Figure 8.4 among the CXTs for perception p4, Lewin simultaneously

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defines the mental construct as the product of and the cause for the D minor tonicisation.

The second dimension involves the ‘socio-cultural’ attributes and ‘linguistic component’ of the

‘theoretical context,’ by which Lewin’s phenomenology project more properly, albeit less con-

spicuously, becomes a programme of social phenomenology, by assigning a degree of socio-cul-

tural determinacy to the mental construct or immanent context. To begin with, the tonicisation of

D minor has intersubjective import: ‘Perception p4 hears the d minor tonic that we expect to con-

tinue from the EVents of measures 12–13’ (my emphasis). More than a stylistic convention, the

plural pronoun ‘we’ presupposes some intersubjective reality about the D minor tonicisation and,

as a corollary, the ‘common recognition’ (to use Lewin’s earlier language from 1969) of the the-

oretical context that induces it. By further positioning the 1986 argument in the context of this

earlier 1969 essay, the ‘mental construct’ symbolised by Figure 8.4 emerges as a product not of

individual memory per se, but of a cultural or collective memory. In a passage displaying similar

preoccupations with ‘apperception’ and ‘context,’ both ‘theory’ and ‘tonality’ are characterised as

culturally-determined extraopus contexts:

Theory, then, attempts to describe the ways in which, given a certain body of literature, com-
posers and listeners appear to have accepted sound as conceptually structured categorically prior to
any one specific piece. E.g., one supposes that when Beethoven wrote, say, the Eroica [a fortu-
itous though most welcome happenstance], he had “in his ear” a “sound-universe” compris-
ing his apperceptions of such abstractions as triad, scale, key, tonic, dominant, metric stress,
etc. When he was composing the work, sounds did not present themselves to his imagina-
tion solely [original emphasis] within the context of the piece itself, but also in the context
of the sound-universe, as a general “way of hearing.” Likewise, his listeners heard the work (as
do we) [!] not only in its own context, but also against this general background. . . . And it is with the
structure of such general sound-universes that theory is concerned. . . . In analyzing certain piec-

185
 es, it is . . . practically indispensable to make a presumption that the piece exists embedded in the con-
text of a general sound-universe (set of “pre-compositional assumptions” or “stylistic assumptions”).
. . . Imagine trying to analyze a Beethoven symphony without presuming the pertinence of
“tonality” in some sense as a context! (1969: 61, 63, 63 n. 5)

In light of this earlier, more elaborate formulation, “tonal theory” assumes a metaphorical con-

notation representing the cultural climate in which Schubert’s song is embedded. More specifi-

cally, the context of “tonal theory” metaphorically situates the work, or acknowledges its ‘situat-

edness,’ within a particular cultural setting. The ‘theoretical component’ is therefore not only a

mental construct but equally a social category. Between these two interrelated dimensions, the ‘ex-

traopus’ or immanent context underlying the cognition of music emerges as a socio-culturally

determined category of mind.

Mentally constructing a G minor tonic in the context of bb. 6–9 of the Eroica is no different in

spirit, albeit a more involved construction in letter, than hearing a D minor tonic in the CXT of

bars 12–13 of ‘Morgengruß.’ Both ‘ignore’ the immediate memory of a previously established to-

nality (E-flat and C major respectively), owing to the ‘distant’ yet more instrumental memory of

‘past experience,’ the acoustically ‘absent’ yet cognitively ever-present immanent context. In Schu-

bert’s song, the extraopus context, ‘symbolized’ in Fig. 8.4, is self-evident enough; one may objec-

tify, or generalise, the numerous memories abstracted in the notational representation by a me-

talinguistic code, following Lewin: e.g., ‘Phrygian cadence,’ ‘cadential formula’ (a subdominant–

dominant–tonic progression), or, according to the knowledge of Example 3.10, as an example

of ‘Sle–Dsol syntax.’ In these contexts, following Lewin’s description of Example 4.4(c), ‘[D mi-

186
nor] may or may not eventuate in the acoustic continuation from [bars 12–13]; that is irrelevant,

since [D minor] in the theoretical [read: immanent] context is already part of “what is perceived”

at the end of [bar 13] by the listener who hears a “D-minor tonicization”.’ In the Eroica, the imma-

nent context constitutes a similarly abstract mental representation of le – sol – fi – sol based memo-

ries, as per the evidence of Chapters 2–3 (and further evidence introduced below). In these con-

texts, ‘[a G minor dominant] may or may not eventuate in the acoustic continuation from [bb.

6–9]; that is irrelevant, since [a G minor dominant] in the theoretical context [i.e., the le – sol – fi

– sol regola] is already part of “what is perceived” at the end of [bar 9] by the listener who hears a

“[G minor modulation]”.’ In both cases, ‘mental constructions,’ ‘context,’ and ‘past experience’ are

equally psychological/cognitive and social categories.

Now, Lewin may have arrived at these arguments by the influence of different motivations and

epistemological contexts: for example, Husserlian phenomenology, as filtered through Izchak

Miller (1984), and several phenomenology studies from around the early 1980s, whether ex-

plicit (Lochhead 1982; Clifton 1983) or implicit (Hasty 1981; Kramer 1981; Lewin 1981; Min-

sky 1981; Narmour 1977; see Lewin 1986: 327–330).76 But differing means may arrive at similar

ends. The concern of Lewin’s essay with ‘mental processes’ (1986: 328) involves an investigation

of the behaviour and influence of a ‘social product lying in the mind’ in Saussure’s sense (1922:

44), seen by Lewin’s discussion of ‘socio-cultural forces that shaped the language L, and our ac-

quisition of that language.’ The concern lies not only in the ‘mental’ but, as Marvin Minsky, one

187
of Lewin’s points of departure, puts it, with the ‘environ-mental’ (1981: 28; added emphasis); and

as the preceding reading of Lewin would indicate, these environs involve not only ‘intraopus’

contexts and their cognitive negotiation in terms of ‘retention, protension, implication, reali-

zation, denial’ (1986: 330), but also the influence of a socially-determined ‘extraopus’ context: be-

cause ‘Beethoven . . . [and] his listeners hear[] . . . as do we’ (Lewin 1969: 61). The question is not

simply ‘to understand how memory and process merge in “listening”’ (Minsky 1981: 35; also

cited in Lewin 1986: 330), but how cultural memory and process merge in listening; how men-

tal structures qua cultural structures determine cognition. Though Lewin is quite formal in de-

scribing intraopus relations and perceptions, the relation of these to the larger extraopus con-

text of “tonal theory” is nearly entirely tacit or taken for granted. Indeed, this is the very problem

in crafting a philosophy of tonality as a culturally-determined category of Mind and form of sit-

uated cognition — to formalise this ‘theoretical’ or immanent context in both its cognitive and

social dimensions; both as a mental representation and mechanism as well as a cultural artefact.

But in spite of the more or less informal, or ad hoc perspective on the ‘theoretical’ context, and

although Lewin’s phenomenology cannot be construed as an instance of situated cognition the-

ory, it nonetheless advances, albeit implicitly, certain foundational principles towards a formal

argument.

The cognition or phenomenology of a given moment is ultimately conditioned by some ‘theo-

retical’ context of mental, cultural, and communicative proportion, and which properly resides

188
‘outside’ any given work. To put it differently, cognition is situated within a ‘general sound-uni-

verse’ that involves a triangulation of interrelated concepts that are memory, culture, and com-

munication. The ‘theoretical context is already part of “what is perceived”’ in the form of a ‘men-

tal construct,’ that is both the product and cause of a given perception: both the substance and

processes or mechanics of the mind are elements of the ‘theoretical’ context that involve mem-

ory, or ‘past experience.’ Memory, or the psychological component of the ‘theoretical context,’

involves both the content — mental representations — and the processes — behaviour result-

ing from those representations — of the mind. The appercepts are not merely ‘abstractions’ but

recipes for a ‘way of hearing’ (1969: 61). But this memory is neither subjective nor singular to any

one individual, but is socially and culturally resonant — ‘we’ hear a D minor tonicisation because

of these ‘mental construct[s]’ or appercepts; Beethoven’s ‘listeners heard . . . (as do we)’ because

of the ‘general sound-universe’ and its ‘stylistic assumptions.’ The ‘theoretical context’ is cultural-

ly determined. And finally, as a corollary of culture, there is a communicative dimension: ‘given

a certain body of literature, composers and listeners appear to have accepted sound as concep-

tually structured categorically prior to any one specific piece.’ These three foundations underly-

ing the ‘theoretical context’ further operate along two ‘axes’: a ‘linguistic’ component, involving

‘acquisition,’ and learning, by means of ‘past experience,’ and a ‘historical’ component, involving

the identification of present with past modes of listening: once more, ‘Beethoven . . . [and] his

listeners hear[] . . . as do we.’ In brief, a ‘theoretical’ context, in the form of an ‘abstraction’ (Lewin

1969: 61), that is predicated on all these features (memory, culture, and communication), and

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that operates on both linguistic and historical axes, is what Western empirical philosophy, cog-

nitive psychology, and some strains of music theory would call a schema — which Lewin’s phe-

nomenology embraces in all but name.

Nicolas Meeùs’ ‘Music as Language’ and Style Programmes

The mechanics of knowledge- or experience-based listening, outlined in Lewin’s phenomenol-

ogy programme, are singular neither to Lewin nor to phenomenology. In 1994, Nicolas Meeùs

similarly described the ‘theoretical’ influence on listening in linguistic terms, or as constituting

music’s ‘linguistic component’ (in Lewin’s terms), with a paper titled ‘De la musique comme lan-

gage’ (‘On Music as Language’), delivered at the Sorbonne. Like Lewin, Meeùs has an interdis-

ciplinary starting-point in the philosophy of language and linguistics of Saussure, and similarly

establishes an ‘opposition’ between intraopus (cf. Lewin’s ConteXT) and extraopus (cf. I-Con-

teXT) contexts, which Saussure famously described as ‘syntagmatic’ and ‘associative relations’

(1922: 170–175). Much like the CXTs enumerated in Example 4.2, syntagmatic relations obtain

between events within a syntactic stream, or a ‘syntagmatic chain’ (Meeùs 1994: 128); and much

like Lewin’s ‘pre-compositional assumptions,’ ‘stylistic assumptions,’ and ‘appercepts,’ associative

relations obtain between a given moment in a syntactic stream and a context that lies in long-

term memory. The ‘perception of the [D minor] tonicization [in Morgengruß] satisfied in pro-

tension’ amounts to forming an association with a CXT that lies not in praesentia, in Saussure’s

terms, but in absentia (1922: 171): the ‘mental construct’ symbolised in Lewin’s Figure 8.4 (Exam-

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ple 4.3). Such ‘appercepts’ are part of a larger collectivity — the “general sound-universe” — that

exists “in [the] ear” (Lewin 1969: 61): once more, Lewin’s quotation marks suggest a metalinguis-

tic coding, whereby a “sound-universe” “in the ear” may become, or imply, a musical language in

the mind. In this way, Lewin’s ‘“sound-universe” comprising . . . apperceptions’ strongly resonates

with Saussure’s more general category of langue: the system of language, ‘the social product ly-

ing in the mind,’ and its psychological make-up of ‘associative relations.’

Their seat is in the mind; they form part of that interior treasure that constitutes the system
of language [la langue] in each individual. . . . The syntagmatic relation [cf. CXT] is in prae-
sentia: it rests on two or several terms equally present in an effective series. The associative
relation [I-CXT] unites terms in absentia in a mnemonic, potential series.77
(Saussure 1922: 171)

Meeùs explicitly adapted Saussure’s categories to the concept of musical style and tonality, first

with an earlier paper, ‘Les rapports associatifs comme déterminants du style,’ from 1993 (‘Associative

Relations as Determinants of Style’).

The notion of style is inseparable from that of the system [cf. la langue]. In music, the sys-
tem is often called ‘language,’ sometimes also ‘genre.’ The most striking case is without
doubt that of tonality, which may constitute a ‘tonal style,’ a ‘tonal system,’ or a ‘tonal lan-
guage’ (1993b: 9). 78

In 1993, applying the concept of associative relations to music was mostly a question of analysis

and methodology. Meeùs contextualised already extant approaches to style analysis within the

larger interdisciplinary context of Saussure’s philosophy of language, as a further exploration of

its ‘mechanisms of evaluation’: ‘stylistic judgement . . . [is] a process of comparison, that is to say

of inserting the characteristic elements of a work under consideration into a network of asso-

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ciations with other works, by a process of inscription in a “stylistic field”’ (1993b: 9–10).79 In re-

spect to the particularities of the opening theme of the Eroica, this process of comparison and

insertion into a network of associations was largely the service of Chapter 3 above, by identify-

ing bars 1–9 as a ‘stylistic fact.’ But the same problems and limitations identified at the end of

that Chapter, insofar as a cognitive argument is concerned — namely, how to find a psycholog-

ical equivalent for stylistic, or corpus analysis — are precisely the problems Meeùs more or less

implicitly addresses upon returning to the issue from a more cognitive-philosophical perspec-

tive in the 1994 essay. The first problem concerns the misleading implication that one listens by

the same ‘process of comparison’: that style-oriented listening is equally a question of intertex-

tuality, of having to psychologically perform the same methodological act as a stylistic analysis, by

literally forming associations with other works in the same style during the act of listening. The

second problem involves the near impossibility of having been exposed to as many instances of

a given stylistic fact as a corpus study is capable of culling together.

Meeùs refines and reformulates the question of style in a way that obviates the implications of

intertextuality, to define style not as an assemblage of similar works bearing certain elements in

common, but as the knowledge abstracted from such commonalities:

At a very general level of style, first of all, I maintain that style is not so much a phenome-
non of intertextuality more broadly conceived than a question of categories of the imma-
nent universe of language. If a composer chooses to write in a given style, or if, more sim-
ply, his work adheres to a style, it is less from some actual, conscious knowledge of a large
corpus whose isotopy [isotopie] the new work would sustain than on the basis of some a pri-
ori awareness of principles immanent to this style. If a listener attributes a given work to a

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 given style, it too owes not to some intertextual positioning [mise en relation intertextuelle]
within a large memorised corpus, but to some abstract knowledge of the style.

At a more particular level, . . . if a given harmonic turn of phrase is defined as a perfect ca-
dence, or simply is perceived as being conclusive, it is not so much because it is similar to
so many other perfect cadences, to so many other conclusive harmonic turns of phrase,
than by reason of the listener’s conscious or unconscious knowledge, concerning the na-
ture and the function of these progressions. The exceptional harmonic resolution is not
perceived as such because of an intertextual comparison with other more ‘normal’ resolu-
tions that occurs in praesentia, than by reason of an a priori idea respecting the normality of
[harmonic] progression. . . . (1994: 130–31; added emphasis).

The psychological equivalent of associative relations is still comparative, but in a very different ca-

pacity: comparative not with a corpus, but with a mental representation abstracted, and knowl-

edge gained from that corpus. Lewin’s D minor tonicisation in ‘Morgengruß’ is not a result of

comparing bb. 12–13 to similar passages, but to the ‘mental construct’ or theoretical context ab-

stracted and represented in Figure 8.4 The perception emerges from ‘comparison’ with under-

lying knowledge about the progression, which Meeùs also describes in ‘theoretical’ terms. This

idea, that perception involves ‘comparing’ an acoustic stream with prior knowledge, places ‘the-

ory’ once more in the position of an ‘immanent context’; and Meeùs, as it happens, explicitly de-

fines this ‘theoretical’ context as a schema.

This brings to question the epistemological status of music theory[, which] . . . is not direct-
ed at the musical phenomenon, at music manifested, but at its underlying mechanisms, its
immanent base. Music theory is not metalinguistic in relation to musical discourse, but in relation
to its immanent schema. . . . The means by which we perceive music is determined by our the-
oretical conception, by our musical epistemology: it is the consequence of the reciprocal
presupposition between practice and the schema. . . . For the listener, there necessarily ex-
ists at the very least a subtheoretic level of understanding, that is susceptible to a theoretic
metalanguage (Meeùs 1994: 130–32).

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In Meeùs, the term derives neither from cognitive psychology nor philosophy per se, but from

linguistics: ‘schema’ is one of three terms the philosopher-linguist Louis Hjelmslev used to de-

scribe Saussure’s category of langue. More specifically, Hjelmslev characterised Saussure’s well-

known opposition between langue and parole (the system of language versus speech, or the use

of language) as a distinction between schema (le schéma) and practice (l’usage) (Hjelmslev 1943/

1971: 78–90; see also Meeùs 1993b: 11–13; 1994: 128). Following Hjelmslev and the linguist Al-

girdas Julien Greimas (1966), Meeùs qualified the linguistic dimension of music as a ‘reciprocal

presupposition’ (from Greimas 1966: 104) between an immanent base, or schema, and musical

practice. That is, what constitutes music’s language-character is the reciprocal process by which

abstract knowledge of a style is simultaneously acquired from a musical practice and imposed

upon perception in the form of Lewin’s ‘apperception.’ Not only does Meeùs qualify the ‘theo-

retical’ context of the schema as a significant CXT for cognition, as does Lewin, but as the very

ontological condition of music:

Only to the extent that it can be compared to a schema can musical discourse be consid-
ered meaningful. Only to the extent that it is based on an immanent structure can music
be considered a language. . . . In the final analysis, the immanent structure [read: schema] is
what renders music more than a simple acoustic phenomenon: it is the very condition of
music (Meeùs 1994: 133).

Both Meeùs and Lewin, despite differing points of origin and motivations, articulate a ‘linguis-

tic component’ for cognition predicated on an ‘immanent universe’ of ‘schema[ta],’ on the one

hand (Meeùs), and a ‘general sound-universe’ of ‘appercepts’ on the other (Lewin).

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 II

Leonard Meyer’s Style Programme: Early Schema Theory in Music

Style Systems, Habit Responses, and Ideal Types (Meyer 1956)

The origins of such a theoretical context or ‘universe,’ and its association with the term schema,

may be traced to the earliest work of Leonard Meyer, with Emotion and Meaning in Music, from

1956, and its subsequent developments in Music, the Arts, and Ideas (1967) and Explaining Music

(1973), which collectively provide a decidedly more formal basis for constructing a philosophy

of situated cognition. In 1956, Meyer similarly speaks of a ‘common universe of discourse’: ‘Mu-

sical meaning and significance, like other kinds of significant [or meaningful] gestures and sym-

bols, arise out of and presuppose the social processes of experience which constitute the musical

universes of discourse (1956: 60). The ‘common universe of discourse’ is also predicated on a lin-

guistic analogy, one whose turn of phrase resembles both Lewin’s explanation of the ‘linguistic

component’ which underlies perception and the ‘heuristic’ function of ‘tonal theory’ so strong-

ly, that Lewin almost reads as a paraphrase of Meyer’s earlier formulation.

[W]e perceive and think in terms of a specific musical language just as we think in terms of a
specific vocabulary and grammar; and the possibilities presented to us by a particular mu-
sical vocabulary and grammar condition the operation of our mental processes and hence of the
expectations which are entertained on the basis of those processes. . . . Musical language,
like verbal language, is heuristic in the sense ‘that its forms predetermine for us certain modes of
observation and interpretation’ [Sapir 1934: 157] (Meyer 1956: 43–44 my emphasis).

But Meyer is considerably more detailed than both Lewin and Meeùs, while at the same time

195
meticulous and persistent, in his attempts to define what this ‘universe,’ extraopus, or immanent

context may consist in. The emphasis properly falls on the broader, social ecology in which per-

ception is situated, and on what might be characterised as its principal themes or foundations:

namely, memory, culture, and communication. To begin with, Meyer’s ‘common universe of dis-

course’ or ‘langue’ is defined quite formally as a ‘style system’:

[T]he universe of discourse in the aesthetics of music is called style. . . .

Musical styles are more or less complex systems of sound relationships understood and
used in common by a group of individuals. The relationships obtaining within such a style
system are such that: (a) only some sound or ‘unitary sound combinations’ are possible; (b)
those sounds possible within the system may be plurisituational within defined limits; (c)
the sounds possible within the system can be combined only in certain ways to form com-
pound terms; (d) the conditions stated in (a), (b), and (c) are subject to the probability re-
lationships obtaining within the system; (e) the probability relationships prevailing within the
system are a function of context within a particular work as well as within the style system general-
ly [cf. CXT and I-CXT]. The occurrence of any group of sounds, simultaneously or in se-
quence, will be more or less probable depending upon the structure of the system and the
context in which the sounds occur (Meyer 1956: 42, 45).

Furthermore, the qualifying adjective ‘theoretical’ in both Lewin and Meeùs’ description of the

larger context of ‘past experience’ may be potentially misleading, suggesting that cognitive cat-

egories are synonymous with any and all theoretical categories (see Cook 1994), when in reali-

ty (as Meeùs also maintains) ‘theory’ is only a metalinguistic objectification of ‘subtheoretic’ cat-

egories existing in the mind of the listener. Meyer explicitly defines these ‘subtheoretic’ entities

as ‘probability relationships’: these ‘are a function of context within a particular work as well as

within the style system generally.’ But properly speaking, the ‘probability relationships’ still lie

at some level of remove from the mental representations of these probabilities: ‘probability relation-

ships’ are the information from which mental representations are formed. They only become ‘a

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function of context’ when acquired, learned, and internalised (as abstractions),80 in the form of

what Lewin would call ‘appercepts’; Meeùs would call ‘schemata,’ or ‘isotopies’ (1994: 128); and

Weber, already in 1817, would call ‘Habits of the Ear’ (Chap. 2).

Not coincidentally, among the numerous terms Meyer used to refer to the abstracted form or

‘sedimentation’ of these probability relationships in memory are ‘habits’ — derived from Henry

Aiken (1951) — as well as ‘habit responses.’ ‘[T]he development of all stylistic response sequenc-

es,’ Meyer writes, ‘involves abstraction. . . . The response to music as well as its perception depend

upon learned habit responses’ (1956: 57, 60).81 Elsewhere in Emotion and Meaning in Music, Meyer

uses ‘norms,’ ‘ideal types,’ ‘pattern reactions,’ and ‘class concepts’ as equivalents. ‘Norms’ are also

the probabilities of a style (73); ‘ideal types’ are the ‘abstract, normative class concept’ of which a

given passage or work (in the case of form) is a particular individuation (57–58). But the impor-

tant element, regardless of what term is assigned to these categories, is their psychological basis:

these categories are not things ‘out there in the world’ but belong to memory.82 Habit respons-

es or ideal types are the product of organising musical experience and ‘our memories of earli-

er relevant musical experiences’ (1956: 88). The mind remembers information in terms of ‘“ide-

al types” rather than particular things’ (89) — commonalities between works are ‘regularized in

. . . memory,’ ‘grouped into classes,’ thereby ‘forming the norms which are the basis of stylistic

perception and expectation’ (90). The ‘ideal type’ exists not in the acoustic substrate, or in what

Meyer calls the ‘sound stimulus’ — as yet uninterpreted acoustic signals or information — but in

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the ‘sound term’ — in the interpretation of information ‘as part of the prevalent style system of

the culture’ (45–47; passim). The ‘real norm is not actually presented by the composer-perform-

er but rather exists in the minds and habit responses of the musicians and audience’: in the ‘cul-

tural stylistic ideal type’ (248; added emphasis). Therefore, equally significant is the social basis of

these ‘ideal types’: categories of mind they may be, but — as Meyer argues, in response to Ge-

stalt psychology (83–85) — these products of memory are not innate, but learned, culturally de-

termined. Not dismissing, of course, the likelihood that certain ‘laws of the mind’ may operate

‘independent[ly] of cultural conditioning,’ Meyer insists that — ‘where human communication

is involved’ — their operation is qualified by a ‘socio-cultural context’ (84). Meyer’s theory of per-

ception takes style almost as a pretext for a larger argument towards a fundamentally ecological

philosophy of cognition. In a passage on ‘Style and Social Process,’ he writes,

The perception of and response to the probability relationships obtaining within any style
system are not naïve reflex reactions. Nor are the probability relationships universals hav-
ing some kind of ‘natural,’ physical meaning. The response to music as well as its percep-
tion depend upon learned habit responses. The style systems to which these responses are
made are, in the last analysis, artificial constructs developed by musicians within a specific
culture. . . . [S]tyles are constructed by musicians in a particular time and place [cf. Examples
3.53–3.55] and . . . are not based upon universal, natural relationships inherent in the tonal
material itself. And if the experience of music is not based upon natural, universal respons-
es, it must be based upon responses which are acquired through learning (Meyer 1956: 60–
61; added emphasis).

From one perspective, there might appear to be a contradiction, or paradox, here: if ‘ideal types,’

‘appercepts,’ ‘norms,’ or what have you, are neither somehow present in the acoustic substrate,

nor in the mind as a priori psychological categories, they would be neither cultural artefacts nor

198
mental processes. But precisely because ‘ideal types’ exist neither in the acoustic substrate as such,

nor in the mind in an a priori capacity, they only emerge between the two, and are therefore fun-

damentally both psychological and social through and through. The question, once more, is how

these cultural artefacts may become mental categories in some a posteriori sense: how probabili-

ties existing in the acoustic ‘data’ or sound stimulus (which may be objectified by means of sta-

tistical or computational analysis) transform into mental categories or ‘sound terms.’ For Meyer,

still writing in 1956, the transformation was largely taken for granted, or otherwise attributed to

the general category of ‘learning’ (e.g. 61–62; passim), or to ‘past experience.’ It was only in 1967,

with Music, the Arts, and Ideas, that Meyer addressed the problem of what exactly is being experi-

enced (or in what this past experience consists) more formally. But the solution to the problem

was nonetheless already ‘seeded’ in 1956:

The phrase ‘past experience’ also refers to the more remote, but ever present, past experi-
ence of similar musical stimuli and similar musical situations in other works. That is, it refers to
those past experiences which constitute our sense and knowledge of style.
(Meyer 1956: 36; added emphasis)

Beyond their common use of the term ‘habit,’ Meyer and Weber also both advance one of the

principal attributes of what cognitive psychology or empirical philosophy would call a schema:

namely, repetition. What constitutes ‘knowledge’ of a style, for Meyer, are experiences of ‘simi-

lar musical stimuli’ across a corpus of works. Weber’s ‘Habits of the Ear’ are similarly predicated

on the ‘special frequency’ (1832/1851: 347) by which harmonic phenomena occur. This certainly

forms the basis for the category of gewohnte Modulation, already discussed in Chapter 2. But the

last of Weber’s five Habits — Wiederkehr schon gehörter Stellen (‘Recurrence of Passages already

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heard’) — explicitly describes repetition, or re-hearing in different works, as a form of knowledge

brought to the experience of new musical situations or compositions, and also in the context of

one of Meyer’s most pervasive themes: expectation.

In like manner as we have thus far contemplated the operations of custom or habit in gen-
eral, we shall find it to operate in particular individual cases. In other words, what the ear has
once heard in a certain passage, it will not only expect again, on the recurrence of the same
passage, but will sometimes even perceive beforehand [added emphasis].

If, e.g., one has once heard that the modulation in example 195, i [Example 4.5] . . . actually
changes itself, with the harmony a [Gothic type], into a-minor, and he hears the same pas-
sage one, two, three, or more times afterwards, either in the same piece of music or in some
other, the ear, which has by this means become accustomed [added emphasis] to hear the new pe-
riod continued in a-minor, will now with still greater [original italics] definiteness at once
apprehend this a-chord [Gothic type] as a: i (Weber 1832/1851: 363–64).

Perceptual Redundancy and Schemata

In 1967, following readings in information theory and on the Markov process, Meyer returned

to many of the same problems raised in Emotion and Meaning in Music (Meyer 1967: 5ff.), now

equipped with two critical categories, whose underlying concepts were anticipated by his own

work as well as by Weber’s — namely, ‘redundancy’ and ‘schemata.’ The former further qualifies

the ‘probability relationships’ of a ‘style system,’ while the latter further qualified or even replaced

‘ideal types,’ ‘habit responses,’ etc. Together, they further specify the ontology and role of ‘past ex-

perience’ in cognition, as the process of attending and attuning to regularities in the musical en-

vironment previously experienced or determined by previous experience, and their subsequent

200
representation or encoding in memory. Meyer found a parallel in information theory known as

statistical redundancy. Where communication is involved (in whatever form that may be) a sig-

nificant amount of redundancy is necessary in the symbols of the ‘language’ — once again, the

framework for placing the cognition of music in a socio-cultural setting begins with a linguis-

tic analogy. ‘Music, like language, contains considerable redundancy. Redundancy is that por-

tion of a message which “is determined not by the free choice of the sender, but rather by the ac-

cepted statistical rules governing the use of the symbols in question” [Weaver 1953: 269]’ (Meyer

1967/1994: 16; added emphasis). Because musical styles are probability systems similarly pred-

icated on a statistically redundant organisation of its symbols, the question arises as to the po-

tential significance of statistical analysis of a style as a metric for actual musical experience. Such

methods are warranted, Meyer maintains, only insofar as one ‘base[s them] upon a sophisticat-

ed and sensitive understanding of the processes involved in the experiencing of musical style’

(1967/1994: 18). In other words, statistical analysis, or a ‘mathematical picture of musical style’

(20), may translate into a psychological argument only when ‘hypotheses’ are in place ‘that deter-

mine which facts shall be collected and counted’ (18). There must be a regulating principle in the

form of what Cook and Clarke call an ‘interpretational grid,’ which reconstructs what Piaget de-

scribed as the ‘schemes of action’ of the subject (Piaget 1979/1980): for our purposes, the Cul-

ture of the Rule of the Octave. Though Meyer himself never attempted such an analysis (at least

not in 1967), that is, such a ‘mathematical picture of musical style,’ he nevertheless directly identi-

fied the statistical redundancy of information theory with a cognitive equivalent: perceptual redun-

201
dancy. What ‘is available’ to the analyst in terms of statistics is analogously ‘available to the mind

of an ideally experienced listener’: ‘the totality of patterned structure and orderly process’ (that

may be objectified and formalised by statistical analysis), which Meyer calls perceptual redundan-

cy, in order ‘to distinguish th[e] concept from the purely statistical redundancy of information

theory’ (1967/1994: 277).

But the more significant matter, and corollary of directly identifying statistical with perceptu-

al redundancy, lies in the similarly metaphorical identification of the generalising and abstrac-

tive activities performed by a musicologist when analysing a musical corpus, with the generalisa-

tion and abstractive faculties of the mind. The statistical redundancies recognised by corpus anal-

ysis are the same ‘perceived regularities that become “coded” as schemata — that is, archetypal pat-

terns’ (1967/1994: 277; my emphasis). Meyer’s application of the term ‘schema’ is synonymous

here with its usage in twentieth-century cognitive psychology, but the source of the appropria-

tion is actually Ernst H. Gombrich’s Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Percep-

tion (see Meyer 1967/1994: 287, n. 47). Even with Gombrich, the concept of a schema invites a

rather intimate analogy (if not homology) with language: ‘Everything points to the conclusion

that the phrase “the language of art” is more than a loose metaphor, that even to describe the visible

world in images we need a developed system of schemata. . . . Without some starting point, some

initial schema, we could never get hold of the flux of experience. . . .“[S]eeing” is conditioned by

habits and expectations’ (Gombrich 1960/2000: 87–88; added emphasis). By the same estima-

202
tion, ‘hearing’ is equally conditioned by habits and expectations, or by schemata.

We perceive, comprehend, and remember our experiences — [whether] musical or other

— in terms of more or less learned schematic types. Particular experiences and objects are
comprehended and remembered as deriving from, and deviating from, schemata which serve
as methods for ‘encoding’ and remembering large amounts of information easily and effi-
ciently. Without such schemata . . . such forms of cultural and compositional redundancy .
. . memory and perception would be forever bogged down in an incomprehensible welter
of isolated particulars (1967/1994: 287).

By the principles submitted in these earliest (explicit or implicit) manifestations of schema the-

ory in musicology, we see that not one of the instances of the le – sol – fi – sol regola discussed

in the previous Chapter, or provided in Appendix B is single-handedly ‘The’ memory responsi-

ble for hearing bb. 6–9 of the opening theme of the Eroica as progressively settling into G mi-

nor. Nor is it a matter of having internalised all of these instances as one massive collectivity. By

objectifying a statistical regularity, the empirical evidence metaphorically reconstructs the per-

ceptual redundancy of the le – sol – fi – sol, and, by extension, the knowledge base derived, abstract-

ed, or coded from this ‘past experience’ into a schema. Indeed, the same regularities in the mu-

sical environment that warrant the metalinguistic codification of a category that is the le – sol –

fi – sol regola are the same redundancies that give rise to their abstracted mental representation

in the form of a linguistic category, or schema. These statistical qua perceptual redundancies, as

conventions, are the cultural artefacts that become ‘encoded’ in a mental representation of the

environment. ‘That’ is ‘The’ ‘theoretical context’ in which the EVents of bb. 6–9 in the Eroica are

situated for a historical or historically-informed listener — such as a Rochlitz (1807), and Rumph

203
(2004), respectively — who operates within the constraints of the musical culture; ‘within the

context of culturally established norms’; within the ‘probability relationships [that] are a func-

tion of context’; and under the influence of the ‘ideal type’ or schema that forms from the ‘total-

ity of memories’ (Halbwachs) reconstructed in the preceding Chapter; from the ‘memories of

[those] earlier relevant musical experiences’ (Meyer). The empirical evidence demonstrates that

only a single such context exists within the probability system of tonality in the long eighteenth

century. The only ‘theoretical context,’ statistical regularity, rule, convention, or perceptual re-

dundancy that ‘fits’ the anomaly of bb. 6–9 is the le – sol – fi – sol regola.

Now one might question whether such a context is in fact necessary for cognition — whether

context-independent mechanisms may themselves be sufficient for negotiating the flux of mu-

sical experience. But inasmuch as cognition involves meaning and understanding in the sense of

Verstehen (Dahlhaus 1984),83 which relies on the communicative mechanisms of a given culture,

immanent contexts and schemata are the inexorable ontological conditions that enable tonali-

ty to be a ‘language.’ Notwithstanding any differences among them, Lewin, Meeùs, and Meyer

all place significant emphasis on these immanent contexts for perception, with Meyer perhaps

being the most categorical of all (see also Meyer 1967/1994: 280). In Explaining Music of 1973,

Meyer (re-)addressed the largely abstract and philosophically minded arguments of the earlier

monographs, from 1956 and 1967, in decidedly more analytic terms; for example, Chapter 7 ob-

jectifies certain classes of normative ‘Melodic Structures’ (131–241), which would form the ba-

204
sis for the later, more well-known 1–7, 4–3 and Adeste Fidelis schemata (cf. Chap. 1 above). In

the context of this discussion, Meyer argues that ‘particular events are invariably understood as

members of some class. Archetypal patterns and traditional schemata are the classes — “the rules

of the game,” in Koestler’s phrase — in terms of which particular musical events are perceived

and comprehended’ (1973 : 213). One may argue nonetheless that the opening of the Eroica is

somewhat exceptional by comparison with other works of its period. But Meyer insists that,

‘No melody, however original, is an exception to this principle’ (1973: 213); and the empirical

evidence of the preceding Chapter substantiates this otherwise provocative and difficult claim.

That schemata are invariably a function of context (I-CXT) is the most pronounced element

of the ‘linguistic component’ in understanding tonality as a form of situated cognition and cul-

turally determined category of mind. That is, if one pushes the linguistic analogy to its extreme,

every musical utterance or EVent must be conceived and perceived against a schema, or imma-

nent context, in the same way that any and every spoken or heard utterance of a language must

conform to the grammatical and lexical rules of that language. As Lewin tells us, “tonal theory”

(read: tonality, schemata) is a component of each context. That even the opening of the Eroica is

no exception to this rule is only an indication of the pervasive applicability of the argument, at

least for music of the long eighteenth century, whose patterning is highly regularised and con-

ventional when compared with music projecting outwards from either side of the century. In

this connection, I see in Lewin, Meeùs, and Meyer, none of whom explicitly engages the work

of the other, not disparate theories about phenomenology, style, and perception, but particular

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dealings with, or enquiries into a more general category in the philosophy of the cultural musi-

cal mind. Lewin’s general sound-universe of appercepts, Meeùs’ immanent universe of schemata, and

Meyer’s common universe of discourse or style system of schemata all emphasise the situatedness of

cognition and the culture-specificity of perception, and in the process engage, in their own spe-

cific ways, a musico-linguistic faculty of mind, or langue, or the historico-linguistic ‘mechanisms’

underlying the construction of a collective memory, in Halbwachs’ terms. In short, schemata are

responsible for what Adorno identified as music’s ‘language-character.’

Schemata and the ‘Language-Character’ (Sprachcharakter) of Music

Like Meyer, Adorno speaks of schemata and musical composition as the process of ‘deviation’

from a schema and, like Meeùs, of analysis as being principally concerned with this complex re-

lationship of deviation to schema. In his well-known lecture ‘On the Problem of Musical Analy-

sis’ from 1969, Adorno writes,

Analysis is thus concerned with structure, with structural problems, and finally, with struc-
tural listening.84 By structure I do not mean here the mere grouping of parts according to
traditional formal schemata, however; I understand it rather as having to do with what is
going on, musically, underneath these formal schemata . . . which . . . is in fact mediated by
the formal schemata, and is partly at any given moment, postulated by the formal schema-
ta, while on the other hand it consists of deviations which in their turn can only be at all un-
derstood through their relationship to the schemata [added emphasis]. Naturally enough, this
refers most directly to that traditional music in which all-encompassing general schemat-
ic relationships exist at all. The task we have before us, therefore, is the realization of this
already complex relationship of deviation to schema, rather than just the one or the oth-
er alone; and as a first step in this direction, it can well be said that what we understand as
analysis is the essence of the investigation of this relationship (1969/1982: 173;).

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Meyer, likewise, speaks of the emotion and meaning of music as being ‘significantly dependent

upon the deviation of a particular musical event from the archetype or schema of which it is an

instance’ (1973: 213; 1956: passim). By ‘deviation,’ however, we should understand not simply, in-

deed not even initially, what might be the more obvious connotation of the term, to mean de-

parture from, breaking or even playing with convention; on the contrary, the term actually re-

fers to the intimate relationship between an ‘ideal type’ or schema and its particular individua-

tion in a given work — ‘deviation’ refers to deviation from its abstract form, and thus signifies a com-

parison of the particular type with the ideal type, which, for both Meyer and Adorno, has no ac-

tual existence in the acoustic substrate of the music itself. Meyer writes, ‘One cannot find an . . .

ideal cadential schema in the literature of tonal music’ (1973: 213); and with Adorno, schemata,

as ‘universals’ — that is, universal to a given culture; see below — ‘have no real existence apart from

their mediation in particular works of art’ (Paddison 1993: 155). But this ‘absence’ of schemata or

ideal types in the acoustic substrate is once more responsible, and the causal factor, for the ‘lin-

guistic component’ of music. Meyer continues:

But it does not follow that they [ideal cadential schemata] are remote or detached from
actual musical experience. Just as the speaker of a language understands and responds to
verbal utterances according to the types to which they belong . . . so the competent listener
understands and responds to [musical particulars in terms of their ideal types]. . . . To take
the analogy to language still further[,] beginning the movement of a symphony with a ca-
dential gesture, as Haydn does [Symphony No. 97 in C major, opening movement], is like
beginning a story with the words: ‘and they lived happily every after.’
(Meyer 1973: 213–14)

In Adorno, this interaction between universals and particulars, or between schemata and their

207
individuation, constitutes the ‘language-character’ (Sprachcharakter) of music;85 and Max Pad-

dison has explicitly likened this aspect of Adorno’s philosophy of music, and his conception of

style in particular, to Saussure’s langue–parole opposition (1993: 154–55). As with Meyer, style is

viewed as the essential element in music’s capacity to be ‘language’: it ‘refers as much to the inclu-

sive element through which art becomes language — for style is the quintessence of language in art

— as to a constraining element’ (Adorno 2004: 269; my emphasis). This constraining element,

moreover, underlies both Meyer and Adorno’s ever-important pairing of the ‘linguistic compo-

nent’ (Lewin) of music with a historical one. For both, these ‘universals’ or schemata are histori-

cally determined (Meyer 1989 in particular). ‘They do not fulfil the requirements of Platonic ar-

chetypes or reflections, especially in that they are not eternal but historical through and through

(Adorno 2004: 368). ‘Society’ is what ‘provides the schemata of perception’ (ibid: 89). The sche-

ma is, by its very definition, inextricably both a linguistic category, owing to its perceptual redun-

dancy, and a historical category, by virtue of its historical situatedness, as already seen in the pop-

ulation distributions of the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol schemata in Chapter 3. The concept of

a schema single-handedly satisfies the historical and linguistic constraints broached in Chapter

1, as the potential causal factors underlying the then implicit nomological determinacy under-

lying the G minor strain of reception.

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 III

The Schema as Epistemological Centre

Together, the empirical evidence surrounding the Eroica case study, and its various philosophi-

cal and theoretical contextualisations along the way, suggest an epistemological framework for

structuring a more formal argument about tonality as an instance of situated cognition, or cul-

turally determined category of mind, with the concept of a schema situated at its centre. More

specifically, one might imagine this framework as involving three interrelated and deep-seated

foundations — namely, memory, culture, and communication — each radiating outward from

the schema as an epistemological hub or fulcrum, and each operating on intersecting linguistic

and historical axes, as represented in Example 4.6. Now, the representation may seem uncom-

fortably abstract, but one may assign it more concrete and even quantifiable means of meas-

urement and ‘input values.’ To begin with, the historical x-axis simply corresponds to a numeri-

cal time-line in the manner of Examples 3.54–3.55. For this reason, the x-axis is of course unidi-

rectional. To the bidirectional, linguistic, or y-axis, one may assign numerical values that repre-

sent the degree to which a particular style in a given historical period is statistically/perceptual-

ly redundant, and, in the process, measure the degree of its ‘language-character.’ That is, follow-

ing Meyer’s linguistic analogy — that music approximates language in its capacity to be ‘redun-

dant’ by means of statistical rules — the measure of a musical style’s ‘language-character’ is coex-

209
tensive with its degree of statistical and perceptual redundancy. The y-axis represents the degree

to which a style (the ‘quintessence of language in art,’ in Adorno’s terms) is linguistic and, there-

by, schema-driven, in roughly quantifiable terms, by using the extent of its perceptual redundan-

cy as a barometer. This becomes clearer when one applies the historical distribution data given

in Examples 3.54–3.55 onto the epistemological framework of Example 4.6.

Towards that end, one might first view the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol schemata and their his-

torical populations as telling a larger story: Example 4.7 assimilates the statistics from both sur-

veys by treating both the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol more generally as symptoms of the Classi-

cal Style. The now combined populations ‘bell’ once more at the 1750s and 1810s, while also sus-

taining a minimum of 67.3% of the population peak from 1760–1800. Not only may one liken

the graph, accordingly, to something of a metaphorical image of the history of the Classical Style

but also to something of a historical prediction. Between these two mutually complementing

data sets, we may anticipate that other eighteenth-century schemata would either follow anal-

ogous ‘life-cycles,’ or otherwise sit comfortably within the larger stylistic consistency. But more

importantly from the cognitive perspective, the sharp population peak, or rather, the upper part

of the bell curve, is evidence of the high degree of perceptual redundancy in music of the ‘High

Classical Style’: we may generalise from the evidence to argue that music from circa 1750–1820

is increasingly more ‘linguistic’ by comparison with music that extends outward from these sev-

en or so decades, as represented by the superimposition of Example 4.7 onto the framework of

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Example 4.6 in Example 4.8. The le – sol – fi – sol survey is too limited in its historical scope to

bring further evidence to this argument. But Gjerdingen’s broader study, which extends from

1720–1900, would indicate that nineteenth-century music is increasingly less perceptually re-

dundant, and therefore less language-like, at least insofar as the 1–7, 4–3 schema may be treated

representatively (Gjerdingen 1988).86

But there is a parallel plot to this story and corollary to this argument: The high degree of per-

ceptual redundancy in music of the ‘High Classical Style’ also demonstrates the great intimacy

and interdependency by which Memory, Culture, and Communication are engaged. At least in

the abstract — that is, before being interpreted by any data set — these categories represented by

concentric circles in Example 4.6 may each be independently affected by the input data from the

historical and linguistic axes. Each foundation, i.e., memory, culture, and communciation, may

be understood as a fixed point on a ‘dial’ within a multi-dialed interface, which functions inde-

pendently of the others, where ‘function’ refers to the rotation of each ‘dial’ towards one of two

extremes: the top and bottom of the y-axis, each respectively representing a high and low degree

of linguistic capacity, according to the degree and nature of the perceptual redundancy of music

in a given historical period and culture. ‘Degree’ simply refers to the statistical numerical value of

perceptual redundancy, as in Example 4.8, while ‘nature’ refers to the individual properties of the

statistically redundant objects in question. This added dimension of their nature is a condition

that further evaluates the culture-specificity of a schema. By way of example, a schema may be so

211
general or elementary that it applies to a very broad cultural and historical spectrum: so broad

even, that the question of culture, or culture-specificity, is diminished if not made altogether

trivial. Gjerdingen calls these ‘context-free style forms’ or schemata — ‘these structures are so lit-

tle constrained by their definitions that they can be identified with equal frequency in all histor-

ical periods’ (1988: 101). By way of example, a ‘short-long’ durational grouping (an eighth note-

quartet note pairing, for instance) is an instance of such a context-free style form, one equally

applicable to ‘Perotin [as it is] to Crumb’ (Gjerdingen 1988: 101). In a population distribution,

these schemata — which may be better characterised not as context-free, but as context-tran-

scendent — would approximate not a Gaussian but a uniform distribution, as shown in Exam-

ple 4.9. The frequency of the triad, as another example, would similarly approach a uniform dis-

tribution from at least the sixteenth through the nineteenth centuries. When these population

distributions approximate a ‘bell curve,’ however, as with the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol regole,

the sharp peaks in these distributions indicate a much more individualised schema: ‘The degree

of pointedness in the population curve of a musical schema varies directly with the number of constraints

specified in the schema’s definition’ (Gjerdingen 1988: 101; added emphasis); and as will be seen be-

low, both the le – sol – fi – sol and 1–7, 4–3 are indeed highly constrained.

But the more significant argument underlying or implicit in this observation is that highly con-

strained schemata also engage memory, culture, and communication in a far more constrained

and interconnected manner. In other words, they cause each of these ‘dials’/categories to ‘align’

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with themselves and with the upper portion of the y-axis, as in Example 4.8, which amounts to

saying that Memory (corresponding to the mental structures and processes of the Mind) must

correspond to Culture or cultural memory (the structures or artefacts of a given culture) in or-

der for Communication to take place in Meyer and Halbwachs’ sense of the term — that is, as

the presupposition of knowledge and expectation on the part of composer, performer, and lis-

tener. There are numerous situations imaginable where this would not be the case; an extreme

example and the object of much of Meyer’s concern in Music, the Arts, and Ideas is the ‘style’ of

‘total serialism.’ Here, all communication in the ‘linguistic’ sense is null, void, and non-existent

(see Meyer 1967/1994: 266–316; passim). But at the same time, some form of memory and cul-

tural memory would have to be engaged — e.g., elementary categories such as rhythm, meter,

etc. — for the acoustic substrate to qualify as music. In terms of the framework of Example 4.6,

an abstract representation of the ‘style’ of ‘total serialism’ would have the communication dial,

for example, aligned with the bottom half of the linguistic y-axis, in order to account for the ab-

sence of ‘linguistic’ communication based on social conventions, which indeed became an aes-

thetic imperative for much twentieth-century music since the Expressionist movement of the

Second Viennese School and the fin-de-siècle period, and which resulted from the separation of

‘listening grammars’ from ‘compositional grammars’ (Lerdahl 1992), and the advent of sub rosa

methods of composition.87 In the same abstract scheme of total serialism, memory and culture

would align with the x-axis, indicating that the high level of generality in the types of schema-

ta employed (e.g., Gjerdingen’s ‘context-free style forms’) causes individual and cultural mem-

213
ory (‘past experience’) to be engaged on such a thoroughly neutral level (corresponding to the

uniform distribution of Example 4.9) that these categories border on being trivial. In a word, lit-

tle to no ‘cognitive constraints’ are imposed on the ‘compositional system’ (Lerdahl 1992), and

the schemata employed are so general as to constitute mere residual traces of other more famil-

iar territory. Both ‘the absence of a stable stylistic syntax, archetypal schema, [etc.] . . . results in a

level of redundancy so low that communication is virtually precluded’ (Meyer 1967/1994: 290),

and, the culturally-redundant objects are too general or broadly conceived to situate the com-

position in a well-defined extraopus context.

The Historical Imperative

The essence of a thing is often better defined through its diametric opposite: The inverse situa-

tion arises in music of the long eighteenth century, as can be drawn from the statistics of Exam-

ple 4. 7. There, perceptual redundancy reaches levels so high, both in terms of schema frequen-

cy and constraint, that communication is endemic and recourse to past experience and cultur-

al memory is continuous throughout. Not only are the statistics of Example 4.7 symptoms of

the ‘Classical Style’ but also of the underlying Zeitgeist and mentalité that gave rise to perceptual

redundancy and schemata as a necessity: an ‘Age of Empiricism’ where the communicative ca-

pacity of music was elevated and positioned at centre stage. To put it otherwise, that perceptual

redundancy peaks in the later eighteenth century, and therefore coincides with the rise of mu-

sic’s ‘autonomy principle’ (Dahlhaus 1984) and the concept of ‘absolute music’ (Dahlhaus 1989),

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is not by sheer coincidence; as Thomas Christensen described it, ‘The task of finding an aesthet-

ic justification for instrumental music was . . . an urgent one in the eighteenth century. And not

surprisingly, a solution was found precisely in the psychological processes studied so intently by

the empiricist philosophers’ (Christensen 1995: 5). The language-metaphor was widespread in

both aesthetic and theoretical discourse of the eighteenth century, particularly in the context of

rhetoric (see Bonds 1991: 61–80; Spitzer 2004: 207–75). But as Danuta Mirka has suggested in a

recent volume on Communication in Eighteenth-Century Music, the communicative (or linguistic)

component of eighteenth-century music was all-pervasive, affected each of its facets, and ‘had a

direct influence on its vocabulary. . . . In order to successfully address a given audience . . . com-

posers [had] to avail themselves of an appropriate set of conventions’ (Mirka 2008a: 1). These

conventions operated at all parametric levels, including musical grammar, form, and rhetoric, to

which numerous scholars responded in several capacities and often from quite diverse perspec-

tives (Mirka 2008a: 1–4). The greater implication is that the study of eighteenth-century music

requires a ‘historical imperative,’ which acknowledges the context in which musical knowledge

was situated and the peripheries of that ‘situation’; as Mirka puts it:

[H]istorical awareness is indispensable for the study of musical communication. Since all
communicative acts refer to the background knowledge of the receiver, communicative
strategies developed in late eighteenth-century music imply a listener equipped with the
theoretical knowledge [cf. Lewin 1986] and listening habits [cf. Meyer’s habit responses,
perceptual redundancy, or schemata] of that time (Mirka 2008a: 3; added emphasis).

The ‘linguistic component’ of music is therefore inseparable from, and inextricably contingent

215
on historical factors or a ‘historical component’ — as Peter Kivy has similarly argued, ‘Music is

[most] language-like in being culturally-conditioned’ (Kivy 2007: 232). The more ‘schematic’ a

given style is — that is, the more perceptually redundant and constrained are its style forms —

the more ‘linguistic’ it becomes. Because the degree and nature of perceptual redundancy vary

historically, the ‘language-character’ of a musical style and its perceived coherence fluctuate ac-

cording to these historically contingent circumstances: Beethoven’s very use of the le – sol – fi

– sol was ‘predetermined’ by the perceptual redundancies of the time; and his intentions in em-

ploying the schema at the opening of a Symphony, indeed the very recognition of the convention,

would be better, more easily, or readily understood by the fluent speakers or Kenner of his time

(cf. Bonds 2008), when the language was properly in use. Because of its particularly ‘linguistic’

disposition — because it engages memory, culture, and communication in a highly constrained

and interconnected manner, that is, because the ‘Classical style has a profound “language-char-

acter”’ (Spitzer 2006: 228) — it becomes all the more imperative to understand music of eight-

eenth-century Europe in terms of the ‘theoretical knowledge and listening habits of that time.’ In

short, the ‘historical imperative’ becomes all the more necessary because the historical and cul-

tural I-CXT of eighteenth is so situated.

‘Perception as the Inlet of all Knowledge’: The Historical Constraint as Cognitive Constraint.

The question to which situated cognition addresses itself is whether and to what extent this ‘his-

torical imperative’ is equally a cognitive imperative. Indeed, any philosophy of eighteenth-century

216
tonality as a form of situated cognition must maintain that this ‘historical imperative’ must also

be a cognitive condition and cognitive constraint — that the mental structures and knowledge base

underlying cognition are ecologically specific and directly proportionate with the cultural con-

straints; that the socially and culturally conceived statistical rules are equally cognitive rules, whose

implication is already manifest in Meyer’s identification of statistical redundancy with perceptual

redundancy. In the words of John Locke, ‘Perception [is] . . . the first step and degree towards knowl-

edge, and the inlet of all the materials of it’ (1706/1997: 147; original emphasis). But does this argu-

ment really advance anything original or different by way of a philosophy of the musical mind?

To be sure, Lerdahl himself would never deny that aspects of musical knowledge are gained di-

rectly from experience. In point of fact, the ‘stability conditions’ largely ignored in GTTM but

made the ‘centerpiece’ of TPS (2001: 4) involve precisely this form of knowledge. Lerdahl spe-

cifically defines ‘diatonic pitch space’ and ‘tonal hierarchies,’ for example, as elements of ‘knowl-

edge [that] arises from listening experience’ (2001 : 41). By Lerdahl’s estimation then, attempts

to articulate any ontological difference between situated cognition and generative theory may

amount to a false opposition. The emphasis on culturally specific phenomena would only serve

to distinguish or highlight the particular elements of some musical language — idiom-specific

versus idiom-unspecific parameters; or the particulars that serve as input to the universal gram-

mar. In TPS, these are divided into three ‘languages’ represented by three different pitch spaces

— ‘diatonic’ (41–141), ‘chromatic’ (249–297), and ‘flat’ (344–381) — that roughly correspond to

eighteenth-century, nineteenth-century, and atonal music, respectively, a historically informed

217
linguistic analogy Lerdahl explicitly makes:

Only an abstract categorization at the theoretical foundation can accommodate contrasting

musical idioms and hence can support an inclusive theory of musical cognition. Particular
settings of formalisms (such as the particular basic space [i.e., diatonic, chromatic, or flat] .
. .) account for the specific stylistic features within this general framework. In this respect
the approach resembles that in linguistic theory between universal grammar and particu-
lar grammar (Chomsky 1965). The fruitfulness of the approach is demonstrated not only
by its psychologically grounded application to music of the Classical period [cf. Chapter
1 above] but also by its modification for chromatic tonal music from Schubert to Bartók.
Except for the change to flat space, the situation does not fundamentally alter once the
stylistic line into atonality is crossed. One does not hear Elektra and Erwartung in entirely
different ways. The historical development from tonality to atonality (and back) is richly
continuous. Theories of tonality and atonality should be comparably linked.
(2001: 350–351 ; added emphasis)88

Elsewhere, Lerdahl states that ‘[p]itch space distances are input to prolongational structure via the

principle of the shortest path’ (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 332; my emphasis; cf. Chap. 1). In

Lerdahl’s terms, situated cognition may simply place its emphasis on this learned vocabulary, on

the ‘musico-lexical’ index that serves as ‘input’ to the generative mechanism, in the same way that

the vocabulary of the French language would serve as ‘input’ to the generative rules of syntax.

By this estimation, the difference between a generative philosophy of the music mind and a sit-

uated (or empirical) one would not be a question of opposition but of perspective. Even worse,

by insisting upon the cultural factors that underlie cognition, situated cognition may simply be

another instance of ‘weak empiricism,’ which advances the obvious and commonplace observa-

tion that ‘all our specific habits and memories are learned’ (Donald 2001: 214). By Chomsky and

Lerdahl’s position, such learned components as schemata, habits, etc., are ultimately of peripher-

al significance, and not central to the equation [cf. Example 4.6] where knowledge, ‘competence,’

218
and the mechanism of the mind are concerned. Chomsky deems it ‘hopeless . . . to try to account

for linguistic competence in terms of “habits,” “dispositions,” [or] “knowing how”’ (2006: 33). The

‘form of generative music theory,’ outlined in GTTM and TPS, similarly places the universal, in-

nate rule system at its centre, as illustrated in Example 1.21(a). Within this framework, experience-

based knowledge is situated at the periphery, as seen quite dramatically in Lerdahl’s flow chart of

the rule system in GTTM (reproduced in TPS), where the ‘stability conditions’ lie at the periph-

ery of an otherwise predominantly linear, algorithmic process, seen in Example 1.21(b). Now,

one might argue that Lerdahl’s ‘languages’ (the diatonic, chromatic, and flat spaces) are far too

broad in their culture-specificity. The ‘diatonic space,’ for example, as a ‘style form’ or schema —

a term some scholars have used to describe the properties and structure of the diatonic set and

their cognitive dimension89 — would approximate if not a uniform distribution throughout the

history of Western music, at the least a very ‘broad distribution,’ as shown in Example 4.10: for

centuries, the basis of Lerdahl’s ‘diatonic space,’ that is, the diatonic scale, has behaved as what

Lévi-Strauss called a ‘first level of articulation’ (1964/1969: 22). In consequence, an essentialist

perspective is taken even with the learned materials of music, leading some to criticise Lerdahl

for never properly heeding the cultural component of experience and of the acquired charac-

teristics of musical knowledge. Even the culturally determined stability conditions, which rep-

resent learned attributes in the model, such as ‘tonic-finding,’ and tension between tones and

chords, are treated algorithmically, that is, according to the algorithmic rule system (Chap. 1;

Lerdahl 2001: 193ff; Lerdahl 2009: 192).

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In 2003, Nicolas Meeùs critiqued Lerdahl for presuming and assigning a cognitive dimension to

the diatonic space at both the ‘chordal’ and ‘regional level,’ despite having generalised and con-

ceived of rules for measuring ‘distance’ (see Chap. 1) among chords and regions entirely in the

abstract, without specifying a stylistic or cultural context — ‘It appears to me difficult . . . to em-

pirically measure levels of tonal tension and distance, especially if this must be done outside a

specified context and outside time; I believe, on the contrary, that any cognitive distance is nec-

essarily tied to a context, outside of which it cannot be measured’ (Meeùs 2003: 88–89).90 The

variety of problems that caused Meeùs to view TPS as a ‘naturalist’ and ‘Platonic’ (2003: 89) ap-

proach to cognition are already apparent in the generative analysis of the problematic measures

of the Eroica above in Chapter 1. In the actual context of the opening theme, the ‘Cloud’ of bb.

7–8 is equally tense or dissonant with the ii6/5 chord in bar 12 at the hierarchic level (see Exam-

ple 1.22, Thier). In the abstract, the otherwise mysterious ‘Cloud’ harmony is equally distant and

therefore equally dissonant, or tense, in relation to the tonic as the diminished (viio) and super-

tonic (ii) triads, both of which are assigned a distance-value of 8:

δ(I/I⇒viio/I) = 0 + 2 + 6 = 8
δ(I/I⇒ii/I) = 0 + 2 + 6 = 8

1
1 7
1 7 10
0 1 2 3 5 7 8 10
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11
δ(I/I⇒+vio7/I) = 0 + 3 + 5 = 8

And as already illustrated in Chapter 1, it is the rule system, as I-CXT, and the prolongational

220
structure, as CXT, that ultimately control the function and regional location of a chord, thereby im-

posing a preferred interpretation and cognitive prediction of the ‘Cloud’ and the G minor 6/4

chords of bb. 6–9 within an E-flat region (cf. Lerdahl 2001: 63). In generative theory, the episte-

mological centre is ultimately the rule system.

But here too, that is, in response to critiques regarding the cultural component of TPS, Lerdahl

would have an elaborate explanation and answer. In the epistemological framework of genera-

tive theory, idiom-specific structures, such as schemata, ‘archetypal patterns,’ etc., are viewed as

by-products of the innate rule system and musical grammar, or, more properly, of feeding the

system with generic cultural knowledge, such as the basic diatonic space or set. In GTTM, this is

made quite explicit: ‘archetypal patterns emerge as a consequence of the preference rules for the

four components of the musical grammar. . . . In short, archetypal patterns are not represented

directly in the grammar, but emerge as ideally stable structural descriptions produced by the gram-

mar’ (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983: 288–89; added emphasis). Lerdahl has retained this view in

the subsequent developments of the theory. In an article from 1991, ‘Underlying Musical Sche-

mata,’ the function of a chord is identified with or rendered ‘equivalent to [its] hierarchical posi-

tion’ in the prolongational analysis created by the rule system. Here, Lerdahl anticipates what in

TPS he would describe as the ‘tree’ (as a product of the rule system) ‘generat[ing] the functions,’

and therefore obviating the need for conventional functional analysis: the kinds of style-specif-

ic, discursive strategies and contexts that Meeùs finds absent in TPS. For Lerdahl, such ‘schematic

221
prototypes emerge out of a convergence of simple cognitive principles’ (2001: 40): the rule sys-

tem and universal musical grammar. Although Lerdahl never explicitly draws a linguistic anal-

ogy in this connection, the argument that culturally specific idioms arise out of the interpreta-

tion of generic, and even minimal cultural knowledge by means of an innate rule system reso-

nates strongly with Chomsky’s ‘poverty of the stimulus’ argument (1980/2005: 41, 66). The ar-

gument maintains that proof for the existence of innate linguistic knowledge (in the form of

rules) lies in the fact that children know to use many grammatical constructions never previous-

ly encountered. Thus, culture-specific grammatical rules and idioms specific to a given language

are inferred and mentally structured by minimal exposure to that language, owing to the prede-

termined linguistic knowledge base endowed in the mind. (For strong counterarguments, see

Sampson 2005 and Pullum and Scholz 2002.)

But once again the ‘black swan’ rears its troublesome head. Many of these arguments, Lerdahl’s

and Chomsky’s alike, were conceived in the absence of empirical data, and therefore of empiri-

cal justification, notwithstanding that, at least in Lerdahl’s case, testing the theory by methods of

‘experimental psychology’ was certainly welcomed (2001: 4). In linguistics, some nativists, such

as John Kimball (1973), attempted to ground the poverty of the stimulus argument with em-

pirical evidence. Kimball tested the frequency of certain auxiliary verb constructions in English

which combine a modal, perfective, and progressive: e.g., ‘She may have been singing.’ Nativists

maintain that such complex auxiliary sequences are infrequent and unlikely to be heard by chil-

222
dren, and yet children still somehow know to use them. In 1973, Kimball concluded that mo-

dal + perfective + progressive clauses are ‘vanishingly rare,’ on the basis of the observations of one

person, who claimed to have heard ‘fewer than a dozen instances throughout an eight year pe-

riod, and the findings produced by a ‘computerized sample’ of English (74). But Kimball never

specified what this corpus was, making it difficult for others to verify the data. In 1973, the only

such ‘computerized sample’ known to linguists was the so-called ‘Brown University Corpus’ of

American written English. But Kimball could not have used this corpus for, as Geoffrey Samp-

son has demonstrated, it not only contains fewer words (about one million) than the sample

Kimball was allegedly using, but, according to Sampson, seven instances of the construction are

contained in the Brown corpus (Sampson 2005: 75–76). More significantly, a far better empiri-

cal assessment was made possible several years later, with the availability of the ‘British Nation-

al Corpus’ of the English language. Not only is the sample far greater in number by comparison

with the Brown corpus, containing one hundred million words, but it contains samples of writ-

ten and spoken language from a diverse body of British sources and demographics. Sampson’s

search of the construction produced no fewer than 61 instances of the construction per 70,000

words of spoken English alone, and led him to argue that real language use can only be gauged

in spontaneous speech. Comparing his research with that of Betty Hart and Todd Risley (1995),

who investigated ‘how much wording children are typically exposed to in the early years,’ Samp-

son concluded that, by the age of three, children in lower social classes of society, who are typi-

cally exposed to roughly ten million words, will have heard 145 instances of the ‘modal + perfec-

223
tive + progressive’ schema, averaging about one instance per week; and children in higher class-

es will have heard ‘proportionately more instances,’ when minding that children in a professional

household and working-class family are exposed to twenty and thirty million spoken words re-

spectively, by the age of three (Sampson 2005: 77–79). In other words, there was more than a suf-

ficient degree of perceptual redundancy of the construction for children to form a mental rep-

resentation — or schema — of it.

The Sampson study thereby strongly corroborates Locke’s argument that ‘perception is the inlet

of all the materials of knowledge’ — not in the naïve sense of weak empiricism, however, but in

the strongest sense of the term, whereby the environment, culture, and ecology cause a structural

modification in the mind, a strain of empirical thought known as ‘constructivism,’ best represent-

ed in the research of Jean Piaget on cognitive development, and already well anticipated in the

eighteenth century by Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, who expanded upon and brought Locke’s

ideas to French-speaking Europe (see Chap. 5):

Condillac proposed a much stronger, Constructivist version of Empiricism. . . . It asserts

that the very structure of the mind is set up in experience and that many of its highest ca-
pacities are not innate, in the sense of being implanted at birth, but instead are generated by
the appropriate sequencing of early experience. . . . [T]he developing mind emerges in adult-
hood with a specific structure, not necessarily because that structure was innate but because
it flowed naturally and inevitably from particular sequences of experience. This idea applies espe-
cially to higher symbolic capacities. These will self-assemble in a growing mind if it is provided
with the right epigenetic conditions (Donald 2001: 215; added emphasis).

But in order to fully realise the import and implications of Sampson’s study, one would have to

illustrate occasions where children who had not been exposed to the construction were incapa-

224
ble of using it. Then, the argument that exposure leads to knowledge and a structural change in

the mind may come full circle: one may argue for the likelihood that children knew to use the

construction because they simply were exposed to it, but in order to establish a direct causal re-

lation with its prior exposure, evidence of the negative case, where children did not know to use

it and also had not been exposed to it, is equally necessary. Such case studies are widespread in

second language acquisition, but that is another matter.

We do, however, have such a causal relation in a more relevant case study, and ‘black swan’: the

reception history of the Eroica. The empirical evidence of Chapter 3, and its ‘translation’ into a

metaphor for experience by the cultural constraints established in Chapter 2 and by the Culture

of the Rule of the Octave, provide similar empirical data for explaining why some listeners hear

G minor emerging as a tonic in bars 6–9 of the Eroica as does Sampson’s study of the British Na-

tional Corpus of the English language for explaining why children do know how to use complex

auxiliary constructions. Both reconstruct a perceptual redundancy by means of locating a sta-

tistical redundancy in the relevant corpus, which is then abstracted into a mental structure: the

le – sol – fi – sol and modal + perfective + progressive ‘schemata.’ But the Eroica case study, by fur-

nishing actual responses from real listeners in as ecologically authentic a situation as may be pos-

sible, also provides the necessary negative evidence. The E-flat, and perhaps less so the ‘Cloud,’

strain show occasions where listeners do not hear G minor emerging as a tonality in bb. 6–9 of

the Symphony — equivalent to children who would not know how to use the complex auxil-

225
iary constructions — and, because of the unique historical situation of these listeners (all from

the twentieth or twenty-first century), one may argue, if not that they were never exposed to

the le – sol – fi – sol movimento, that they were likely never sensitised to the proper cultural con-

straints (the Culture of the Rule of the Octave) that would cause one to recognise the acous-

tic stimulus as a perceptual redundancy, and structure it in the mind, accordingly.91 In the same

way, a non-native may be exposed to endless utterances of a foreign language and yet never in-

ternalise it, because that person would not have the proper interpretational grid for understand-

ing — namely, the grammatical rules and lexical indices specific to that language. The interpreta-

tional grid of their own language will inevitably ‘get in the way,’ which explains why the majority

of second language acquisition strategies involves training in thinking in the new language and re-

sisting translation of the foreign into the native language. Statistical redundancy and the inter-

pretational grid, then, work hand in hand to create the proper ‘sequences of experience’ and the

‘right epigenetic conditions,’ in Donald’s terms. The E-flat strain of reception brings evidence of

the absence of these sequences and conditions for a G minor hearing. Rochlitz would doubt-

lessly have been exposed to ‘proportionately more instances’ of the le – sol – fi – sol regola, as well

as to the ‘right epigenetic conditions’ than most modern listeners, because he was part of, and

saturated by a single Musikgesellschaft — certainly by comparison with the pluralistic and multi-

cultural standards of music today. Inversely, Hyer would have been exposed to ‘proportionate-

ly [less] instances’ of the schema, and furthermore outside the context of the ‘right epigenetic

conditions.’ This suggests that the perceptual redundancy in the musical environment effected

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a structural change in Rochlitz and others’ minds that did not occur with those listeners in the

E-flat strain, because they were never predisposed to detect it as redundancy, owing to the dis-

tance from the original culture — which is roughly equivalent to children having never heard a

complex auxiliary.92

To be sure, Lerdahl may argue that the poverty of the stimulus interpretation is an unfair assess-

ment of the theory, because the GTTM project presupposes an experienced listener. But one

would be hard-pressed to maintain that any of the authors in the reception history of the Eroica

would not qualify as said listener; and if they do not qualify as experienced listeners, it would be

impossible to demonstrate in what capacity they do not do so, without finally engaging the cultur-

al contingency of the situation and the kinds of cultural contexts that Meeùs and I already find ab-

sent in the theory. This returns the problem once more to cognitive sociology: to argue that any

one of these listeners is more experienced is to argue that that listener is more familiar with a par-

ticular musical idiom than some other listener, which by default presupposes and necessitates

a more refined definition of musical idioms than that represented by the basic space.93 But Ler-

dahl might argue still that, despite being concerned ‘with those musical judgments for which

there is substantial interpersonal agreement,’ the theory ‘should characterize situations in which

there are alternative interpretations’ (GTTM: 3). Not only is the theory incapable of predict-

ing the conflicting responses in the reception history of the Eroica, however, but it substantial-

ly privileges one over the other of the extremes in its modus operandi, as already demonstrated in

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Chapter 1. The le – sol – fi – sol and Eroica reception-history evidence, on the other hand, brings

an empirical solution to the problem by providing both positive and negative evidence for the

G minor and E-flat responses, respectively. The historical imperative, metaphorically represent-

ed by the bell curve of Example 4.7, then, translates into a cognitive imperative, or cognitive con-

straint, when we realise that the particulars of the culturo-historical situation, or this historically

contingent musical environment, structurally impact the mind.

Therein lies the essence of situated cognition and empirical philosophy, and the significance of

placing the schema at the centre of the cognitive framework: ecology, cultural experience, and

perceptual redundancies have a structural consequence on the mind in terms of its mechanisms, an ar-

gument that was implicit in the concept of collective memory, and therefore from the begin-

ning of our enquiry in Chapter 1. Much in Halbwachs’ philosophy of memory derives from crit-

ically engaging the work of French philosopher Henri Bergson, who argued that musicians psy-

chologically negotiate the complexity and richness of musical experience by means of a men-

tal ‘schematic model, where [actual musical objects] are found replaced by a series of signs’ (Halb­

wachs 1939/1997: 29; my emphasis).94 Halbwachs, in agreement on this point, describes the ‘re-

placement’ process as a matter of ‘decompos[ing]’ (in memory) more complex combinations of

tones into a greater number of simpler ones. What simplifies the greater ‘task of memory’ creat-

ed by the increase in number of simpler combinations is what Meyer would call perceptual re-

dundancy and, Weber, more simply, re-hearing: These simpler combinations ‘are frequently re-

228
produced [not only] in the same piece [but] from one piece to another’ (29; cf. Weber). Once

again, the process is explicated by a linguistic analogy: ‘Words are also greater in number than

letters, and the combinations of words more numerous than words are themselves. What is new

[with each utterance] . . . are not words, nor even phrase-types [les membres de phrase]. . . . What

one must . . . comprehend is the assembling of notes or words already known. . . . [and] it suffic-

es that one have present in the mind, in some manner or another, a model that schematically repre-

sents how already-known terms enter into a new mode of combination’ (29–30).95

‘But,’ Halbwachs then asks, ‘how does this schematic model come into existence?’ The Bergso-

nian view once more reinforces Meyer and Weber’s contentions about perceptual redundancy

and re-hearing, respectively, while also anticipating the later theory of statistical learning. ‘With

each hearing is produced a series of motor responses, . . . which are reinforced from one hear-

ing to another [cf. Meyer 1956, passim]. These responses end up producing a motor scheme. It

is this scheme that constitutes the fixed model to which we subsequently compare the piece in

question’ (30).96 Where Halbwachs and Bergson diverge is on the origin of this motor scheme.

Bergson views its development along the lines of the ‘psychological theory of memory’ current

in Halbwachs’ time, which situates the matter in ‘the individual mind alone.’ Though Halbwachs

agrees with Bergson’s developmental characterisation, he ultimately locates both the model for

the motor scheme and its origins in society. Because the ‘series of signs’ that represent the musi-

cal object results from convention (cf. Chap. 1), Halbwachs argues that learning a language, be

229
it musical or natural, involves a process of substitution, whereby ‘our natural and instinctive reac-

tions’ are supplemented by ‘a series of mechanisms, whose model we find entirely formed out-

side of ourselves, in society’ (31).97 The memories musicians rely on to perpetuate their culture

are retained in a ‘quantity of mechanisms that do not arise spontaneously [but] . . . in relation[]

with corresponding, symmetrical, or complementary mechanisms that function in the minds

of others’ (47).98

Both the substitutive function of the motor scheme as a mechanism, and its external origins in

society, rather strongly anticipate the heart of Piaget’s constructivism — namely, in what Piaget

referred to as the adaptive function of an exogenous mechanism. In inaugurating the now famous

Piaget-Chomsky debates of 1975 (convened at the Abbaye de Royaumont, just north of Paris),

Piaget summarised the constructivist paradigm as follows, with a paper titled ‘The Psychogene-

sis of Knowledge and its Epistemological Significance’:

Fifty years of experience have taught us that knowledge does not result from a mere re-
cording of observations without a structuring activity on the part of the subject. Nor do
any a priori cognitive structures exist in man; the functioning of intelligence alone is he-
reditary and creates structures only through an organization of successive actions performed on
objects. Consequently, an epistemology conforming to the data of psychogenesis could be
neither empiricist nor preformationist, but could consist only of a constructivism. . . . The
critique of empiricism is not tantamount to negating the role of experimentation . . . [but
that] no knowledge is based on perceptions alone, for these are always accompanied by
schemes of action. Knowledge, therefore, proceeds from action, and all action that is repeat-
ed [cf. Weber, Meyer, and Halbwachs] or generalized through application to new objects
engenders by this very fact a ‘scheme’ . . . The fundamental relationship that constitutes all
knowledge is not, therefore, a mere ‘association’ between objects, for this notion neglects
the active role of the subject, but the ‘assimilation’ of objects to the schemes of that subject.
. . . [W]hen objects are assimilated to schemes of action, there is a necessary ‘adaptation’ to the
particularities of these objects (compare the phenotypic ‘adaptations’ in biology), and this ad-

230
 aptation results from external data, hence from experience. It is this exogenous mechanism that con-
verges with what is valid in the empiricist thesis (Piaget 1979/1980: 23–24; added emphasis).

Elsewhere in Piaget’s work, this exogenous mechanism, which results from ecological adaptation

and assimilation, goes by the name of ‘schema’ (schéma) (Piaget 1947/2001; Piaget and Inhelder

1968/1973). The schema is not simply a lexical item that would serve as ‘input’ to an innate rule-

system but rather is itself a mechanism.

The same epistemological differences underlying the Piaget-Chomsky debate are those moti-

vating the newly-emerging, music-theoretic debate between situated cognition/schema theory

and generative theory, their differences being not merely a matter of emphasis, but truly funda-

mental and indeed diametrically opposed. Whereas the Chomsky-Lerdahl position views (lin-

guistic and musical) knowledge as ultimately residing in an endogenous mechanism — that is, the

rule system — the schema advances a very different category than that proposed by generative

theory as a model of competence, the basis of knowledge, and as a cognitive mechanism, one in

which the structure of the mind and consequently meaning are not predetermined but entirely

shaped by one’s environment. To situate the schema at the centre of the epistemological frame-

work is to argue that one’s environment has a formative consequence on the mind in a structural

as well as semantic capacity. It remains to examine more formally in what this structure precisely

consists; to examine what actually is a schema.

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 5
w
The Schema Concept

Five Foundational Properties of a Schema

The Schema as (1) Image, (2) Knowledge, and (3) Process

Neither Piaget nor Chomsky were psychologists in any proper sense of the term, so the act of

delegating a cognitive-psychological problem to a philosopher and linguist might seem some-

what paradoxical. But at bottom, the problem is of a philosophical nature. Indeed, the very dis-

cipline of cognitive psychology emerged from issues that for centuries occupied philosophers’

enquiries into the nature of Mind, and many cognitive psychologists/scientists view their dis-

cipline as an extension of empirical philosophy, recognising ‘Aristotle []as the first information-

processing theorist’ (Levitin 2002: xv). As the eminent psychologist George Mandler describes

it, ‘Explorations of the nature of thought, like the rest of psychology, began life in the philoso-

232
pher’s armchair [and] . . . Aristotle’s priority cannot be gainsaid’ (2007 : 17–18). Schema theory

is no exception: ‘We know things . . . by a psychic process analogous to them. There exist in the

mind schemata (sxÆmata) and movements (kinÆseiw) corresponding to the external objects.’

This passage from Aristotle’s De Memoria, also cited in Chapter 2 above (De memoria, 452b.8–15;

slightly modified translation from Ross 1903: 115), advances three features that would remain

foundational to the concept of a schema throughout its long history in Western empirical phi-

losophy as well as cognitive psychology: a schema is in some capacity a ‘copy,’ ‘image,’ or repre-

sentation of sense experience (‘corresponding to the external objects’); a schema is our knowl-

edge (‘we know things by . . . ‘); and a schema is a mechanism (‘movements’). Though Aristotle

never explicitly attributed these features to the term, the passage is, to my knowledge, the first

ever association of these attributes with the word schema — an association that becomes all the

more apparent when viewing this passage in its proper context; that is, not only in the context

of a treatise on memory, but also in that of the companion treatise on the mind, or literally, the

psyche, in De Anima.

To begin with, the ‘schema corresponding to the external object’ is a representation of the out-

side world neither in the Platonic nor in the Kantian a priori sense, but emerges as a ‘copy’ of the

environment via the faculty of perception. Well anticipating Locke by nearly two millennia, in

De Anima Aristotle argues that ‘no one could ever learn or understand anything without the ex-

ercise of perception . . . we must have some mental picture of which to think; for mental images

233
are similar to objects perceived except that they are without matter’ (De Anima, 432a.7–11; Aris-

totle/Hett 1957: 181; added emphasis). The term for the internal mental representation of the

external object here is not schema (sxÆma), but ‘image’ (φάντασμά). In De Memoria, Aristo-

tle defines memory and remembering as ‘the possession of an image regarded as the copy of the

thing it images [ὡς εἰκόνος οὗ φάντασμα], and the member in us to which it appertains is the pri-

mary sense-faculty [πρώτου αἰσθητικοῦ, or ‘primary seat of sensation’] (De Memoria 451a.15–

19).99 These ‘images’ or ‘copies’ of experience are therefore not mere passive recordings of the

outside world but, as already implied in the preceding, are active categories. We think by means

of mental images, or schemata. The use of these images in memory is furthermore qualified as

constituting knowledge, which is not the domain of memory per se, but of reminiscence, treated

in the second component of the treatise, which reads ‘On Memory and Reminiscence’ (PERI

MNHMHS KAI ANAMNHSEVS). By ‘reminiscence,’ Aristotle means both the specific con-

notation of consciously bringing a past experience to mind, and the more general, albeit subtler

sense, designating one’s unconscious use of memory, in the sense of thought, or cognition. In de-

scribing the particular process of recollection in syllogistic terms (cf. the laws of the Association

of Ideas below) the process is identical whether one consciously ‘search[es] for the idea,’ or ‘even

when there is no search’ (De Memoria 451b.26–28; Aristotle/Ross 1906: 111).

[R]ecollection is neither the recovery nor the acquisition of memory. . . . [I]t is only at the
moment when the state or affection [in the mind] has been induced [i.e. the process] that
there is memory. . . . [A]s soon as the affection is completely induced in the individual and
ultimate sense organ, the affection — or knowledge, if one can call the state or affection knowl-
edge . . . — is already present in the affected subject. . . . But when one recovers some previous
knowledge or sensation or experience, the continuing state of which we described before

234
 as memory, then this process is recollection (De memoria, 451a; 20–30; added emphasis;
translation from Aristotle/Hett 1957: 299).

These three foundations of a schema as a ‘copy’ of experience or of the environment, as knowl-

edge, and as an active mechanism are summarised by a single predication in De Anima: ‘Knowl-

edge when actively operative is identical with its object’ (De Anima 431a.1–2; translation from Aristo-

tle/Hett 1957: 175). We find, in Aristotle already, the notion that there exists an identification of

mind with the environment or its objects of experience and perception. The identification con-

sists of a structural modification on the mind in terms of its ‘movements,’ or mechanistic prop-

erties; and Aristotle views this structural modification as causing a physical-biological change:

‘[T]his experience[, of the syllogistic process of recollection and deliberation,] is of a corporeal

nature, and . . . in recollecting we search for an image in a corporeal organ’ (De Memoria 453a.16–

22; Aristotle/Ross 1906: 117; added emphasis). The structural modification is both psychologi-

cal and biological; as George R. T. Ross interpreted the Sagirite’s musings, ‘Aristotle talks of the

impression on the organ being like an imprint ­— τύπος, and, no doubt, he must have thought

of the impression left by an experience as being some kind of structural modification of the organ.

He talks of the subjective affections involved in apprehending . . . as being σχήματα like the

object[s] . . . themselves’ (Ross 1906: 40; cf. Piaget above).

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(4) The Interactivity of a Schema: The Laws of Association and Empirical Philosophy

But the most important contribution of De Memoria for later empirical philosophy and cogni-

tive psychology lies in a fourth foundation of a schema — namely, its inter-activity. Not only is a

schema active but interactive in a twofold sense: with the environment from which it originates,

and with other knowledge (or schemata) lying in memory. In Aristotle, this interactivity com-

ponent emerges in the famous and first ever discussion of the ‘laws of the Association of Ideas,’

which so heavily influenced the British empiricists: the laws of Similarity, Contiguity, and Con-

trast. ‘The occurrence of an act of recollection owes to the natural tendency of one particular

process [movement, impulse, or change (κίνησις)] to follow another. . . . Thus, when we recol-

lect, one of our previous psychic changes [κινήσεων] is stimulated which leads to the stimula-

tion of that one, after which the experience to be recollected is wont to occur [or is expected].

Consequently we hunt for the next in the series, starting our train of thought from what is now

present or from something similar, or contrary, or contiguous to it. This is the means of effecting

recollection’ (De Memoria, 451b. 12–25; slightly modified translation from Aristotle/Ross 1906:

110–111; my emphasis). This ‘natural tendency’ of mental associations is furthermore statistical-

ly or culturally determined; ‘for it is owing to the custom of their being experienced in sequence

that one particular process follows another. . . . It is in accordance with a natural tendency to fol-

low one another in particular order that things actually happen; and it is frequent repetition that

produces a natural tendency’ (451b.3o–35; Aristotle/Ross 1906: 111, 113; my emphasis). Not

only do we see a different formulation of Meyer’s perceptual redundancy anticipated here, but

236
also the principle of modus ponens, which would prove so significant for later schema theory and

which is absolutely essential in understanding the G minor problem in the Eroica case study:

that is, ‘if B followed A in the past, [one] . . . should remember that fact . . . and expect B to fol-

low A in the future’ (Becker 1973: 433). In short, as Mandler summarises Aristotle’s argument,

‘memory requires the prior acquisition of some knowledge, which is most frequently laid down by habit-

uation. . . . [T]he method of sequences . . . [or m]ental “movements” follow one another by habit-

uation’ (Mandler 2007: 19; added emphasis).

The laws of the association of ideas eventually gave rise to a strain of philosophy known as Brit-

ish associationism, founded by the British empiricists, Locke being first among them to explic-

itly describe Aristotle’s original thesis as ‘The Association of Ideas’ (1706/1997: 354–360). But it

was Thomas Hobbes (1640/1994) who reformulated and elaborated the association theory of

thought in modern Western philosophy, and who, notwithstanding Aristotle’s original formu-

lation, now rightly holds the ‘mantle’ upon his ‘shoulders’ (Mandler 2007: 18). Moreover, it was

David Hartley (1749/1834) who explicitly founded the movement known as associationism,

later perpetuated by James and John Stuart Mill (1829; 1843) and Alexander Bain (1855; 1868).

Now, as Mandler has suggested, the British empiricists did less to elaborate or substantially con-

tribute to Aristotle’s original thesis than to change the face of philosophy from a rationalist and

nativist view of the mind held since Descartes, to an empiricist conception that, more impor-

tantly, would set the stage and form the backdrop of British psychology in the twentieth centu-

237
ry. The significance of this particular historical development for our purpose lies in the coinci-

dence of the early stages of British cognition, which stemmed from the empiricist philosophers

(Mandler 2007: 20, 169; passim), with the beginning of modern schema theory in the work of

British psychologist Sir Frederic C. Bartlett, who, like Aristotle before him, developed the con-

cept of a schema with a monograph on memory: Remembering: A Study in Experimental and So-

cial Psychology (1932). But to properly understand the essence of Bartlett’s contribution, those

several, albeit incremental, developments that did take place in empirical philosophy since the

original Aristotelian thesis are rather significant, especially as regards the active and interactive

components of a schema. In hindsight, the association of ideas as the principal basis of cogni-

tion was deemed wanting in several respects (Mandler 2007: 178ff.), but associationist thought,

in the hands of the empiricist philosophers, is far subtler and more substantive than the mere as-

sociation of ideas and its catchphrase would imply.

In the first place, Locke maintained the origins of knowledge and ideas are found not simply in

some passive copying of experience but from the interaction of the mind with the environment.

Though Locke never described it explicitly in interactive terms, the interactive component im-

plicitly emerges in what he calls the two ‘fountains of knowledge’: perception and reflection.

Let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without
any ideas; how comes it to be furnished . . . [with] all the materials of reason and knowl-
edge? To this I answer, in one word, from experience: in that, all our knowledge is found-
ed; and from that it ultimately derives itself. Our observation employed either about exter-
nal sensible objects; or about the internal operations of our minds, perceived and reflected on by our-
selves, is that, which supplies our understanding with all the materials of thinking. These two are

238
 the fountains of knowledge, from whence all the ideas we have, or can naturally have, do
spring. First, our senses, conversant about particular sensible objects, do convey into the mind
several distinct perceptions of things. . . . Secondly, the other fountain, from which experi-
ence furnisheth the understanding of ideas, is the perception of the operations of our own minds
within us, as it is employed about the ideas it has got (1706/1997: 109–110).

Locke also never used the term ‘schema’ in this context, but in its stead we find an analogue to

Aristotle’s ‘schemata’: impressions.

‘Tis about these impressions made on our senses by outward objects [added emphasis], that the
mind seems first to employ itself in such operations as we call perception, remembering, con-
sideration, reasoning, etc. (1706/1997: 120).

And also like Aristotle, these impressions, or schemata, are interconnected with a ‘mechanistic’

or processive category analogous to Aristotle’s ‘movements’: operations.

In time, the mind comes to reflect on its own operations, about the ideas got by sensation,
and thereby stores itself with a new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. These are the
impressions that are made on our senses by outward objects, that are extrinsical to the mind;
and its own operations, proceeding from powers intrinsical and proper to itself [cf. Piaget’s
‘the functioning of intelligence alone is hereditary’], which when reflected on by itself, be-
come also objects of its contemplation. [These] are . . . the original of all knowledge. Thus the
first capacity of human intellect, is, That the mind is fitted to receive the impressions [read: sche-
mata] made on it; either, through the senses, by outward objects; or by its own operations,
when it reflects on them (ibid: 120).

But most importantly, in keeping with the situated, and constructivist side of things, Locke ar-

gues, as Condillac and Piaget after him, that the original, external objects have a structural con-

sequence on the mind and its operations:

For the objects of our senses, do, many of them, obtrude their particular ideas upon our
minds, whether we will or no; and the operations of our minds, will not let be without,
at least some obscure notions of them. . . . These simple ideas, when offered to the mind,
the understanding can no more refuse to have, nor alter, when they are imprinted, nor blot
them out, and make new ones itself, than a mirror can refuse, alter, or obliterate the images
or ideas, which, the objects produce before it, do therein produce (120–121).

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But the influence of the environment on the mind involves not merely what ‘simple ideas’ one

derives or forms therefrom, but also the generation of complex ideas from these simpler ones.

That is, Locke explains the formation of complex ideas in terms of mental operations that are

performed on the simpler ones derived from the environment — a kind of interaction within the

mind that consists of ‘acts of the mind wherein it exerts its power over its simple ideas’:

1. combining several simple ideas into one compound one, and thus all complex ideas are
made. 2. The second is bringing two ideas, whether simple or complex, together; and set-
ting them by one another, so as to take a view of them at once, without uniting them into
one; by which it gets all its ideas of relations. 3. The third is separating them from all other
ideas that accompany them in their real existence; this is called abstraction: And thus all its
general ideas are made (159).

These acts properly belonging to the mind, however, are themselves influenced by the environ-

ment. First, because of perceptual redundancy: ‘those [ideas] that are oftenest refreshed (amongst

which are those that are conveyed into the mind by more ways than one) by a frequent return

of the objects or actions that produce them, fix themselves best in the memory, and remain clearest

and longest there’ (149). Secondly, because habits formed by these perceptual redundancies in-

fluence all manners of thought and the ‘acts of the mind.’ In the section titled, ‘Of the Associa-

tion of Ideas,’ Locke describes the very connections and associations the mind makes in form-

ing complex ideas, relations, etc., as being determined by custom:

Custom settles habits of thinking in the understanding, as well as of determining in the will. . . .
[T]hus ideas seem to be produced in our minds; or if they are not, this may serve to explain
their following one another in an habitual train, when once they are put into that tract, as
well as it does to explain such motions of the body. A musician used to any tune, will find,
that let it but once begin in his head, the ideas of the several notes of it will follow one an-
other orderly in his understanding (355; added emphasis).

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Nearly a century later, in 1777, David Hume similarly spoke of impressions as the origins of ideas

and knowledge (1777/1975: 18), going so far to say that ‘all our ideas . . . are copies of our impres-

sions’ (ibid: 19). In this same empiricist context, he added another dimension to the doctrine

of associations, namely that of causality: ‘if we think of a wound we can scarcely forbear reflect-

ing on the pain which follows it’ (ibid: 24).100 But similar preoccupations with the active compo-

nent of the mind — again, notwithstanding the ‘copy’ metaphor — also add another dimension

to the interactivity component, whereby the mind now interacts with the environment in a crea-

tive sense. Despite Hume’s insistence that no ‘idea can have access to the mind’ without some im-

pression of it deriving from the environment, he presents a situation in which knowledge nev-

er directly encountered in the outside world may nonetheless be generalised and deduced from

already extant impressions, using shades of colour as an example illustrating this ‘contradicto-

ry phenomenon.’ The ‘several distinct ideas of colour, which enter by the eye, or those of sound,

which enter by the ear, are really different from each other’ (20). The same, Hume argues, must

hold for shades of colour. He then poses the question as to whether a person, who never experi-

enced a ‘particular shade of blue,’ despite being ‘acquainted with colours of all kinds,’ if present-

ed with a spectrum of the colour blue, would perceive a ‘blank’ in the particular area where this,

as yet never experienced shade of blue, would otherwise appear. Indeed, Hume maintains, that

person would ‘raise up to himself the idea of that particular shade,’ owing to the ‘creative pow-

er of the mind,’ which consists of the ‘faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or di-

minishing the materials afforded us by the senses and experience’ (19–21; added emphasis; cf. Gibson

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1966; 1979). The missing shade, or a shade approximating the missing shade, would be deduced

and created by compounding elements from other shades of blue, or otherwise by augmenting

or diminishing the values of the already-known shades of blue from either side of the ‘vacancy’

in the spectrum, respectively.

The significance of this creative capacity to generalise and deduce from the environment can-

not be overestimated. By way of example, schema theory would need to account not simply for

the perceptual redundancies of musical objects and their reconstruction, but also for how a par-

ticular schema ever came to be a schema. The le – sol – fi – sol regola, after all, was created before

it became perceptually redundant. But like the ‘absent’ shade of blue in Hume’s Enquiries, the le

– sol – fi – sol is but the result of compounding and generalising from already extant knowledge.

The dominant to which the entire sequence of events is oriented, it goes without saying, is famil-

iar territory. The fixing of a half-cadential, or other dominant by means of a diminished seventh

chord on raised scale degree four, is, furthermore, a syntactic process that absolutely saturates

eighteenth-century scores from at least Bach and Vivaldi onward; similarly, the preparation of a

dominant by means of a major triad on lowered scale degree 6 can be traced to the late Renais-

sance and early Baroque, in the Phrygian cadence and its antecedents. The first stage of the le –

sol – fi – sol is a compounding, and therefore an expansion of the function of both phenomena

by means of the passing six-four chord, which, as already noted in the preceding chapter, is the

second most typical function of the 6/4 chord-form, next to the cadential 6/4. The levels of ‘as-

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sociation’ might be pursued further, to examine the schema as a compounding, augmenting, di-

minishing, and generalising of elements and properties inherent to the diatonic scale (Chap. 3)

— that is, to examine how a particular culture arrived at subsequent levels of articulation, follow-

ing Lévi-Strauss’ characterisation of the diatonic set as a ‘first level of articulation, ‘which is indis-

pensable in musical language as in any other, and which consists precisely of general structures

whose universality allows the encoding and decoding of individual messages’ (1964/1969: 424).

Schema theory would have to address the means whereby culturally specific ideas or schemata

are created via interaction with the environment, whether one begins at the most general level,

viewing the environment at the level of the scale, or at a more advanced level, viewing the envi-

ronment as the special characteristics of a musical style as a probability system. Hume’s philo-

sophical exercise respecting colour perception is a step in this direction, and also anticipates lat-

er theoretical developments in cognition, which stipulate that culturally-determined rules may

be inferred from the probabilities of the culture system, as emergent properties (Bharucha 1994:

235) of the probability system. In this way, the le – sol – fi – sol schema likely developed, as all

schemata, through culturally determined inference, and so its origins may be located not in the

work of any single composer, but in a particular historical period when several composers col-

lectively responded to the current tendencies and orientations of the style or probability system.

By extension, a listener ‘fluent’ with the style as a probability system in general, would ‘recognise’ a

schema never previously experienced as a coherent statement within the system.

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But to return to the more relevant matter at hand, implicit in the interactivity of Hume’s argu­

ment is not simply the association of ideas and environmental stimuli: creating a new shade of

blue out of materials in the environment also presupposes its proper organ-isation. Throughout

their writings, Aristotle, Locke, Hume, and other empiricist philosophers were implicitly con-

cerned with two categories of mind and their interrelation that involve the organ-isation of the

environment: namely, representation, which includes the first two components of a schema, as it

is here defined (as knowledge and as a ‘copy’ or ‘image’ of experience) and mechanics, which in-

cludes a schema’s activity and interactivity. Two later empiricist philosophers would explicitly

use these terms: in the mid-nineteenth century, Alexander Bain described the ‘revived states’ of

experience as ‘representations’ (1855/1895: 444, 446, passim; cf. also Mandler 2007: 34–35); and

John Stuart Mill spoke of the laws of association in ‘mechanical’ terms (1829/1874: 592; cf. also

Mandler ibid: 33). The significance in locating the epistemological precedence for schema theo-

ry and situated cognition in empirical philosophy lies in its viewing the organisation of the envi-

ronment in both its representational and mechanical capacities as part of one and the same cat-

egory; that is the fundamental principle of culturally situated cognition — that mental structures

and processes are coextensive with or structurally determined by the environment.

Bartlett’s ‘Social Psychology’

It was only with Frederic C. Bartlett in the early part of the twentieth century that a single cate-

gory came to signify both the representational and mechanical attributes of the mind, explicitly in

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organisational terms, and also by the name ‘schema.’ Though Bartlett himself resisted the term,

owing to its ‘at once too definite and too sketchy’ connotations, and to its ‘not indicat[ing] very

well what is very essential to the whole notion, that the organised mass results of past changes . . .

are actively doing something all the time,’ he adapts the term to a ‘more narrow’ definition:

‘Schema’ refers to an active organisation of past reactions, or of past experiences [its represen-
tational dimension], which must always be supposed to be operating [its mechanical dimen-
sion] in any well-adapted organic response. That is, whenever there is any order or regular-
ity of behaviour, a particular response is possible only because it is related to other similar
responses which have been serially organised, yet which operate, not simply as individual
members coming one after another, but as a unitary mass. Determination by schemata is
the most fundamental of all the ways in which we can be influenced by reactions and expe-
riences which occurred some time in the past (1932: 200–201; added emphasis ).

In these beginnings of modern schema theory, the concept designated both the organised ‘con-

struction’ of past experience — its representation in memory — and its organised ‘reconstruction’

— which specifies the active, mechanical, or operational component of memory: ‘Remembering

is not the re-excitation of innumerable fixed, lifeless fragmentary traces. It is an imaginative re-

construction, or construction, built out of the relation of our attitude towards a whole active mass of

organised past reactions or experience, and to a little detail which commonly appears in image or in

language form’ (1932: 213; added emphasis). The description of a schema as a ‘whole active mass

of organised past reactions or experience’ is among the more significant contributions of Bar-

tlett’s work: a schema is not merely an ‘image’ or ‘copy’ of experience but an interactive network.

More importantly, Bartlett demonstrated the social determinacy of this active organised mass by

proceeding — unlike his philosopher predecessors — not by reflection, or from the ‘armchair’

in Mandler’s terms, but by experimentation. Not unlike the present study, the schema concept

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in Bartlett’s work on memory emerged from a significant case study: Bartlett had a number of

students from the University of Cambridge recall and retell a Native American story, the ‘War

of the Ghosts,’ with a method he called ‘Repeated Reproduction.’ Because the cultural predis-

positions of the Cambridge students were so fundamentally unlike the cultural contexts of the

story, recall invariantly involved omission of details, which led Bartlett to the whole notion that

memory is not a simple registering of events or stimuli in the environment (‘lifeless fragmentary

traces’) but of constructing or organising that environment. In the process of recalling the story,

each student reconstructed the original under the influence of their own knowledge bases, that

is, by means of their already-extant schemata: the implication being that the story was not ‘prop-

erly’ recounted because whatever socially determined schemata the story does invoke were not

part of the Cambridge students’ knowledge bases. By a similar estimation, the ‘Cloud’ and E-flat

responses in the Eroica case study must owe to some difference between the cultural context in-

voked and presupposed by the opening of the Symphony (the le – sol – fi – sol schema) and the

knowledge bases of the listeners in the E-flat and ‘Cloud’ strains of reception.

Having read and engaged Halbwachs’ work, Bartlett maintains that, ‘Social organisation gives a

persistent framework [cf. Halbwachs’ collective memory] into which all detailed recall must fit,

and it very powerfully influences both the manner and the matter of recall. Moreover, this per-

sistent framework helps to provide those “schemata” which are a basis for the imaginative recon-

struction called memory’ (1932: 296; added emphasis).101 But Bartlett’s emphasis on reconstruc-

246
tion ought not be misunderstood. That is to say, reconstruction should not be equated with dif-

ference from the original experience — students of a Native American background would still

reconstruct the story in the process of recalling it, but would provide a more ‘proper’ retelling

by having recognised the schemata presupposed or used by the story, and reactivated or reused

them during their reconstruction. Memories and schemata do exist in a fixed form of sorts, on-

ly not as a trace but as a ‘unitary mass,’ whose fixation is a consequence of what Meyer called per-

ceptual redundancy. Bartlett writes,

Every incoming change contributes its part to the total ‘schema’ of the moment in the or-
der in which it occurs. That is to say, when we have movements a, b, c, d, in this order, our
‘plastic postural model’ of ourselves at the moment d is made depends, not merely up-
on the direction, extent and intensity of a, b, c, d, but also upon the chronological order in
which they have occurred. Suppose, for the moment, that a ‘model’ . . . is completed, and
all that is needed is its maintenance. Since its nature is not that of a passive framework, or
patchwork, but of an activity, it can be maintained only if something is being done all the
time. So in order to maintain the ‘schema’ as it is . . . a, b, c, d must continue to be done, and
must continue to be done in the same order (1932: 203).

In the simplest terms, a schema is the process of (re-)forming associations already made in the

past. Moreover, like Aristotle and Locke before him,102 Bartlett assigned a greater degree of sig-

nificance to those associations that are determined by custom: ‘All incoming impulses of a cer-

tain kind, or mode, go together to build up an active, organised setting’ or schema, which oper-

ates ‘on a higher level’ when ‘experiences connected by a common interest,’ such as ‘sport, litera-

ture, history, art, science, philosophy and so on’ (201), are concerned.

Finally, Bartlett advanced a notion that would perhaps be most consequential for later schema

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theory and its more sophisticated formalisations by the eminent cognitive psychologist David

Rumelhart: namely, that even diachronic phenomena like the a, b, c, d chain must be remolded

into an active synchronic setting when encoded and functioning as schemata, an argument that

is of especial significance for music and, particularly, for tonality (1932: 203–2o4). Bartlett never

proceeded further with a potential representation of a schema as an active organised mass. Nor

did he advance more by way of how this ‘active mass of organised past reactions or experience’

operates, other than to say, somewhat problematically, that ‘the organism learns to turn round

upon its own “schemata,” or in other words, it becomes conscious.’

It may be that what then emerges is an attitude [original] towards the massed effects of a
series of past reactions. Remembering is a constructive justification of this attitude; and,
because all that goes to the building of a ‘schema’ has a chronological, as well as a qualita-
tive, significance, what is remembered has its temporal mark; while the fact that it is oper-
ating with a diverse organised mass, and not with single undiversified events or units, gives to
remembering its inevitable associative [read: synchronic] character (208; my emphasis).

Gjerdingen’s ‘Psychology of Convention’

Because of such residual ambiguities as arise in some of Bartlett’s formulations, despite the sig-

nificance of his contribution, the schema concept had very little currency throughout the bet-

ter part of the twentieth century, aside from Piaget’s work on cognitive development. But the

1970s witnessed an accelerated and pronounced resurgence of the concept, in the midst of what

has been coined as the ‘cognitive revolution in psychology’ (Dember 1974; Joynson 1970; We-

imer and Palermo 1973; Palermo 1971; Baars 1986). By the late 1970s and early 1980s, a number

248
of seminal works on the schema concept were published (Moore and Newell 1973; Bobrow

and Norman 1975; Minsky 1975; Rumelhart 1975; 1977; 1980; Chafe 1976; Rumelhart and Or-

tony 1977; Schank and Abelson 1977; George Mandler 1979; and Jean Mandler 1984). In conse-

quence, by 1980, the schema was no longer deemed a vague impression of some otherwise high-

ly intuitive notion about cognition, but was now considered by some to be ‘the basic building

block of cognition’ (Rumelhart, Smolensky, McClelland, and Hinton 1986; Rumelhart 1980;

G. Mandler 1984). Not coincidentally, the first explicit application of schema theory to music

appeared in wake of these developments, with Robert Gjerdingen’s A Classic Turn of Phrase: Mu-

sic and the Psychology of Convention (1988). To be sure, much in Gjerdingen’s monograph owes to

previous work in musicology, and especially that of Leonard Meyer, who implicitly and explicit-

ly addressed the schema concept in the manner described above. But the epistemological con-

text of Gjerdingen’s study closely engages several of these important schema-theoretic develop-

ments in cognitive psychology.

The Image Metaphor: The Schema as Representation or ‘Copy’ of Experience

In this context, we find a representation that approximates what Bartlett likely had in mind by

an ‘active organised mass,’ and by a synchronic representation of a diachronic phenomenon, re-

produced in Example 5.1 Indeed, if the preceding has perhaps excessively deliberated in histori-

249
cally defining a schema, it was only to create a proper context for understanding this representa-

tion and the subsequent development of its concept. In it one should not only see the historical

and epistemological resonances of the schema that emanate from the original Aristotelian the-

sis, as outlined in the preceding, but by means of it, we also finally arrive at one representation of

a musical analogue to Saussure’s ‘social product lying in the mind.’ These resonances were like-

ly unknown to Gjerdingen, but the connection to Bartlett — whose work Gjerdingen casual-

ly cites (1988: 4, 9) — is only by one degree of separation. The image is adopted from Joseph D.

Becker (1973), who initially intended it as a representation of schemata and their organisation in

memory via ‘Memory Nodes.’ Though Becker was writing a few years earlier than the seminal

works on schema theory cited above appeared, he engaged earlier writings by these scholars in-

cluding Bartlett himself. Becker’s study offers ‘A Model for the Encoding of Experiential Infor-

mation’ in terms of formal memory structures that he calls ‘schemata.’ More specifically, Beck-

er’s study investigated the ‘system of processes by which an organism stores and manipulates the

experience it gains through interaction with its environment’ (Becker 1973: 397). The system

consists of several schemata in long-term memory that are ‘woven together into a net-structure.’

This ‘net-structure corresponds to the associative nature of access to long-term memory’ (409)

that lay at the centre of the empiricist thesis for centuries. The schemata themselves are ‘nothing

more than highly-structured lists of pointers to’ the basic unit of memory structure, the ‘Node,’

which functions as ‘the atomic primitive’ of memory, and which roughly corresponds ‘to the

intuitive notion of a “concept”’ (409). In Example 5.1, the ‘Memory Nodes’ are represented by

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black circles, with the larger ones at the centre of the image corresponding to categories, or con-

cepts, that figure into the schemata as their substantive events or features. The schemata are situ-

ated at the periphery of the image and are circumscribed by brackets; the internal divisions with-

in them, indicated by canted brackets, signify the ‘stages’ of a schema, by Gjerdingen’s interpre-

tation of Becker’s ‘kernel’ (Gjerdingen 1988: 61). Between stages, the unidirectional arrows in-

dicate these schemata are of a temporal design, that there exists a ‘directed association [between

them] by temporal contiguity’ (Becker 1973: 411; cf. Aristotle). The bidirectional arrows be-

tween Memory Nodes represent synchronic associations between concepts, that may operate as

events within a given diachronic relation, or an event schema.

The implications for the abstract structure to represent tonal schemata and harmonic catego-

ries and syntax in terms of an associative memory network are indeed rather extraordinary; and

it is precisely such an interpretation that Gjerdingen assigns the structure, by viewing harmonic

categories as ‘Nodes’ within two kinds of memory organisation: ‘episodic’ and ‘semantic’ (Tulv-

ing 1972), or ‘schematic’ and ‘categorical’ (Mandler 1979), which were already implied by Bar-

tlett’s insistence that diachronic phenomena have a synchronic representation in memory.

The two types of memory organization [i.e., episodic and semantic] commingle if we al-
low the term feature for event schemata to coincide with the term concept for semantic net-
works [as represented in Example 5.2]. Bird, for example, can be both a concept linked to
the memory nodes wings, canary, animal, and so on, and a feature in the schemata bird-eat-
ing-a-worm, flying, or nest-building. Similarly in music, dominant seventh chord, for example,
can be both a concept linked to the memory nodes instability, dissonance, and so on, and a
feature in the schemata perfect authentic cadence and 1–7 . . . 4–3 changing note.
(Gjerdingen 1988: 61)

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This involves interpreting the memory node, that is, the primary data and memory structure, as

a chord, or chord-form, which functions as a musical analogue to the word or ‘concept’ (Chap.

2; cf. Quinn 2008). By way of example, Memory Node 1 might represent the category of an aug-

mented sixth chord, or la sixte superfluë, which participates as an event, or feature, in the schema ‘half

cadence.’ But these nodes need not exclusively represent harmonic and conceptual categories

in any absolute sense. They might equally represent scale degrees, or morphemes, etc. Towards

that end, Gjerdingen’s particular application of Becker’s associative memory network specifies

more than one feature for each event of a schema, normally represented by a single Node. Ex-

ample 5.3 displays Gjerdingen’s formal representation of the 1–7, 4–3 schema, which adapts mu-

sic-theoretic categories to Becker’s notational conventions. The schema consists of four events

evenly distributed in two stages that are designated by canted brackets,103 whose temporal rela-

tion is indicated by a right-facing arrow. The memory nodes, supplied beneath Gjerdingen’s rep-

resentation, correspond not simply to the chords of the progression that substantively outline

the four events (I–V, V–I) of the schema, but also to a unique pairing of each chord with a par-

ticular scale degree in the top-voice — 1, 7, 4, and 3 respectively. The bass involves a similar pair-

ing indicating a specific inversion of the harmonies in question. But insofar as the 1–7, 4–3 sche-

ma is primarily determined by the I–V, V–I (or T–D, D–T) statement-response parallelism and

the complementary 1–7, 4–3 rhyme in the top-voice, the specific inversions of the harmonies in

question are of secondary importance. These might be called first-order variables that one might

identify in a ‘default form’ representation of the schema which includes a specific top-voice and

252
bass pairing. This is implicit in the hierarchy among scale degrees displayed in Gjerding­en’s rep-

resentation, where smaller scale-degree numbers indicate less frequent variables of the schema.

Finally, the entire collection of features associated with a given event might be abstracted into a

single Gestalt that is represented by a single memory node, in the same way that any given chord,

which is potentially built up of three to four nodes corresponding to its constituent pitch-class-

es or scale degrees (Bharucha 1987; 1991; 1994), might be abstracted into a single category.

In the later monograph from 2007, Gjerdingen refined the earlier representation in Example 5.3

by absorbing the ‘bundle of features’ of a given event into a single ‘lozenge’ (2007: 453), or scale-

degree Gestalt, as shown in Example 5.4, which recasts the 1–7, 4–3 (now called the Meyer) sche-

ma into a series of four events whose features congeal into a single Gestalt. The newer representa-

tion is also more consistent with the eighteenth-century conception of harmony as chord-forms

over a scale degree in the bass (cf. Chapters 2–3), and also specifies the most common metric as-

sociation for each event. Example 5.5 provides a similar representation of the le – sol – fi – sol

schema, where each event is abstracted and encoded into a single memory node, corresponding

to the pairing of a specific chord-form and scale degree in the bass.104 Like the 1–7, 4–3, it con-

sists of two stages containing four principal events that are substantively determined by the har-

monic progression: features in brackets indicate first-order variables. The six-four chord on sol in

the second stage, for example, as seen in Chapter 3, and as is common for any dominant articula-

tion, may or may not be present. In the representations of the chord-forms themselves, the voic-

253
ing of each chord may vary not only in respect to the top-voice (Example 5.5), but also in terms

of the particular realisation of the underlying ‘imaginary continuo’ (Rothstein 1991). In the case

of the dominant in the second stage, a seventh may or may not be present, depending on the ca-

dential situation, etc. The diminished seventh chord on scale degree +4, sounding as event three,

will often have an omitted third, as in bb. 7–8 of the Eroica, a phenomenon Emanuel Bach dis-

cusses in the Versuch (Example 5.5): ‘In delicate accompaniments [cf. the Eroica opening theme]

the third is omitted from minor and diminished sevenths, especially when it must be chromati-

cally raised. In such a case, some composers prefer to double the diminished fifth in the belief that

it is better than the chromatic minor third’ (Bach 1753/1949: 282). In Bach’s illustrations, given

in Example 5.6, the diminished seventh chord in question invariably appears in half-cadential sit-

uations involving +ivo7, because the third will never require alteration when functioning as a vi-

io7. This doubling of the fifth of the chord results in a doubling of the tonic scale degree, which

has ramifications for the ‘enhancement of key perception’ (Huron 1993); and Beethoven’s hav-

ing chosen the more ‘delicate’ realisation, with a doubled G in the Eroica, was likely in favour of

the G minor resonance.

Incidentally, Bach’s discussion of the +ivo7 also cites an instance of the le – sol – fi – sol (Example

5.6) in the key of B minor,105 which introduces a third variation in the schema’s voicing. The sec-

ond event, fulfilling Tsol function, is given a different subspecies of the ‘chord of the sixth’: not

the i6/4, but the VI6/4/2. The le – sol – fi – sol is often realised in a simple three-voice texture cor-

254
responding to its ‘default form,’ or as a hybrid three- and four-voice texture. In the full-voiced it-

erations, scale degree six is doubled in the first event of the schema (VI), and at times suspend-

ed through the passing 6/4 chord of event two, to result in a VI6/4/2. This somewhat rare four-

voice version appears in the second movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in F major, K. 37,

shown in Example 5.7: although the 6/4/2 results in a different Roman numeral (VI), the Ro-

man-numeral interpretation may give a false sense of category differentiation. From the eight-

eenth-century perspective, the 6/4/2 and 6/4 belong to the same family of chord-form — that is,

as variants of the ‘chord of the sixth.’ In determining first- and second-order variables, etc., for the le

– sol – fi – sol, chord-form constitution remained a principal criterion. The first event of the sche-

ma based on ‘le’ at times receives not the ‘perfect chord,’ or the ‘chord of the fifth,’ but has a iv6 in

place of the more normal VI; unlike the i6/4–VI4/2 substitution, this variation does constitute

a category differentiation, by changing the chord-form as well as the chord-form family with which

flat scale degree six is harmonised. This ‘iv6 variant’ and others resulting from second-order varia-

bles — second, that is, in relation to a specified ‘default’ form — play a markedly different role in

the Eroica case study, and, although compiled in the schema list of Appendix B, these were omit-

ted from the statistics as well as from the population distribution of Chapter 3, because our prin-

cipal concern involves the ‘goodness of fit’ (see Rumelhart below) of a particular instantiation of

a schema to the Eroica stimulus.

In spite of the similar representations afforded both schemata, the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol

255
differ in several important ways. First among these differences, whereas the two stages of the 1–

7, 4–3 may be separated by other music: ‘the initial and terminal schema [stages] need not be ad-

jacent [and] may be[, indeed often are] separated by other music’ (Gjerdingen 1988: 64) — this

is entirely not the case with the le – sol – fi – sol. Both schemata are certainly highly constrained

because each event, as already seen, involves a number of interconnected features that must op-

erate in tandem; as Gjerdingen describes the 1–7, 4–3 representation in Example 5.3, ‘It is such a

coordinated set of movements and not the presence or absence of any single feature that characterizes each

schema event’ (1988: 64; original emphasis). Because of the several features being coordinated in-

volving harmony, scale-degree progressions, and their specific rhetorical and metrical distribu-

tions, both the 1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol are highly constrained ‘style forms.’ But the le – sol –

fi – sol is further constrained, because this coordination of features must occur on a moment-by-mo-

ment, adjacent level. This does not mean the le – sol – fi – sol cannot nest within other, larger-scale

schemata. Nor does it preclude the schema from eliding or overlapping with other schemata at

the same or at higher levels of structure. It means that, whenever it occurs, the adjacency of its

events cannot be disrupted by means of nesting within the schema — as a tonal ‘script,’ it is en-

tirely a foreground phenomenon, commensurate with the moment-by-moment phenomenon of

being in a key. This, along with the chord-form restriction mentioned above, places the le – sol

– fi – sol among the most constrained of ‘style forms.’ Secondly, unlike the 1–7, 4–3, the le – sol

– fi – sol is fundamentally bass-oriented in its design, as all tonal ‘scripts’ (Chapters 2–3), which

renders the particular top-voice realisation inconsequential by comparison; similarly, if the 1–7,

256
4–3 were viewed primarily from the perspective of its ‘script,’ or key-defining attributes, it might

be redefined as the do – re, ti – do schema, or even more generally, as the T–D, D–T schema. (The

‘default form’ of any schema is determined both by the statistical frequency of certain features

and the particular ‘goodness of fit’ in a specific context.) These additional constraints in specify-

ing the ‘default form’ of the le – sol – fi – sol, which require adjacency between events and a fixed

chord-form harmonisation of the partimento bass, will prove of great significance in further de-

fining the schema concept beyond these four foundations already discussed: that is, as an (1)

‘image,’ or ‘copy’ of experience, as (2) knowledge, and as an (3) active mechanism which (4) in-

teracts both with the environment, the ‘materials afforded us by the senses and experience’ and

other schemata lying in memory.

Invariances: The Schema as Generic Knowledge

The significance of such representations in Examples 5.3–5.5 lies less in their capacity to define

a particular musical schema than in the ‘psychic process’ they represent — in the first place, ab-

straction and representation. By means of perceptual redundancy, the mind abstracts the ele-

ments that remain invariant throughout each iteration of a convention and associatively struc-

tures or encodes these invariances, the defining features of the environment that James Gibson

called ‘affordances’ (1966; 1979) — in a simultaneously synchronic and diachronic distribution

in memory. Even event-schemata like the 1–7, 4–3 and the le – sol – fi – sol that follow a temporal

design are synchronically represented in the mind. This is at least implicit in Gjerdingen’s quali-

257
fication of a schema as a Gestalt. The rectangular nodes in Example 5.5 and their connections are

directly proportionate to the ‘affordances’ in the musical environment, to the ‘materials afforded

us by the senses and experience’ of the corpus in Appendix A, and their ‘necessary connexions,’

in Hume’s terms, as imposed by custom (Aristotle, Locke): that is, by the statistical and percep-

tual redundancies of the ‘style system.’ The issue then becomes ‘[h]ow the mind might use this

type of gestalt’ or synchronic mental structure (Gjerdingen 1988: 67). The collection of invari-

ances displayed in Examples 5.3–5.5 represents ‘generic knowledge’ about the environment and

its ‘stor[ing]’ in memory (Rumelhart 1980: 34). The more pressing problem, however, involves

how these images of experience and knowledge become active categories of the mind; how the

exogenous representation is simultaneously an exogenous mechanism. In general, the resulting organ-

isation or structuring of the environment in memory becomes the basis for future ‘comparisons’

and re-encounters with the original objects. In this sense, schemata properly exist not in a mem-

ory store but in a memory system (Becker 1973: 416), whose mechanics are abstractly represented

in Example 5.1. Though Gjerdingen relied on Becker for matters of representation, it was Dav-

id Rumelhart that largely informed Gjerdingen’s conception of a schema and its operational

component in 1988, in particular the seminal essay from 1980, ‘Schemata: The Building Blocks

of Cognition.’ There, among the six ‘major features’ that Rumelhart outlines in defining a sche-

ma, two correspond to its active and interactive foundations set forth in the preceding — ‘sche-

mata are active processes . . . [and] recognition devices whose processing is aimed at the evalu-

ation of their goodness of fit to the data being processed’ (1980: 41). Gjerdingen interprets this

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musically as follows:

By ‘active process’ [Rumelhart] means, for instance, that when we hear the initial event of
a 1–7 . . . 4–3 schema we form an expectation of probable terminal events and actively lis-
ten for them. By ‘recognition device’ he means that we first evaluate a phenomenon in terms
of the schemata we know and then interpret the phenomenon according to the schema that fits it best
(Gjerdingen 1988: 67; added emphasis).

Both the ‘goodness of fit’ and the ‘expectation’ components of the le – sol – fi – sol schema and

its relation to the Eroica case study have in some form or another been already suggested in the

preceding chapters. The empirical evidence summarised in Chapters 2–3 demonstrates that the

‘default form’ of the le – sol – fi – sol is not only a ‘good’ fit but the only fit possible for a historical

or historically-informed listener. Moreover, because G minor never fully materialises in the ac-

tual acoustic substrate of the Symphony, the existence of a G minor dominant has largely been

a question of expectation. Because the opening of the Symphony is both ‘evaluated’ and ‘inter-

preted’ by means of the le – sol – fi – sol, an ‘expectation of ’ a G minor dominant is formed as a

‘probable terminal event’ for bar 10 of the opening theme. To identify the active component of

a schema with mere expectation, however, is a great oversimplification of the problem and po-

tentially misleading, by suggesting that schemata only become important, or perhaps more im-

portant, when some norm is violated (cf. Meyer 1956; 1967/1994), when, in truth, they are not

only the very building blocks of cognition but the very essence of (situated) cognition. In more

sophisticated formulations of the ‘expectation’ component, the interaction of the mind with its

objects of experience is not only consequential on the mind itself, that is, in forming an expec-

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tation, but also on the object in question; it acts upon its objects of experience as much as those

objects act upon it. Too easily, schema theory often becomes or is interpreted as a theory of ex-

pectation (see e.g., Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 340, 342, 358) when it is properly a ‘theory of

[cognitive] context,’ and it is precisely as such a theory that Gjerdingen first adapted the concept

to music:

When a feature — whether an attribute, quality, figure, relationship, or symbol — is pre-

sented to us, we attempt to find a [cognitive, ‘extraopus’] context for it [cf. Lewin above], or,
more technically speaking, we take it to be the partial [or complete] instantiation of one
of several possible schemata. . . . Schema theory asserts, consequently, that once distinctive
features of a schema are instantiated, we actively seek out the remaining features [by means
of ] . . . concept-driven or top-down processing. . . . In those cases where top-down process-
ing locates all but one or two of the expected features, psychologists believe the missing
features may be given default values. In other words, human cognition may ‘fill in the blanks’
left by perceptions if an overall context seems appropriate (1988: 4, 7).

By this more elaborate conception, schema theory stipulates that, once having activated a sche-

ma, a listener supplies default values for any of its missing features. In the case of the Eroica open-

ing, the perceptual absence in the acoustic substrate of the Symphony involves a single terminal

feature: the resolution of the 6/4 to a dominant triad or seventh chord. The perceptual absence

of features is therefore entirely minimal in that every one of the four events of the le – sol – fi – sol

sounds, except that its terminal event is incomplete, while nevertheless already announced by the

first-order variable of the cadential 6/4, which belongs to the one event of the schema’s second

stage (see Example 5.5). But what may be acoustically absent is cognitively present: Rochlitz de-

scribes an absence of resolution of the 6/4 chord at bar 10, and an ‘unexpected’ return to E-flat,

260
because a G minor dominant was already actively constructed in the mind; as Jamshed Bharucha

describes a similar situation, ‘It is as if a representation of the expected chord had been mentally acti-

vated even before the chord occurred, based on its being highly probable in the familiar tonal style’

(1994: 220; added emphasis). But as a corollary, a representation is mentally activated not only of

expected chords, but also of those chords sounding in the acoustic substrate. To return to Bar-

tlett’s original formulation, a schema is ‘actively doing something all the time’ (1932: 201), not on-

ly when some norm is violated. Whether a given expected event does or does not occur is en-

tirely inconsequential in terms of what happens in the mind, until, or unless, that event is violat-

ed (Meyer 1956; 1967/1994). Expectation, or, rather, the violation of an expectation, reveals that

diachronic phenomena such as tonal ‘scripts’ are synchronically activated in the mind once ex-

posed to certain paradigmatic features of the schema. That is to say, it says something more sig-

nificant about the underlying mechanism of the musical mind — that it operates, not according

to some serial, or algorithmic process of applying rules but, as was already implicit in the original

Aristotelian and empiricist thesis, by synchronically forming connections among several related

ideas in the mind. The moment of deviation (in the case of the Eroica, bar 10) is initially evaluat-

ed in terms of the schema already synchronically activated by the input of the immediately pre-

ceding music. Rochlitz’s surprise upon the return to E-flat and the resulting ‘affective’ response

(see Meyer 1956) is a consequence of being forced to ‘turn off ’ the previous activation owing to

the ensuing contradictory input, and the consequent employment of a competing, rival sche-

ma. Tonal expectation is simply a byproduct, symptom, or indication of a profounder argument

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in the philosophy of mind — the ‘inevitably associative character’ of memory in Bartlett’s terms,

where memory signifies not simply the mere commonplace notion of ‘storage,’ but of a system:

a cognitive mechanism (Rosenfield 1988). (Not coincidentally, Lerdahl rejects associative and

implicative, or expectational, principles on several occasions in favour of a hierarchical system

(2001: 5–6; Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1984: 252; cf. Chap. 1 above)). To state it differently, schema

activation and interaction is less a question of forming expectations as such, than of forming syn-

chronic associations in memory that build to an ‘organised setting,’ in Bartlett’s terms, which be-

comes an I-ConteXT for interpretation. Expectation is merely the effect of this I-CXT. Because

this memory, system, or mechanism, is structurally impacted by the environment, it is entirely

exogenous — equally social and psychological.

The schema-as-Gestalt conception is therefore both entirely appropriate and misleading. It is be­

fitting in the sense that a schema is an organised whole. But the conception is misleading in two

capacities: first, Gestalt psychologists view Gestalten primarily as innate aspects of the mind; sec-

ondly, it suggests that the temporal events of a diachronic phenomenon such as a tonal ‘script’ are

what coagulate into a rigid, atemporal pattern. The latter might lead to the awkward argument

that, because a schema largely constitutes a synchronic activation, some event that is supposed to

sound in the future literally ‘sounds’ simultaneously in the present. By way of example, Michael

Spitzer uses the metaphor of a ‘template’ to describe the operation of Meyer’s 1–7, 4–3 schema

in the context of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in G major, K. 283 (Example 1.17) — ‘From a top-down

262
viewpoint, to understand Mozart’s theme is to compare it with a representation in the mind formed by

memories of themes like it — imposing a learned conceptual template’ (2004: 31; added emphasis).

The schema-as-template metaphor, attractive as it is, may be misleading when this mental repre-

sentation is represented in the manner of Examples 5.3–5.5. The 1–7, 4–3 schema, as already not-

ed above, is variable in terms of its bass progression. The schema-as-template metaphor would

imply that every variation of the schema would form a separate and discrete template, ‘image,’ or

‘copy,’ in the mind. The Eroica case study poses an even more significant problem in that regard.

To be precise, and following the schema as ‘recognition device’ argument, ‘The’ schema respon-

sible for cognising a G minor tonality is not the ‘default form,’ or intra-key variant represented

in Example 5.5, but the inter-key, or modulating variant discussed in the latter part of Chapter

3. To the extent that such a significant variable results in a different ‘image,’ ‘copy,’ or ‘template,’

G minor is a product of a separate representation of the le – sol – fi – sol, as illustrated in Exam-

ple 5.8, owing to the inclusion of a second-order variable: not in the sense of substituting a differ-

ent chord- form family for one of the harmonic events, but in turning one event (the VI chord)

into two, at least insofar as the chord operates in a mehrdeutig fashion — that is, once as a ton-

ic, and then, retrospectively, as a submediant. The modulating variant of the schema would re-

sult in a different template accordingly, which has the modulating ‘prefix’ appended to the be-

ginning of the schema, a prefix that accounts for the psychological transformation of a major tri-

ad from a tonic to a submediant, as shown in Example 5.8. By extension, the separate representa-

tion would imply that a different set of past experiences and memories was involved in building-

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up the inter-key variant, and, furthermore, that the ‘totality of memories’ (in Halbwachs’ terms)

relevant to the G minor problem involves fewer memories than those reconstructed by the em-

pirical evidence in Chapter 3 and Appendix B would imply. Not only would a separate set of ex-

periences be at once unintuitive and impractical, but also entirely foreign to the whole Piagetian

notion that learning and schemata are adaptive and assimilative. To return to Meyer’s conception

of the past as ‘our memories of earlier relevant musical experiences,’ each of the memories in the

fifty plus pages of Appendix B would be ‘relevant’ in some way; and as Bartlett argues,

There is not the slightest reason, however, to suppose that each set of incoming impulses,
that each new group of experiences persists as an isolated member of some passive patchwork.
They have to be regarded as constituents of living, momentary settings belonging to the
organism, or to whatever parts of the organism are concerned in making a response of a
given kind, and not as a number of individual events somehow strung together and stored within
the organism (1932: 201; added emphasis).

But on the other hand, if we admit all schemata or any phenomenon bearing some remote as-

sociation as being potentially relevant, the context for interpretation would become unreason-

ably vast from an analytic and, more importantly, a cognitive perspective. The solution to both

the template and schema-interconnectivity problems lies in the fifth foundation of a schema as

a ‘constraint network,’ later elaborated by David Rumelhart.

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(5) The Schema as Constraint Network

In 1986, a collaborative monograph was published in two volumes that has been hailed by some

as the ‘Bible’ of cognitive science (e.g. Boden 2006: 950; Davies 1995): Parallel Distributed Process-

ing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition, authored by James McLelland, David Rumel-

hart, and the PDP Research Group. Gjerdingen’s earlier monograph from 1988, which began as

a dissertation at the University of Pennsylvania in 1984, was too late to take some of the develop-

ments of this research into consideration. In the later Music in the Galant Style of 2007, the con-

cern to define a schema in any rigid theoretical or abstract sense is far less pronounced, indeed is

virtually absent, no doubt because of the fundamentally historical and archaeological orienta-

tion of the work. But Gjerdingen does make an implicit reference, in passing, to the refined con-

ceptions of a schema that developed in Parallel Distributed Processing (or PDP) research: ‘Sche-

ma is thus a shorthand for a packet of knowledge, be it an abstracted prototype, a well-learned ex-

emplar, a theory intuited about the nature of things and their meanings, or just the attunement of a

cluster of cortical neurons to some regularity in the environment’ (2007: 11; added emphasis). Though

Rumelhart, McClelland, et alia never explicitly contextualised their work within the empirical

philosophical tradition and associationism, it is well known among cognitive psychologists that

PDP research, otherwise known as connectionism, has its roots in Aristotle and British empirical

philosophy (see Medler 1998 and Walker 1990). The fundamental idea behind parallel distribut-

ed processing, or connectionism, is that the complex ideas, thoughts, and information-process-

ing attributes of the mind are built out of varying degrees of ‘connections’ between simpler ide-

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as lying in memory that operate synchronically — that is, in parallel fashion — and is therefore a

more formalised instance of Locke’s earlier notion that complex ideas result from a ‘compound-

ing’ of simpler ones and John Stuart Mill’s reformulation of the same argument using a mechan-

ical metaphor:

[The] laws of the phenomena of mind are sometimes analogous to mechanical, but some-
times also to chemical laws. When many impressions or ideas are operating in the mind
together, there sometimes takes place a process, of a similar kind to chemical combina-
tion. When impressions have been so often experienced in conjunction, that each of them
call up readily and instantaneously the ideas of the whole group, those ideas sometimes melt and co-
alesce into one another, and appear not several ideas but one. . . [The] Complex Idea, formed by
the blending together of several simpler ones, should . . . be said to result from, or be gener-
ated by, the simple ideas, not to consist of them (1829/1874: 33).

Building on earlier foundations in empirical philosophy, PDP and connectionist models of the

mind advanced arguably the most elaborate modelling of a schema with a number of formali-

sations, some of which resonate astoundingly with Aristotle’s earlier conception and its subse-

quent manifestations in empirical philosophy and British associationism. Example 5.9 displays

one of these formalisations, from a study on ‘Schemata and Sequential Thought in PDP Mod-

els’ (Rumelhart, Smolensky, McClelland, and Hinton, 1986). The significance of (this vast field

of ) PDP research in the larger context of schema theory and situated cognition lies in the refin-

ing and development of Locke, Hume, and Mill’s ‘Complex Idea’ concept into a constraint net-

work. Indeed, the very language and mechanics of PDP research may be located in Hume’s En-

quiries from 1777. Not only did Hume speak of ‘a principle of connexion between the different

thoughts or ideas of the mind,’ and of these ideas as ‘introduc[ing] each other with a certain de-

266
gree of method and regularity’ in memory, but also of their ‘necessary connexion’ (60–79). The

‘Idea of Necessary Connexion’ is a corollary to the dimension of Causality that Hume brought

to the doctrine of the Association of Ideas:

[T]he idea of a necessary connexion among events arises from a number of similar instanc-
es [cf. perceptual redundancy] which occur of the constant conjunction of these events. .
. . [A]fter a repetition of similar instances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appear-
ance of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to believe [cf. Rochlitz’s glaubt geleitet
zu werden] that it will exist. This connexion, therefore, which we feel in the mind, this cus-
tomary transition of the imagination from one object to its usual attendant, is the senti-
ment or impression from which we form the idea of power or necessary connexion (75).

The PDP conception of a schema is a concatenation and refinement of these earlier arguments

in empirical philosophy. Beneath the network in Example 5.9 lies an image of a geometric fig-

ure, or an ‘external object’ by Aristotle’s terms. Above lies a representation of the ‘psychic proc-

ess,’ or schema, corresponding to that object, that gives rise to its interpretation, or perception,

as a cube. The wire-frame drawing is of no ordinary cube, however, but of a so-called ‘Necker

Cube.’ Like Wittgenstein’s (2001: 166; Jastrow 1900) well-known rabbit-duck illusion, the im-

age is ambiguous. The drawing may be perceived either as a southwest- or northeast-facing ge-

ometry. The viewing subject assumes a spatial perspective that is oriented either from above and

to the right, or below and to the left of the object. Thus, the psychic process involves two sub-

schemata, each responsible for one of two possible interpretations. Each schema is a network of

small, discrete, and simple mental operations — functioning in parallel — that map an interpreta-

tion onto each ambiguous corner of the figure’s intersecting lines. These operations or smaller

267
ideas correspond to the primary data structures of memory, and therefore are synonymous with

Becker’s Memory Nodes. The ‘concepts’ represented by each node here involve the orienting of

a vertex within a three-dimensional space. For example, the lower- and left-most node in Sche-

ma A, labelled ‘FLL,’ projects the interpretation, or simpler idea, of ‘Front-Left-Lower Corner’

onto the lower- and left-most vertex, to perceive a cube whose front face lies at the lower left.

Schema R, on the other hand, imposes the inverse interpretation onto the same vertex — ‘Back-

Left-Lower Corner’ (‘BLL’) — which ‘moves’ the front face to the upper right. The activation of

a single node within one of the sub-schemata imposes its ‘necessary connexion’ with, and the ac-

tivation of, the other nodes in that schema, according to its goodness of fit with the stimulus,

which is commonly known as a ‘spreading activation’ in the langue courante of connectionist re-

searchers, indicated by lines with arrows in Example 5.9. But at the same time, the activation of

node ‘FLL’ from Schema L presupposes a deactivation of, and negative connection with, ‘BLL’ in

Schema R, and, by extension, the deactivation of all of the nodes in this rival schema, whose neg-

ative pairings with the nodes in Schema L are represented by lines with dotted endpoints in the

illustration. The Necker Cube schema as a whole contains two larger sets of activation and deac-

tivation among simpler ideas or Memory Nodes that function as constraint networks.

But the larger significance of the Necker-Cube exercise resides not in the dual activity of seeing

a right-facing cube as a left-facing cube and vice versa. Nor does its significance lie in the ability

to alter one’s orientation towards the object. Rather, as Roger Scruton (1999: 78) and Michael

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Spitzer (2004: 9) argue in respect to Wittgenstein’s reading of the rabbit-duck phenomenon,

the exercise properly involves seeing the neutral material trace, i.e., the drawing, as either the one

or the other — as being able to form a spatial orientation to begin with. In other words, the em-

phasis falls on the relationship between the drawing as a substrate, and the operation of a psychic

process, or schema, upon that substrate. The schema and, by extension, the ability to see either

a right- or left-facing cube in this drawing, is a product of having already seen and experienced

cube-like geometries in the world; or of projecting that previously acquired knowledge from

one’s ecology onto the image. The visual exercise is a testament to the reality of a schema as a de-

terminant of cognition, because no cube exists on the printed page, only a series of intersecting

lines absent of any cues of depth or perspective. Perceiving a cube is entirely an act of the imag-

ination. This projection of ‘knowledge’ onto the image amounts to forming a context for inter-

pretation, by imposing one’s experience of cube-like geometries in the world onto the image in

the form of a ‘copy,’ not in the sense of a fixed image, but in the sense of imitating a prior experi-

ence, in the form of an active reconstruction of past experience in Bartlett’s terms. A schema, by

this estimation, is a re-forming of associations or connections already made in the past according

to a reencounter with the same or similar environmental stimuli; in a word, an image-inative re-

construction of past experience. What is reconstructed are the learned and previously experi-

enced ‘necessary connexions’ among the smaller ideas, or the ‘customary transitions.’ There is a

causal or cause and effect chain of relations whereby, in the ConteXT of the wire-frame drawing

of Example 5.9, the activation of one node in the I-ConteXT, e.g., ‘FLL,’ presupposes the activa-

269
tion of every other node in the constraint network. Together, the ‘customary transitions of the

imagination from one object[, vertex, or memory node] to its usual attendant,’ operate in paral-

lel to form a larger concept and its mental representation: a cube, and a cube schema.

Rumelhart, McClelland, and company (re-)defined this representation as follows:

Roughly, schemata are like models of the outside world. To process information with the
use of a schema is to determine which model best fits the incoming information [which]
. . . constitutes the interpretation of the input. . . . Schemata are not ‘things.’ There is no rep-
resentational object which is a schema. Rather, schemata emerge at the moment they are
needed from the interaction of large numbers of much simpler elements all working in
concert with one another. Schemata are not explicit entities, but rather are implicit in our
knowledge106 and are created by the very environment that they are trying to interpret —
as it is interpreting them. Roughly, the idea is this: Input comes into the system, activating
a set of units. These units are interconnected with one another, forming a sort of constraint
satisfaction network (Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al. 1986: 18, 21).

This reconceptualisation of the schema in the ‘PDP Bible’ nonetheless built on the properties

that Rumelhart had previously outlined and that figured into Gjerdingen’s argument (Rumel-

hart and Ortony 1977; Rumelhart 1980): schemata (1) have variables; (2) may embed; (3) repre­

sent encyclopaedic knowledge; (4) are active processes; and (5) are ‘recognition devices whose proc­

essing is aimed at the evaluation of their goodness-of-fit to the data being processed ’ (Rumelhart, Smo-

lensky et al. 1986: 33–36; original italics). The more significant contributions among these later

developments of the schema concept include, first, obviating the need to specify a default form.

‘In the conventional approaches, decisions must be made about which aspects of a given schema

are constant and which are variable. The PDP solution is essentially that all aspects are variable;

some aspects are simply more tightly constrained than others’ (36–37; added emphasis); and by more

270
tightly constrained, one should understand the measure of necessity of their connection, as de-

termined by custom or by the regularities in the environment. The so-called ‘default form’ of the

le – sol – fi – sol described above takes heed of the statistically most probable harmonisation of

scale degrees –6, 5, and +4, when they are distributed in the bass in this particular order. This ‘de-

fault form’ simply represents the most tightly constrained features of the schema as determined

by two criteria: the frequency of the chord-form harmonisation — the most tightly constrained

connection between each scale degree and a particular chord-form that expresses it (Chapters

2–3) — and the necessity of their adjacency:

The rigidity of the schema is determined by the tightness of bonding among the units that consti-
tute the schema. The tighter the bond, the more strongly the constituent elements activate one
another, and the more rigid the structure (37; added emphasis).

Second, by removing the ‘default form’ problem, the addition of first- and second-order variables

need not be considered as constituting different templates or ‘chunks’ stored in the mind, but

rather as various extensions within a single constraint network that contains different but inex-

tricably related states of activation in the form of subnetworks and supranetworks. Furthermore,

the absence of first-order variables in the stimulus is inconsequential in respect to activating the

constraint network. They simply would be less ‘weighted’ or inactive during that particular ac-

tivation state of the schema. The presence of first-order variables like the cadential 6/4 in the

le – sol – fi – sol is consequential, however, in their capacity to supply further information from

the environment towards the activation of the particular schema in question, thereby giving a

271
more ‘complete picture’ of the given activation of the network and potentially serving to clari-

fy an ambiguous situation. The cadential 6/4 chord in the second stage of the le – sol – fi – sol is

such a variable; its very presence rules out the possibility for several variations of the schema in

the le – sol – fi – sol family (see Appendix B). There is, in the first place, the le – sol – fi – fa vari-

ant that has a V4/2 or a viio4/3 instead of a dominant in root position, as seen in Example 5.10.

While this variant is inconsequential in terms of the tonality, others constitute rival schemata: a

similar variant of the le – sol – fi – fa schema, which also descends chromatically by step, outlin-

ing a tetrachord, places not a V4/2 on the last tone of the schema — the would-be fa — but a V7,

which effectively turns the bass into scale degree five and shifts the tonality down by a whole-

step: a ‘Fonte’ variant, seen in Example 5.11. The primary feature that the le – sol – fi – sol Fon-

te variant shares with the actual Fonte (Example 5.12) is the tonal relationship between the two

stages of the schema, which almost invariably has a minor key proceeding to a major key a whole

step below, and usually in the context of ii modulating to I, as in Example 5.11 (cf. Examples 5.11

and 5.12; cf. Gjerdingen 2007: 61–71; 456). This Fonte variant of the le – sol – fi – sol — or the le

– sol – fi ~ le – sol variant — is precisely the schema that Beethoven uses in the Recapitulation of

the Eroica to modulate from E-flat major, passing through an implicit G minor —correspond-

ing to the modulation in the exposition — to F major (Example 5.14). To be more specific, the

modulating variant of the le – sol – fi – sol in the Recapitulation is actually a ‘Fonte-Monte hy-

brid’ that involves two modulations: first up a major third, then down a step, to result in an over-

all modulatory trajectory that ascends by whole-step, as seen in Example 5.1 4(a)–(b). This step-

272
wise ascent is the primary attribute of a ‘Monte’ (cf. Example 5.13 and 14; cf. Gjerdingen 2007:

89–106; 458). Thus, the equally unorthodox Recapitulation of the Symphony is also predicated

on a rather common variant of the le – sol – fi – sol with this ‘Fonte-Monte hybrid’: Clementi’s

G major Piano Sonata, Op. 40 no. 1 (1802; i, bb. 103–104); the Spanish composer Gaetano Bru-

netti’s Symphony No. 36 in F major (1790; ii, bb. 62–71); the student of Beethoven Ferdinand

Ries’ Symphony in D major, Op. 23 (1809, i, bb. 6–9, 94–98); and Francisco Moreno’s Sinfonia a

grand’orchestra in E-flat major (1801, i, bb. 93–105, 181–193), are four works contemporary to the

Eroica (among them three Symphonies) from the turn of the nineteenth century which feature

the same device; and Haydn employed the schema as early as 1771, in his Symphony No. 65 in

A major (i, bb. 70–73). But in the exposition of the Eroica, the sounding of the 6/4 chord in bar

9 eliminates all these other possibilities, and properly announces the inter-key variant of the le –

sol – fi – sol (Example 5.8).

More importantly, reconceptualising the ‘default form’ problem allows one to understand the

crucial modulating variant of the le – sol – fi – sol not as a distinct template but as a more ‘Com-

plex Idea’ or expanded constraint network that results from compounding the simpler ideas in

the ‘default form’ of the schema with yet another simple idea or memory node. In other words,

the modulating variant results from forming one more mental connection, or ‘customary transi-

tion,’ in Hume’s terms, with another simple idea, both in the process of creating and learning the

variant of the schema, and in activating or using it. In general, the simpler idea derives from the

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broader category of Mehrdeutigkeit, which might itself be represented in the network as a mem-

ory node standing for the general category of harmonic multiple meaning in Vogler and We-

ber’s sense of the term. That is, Mehrdeutigkeit may figure into the constraint network in a sim-

ilar manner as a dominant seventh chord may figure as a more general category in the schema

half cadence, as discussed above. More specifically, a particular category is added to the ‘default

form,’ that is, to the already tightly constrained aspects of the network, that abstracts or encodes

the numerous memories in the corpus involving the transformation of a tonique into a surdomi-

nante, as occurs, for example, in b. 191 of the first movement to Beethoven’s String Trio in C mi-

nor, Op. 9 no. 3 (1798), shown in Example 5.15. The same process may be seen repeatedly, as well

as thematically, occurring in the Finale of the second of Beethoven’s Razumovsky Quartets, as

but another example, and in the transition from F major to A major just prior to the exposition

of the Seventh Symphony in F major, Op. 92 (bb. 49–67). By means of this additional ‘connex-

ion’ of expanding the mental structure to include a ‘I-becomes-VI customary transition’ (com-

pare Examples 5.5 and 5.8), or of forming another relation by custom, a larger concept or Com-

plex Idea emerges that is the le – sol – fi – sol inter-key variant, which amounts to a minimally ex-

panded form of the le – sol – fi – sol as a constraint network in the form of a supranetwork. The

compounding of the ‘I-becomes-VI’ affordance, in Gibson’s terms, amounts to a compound-

ing of memories involving both the ‘default form’ and ‘inter-key variants,’ to an assimilation and

adaptation of other knowledge (Mehrdeutigkeit, the ‘I-becomes-VI’ memory) to the constraint

network, as part of the adaptive and assimilative disposition of the exogenous mechanism. Inso-

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far as the Eroica is concerned, the inter-key variant of the le – sol – fi – sol is the ‘default form,’ be-

cause of its best ‘goodness of fit’ to the sound stimulus.

The import and essence of connectionism and PDP research from a philosophical perspective

lies in its transformation of associationism, from a vague although intuitive notion that ideas are

associated in memory, to a structural associationism of sorts.107 To my knowledge, connectionism

and parallel distributed processing have never been defined quite in this way, but the neologism

simply embraces the notion that regularities in the environment are not merely associated but

associatively structured in memory, thereby giving rise to the exogenous mechanism, which corre-

sponds to an ‘isomorphism,’ if you will, between the structure of the environment and the struc-

ture of the mind. The schema, then, as a constraint network built up of structural associations, is

a closed system of relationships and operations whose constituents inextricably presuppose one an-

other in the form of ‘necessary connexions,’ as Hume would describe it, within an ‘active organ-

ised mass.’

The goodness [of fit] landscape . . . depends on the knowledge base that lies beneath it. If
the knowledge is tightly constrained so that one part strongly predicts other parts, then we
have a rigid schema. We can’t easily get just part of it active. If part of it becomes active, the
part will pull in the whole and suppress the activity of aspects that are not part of it [cf. E-
flat major in the Eroica] (Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al. 1986: 37).

The activation of a schema results in the synchronic activation of a closed system of relationships in

the mind, that is, of a schema qua constraint network. To say that the associative component is

structural is to say that the cognitive system, or schema, is a relatively closed network or system

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of relationships. By means of these closed cognitive subsystems or schemata, the mind settles or

arrives at interpretations of the environment:

It is often useful to conceptualize a parallel distributed processing network as a constraint

network in which each unit represents a hypothesis of some sort (e.g., that a certain seman-
tic feature, visual feature, or acoustic feature is present in the input) and in which each con-
nection represents constraints among the hypotheses [compare hypotheses to Becker’s
Memory Nodes]. Thus, for example, if feature B is expected to be present whenever fea-
ture A is, there should be a positive connection from the unit corresponding to the hy-
pothesis that A is present to the unit representing the hypothesis that B is present. . . . [T]he
inputs to such a network can also be thought of as constraints. A positive input to a partic-
ular unit means that there is evidence from the outside that the relevant feature is present.
A negative input means that there is evidence from the outside that the feature is not pres-
ent. The stronger the input, the greater the evidence. If such a network is allowed to run
it will eventually settle into a locally optimal state in which as many as possible of the con-
straints are satisfied, with priority given to the strongest constraints. The procedure where-
by such a system settles into such a state is called relaxation. We speak of the system relaxing
to a solution (Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al, 1986: 8–9).

In regard to the Necker Cube schema, Rumelhart et al. describe this as the system ‘end[ing] up

in a situation in which all of the units in one subnetwork [i.e., Schema L or Schema R] are fully

activated and none of the units in the other subnetwork are activated,’ to result in either a right-

or left-facing cube. ‘Whenever the system gets into [such] a [settled] state and stays there, the

state is called a stable state or a fixed point of the network’ (11). The variability and the degree of

‘weightedness’ of the activation state are determined by the goodness of fit with the environ-

mental stimulus, whose process Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al. explain as follows:

[F]or every state of the system — every possible pattern of activation over the units — the
pattern of inputs and the connectivity matrix . . . determines a value of the goodness-of-fit
function. The system processes its inputs by moving . . . from state to adjacent state until
it reaches a state of maximum goodness. When it reaches such a stable state or fixed point it
will stay in that state and it can be said to have ‘settled’ on a solution to the constraint satis-
faction problem or alternatively, in our present case, ‘settled into an interpretation’ of the
input. It is important to see, then, that entirely local computational operations, in which
each unit adjusts its activation up or down on the basis of its net input, serve to allow the

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 network to converge towards states that maximize a global measure of goodness or degree
of constraint satisfaction [global, that is, within the entirety of the schema] (14).

Now, as to the operational aspects of tonal ‘scripts’ or schemata qua systems, their moment-by-

moment feeding results in a ‘global’ activation of the schema in question as a synchronic organ-

ised mass, that is determined by the goodness of fit between, in this case, the acoustic substrate

or stimulus of bb. 1–9 of the Symphony and the schema it invokes. For this reason, one can and

often does speak of expected chords as being already activated in the mind. Furthermore, one

may represent the ‘spreading activation’ towards a stable synchronic state in terms of a Markov

process, one that correlates with culturally-specific listening strategies objectified in Gottfried

Weber’s Versuch. In engaging previous theorists who addressed the problem of key perception,

or, as he puts it, the question ‘[a]s [to] what . . . each harmony that occurs in a passage of music

present[s] itself to the ear’ (Weber 1832/1851: 372), Weber argues that, too often, the answer is

simply presented as: ‘we must look at the following harmony’ (372). Instead, Weber argues not on-

ly that ‘the preceding’ harmony, but both the immediately preceding and following harmonies are

but one part of the equation, and specifies a minimum of two, but optimally three events as de-

termining factors. This argument from § 221 of the Versuch anticipates the notion in Markov-

chain theory that an increase in the order of the chain amounts to an increase of ‘sophistication’

in the model (Roads 1996: 878). ‘Order’ refers to the number of events that exist in some ante-

cedent state (be it a chord, a scale degree, a rhythmic value) that stands in a probability relation-

277
ship with some consequent state. The probabilities between states are often represented in state-

transition matrices (Roads 1996: 878ff.), as already seen, for example, in Huron’s scale-degree and

Roman-numeral probability studies, reproduced in Examples 3.7(a) and 3.17, respectively. Both

representations are first-order chains because the antecedent state only contains a single element.

Second-, third-, fourth-, and nth-order chains involve two, three, four, and nth number of elements,

which collectively build up to a single antecedent state.

Rumelhart and company have suggested that the processes of state activation towards a global,

closed system may often be stochastic, particularly where ‘sequential thought’ is involved (Ru­

melhart, Smolensky, et al. 1986: 9). Towards that end, not only may one represent the le – sol –

fi – sol system’s closed state by means of a Markov process, but also its ‘spreading activation’ to-

wards a stable state, by accumulating a successively greater order of antecedent states that cor-

respond to each change of harmony in the sound stimulus of the Eroica until bar 9, as events en-

tered into working memory. In other words, the spreading activation may be represented by a

series of probability propositions, whose antecedent states gradually and successively build to an

integrally higher order, by adding another data structure or memory node — that is, a bass plus

chord-form combination — to the antecedent state. Each harmonic event in bb. 1–9 may con-

ceivably be assigned a probability transition profile, but to the extent that, first, the probabilities

for succession from the initial E-flat major triad are far too numerous and disparate to manage

practically, and, at the same time, the tonality of the opening chord is not by any means in ques-

278
tion for any of the listeners in the three strains of reception, it would be both trivial and imprac-

tical: another way of saying this is, the potential schema that may ensue from the opening triad is

both far too ‘open’ to be measurable, and the tonality of the chord far too self-evident and com-

monplace for its statistical probability profile to be of any real import. Following Weber, the

opening major triad is perceived as a tonic by means of a simple process that is a corollary to his

‘principle of inertia’: a given major or minor triad in isolation — and especially those in root po-

sition — will always be taken as a tonic by default. Thus, one might say the first mental category

activated in the process of cognising the tonality of the opening theme of the Eroica is a ‘conso-

nant-triad-equals-tonic’ memory node, or something to a similar effect. More important is the

activation of the schema that does follow, and that simultaneously also deactivates (cf. Rumel-

hart above) this opening mental operation — namely, the ‘Habit of the Ear,’ or gewohnte Modula-

tion that breaks the principle of inertia, and that retrospectively transforms the initial E-flat ton-

ic into a surdominante.

The spreading activation may be formalised in terms of two stages that enact the expected tran-

sitions between bars 8–9 and 9–10, with each stage containing third- and fourth-order anteced-

ent states respectively, which correspond to the harmonic information of bb. 1–8 and bb. 1–9

inclusively. The problem first involves determining P ( B | A ) (‘the probability for B given A’ ),

where ‘A ’ is a chord-form progression involving a major triad in root position (MA5/3), a minor

triad in second inversion, or in 6/4 position (MI6/4), and a diminished seventh chord (DIM7),

279
sounding over a descending chromatic trichord in the bass. The entire progression and there-

fore the entire antecedent state A in this first proposition may be represented as

[MA5/3(–1)MI6/4(–1)DIM7] (= A ).

The numbers in parentheses indicate bass motion by semitones (cf. Quinn 2008); scale degrees

and key are not specified in the representation. The tonality or key emerges from the reciprocal

relationship between the chord-forms and the bass progression as an emergent property of this

chord-form syntax (Chap. 3). The tonality, or key, is the ‘structure’ implied by the ‘surface’ that is

represented by the specific pitch-class realisation of the chord-form progression (cf. Temperley

2007: 11ff.). We already know by the empirical evidence in Appendix B that the probability for

‘ A ’ to appear in tonal context as

[VI⇒i6/4⇒+ivo7] (=X )

is 100%. If the key context is represented by ‘ X ’, then one may understand part of the schema

mechanism, that is, part of the activation process, as involving a reciprocal ‘mapping’ connection

between A and X, which assigns a pitch-class and therefore a key profile to the chord-form pro-

gression. The variable ‘B ’ in the equation stands for a reciprocal ‘mapping’ connection between

(+1)MA5/3 and the memory node of a dominant triad or seventh chord. To state it otherwise,

adding a V chord to X is equivalent to adding (+1)MA5/3 to A. The question then becomes,

given the antecedent state A, what is the probability for transition to such a major triad (and for

its reciprocal mapping with a dominant memory node), while the bass ascends specifically by a

semitone? Formally,

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 P ((+1)MA5/3 | MA5/3(–1)MI6/4(–1)DIM7)

The several probabilities are illustrated by the third-order transition matrix of Example 5.16,

which includes the several variants of the le – sol – fi – sol regola that diverge after the first stage

of the schema, A, and modulate to a different key. The matrix in Example 5.16 is a more specific

and quantitative instance of Gjerdingen’s more abstract representation of schema implication

and realisation, reproduced in Example 5.17. Each abstract schema consists ‘of two parts: an im-

plication I and a realization R. A listener may learn to associate I with R to form a recognizable

whole [cf. constraint network, ‘organised setting’] that we may call schema A,’ shown in Exam-

ple 5.17(a) (Gjerdingen 2007: 373–74). But the antecedent state, or Gjerdingen’s ‘implication I

could associate with at least three different realizations to form three different schemata: A, B,

and C,’ as in Example 5.17(b). Gjerdingen illustrates three examples, each with a first-order ante-

cedent state that is la fausse quinte chord-form:

Thoroughbass norms, for example, hold a 6/5 chord to be implicative of a subsequent

realization. The characteristic passages shown . . . [in Example 5.18] take the identical
6/5-chord implication (shown in a rectangle) and realize it in three different, though relat-
ed, keys — F minor, B-flat major, and G minor. . . . The F major passage . . . achieves a mea-
sure of perceived closure and stability as a two-event schema. The B-flat-major and G-mi-
nor passages, by contrast, remain implicative as notated and would require at least one
more event to stabilize as a memorable whole (2007: 374–75).

The same principle operates in the chord-form transition matrix of Example 5.16, with the ex-

ception that the antecedent state is a third-order state. This stage of the schema activation proc-

ess indicates that the probability for the inter-key variant of the le – sol – fi – sol is already most

281
probable, and therefore has been partly activated, while the less frequent probabilities may also

have been partly activated although to a lesser extent (as represented by the lower numbers in

the statistics of Example 5.16), or activated with weaker connection strengths or less weighted

connections. The less probable implications include the related le – sol – fi – fa schema (Example

5.15: R3), as well as rival schemata, including the ‘Fonte’ variant discussed above (R4), and a ‘Ton-

ic variant’ (R2). This latter ‘Tonic variant’ is a rival schema that preserves the direction of the bass

in the transition, but alters the chord-form in the last event of the le – sol – fi – sol ‘default form’

so that a minor triad sounds where a major triad is expected, thereby retrospectively reinterpret-

ing the preceding diminished seventh in stage 3 from +ivo7 to viio7, which resolves onto a ton-

ic. This rival schema is frequently used to disrupt an expected half cadence or dominant articu-

lation, as seen in Mozart’s Symphony No. 16 in C major, K. 128, first movement (Example 5.19).

Following the close of the exposition, one sees a paradigmatic instance of the first stage of the

le – sol – fi – sol ‘default form’ after the double bar, in bb. 54–59 at the beginning of the develop-

ment. But the last chord of the first stage of the schema resolves not as an altered sous-dominante

(+ivo7, Sfi), but, retrospectively, as viio7 (Dti), owing to the minor quality of the chord at bar 60,

which results in a last-minute modulation up a fifth: hence, the ‘le – sol – fi ~ ti – do Tonic variant.’

Therefore, the third-order transition matrix in Example 5.18 indicates that there already exists a

potential for a modulation in bar 8 of the Eroica, but with an overwhelmingly higher probabili-

ty for G minor over the other, less frequent possibilities.

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The highly constrained disposition of the le – sol – fi – sol schema is seen even in this third-order

antecedent state, where a probability for closure, based on the musical experiences abstracted in

Appendix B, is just under 86%. When then adding the 6/4 chord of bar 9, thereby turning the an-

tecedent state into a fourth-order state, the problem involves determining P ( B1 | C ) (‘the proba-

bility for B1 given C ’ ), where ‘C ’ equals

[MA5/3(–1)MI6/4(–1)DIM7(–1)MI6/4(+1)]

and ‘B1 ’ equals (0)MA5/3. Notice that the object in question, X, remains the same — a G mi-

nor dominant — however is no longer represented in the chord-form-over-a-bass-progression

as (+1)MA5/3, but as (0)MA5/3, because the bass has already ascended in the antecedent state.

The question now concerns the probability for the MI6/4 chord at the end of the antecedent

state (corresponding to bar 9 of the Eroica) to resolve to a MA5/3 over the same bass. In the cor-

pus of Appendix A, the probability for this ‘customary transition’ is one hundred percent; and it

is precisely because of this unconditional probability transition and its exclusivity that the le – sol –

fi – sol system closes. It is because of this absolute ‘necessary connexion,’ that the mind ‘settles on

an interpretation’ upon being presented with the antecedent state ‘C ‘, that is, even before a dom-

inant or MA5/3 chord has sounded, because no other schematic or top-down category exists to inter-

pret the acoustic substrate within the style system — all the constraints of the inter-key variant of the

le – sol – fi – sol system have been satisfied, short of the actual input from the sound stimulus of

a dominant triad or seventh chord. But what connectionism and the schema-as-constraint-net-

work perspective bring to the schema problem is the notion that a G minor dominant already

283
exists in the mind of the listener because schematic ‘knowledge is in the connections’ (Rumelhart

1998: 210), and, by extension, in the statistical regularities or customary transitions that formed

the connections in the first place. The ‘meaning’ of a chord, as Weber described it, emerges ‘by

means of the connection in which it occurs’ (1832/1851: 367) that according to the ‘Habits of the

Ear’ may occur either in praesentia or in absentia. Because the relationship between the fourth-

order antecedent state C and the consequent state B1 in the Eroica generates an exclusive prob-

ability profile of 100%, the system closes — that is, it reaches a ‘stable state’ or ‘fixed point’ — and

the mind ‘settles into an interpretation’ of the environment (Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al. 1986:

14). In view of the statistical evidence, as a metaphor for experience, it is not coincidental that

Rumph speaks of the opening theme as having ‘settled in G minor.’

It is perhaps this statistical orientation of the schema concept that differentiates it (and situated

cognition) most from the generative theory programme. To be sure, Lerdahl also makes pass-

ing mention of connectionist research, citing the ‘PDP Bible’ as one of the many research con-

texts that generative music theory embraces: ‘GTTM’s rule system possesses features in com-

mon with much recent theorizing in cognitive science’ (2001: 7). In particular, Lerdahl invites an

analogy between the PR (‘preference rule’) system and the ‘goodness of fit’ solutions in Rumel-

hart and McClelland 1986. But it is important to recognise that connectionist research emerged

as an alternative to rule-based systems. David Medler, for instance, describes this difference rath-

er plainly: ‘Unlike classical systems which use explicit, often logical rules arranged in an hierarchy

284
to manipulate symbols in a serial manner . . . connectionist systems rely on parallel processing of sub-sym-

bols [cf. memory nodes], using statistical properties instead of logical rules to transform information’

(Medler 1998: 21; added emphasis). More recently, Lerdahl has criticised ‘neural nets,’ another

term for describing connectionist constraint networks such as that in Example 5.9, as being ‘un-

able to produce enough structure,’ and therefore favours ‘rule rankings’ that ‘rigidify the assign-

ment of structure beyond what can be justified empirically’ (2009: 189; added emphasis). Further-

more, as Nicola Dibben has argued, ‘associative structure,’ which underlies the mental represen-

tation and operation of these statistics, is an ‘alternative to hierarchical models of musical struc-

ture’ (2003: 194); and, Rumelhart explicitly describes the ‘goodness of fit landscape’ as being de-

termined not by rules but by ecology: ‘schemata are like models of the outside world.’ But per-

haps most importantly, the Eroica case study single-handedly plays out these foundational dis-

sonances between rule-based or generative and ecological, statistical, associational, or situated

approaches, in that the G minor response can neither be rationalised nor derived by means of

the rule-based system of GTTM/TPS (Chap. 1), but can only be explained as a consequence of

the statistical regularities and perceptual redundancies reconstructed in Chapter 3 and Appen-

dix B. Not only does schema theory, particularly in its more sophisticated connectionist form,

offer a powerful model for explaining the G minor response, but in return the Eroica case study

brings evidence in support of the ecological argument, as a general philosophy of the cultural

musical mind. Towards that end, I cannot overemphasise the significance of the following ob-

servation, which may very well be the most important observation to emerge from the entire

285
study: The empirical evidence indicates that the inter-key variant of the le – sol – fi – sol schema

is the only means possible for a historical and historically-informed listener to settle into a sta-

ble tonal interpretation of bb. 1–9 of the Eroica, because no other possibility exists for having a

closed system of relationships. That is how the historical imperative translates into a cognitive im-

perative. The le – sol – fi – sol schema is the only means possible for the Eroica to correspond to a

stable system of relationships in the sense of structured associations in memory, and thereby to

have unambiguous meaning for one highly versed or fluent in the style.

II

The Conceptual Resonance of the le – sol – fi – sol

The constraint network view of the schema as a ‘closed,’ synchronic activation of its diachronic

components should not be taken to mean that other knowledge in memory is prevented from

interacting with the schema in question. Nor does the mind become ignorant of the un­derlying

diachronic relations. The temporal design of the schema is simply represented synchronically

in memory, in the manner of Examples 5.1 and 5.16: the synchronic representation amounts to

the knowledge of the statistical probability of the chords’ contiguity. The memory nodes of an

event schema are connected as ‘“feed-forward” (i.e, signals being passed in one direction only)’

286
rather than as ‘“interactive” (i.e., bidirectional)’ activations per se (Medler 1998: 23). The former

are characteristic of ‘event schemata,’ while the latter properly obtain between concepts, the

components of geometric objects, and the like, such as the Necker Cube (see J. Mandler 1984:

14ff.). The le – sol – fi – sol schema, as a constraint network, remains closed in terms of the ‘feed-

forward’ connections between its syntactic events and in terms of what specific chord-forms

may constitute those events: what remains closed is the series of harmonic objects and the laws

of their contiguity, as represented in Example 5.5. These are the constraints of the schema. But

understanding the le – sol – fi – sol as a closed system, in itself, does not preclude the regola from

forming different ‘customary transitions’ or ‘necessary connexions’ with other relevant knowl-

edge or concepts lying in memory.

Example 5.20 reproduces Gjerdingen’s adaptation of Becker’s memory system to represent the

relations among several of Meyer’s changing-note schemata. In the context of this image, Gjer-

dingen suggests that ‘memory nodes can associate features or events irrespective of their order

in a schema [that is, synchronically, or interactively]. It is this latter type of memory organiza-

tion that allows us at least to suggest explanations for some forms of analogy in music’ (1988:

62). One might assemble a similar representation of all the variants of the le – sol – fi – sol sche-

ma outlined in Appendix B, to account for all the ‘memories of earlier relevant musical expe-

riences’ (Meyer 1956: 88), and weigh the relevance of each with respect to the opening of the

Eroica, in terms of their independent ‘goodness of fit’ to the incoming stimulus. There would be

287
good reason for a more comprehensive investigation of this kind. For example, one of these var-

iations, despite being omitted from the historical distribution, is so close to the variant that ap-

pears in the Eroica that it certainly warrants consideration as an ‘earlier relevant musical experi-

ence’: the 6/3 variant. This variation is identical save for the harmonisation of le, which takes a

‘chord of the sixth,’ i.e, a iv6 chord, instead of a major triad (or VI), as seen in Example 5.21. The

difference between the 6/3 variant and the ‘default form’ lies in but a single note; and a second-

order variable of the 6/3-chord variant may also have a sixth chord (6/5/3 or 6/3), in place of the

diminished seventh at event three of the schema (see Example 5.21(b)). These 6/3-chord ‘sub-

stitutions’ may appear separately or in tandem. But having already identified the most relevant

and most weighted variants of the le – sol – fi – sol, the significance of such associative networks

as seen in Example 5.20 for the present case lies in their raising another mirror onto the G minor

problem: namely, to add another dimension to the ‘linguistic component’ of the situation which

involves the conceptual resonance of the movimento. That is to say, the significance of the associa-

tive memory network goes beyond the mere identification of purely syntactic categories. Mem-

ory organisation also involves ‘semantic’ relations, as seen in Example 5.2: it involves concepts as

much as it does phrase types. If, as Gjerdingen, suggests, one ‘allow[s] the term feature for event

schemata to coincide with the term concept for semantic networks [cf. Example 5.2] . . . in music,’

a chord may function both as a feature and a concept: ‘dominant seventh chord, for example, can

be both a concept linked to the memory nodes instability, dissonance, and so on, and a feature in

the schemata perfect authentic cadence and 1–7 . . . 4–3 changing note’ (1988: 61).

288
In a somewhat more abstract capacity, an event schema may assume a conceptual resonance that

is not directly represented by any one of its features through its association in memory with oth-

er schemata. In respect to the le – sol – fi – sol schema, that conceptual resonance is the augment-

ed sixth chord, as already intimated in Chapter 3; and it is this conceptual or ‘semantic’ resonance

of the augmented sixth chord that further clarifies the self-evidence of the opening theme’s G-

minorness for a historical and historically-informed listener and the cultural associations un-

derlying Rochlitz’s förmlich. To say that the le – sol – fi – sol schema has a conceptual dimension

is to maintain that a mental representation of the augmented sixth chord becomes active in the

mind simultaneously with the activation of the first stage of the schema, despite the fact that its

‘default form’ does not contain the chord as one of its features. In the same way that the concept

‘bird’ in the semantic network of Example 5.2 is inseparable from and presupposes the concepts

of ‘wings’ and ‘flight’ (see Example 5.2), so is the le – sol – fi – sol schema inseparable from the con-

cept of an augmented sixth chord.

The schemata in Gjerdingen’s associative network are related not simply by sharing certain fea-

tures, and therefore not simply in terms of their syntactic commonalities, but are also related

conceptually. The common attribute that allows all of these schemata to be brought into a sin-

gle associative network is a memory node, i.e., a concept, that is not directly ‘contained’ by any

of these schemata, but rather emerges as a byproduct of their syntactic features: all these sche-

mata have a ‘binary form.’ That is to say, ‘binary form,’ as a concept, does not figure into any of

289
the schemata as a feature in the same way that the dominant seventh chord — also a concept by

Gjerdingen’s and my own interpretation — figures into the schema of a half or perfect authentic

cadence. Rather, ‘binary form’ is expressed by all of the schemata in Example 5.20 on a more ab-

stract level in a way that also conforms to the generality of the concept as a ‘style form’ (cf. Chap.

4). Gjerdingen views the significance of these somewhat more abstract, higher-level concepts

which lie at the centre of associative networks in their analytical potential. Two excerpts from

Mozart’s Symphony in G major, K. 142, ii, are cited as examples that ‘may clarify what relevance

memory nodes have for analysis’ (1988: 62): in the recapitulation of the movement, the origi-

nal 1–7, 4–3 schema from the exposition transforms into a 3–2, 4–3 (Example 5.22). Gjerdingen

suggests that the ‘relationship between the phrases . . . is . . . one of closely related nodes in an as-

sociative network’ (63). The features that Gjerdingen singles out are the S-like contour of their

melody and the similar 4–3 endings (cf. Examples 5.20 and 5.22). But beyond these features, two

elements outside the context of Gjerdingen’s discussion are rather crucial to the situation.

The two phrases are from the beginning of the second theme of the exposition and recapitu-

lation, respectively. This strong formal identification amounts to more than ‘an implicit equa-

tion of two related schemata’ (Gjerdingen 1988: 63), but to a rather explicit tonal-conceptual iden-

tification. Beyond sharing certain syntactic features in common involving contour and scale-

degree progressions, the two schemata are conceptually synonymous in a tonal sense. Both expand

a tonic by means of a T–D, D–T formula within a larger T–D–T articulation. The two inner

290
events of both schemata are in this sense ‘decompositions’ and a composing-out of the concept

of a dominant seventh chord. The two schemata are, on a more abstract conceptual level, there-

fore identical, in that they express or fulfil the same function of tonic-expansion by means of the

larger T–D–T progression. In other words, the two schemata are synonymous in terms of their

tonal ‘script’ function to express a key; and it is precisely this tonal-conceptual resonance that medi-

ates the thematic-motivic surface differences between them. In the context of these somewhat

simple passages, this may be so obvious as to render the argument unworthy of mention. How-

ever, if one reverses Gjerdingen’s proposition regarding the relevance of memory nodes for anal-

ysis, to examine the relevance of analysis for the structuring of memory, such formal identifications as

in Mozart’s G major Symphony become acquisitive, learning mechanisms for additional ‘cus-

tomary transitions’ or structural associations in memory. That is, returning to the notion that

connections in the mind are formed by custom or from regularities in the environment, and to

the notion that a corpus and corpus analysis are metaphors for musical experience and percep-

tual redundancy, these tonal-formal identifications may serve to reconstruct the conceptual res-

onance of the le – sol – fi – sol in a way that renders its tonal signification as self-evident and mat-

ter-of-fact as the tonic expansions in Mozart’s Symphony, by further expanding the important

structural associations of the schema in memory.

291
The Augmented Sixth Chord and Augmented Sixth Chord Variants

The ‘theme and variations’ processes that go into reconstructing the perceptual redundancy of

schemata, as well as the structural associations between them, are frequently ‘telescoped’ in the

context of a single composition (cf. Gjerdingen 1988: 34–38; 68–96) as in the Mozart Symphony.

Example 5.23(a) displays bb. 104–111 from the exposition of the first movement of Beethoven’s

Fourth Piano Concerto in G major, Op. 58 (1805–06). Like many works in the corpus of Ap-

pendix A, the second theme is prepared by a medial caesura whose dominant is articulated by

the le – sol – fi – sol, here a modulating variant that transforms the B-flat major music of bb. 105–

108 into a surdominante of d minor. In the corresponding section of the recapitulation, given in

Example 5.23(b), the E-flat major tonality of bb. 275–279 dissolves into G minor by transform-

ing E-flat major into a surdominante once more, but a surdominante of a different variety — not

VI, but an augmented sixth chord in bar 280. The cause of the transformation is again the modu-

lating variant of the le – sol – fi – sol, except here the characteristic scale-degree progression ap-

pears not in the bass, but in the melody of the piano, at bb. 280–281, to result in a similarly fre-

quent ‘top-voice variant’ of the schema (see Appendix B). Whereas the first stage of the ‘default

form’ of the le – sol – fi – sol implicitly expresses an augmented sixth, by realising the tendency in-

terval as a diminished third in the bass, the ‘top-voice variant’ actually features the category, or

memory node, of the augmented sixth as one of its events (see Example 5.23(c)). In formally and

functionally identifying the two variants of the schema, Beethoven rather explicitly equates the

functional meaning of the augmented sixth chord with the first stage of the ‘default form’ of the

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le – sol – fi – sol. The same function fulfilled by bar 280 — the transformation of a tonic-function

chord into a dominantising-function chord — is achieved in bb. 109–110 of the exposition. The

formal and functional identification of the two le – sol – fi – sol variants in Beethoven’s Concer-

to is but one fragment of a larger story that entails the intimate involvement and structural and

functional synonymy between the first stage of the ‘default form’ and the augmented sixth chord,

as well as between the ‘default form’ of the schema and other variants that feature the augment-

ed sixth within their temporal design.

Nowhere is this synonymy and identification so transparent as in Emanuel Bach’s Sonata in D

minor for Two-Manual Keyboard (Sonata per il cembalo a due tastature, Wq. 69), from 1749 (Ex-

ample 5.24). The third movement of this work is a theme and variations that prominently fea-

tures the ‘default form’ of the le – sol – fi – sol in its binary theme, at the end of the opening A sec-

tion, where it supplies a half cadence in D minor. Throughout the variations of the theme, Bach

uses the le – sol – fi progression of the schema interchangeably with the augmented sixth, as seen

in Example 5.24. Whereas Variations I, V, and IX use an augmented sixth–V schema to articu-

late the closing half cadence of the first, A section of the theme, Variations II, III, VI, VII, and

VIII use the le – sol – fi – sol. Elsewhere in the corpus, the augmented sixth is literally substitut-

ed for the VI chord in an ‘augmented-sixth variant’ of the le – sol – fi – sol, or is otherwise interpo-

lated between the first and second events of the schema, resulting in an ‘interpolated augment-

ed sixth variant.’

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Both of these variants may be seen in bb. 410–416 from the first movement of Beethoven’s Third

Piano Concerto in C minor, Op. 37 (c. 1800): Example 5.25. In bar 412, the augmented sixth fol-

lows the submediant, whereas in the immediate repetition of the schema in bb. 414–416, leading

to the 6/4 chord that announces the cadenza, it takes the place of the submediant altogether.

Beethoven’s cadenza which follows begins with an echo of these le – sol – fi – sol variants that is

sounded by the ‘default form,’ once more conceptually identifying it with these augmented sixth

chord variants of the schema (Example 5.25). Frequently, the ‘interpolated augmented sixth vari-

ant’ will result from the nesting of a ‘top voice’ variant within the ‘default form.’ This occurs near

the end of Mozart’s String Quintet in D major, K. 593, from 1790, shown in Example 5.26. The

B-flat major tonic of bb. 238ff. is initially transformed into an augmented sixth chord by means

of a ‘top-voice’ variant of the le – sol – fi – sol in bb. 248–249, which does not complete until bar

251, when G-sharp in the melody resolves to A-natural. This augmented sixth from bar 249 be-

comes the second stage within a larger, modulating and interpolated augmented sixth variant

of the schema in bb. 245–255. This nesting of a top-voice variant within a larger ‘default form’

instance of the le – sol – fi – sol, resulting in an interpolated augmented sixth variant, is a paradig-

matic manifestation of Rumelhart and Gjerdingen’s notion that schemata may embed within

one another. Beyond these, another highly popular variant and compositional device is a sche-

ma that results from cycling the le – sol – fi ~ le – sol ‘Fonte-Monte’ hybrid discussed above, giving

rise to a potentially endless looping of the le – sol – fi ~ le – sol, which, considering the ‘lament’

connotations of the descending chromatic bass in general (Rosand 1979), may be termed a ‘loop

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of death’ variant.108 Because the German augmented sixth and the dominant seventh chords are

intervallically isomorphic and enharmonically identical outside a specific musical context, and

because these chords frame the boundaries of the of the le – sol – fi ~ le – sol variant, the schema

may be perpetuated indefinitely by continually reinterpreting the boundary chords of the sche-

ma to result in a descending chromatic bass with a constant shifting of the tonality. Examples

5.27(a)– (b) illustrate an instance from Haydn’s Symphony in A Major, No. 65, (c. 1771/73), and

an abstract representation of the schema, which corresponds exactly to the counter-clockwise

progression of Vogler’s chromatic circle reproduced in Example 2.21(a).

Two profound implications emerge from these tonal-functional identifications. First, the mean-

ing of the le – sol – fi – sol is identical to that of the augmented sixth–V schema; or, rather, the first

stage of the le – sol – fi – sol is conceptually synonymous with the augmented sixth chord. Taking

this notion further, the first stage of the ‘default form’ is a decomposition of the augmented sixth

— a breaking down of this concept or ‘Complex Idea’ into smaller ones. Inversely, the le – sol –

fi stage of the schema is a different expression, or composing-out, of the augmented sixth con-

cept. The corpus speaks to this in yet another way: oftentimes the interpolated augmented sixth

is placed not between events 1 and 2, as in Example 5.25, but between events 3 and 4, or other-

wise after the cadential 6/4 of the second stage of the schema. The second movement of Mo-

zart’s Symphony in G major, K. 199 (No. 27, 1773) features several instances of the le – sol – fi –

sol in bb. 22–26 and 27–32 (Example 5.28(a)), just prior to the structural cadence in the key of

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the dominant at the second theme group. In each passage the resolution of the 6/4 is suspend-

ed for four bars by reiterating the schema. Prior to the resolution of the 6/4 in bb. 26 and 31, an

augmented sixth chord sounds as a synchronic ‘summary’ of the preceding le – sol – fi progres-

sions in bb. 22–25 and 27–30, and their diachronic expression of the augmented sixth. The same

phenomenon underlies the passage excerpted in Example 5.28(b), from Dussek’s E minor Piano

Trio, Op. 2 no. 3 (1787). Here, the interpolated augmented sixth results from nesting and elid-

ing a top-voice variant between the fi and sol stages of the schema in bar 128. In a similar way that

the memory nodes of Example 5.9 build up to the larger ‘Complex Idea’ of a cube, so are the first

three events of the le – sol – fi – sol a more sophisticated expression of an augmented sixth chord.

The self-evidence behind Rochlitz and others’ G minor responses lies in this conceptual resonance

of the first, le – sol – fi stage of the schema: as being synonymous with an augmented sixth chord,

the strongest dominantising, or S-function chord in the entire vocabulary of eighteenth-cen-

tury tonality. That is, above and beyond its mere syntactic recognition, the schema, as a closed

constraint network, serves to elaborate or express a tonal ‘concept,’ which derives partly from the

structure of the diatonic scale (see Chap. 3 above), and partly from its customary associations

with the augmented sixth chord and its related, associate schemata, which further account for

the immediacy of the G minor modulation.

The second implication involves the structure of the exogenous mechanism: to the extent the

augmented sixth chord becomes active in the mind upon the re-cognition of the le – sol – fi – sol

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‘default form’ and inter-key variant, it presupposes that both the augmented sixth variants as well

as the augmented sixth concept are associatively structured in the mind in the manner of Gjer-

dingen’s Example 5.20. This larger associative network consisting of ‘necessary connexions’ both

within and between schemata, then, is what properly constitutes the exogenous mechanism. The

‘internal co-ordination of schemata’ is as vital to the situation as the ‘external co-ordination’ of

the mind’s schemata with the environment (Piaget 1947/2001: 117). In a word, it suggests that

schemata behave both in a ‘morphosyntactic’ as well as ‘semantic’ capacity.

The terms derive from Meeùs, who described the structure of Saussure’s ‘social product lying in

the mind,’ that is, the system of langue, as operating on both ‘morphosyntactic’ (or syntagmatic)

and ‘semantic’ (or paradigmatic) ‘fields’ (1993b). Saussure described linguistic categories, be they

morphemes, phrases, concepts, etc., as lying at the ‘centre of a constellation’ (1922: 174–174), in a

way that profoundly resonates with the Becker-Gjerdingen memory system given in Examples

5.1 and 5.20. Example 5.29 illustrates one such constellation from the Cours de linguistique géné-

rale (1922: 175). The image and its underlying connotations are but one part of Saussure’s defini-

tion of langue in schema-like terms. That Louis Hjelmslev explicitly described Saussure’s langue

as a schema (le schéma) is not coincidental (1943/1971: 78–90; see also Meeùs, 1993b; 1994). The

essential characteristics of a schema are all represented in Saussure’s definition of langue as ‘a con-

vention registered in the mind’ (25, 44), as a ‘social product’ (44) which is ‘acquired’ (25) from cul-

ture but that is equally a ‘mechanism’ (176–184). This ‘mechanism’ consists of ‘two forms of our

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mental activity’ that involve ‘syntagmatic and associative relations’ (1922: 170).109 The first men-

tal activity resonates with Weber’s discussion of chord meaning in terms of its ‘connection’ in a

syntactic series as well as the Markov processes described above: ‘Placed in a syntagm,’ or, in a

syntactic context, ‘a term only acquires its meaning because it is opposed to what precedes or

follows it, or to both’ (170–171).110 But ‘outside of discourse,’ or outside of these syntactic con-

texts, ‘words, offering something in common, are associated in memory, and in the process form

groups’ whose ‘seat is in the mind; they form part of that interior treasure that constitutes the

system of language [langue] in each individual’ (171).111 These groups are precisely what Saussure

calls ‘associative relations.’ Initially, Saussure seems to present syntactic and paradigmatic (or as-

sociative) relations as opposite categories properly belonging to parole and langue, respectively.

The former occur in praesentia, as ‘two or several terms equally present in a real series.’ Associa-

tive relations, on the other hand, ‘unite terms in absentia in a mnemonic, virtual series’ (171).112

In spite of this apparent dichotomy, Saussure allocates syntactic constructs that have been regu-

larised by convention — for example, idiomatic phrases such as ‘à quoi bon?,’ ‘God help us!,’ etc.,

which are properly syntagmatic categories, or event schemata in Gjerdingen’s terms — not to

parole but to langue, and once more because of their being perceptually redundant: ‘one must

assign all the syntagmatic types constructed by regular forms to langue, not parole. . . . [T]hese

types exist only to the extent that the system of language [langue] has registered or encoded [en-

registré] a sufficiently numerous amount of instances of these types . . . in the form of concrete memo-

ries’ (173; added emphasis; cf. Meyer’s ‘ideal types’ and perceptual redundancy).113

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It is precisely in this context that the constellation argument appears, as a representation of the

synchronic and diachronic distributions in memory that constitute the system and mechanism

of language. The constellation in Example 5.29 appears, upon first glance, to only represent the

synchronic distributions of associative relations in memory, particularly by Saussure’s earlier de-

scription of the representation: ‘A given term is like the centre of a constellation, the point where

other coordinated terms converge’ (174).114 But closer inspection reveals the term at the centre

of the image, enseignement (teaching), is related to the other terms not only as a noun, and there-

fore not only conceptually, but also morphosyntactically, as a composition of still smaller linguis-

tic categories. Whereas apprentissage (learning) and éducation (education) are the semantic reso-

nances of enseignement represented in the second series, every other relation involves a syntactic

similarity. In the first series, the radical enseign– unites the term with different grammatical cat-

egories and therefore with different syntagms: namely, with the verb-forms enseigner, enseignons.

In the third series, the suffix –ment unites the noun with other nouns that bear not a semantic

but a grammatic similarity: changement (change), and armement (arms). The last series unites the

term at the centre simply by its ‘acoustic’ similarity. In this case, the category –ment unites a noun

with both adjectives and adverbs by its sheer acoustic resonance — clement (mild), justement (right-

ly). That Saussure viewed each of these words as compositions of smaller units and therefore as

syntagms becomes explicit in the later constellations (as shown in Example 5.30) that appear in

the discussion of the mechanism of langue.

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If one considers the irreducible linguistic term in Saussure’s philosophy of language as entirely

synonymous with Becker’s memory node, and the syntagm as synonymous with an event sche-

ma, we see a remarkable and perhaps unexpected connection between the inner workings of a

late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century philosophy of language, and a field of research as

seemingly disparate as the computational modelling of memory (Becker 1973). Saussure clear-

ly describes the syntagm as operating both at the level of the word and at the level of the phrase,

or group of words (172). If each term is then considered in its diachronic capacity, and thereby

likened to an event schema built up of smaller memory nodes or linguistic terms (e.g. radicals,

suffixes, etc.), these event schemata are associatively structured in memory like the event sche-

mata in the Becker-Gjerdingen memory system and associative network, by sharing a memory

node, concept, or category. The close relation between these two systems of thought becomes

all the more apparent when mapping Saussure’s constellations onto the memory system in the

manner of Example 5.3 1, as well as when filling in the memory system with specifically linguistic

categories, as in Example 5.3 2. But should the resemblance between them appear striking, when

minding the relatively little-known history that Saussure was deeply and continually influenced

by French appropriations of British associationism, the resemblance is almost to be expected.

The connection with British empiricism is through research by French philosopher and histo-

rian Hippolyte Taine, particularly his De l’Intelligence of 1870, which cites both John Stuart Mill

and Alexander Bain (see Aarsleff 1982). Saussure’s knowledge of Taine’s ideas is largely based on

circumstantial evidence: for example, by 1900, while Saussure resided in Paris, the ninth edition

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of Taine’s De l’Intelligence existed in no less than twelve thousand copies (see Aarslef 1982: 364).

But crucially, not only does Saussure ‘deploy[] an associationist vocabulary in a casual and com-

fortable way’ (Joseph 2007), but Bain, one of Taine’s stronger influences, is now credited with in-

venting what is known as ‘constellation theory,’ associationism in its most advanced state, later

fully developed by Georg Elias Müller (1913; see Mandler 2007: 34).

Equally unsurprisingly, Saussure not only engaged previous associationist thought but also an-

ticipated arguments from its later developments in schema theory. Like Bartlett, who explained

a schema as ‘operating [interactively] with a diverse organised mass’ (1932: 208), Saussure argues

that, in bringing an idea to mind, ‘In reality, the idea recalls not some form but an entire latent

system’ (179).115 Furthermore, the inner-workings of this latent system, or langue are described

by a machine metaphor, recalling Mill’s earlier ‘mechanical laws’ and anticipating the connec-

tionist architecture of mind (see Rumelhart 1998). ‘This mechanism, which consists in an inter-

play of successive terms, resembles the functioning of a machine whose pieces have a reciprocal

action, despite their being registered in a single dimension’ (177).116 The mechanism, then, con-

sists of a ‘simultaneous functioning of the two orders of grouping,’ the associative and the syn-

tagmatic (177). The significance of Saussure’s contribution lies in describing the two orders of

grouping and their interplay as a necessity, as an essential component of the cognitive system.

Schemata and syntagms may not only be viewed as operating with other knowledge associative-

ly structured in memory, but this interactive operation is viewed as an integral component of

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their ontological disposition. The associative relations are ‘necessary for the [cognitive] analysis

of the parts of the syntagms’ (177).117

The ‘working [le jeu] of this double system’ is described as follows:

Our memory holds all the syntagmatic type in reserve . . . and at the moment of their employment
we cause the associative groups to intervene in order to make our choice. When someone says
marchons ! [let’s walk], he unconsciously thinks of diverse groups of associations at the in-
tersection of which he finds the syntagm marchons ! On the one hand, the term figures in
an associative series involving marche ! [walk!, informal imperative] marchez ! [walk!, for-
mal imperative], and it is the opposition of marchons ! with these forms that determines the
selection; on the other hand, marchons ! evokes the associative series montons ! [let’s go up]
mangeons ! [let’s eat] etc., from which it is selected by the same process (179).118

To somewhat clarify Saussure’s argument, the knowledge base behind the syntagm ‘marchons ! ’

involves the concept of walking, which is represented by the memory node march–, the radical

which holds the semantic resonance of the term, as well as the memory node –ons, which rep-

resents the grammatical category and implicit knowledge of the first person plural imperative.

This interplay, furthermore, operates equally with complex syntagms:

This principle applies to syntagms and to phrases of all types, even the most complex. At
the moment that we articulate the phrase: ‘que vous dit-il ?’ [what did he tell you?, formal
address], we cause an element to be viewed against a latent syntagmatic type, for example,
‘que te dit-il ?’ [what did he tell you?, informal] — ‘que nous dit-il ?’ [what did he tell us?],
etc., and thereby our selection is fixed on the pronoun vous. Thus, in this operation, which
consists of mentally eliminating all that does not bring the desired differentiation to the
desired point, the associative groups and the syntagmatic types are both at work [en jeu]
(Saussure 1922: 179–80).119

In this way, the semantic and morphosyntactic fields reciprocally operate in both a positive and

negative capacity, in the form of a constraint network in Rumelhart’s terms.

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Now, all this is not to say that tonality and language are homologous through and through. To be-

gin with, drawing an analogy between Saussure’s linguistics and schema theory is unlike Lerdahl

and Jackendoff ’s adaptation of Chomsky’s generative grammar, in that Saussure was applying an

already extant philosophy of mind to the particular domain of language (Aarsleff 1982). For this

reason, we find strong parallels between Saussure and Gjerdingen’s work, as two different indi-

viduations of the same philosophy of mind. Together, the Becker-Gjerdingen associative net-

work and Saussure’s langue elaborate a cognitive mechanism that is defined by the simultaneous

functioning of, or interaction between, synchronically and diachronically distributed memory

nodes. The significance of this simultaneous functioning for the le – sol – fi – sol and the Eroica

case study involves the powerful association of the schema in memory with the very familiar

category of the augmented sixth chord; a schema is not only independently active as a recogni-

tion device, but is always interactive within a ‘whole organised mass of past experience’ and as-

sociative relations in Bartlett and Saussure’s terms, one involving our concepts and categories.

The mechanism responsible for G minor cognition ultimately involves a larger network of dia-

chronic and synchronic connections, as represented in Example 5.33, structural connections in

memory that are fundamentally determined by custom. The very re-cognition of the le – sol – fi

– sol operates within a larger semantic and morphosyntactic field involving the augmented sixth

concept, which figures in the associative network as the ‘centre of the constellation,’ in the man-

ner of Example 5.1. Knowledge of the le – sol – fi – sol presupposes knowledge of the augmented

sixth, as both operate within the same field of the ecologically determined knowledge base that

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is represented in Example 5.33. But knowledge of the le – fi – sol, of the le – sol – fi – sol ‘Fonte’

variant, etc., equally presuppose that same knowledge, and for this reason these schema variants

associative in a ‘group.’ Schema-driven listening therefore also has a conceptual orientation, for

the augmented sixth chord, as a ‘concept,’ is the ‘point of convergence of [the] other coordinated

terms,’ an emergent property of the system that groups all these schema variants into a single as-

sociative network: a mental representation of the augmented sixth chord becomes active along

with the le – sol – fi – sol ‘default form,’ despite its absence as a chord in this particular variant

of the schema. It emerges via a different form of association — not from the association of a

schema with a given ‘sound stimulis’ per se, than from the association of the ‘default form’ with

other related schemata involving the augmented sixth. In Example 5.33, this emergent property

is represented by the underlying grey shade in the centre. The darker shades of grey indicate lo-

cations where the chord is featured as an event in the given schema variant. These shades of grey

are analogous to the bidirectional arrows in Examples 5.1 and 5.20.

In short, the image represents a broader structuring of sense experience in the form of an exog-

enous mechanism, a ‘whole active mass of organised past reactions,’ in Bartlett’s terms. It repre-

sents knowledge specific to the musical culture: namely, that the first stage of the le – sol – fi – sol

schema is a more sophisticated expression of the augmented sixth, whereby the dominantising

interval is horizontally expressed as a diminished third in the bass. Although the ‘inter-key’ var-

iant of the le – sol – fi –sol schema is certainly the most ‘weighted’ element in the associative net-

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work, because of its best ‘goodness of fit,’ complementary nodes in the other schemata operate

in parallel to activate, or cognise a G minor tonality in bb. 6–9 of the Eroica, with the augment-

ed sixth operating as an emergent property of the system (cf. Bharucha 1994), which corresponds

to the ‘adaptive function of the exogenous mechanism’ in Piaget’s terms ­— G minor cognition

is the result of the interactions between these culturally-learned diachronic and synchronic distri-

butions in memory. Whereas diachronic distributions refer to knowledge that involves syntag-

matic, feed-forward, Markov process oriented ‘affordances’ (Gibson 1979) or perceptual redun-

dancies in the environment, synchronic distributions concern associative, conceptual, and in-

teractive connections similarly formed by custom. But whether diachronic or synchronic, these

are equally ‘necessary connexions’ imposed by custom in Hume’s terms. Thus, we see a very dif-

ferent cognitive mechanism than that proposed by generative music theory operating both as a

model of competence, or as a knowledge base, and as a model of performance, because a sche-

ma is both our knowledge and a mechanism.

But if this constitutes the ‘critical component’ of the case in Flyvberg’s terms (Chap. 1) — that

is, if one generalises from the G minor component of the case study to argue that a schema, as a

foundational element in the philosophy of mind, represents some modus operandi about tonali-

ty as a category of mind in general — then the E-flat and ‘Cloud’ response-strains must be equal-

ly schema-symptomatic in some way. Furthermore, a second residual problem in the schema ar-

gument concerns the historical component of the mechanism. If the historical imperative dis-

305
cussed in Chapter 4 is what amounts to the cognitive imperative and what gives rise to the exog-

enous mechanism, the question remains as to how present-day listeners might have acquired the

same knowledge base and developed this same mechanism in Piaget’s sense. To the extent Exam-

ple 5.33 does represent the knowledge base of a contemporary listener such as a Rochlitz, how

might this exogenous mechanism have subsisted throughout the inevitable changes and multi-

plication of style (Gjerdingen 1986; 1988 and Meyer 1989) during the ever-increasing national-

isation of musical culture in the nineteenth century, the gradual dissolution of the inherent in-

ternationality of eighteenth-century style (Heartz 1995; 2003; 2009), and the resulting multi-

culturalism of the modern and post-modern worlds, when the original musical environment or

culture no longer properly exist? To address either matter requires reinvestigating the historical

and archaeological component of the situation.

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 Part IV
____________________________________________

N
‘Endgame’
 6
w
Towards an ‘Archaeology’ of Hearing

The Paradox of Historical Listening

‘Aestheticising the historical and historicising the aesthetic are opposite sides of the same coin.’

. . . The argument, among the most purple of several ornate passages woven throughout Dahl-

haus’ Grundlagen der Musikgeschichte (1984: 71), problematically equates the aesthetic and his-

torical experience of a musical work as one and the same phenomenological incident. By exten-

sion, it suggests that history is somehow fundamentally integral to the faculty of hearing — that

historical consciousness, even, is immediately available to present-day modes of listening. Indeed,

Dahlhaus maintains that ‘past and present form an indissoluble alloy’; that ‘works extend[ing]

from earlier periods into our own age do not come solitary and sequestered; they bring their

308
own time — a temps perdu — along with them ’ (1984: 70). Much in Dahlhaus’ argument explic-

itly derives from closely engaging Gadamer’s notion of Wirkungsgeschichte (2003: 300ff.; Dahl-

haus 1984: 3, 58–60), or historically-affected consciousness, which views history as a ‘broad pano-

rama’ (Dahlhaus 1984: 71), extending from the past to the present in a continuous process of re-

ception, or, if you will, as ‘tradition.’ The larger implication is that traditions persist beyond the

point of their original ‘habitus’ (Bourdieu 1993), and therefore resist the passing of time and the

commensurate morphing of culture.

But the ontology of Dahlhaus’ ‘twisted aesthetic paradox,’ as he calls it, warrants some measure

of scrutiny, if only because it appears at once entirely sound and altogether unlikely. Towards

the one extreme, the schema concept brings a theoretical framework capable of sustaining the

notion of a historical mode of hearing on both cognitive and philosophical grounds. But at the

same time, the whole question of historical epistemology would challenge not the possibility of a

historical mode of listening so much as its inevitability — as intimated by Dahlhaus’ aphorism —

that all listening will by nature be historical by virtue of works being from the past: As Foucault

argued painstakingly, the interpretational grids belonging to the various phases of history are ev-

er mutating, disconnected, and often at odds with one another. Even this negative orientation,

however, finds a home in the concept of a schema. To begin with, the positive and negative im-

plications surrounding Dahlhaus’ paradox are already seen to obtain with the G minor and E-

flat strains of reception, whereby each provides evidence for and against the notion of a histor-

309
ical mode of hearing. But schema theory and situated cognition invite this otherwise uncom-

fortable paradox, for in order to demonstrate that historical modes of listening may exist one

must articulate some difference with the present so as to qualify the situatedness of cognition as

‘historical’ in some way, while nonetheless maintaining that differences are somehow mediated

all the same, in order to allow ‘history’ a place in cognition.

When the British musicologist Charles L. Cudworth first related the problem, he maintained

that eighteenth-century music ‘made use of many mannerisms,’ such as the cadence galante (Exam-

ple 6.1), that were ‘so markedly of [their] period,’ but ‘the effect of which is largely lost on modern

ears’ (1949: 176). On the other hand, as Gjerdingen most recently and most comprehensively ar-

gued — while acknowledging alongside Cudworth that ‘strong habits in the present easily mask

differences in the past’ (Gjerdingen 2007: 4) — schemata nonetheless provide a means of access

to the past, precisely because of their historical contingency — because of the historical determi-

nacy of these ‘mannerisms’ or schemata and of musical style in general: perhaps the most central

thesis in Meyer’s style program and its legacy (1956; 1967/1994; 1973; 1989; 2000). Both ‘Meyer

and Gjerdingen,’ as Michael Spitzer summarises the position, ‘presuppose that eighteenth-cen-

tury consciousness is immediately accessible’ (Spitzer 2004: 49) by means of these style forms

or schemata, owing to their historical situatedness (Meyer 1989; Gjerdingen 1986; 1988; 2007).

The problem of history in the Eroica case study emerges more properly as an archaeological one

in Foucault’s sense, as already implied in Chapter 1. And so, it is between these positive and neg-

310
ative orientations surrounding Dahlhaus’ paradox that one may rationalise each of these differ-

ences in the Eroica Symphony’s strains of reception by way of the schema concept.

History as Knowledge

The influence of history on present-day modes of listening is not entirely unlike the kind of in-

fluence involved in perceiving a Necker Cube in Example 5.9, as discussed in Chapter 5. There,

the viewing subject assumes a spatial perspective towards the visual substrate according to pre-

existing knowledge of the visual environment. This projection of knowledge onto the image amounts

to forming a context for interpretation, by imposing one’s experience of cube-like geometries in

the world in the form of a ‘copy’ (eikÒna, Aristotle, De memoria, 451a.15–19): not in the sense of

a fixed image, but in the sense of imitating a prior experience as an active reconstruction of past

experience in Bartlett’s terms (1932: 213). The schema, by this estimation, is a re-forming of as-

sociations or connections already made in the past, according to a continual reencounter with

the same or similar environmental stimuli. What is reconstructed are the learned and previously

abstracted ‘affordances’ of the environment in Gibson’s terms (1966; 1979) and the ecologically

imposed ‘necessary connexions’ (Hume 1777) among them in the mind. The ‘affordances’ of the

environment are encoded in these connections among ‘memory nodes’ (Becker 1973), which

build up to an ‘organised setting’ (Bartlett 1932: 201), or schema, that operates as a as a cognitive

context for interpretation.

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Now, suppose the acoustic signals or ‘sound stimulus’ (Meyer 1956: 45–47) produced by an or-

chestra were analogous to the visual signals of the wire-frame drawing. That is to say, imagine

there existed an acoustic substrate that is similarly ‘prior’ to music, as there exists a visual substrate

that is ‘prior’ to the perception of a cube. Then, a historical mode of listening — or a historical

means of ‘making music’ cognitively, i.e., ‘making music’ in the act of listening (cf. Boretz 1995: 115)

— would involve the projection of history as a form of knowledge onto that substrate. To assume

a historical orientation towards the acoustic substratum would involve what Spitzer (2004: 9) — fol-

lowing Scruton (1999: 78) — calls ‘hearing as,’ a mode of ‘perception informed with knowledge.’

As knowledge structures that mediate perception or determine behaviour in this way, schema-

ta provide a means for realising not so much a historical but an archaeological mode of hearing

in a Foucauldian sense. The difference turns on understanding history less as the pastness of mu-

sic than as a ‘space of knowledge,’ ‘conceptual field’ (Foucault 1966/1994: xiii; 1969/1972: 126),

‘normative system’ (Vodička 1975: 90), or ‘mode of behaviour’ (Dahlhaus 1984: 61), that sche-

mata embody and thereby ‘aestheticise,’ corresponding to one side of Dahlhaus’ coin. As Treitler

relates it, ‘It isn’t the pastness of our objects that distinguishes them as “historical” . . . but music

in the past . . . as a principle of knowledge’ (1982: 154). The problematics of historically informed

listening would then be situated in a transposition of history from a connotation of pastness to

one of epistemology.

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The Historical Resonance of the le – sol – fi – sol

But music of the late eighteenth-century Europe is ideally poised in this detailing of the prob-

lem, to the extent that a transposition of this kind becomes immaterial and virtually unnecessary.

Because the music is itself inherently schematic — that is, highly conventionalised, predicated

on regularity, and thereby knowledge-driven (cf. Mirka and Agawu 2008) — any distinctions be-

tween history and knowledge qua schema collapse; or rather, following our Dahlhausian point

of departure, they reverse into one another as if occupying two sides of the same proverbial coin.

Because schemata follow a ‘life-cycle’ within a discrete historical setting, as seen in the historical

population distributions of Examples 3.54–55, any cognitive engagement of music by means of

them would simultaneously constitute ‘aesthetic’ and ‘historical ’ activities. By virtue of their cul-

tural determinacy, musical schemata, as albeit aesthetic objects and structures of knowledge, are

‘stamps’ of their period (Cudworth 1949, 176), and, therefore, inescapably ‘historicised’ nonethe-

less, corresponding with the opposite side of Dahlhaus’ coin. Even the variations of the le – sol –

fi – sol schema follow the same ‘life-cycle’ — when isolated from the total population of 550 in-

stances in the corpus, which includes the non-modulating ‘default form’ of the schema, the sub-

population of the modulating ‘inter-key variant,’ so crucial to the opening of the Eroica, also ap-

proximates a Gaussian historical distribution, that likewise peaks in the 1790s, as seen in Exam-

ple 6.2(a). The same stylistic trend is also witnessed in the context of individual composers’ oeu-

vres. Example 6.2(b) shows this tendency for the le – sol – fi – sol to peak towards the latter part

of the century in the works of both Haydn and Mozart.

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Not only do these statistics bring strong evidence to support Adorno’s famous argument re-

specting the historical immanence of musical ‘material’ (2004). By extension they suggest that

listening by means of this ‘material’ would equally comprise a historical activity — that schema-

driven listening would by nature be ‘historical through and through’ (Adorno 2004: 36). Schema-

ta are said to collapse apparent oppositions between nature and nurture, because the informa-

tion processing mechanism is modelled on the outside world or environment (see Spitzer 2004:

13, 15; cf. also Meyer 1992); as the cognitive psychologist Donald A. Norman describes it, the

fundamental notion that underlies the concept of a schema is that ‘culture determines the men-

tal structures’ (in Baars 1986: 386; original emphasis); hence, the exogenous mechanism. By a simi-

lar estimation, schemata would also dissolve the opposition between past and present because this

environment is historically determined; because history, as culture, determines the mental structures.

The ‘affordances of [the] environment,’ in Gibson’s terms (1966; 1979), ‘are resources for, and

constraints on, cognition’ (Smith and Semin 2004: 75). History becomes the constraining envi-

ronment which structurally impacts the mind through a process of ‘re-enacting’ the situation at

the heart of the historical distribution statistics in Examples 3.54 and 55, by massive exposure to

the ‘style system’ — by turning the historical repertoire into one’s proper musical environment

and thereby recreating the original process of statistical learning and recuperating the ‘historical

center’ (Spitzer 2004: 46). Forming a spatial orientation in respect to the visual image of Exam-

ple 5.9, and forming a historical orientation towards some musical work or passage, are different

individuations of the same cognitive process. In this way, Dahlhaus’ aphorism, that works bring

314
their own time along with them, would stand on secure footing.

But on the other hand, the ultimate paradox in Dahlhaus’ ‘twist’ still lies in the necessity of a neg-

ative, or discriminating component — that is to say, for Dahlhaus to be ‘right,’ he must also be

‘wrong,’ and I believe this to be the reaction he intended, by way of a latent contradiction. Notice

that, while he claims works bring their own time along with them, this time is also paradoxically

a ‘lost time,’ a temps perdu, the French unmistakably being a reference to Proust (1913–27), whose

deliberations on memory always involve an element of recovery. As it happens, elsewhere Dahl-

haus makes the condition of recuperation explicit: ‘historicism,’ he writes, ‘considers the task of

performers and audiences not only to reconstruct part of the past but to make us sense our distance

from it’ (1989: 323, added emphasis). The argument bears strong resonance to the main outlines

of Foucault’s ‘archaeology of knowledge.’ To reconstruct the epistème underlying a given histori-

cal period requires that one also locate those moments of ‘mutation’ or disconnect in the history

of ideas that bring such epistemologies into relief by way of negation (e.g. Foucault 1966/1994:

xxiii). Beyond statistical evidence, the problematics of historically-informed listening require

that one demonstrate marked differences between schema-driven and potentially modern-spe-

cific modes of cognition — to outline occasions where historical and modern habits would compete

with one another. That is in every respect the kind of evidence necessary to the paradoxical equa-

tion that is afforded by the Eroica’s competing strains of reception.

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Dahlhaus might not find a more ideal body of evidence: the reception history of the Eroica ful-

fils both of his paradoxical conditions. The alloy formed by past and present is at once indissol-

uble in G minor, and dissoluble in E-flat. The past represented by G minor and the schema giv-

ing rise to it extends into the present but is simultaneously lost. On the one hand, the indissol-

ubility of G minor brings evidence for some persistent consciousness that has resisted the pass-

ing of time, in the form of Halbwachs’ ‘collective memory,’ as ‘a current of continuous thought

. . . [that] retains from the past only what is still living . . . in the consciousness of the [social] group

that maintains it (1939/1997: 131; added emphasis).’ History, in this sense, as Peter Burke argues

in his reading of Halbwachs, becomes ‘social memory,’ which is no longer history in the prop-

er sense of the term — ‘social groups determine what is “memorable” and how it will be remem-

bered’ (Burke 1989: 98), whereas history, properly speaking, always involves the reconstruction

of a distant and lost past. In Halbwachs’ argument, collective memory and history are effective-

ly mutually opposed categories: the latter begins where the former ends (1939/1997: 131ff.). On

the other hand, the historical resonance of the G minor hearing, beginning, as it does, in 1807,

only emerges in the face of the conflicting E-flat strain of reception, as a necessary discriminat-

ing component that traces a Foucauldian ‘mutation,’ the ‘threshold of a new positivity’ in tonali-

ty’s concept (Chap. 1), graphically objectified in Example 1.4.

The historical resonance in Rochlitz and others’ G minor hearings seems to lie in their re-cogni-

tion of bb. 6–9 of the opening theme against the le – sol – fi – sol schema as a historically-deter-

316
mined mental ‘template,’ while the competing modern responses appear as a consequence of the

schema’s absence, loss, or suppression by modern habits, whether informed by structural hear-

ing (cf. Chap. 1), or simply as a result of the distance from the original culture. Indeed, the loss

of historical resonance owing to historical distance is the norm, rather than the exception, in most

philosophies of hearing. For example, consider Eric Clarke’s ecologically oriented argument in

Ways of Listening:

Even the most specialized listener who has attempted to reconstruct an early nineteenth-
century sensibility is in a situation that is utterly different from a true contemporary of
Beethoven’s — if only because of all the music that has sounded since then. A twenty-first
century listener is inevitably not only deaf to some or many of the conventions that the music invokes,
but also hears all kinds of later resonances that a contemporary of Beethoven’s obviously
would not’ (Clarke 2005: 172; added emphasis).

Rose Rosengard Subotnik advances the same argument in a ‘deconstruction of structural listen-

ing,’ by proposing that a ‘[modern] listener . . . hear[s] overtones of intervening knowledge and

experience which drown out or “erase” various responses that could have originally been intend-

ed or anticipated, while adding others’ (Subotnik 1988; reprinted in Scott 2000: 172; my empha-

sis). The historical imperative once again broaches the communicative element of the problem.

Though Clarke’s argument in particular is centred mostly on musical topics (2005: 171ff.), the

question of tonality, or key, plays an equally if not more significant role in determining success-

ful or unsuccessful communication; and in eighteenth-century music, the ‘communicative pres-

sure’ (Temperley 2007: 181) implicit in the historical imperative (Chap. 4) was all the more pro-

nounced, because the probability system was so tightly constrained. Because of these cultural-

317
ly-determined constraints, it is often in the smallest details, or behaviours, that cultural artefacts

are lost on present-day listeners; as Gjerdingen relates it most recently, and most simply, ‘strong

habits in the present easily mask differences in the past’ (2007: 3–4).

But all the same, the indissolubility and continuity of the G minor strain of reception indicates

that strong habits in the past equally mask or suppress differences in the present. Not only do schemata

seem to provide the cognitive mechanism that allows for a historical mode of listening today in

the positive sense, by providing a historically determined context for interpretation, but also in

the negative sense, by allowing one to ‘forget’ or erase intervening knowledge and to ‘drown out’

modern associations and influences — because a schema, as seen in its more sophisticated for-

malisation by Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al., is not only the mental encoding of a statistical re-

dundancy in the environment but also a constraint network. The Necker Cube schema in Exam-

ple 5.9 as a whole contains two larger sets of activation and deactivation. Built into the very no-

tion of a schema is not only an associative component that forms a cognitive context for inter-

pretation, by activating knowledge relevant to a given situation, but also a disassociative compo-

nent that ‘turns off,’ or deactivates, irrelevant or contradictory knowledge. In respect to the Eroi-

ca, the ‘inter-key variant’ of the le – sol – fi – sol schema provides a culturally coherent context for

perception, while also eliminating all other contexts and knowledge that fall outside the possi-

bilities of the style as a probability system. These negative connections produce something of a

‘cloistering’ effect that operates in the mind, whereby the historical system is unaffected by out-

318
side influences — outside, that is, the style as a probability system. For a historically-informed lis-

tener, once having formed these schemata in memory, historical distance becomes immaterial,

and historical listening virtually becomes inevitable; as Donald Norman described it, ‘once you

start developing a particular set of knowledge structures [i.e., schemata], you’re committed to

them for the rest of your life. They will color your interpretation of everything’ (in Baars 1986:

386). Culturally-learned schematic knowledge is ‘irrepressible’ (Bharucha 1994: 215– 17).

The G minor response in the Eroica is therefore analogous to the situation underlying the simi-

larly ambiguous image in Example 6.3, which Stephen E. Palmer describes as follows:

Initially, you will probably see this picture as a nearly random array of black regions on a
white background. Once you are able to see it as a Dalmatian with its head down, sniffing
along a street, the picture becomes dramatically reorganized with certain of the dots going
together because they are part of the dog and others going together because they are part
of the street. The interesting fact is that once you have seen the Dalmatian in this picture,
you will continue to see it that way for the rest of your life. Past experience can thus have a
dramatic effect on grouping and organization, especially if the organization of the image
is highly ambiguous. The principle of past experience . . . concerns . . . the viewer’s history
with respect to the configuration (Palmer 2002: 206).

There are several implications that fall out of this analogy with respect to the Eroica case study.

First, once a particular schema, or constraint network, has been fit to a particular stimulus in the

environment and vice versa — the Dalmatian schema in respect to the image of Example 6.3, the

le – sol – fi – sol with regard to bb. 1–9 of the Eroica’s opening theme — and therefore, once hav-

ing settled into an interpretation, that interpretation will remain indefinitely. Secondly, on re-

viewing the image and on re-hearing the Eroica again and again, the immediacy of the original in-

319
terpretation becomes all the more pronounced, because the schema has been forever linked in

inextricable association with the particular stimulus. In Bharucha’s terms, the ‘schematic memo-

ry’ of the le – sol – fi – sol is cognitively joined with the ‘veridical memory’ (Bharucha 1987; 1994 ).

The latter concerns the mental representations of actual compositions, not generic knowledge

about style. This immediacy of interpretation upon re-hearing was already well articulated by

Weber in 1817. Regarding Example 6.4, also reproduced from the section of the Versuch on the

‘Habits of the Ear,’ specifically from Weber’s discussion of the fifth habit, Wiederkehr schon gehört-

er Stellen (‘Recurrence of Passages already heard’), Weber maintains that, upon hearing this fa-

mous ‘bird-catcher’s’ aria from Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte (1791), the modulation to D major that

occurs in bar 7 with the appearance of the V6/5 chord on C-sharp will inevitably shift and oc-

cur phenomenologically earlier in the mind: ‘Our internal sense of hearing [Unser innerer Ge-

hörsinn] re-attunes itself . . . and thus readily apprehends the D-harmony [that] precedes A7, as

D: 1’ (1832/1851: 365) — that is, already as tonic, despite the fact that a D major chord sounds as

dominant of G major in the immediately preceding moment of bar 6. Likewise, in subsequent

hearings of the Eroica, the G minor modulation will occur in advance of bb. 7–9 for a historical

and historically-informed listener, for the transformation of E-flat major from a tonique to sur­

dominante no longer occurs retrospectively, but at some point while E-flat major still sounds in

bb. 1–6, which further gives an impression of the Symphony as beginning in medias res.120 Third-

ly, the analogy with the Dalmatian image re-establishes the significance of the Eroica case study

as an ‘extreme case’ (Flyvbjerg 2006) — the ‘sound stimulus’ is similarly ambiguous, for a G mi-

320
nor tonality never fully materialises in the acoustic substrate by means of a cadence, in the same

way that the visual signals in Example 6.3 never fully realise the image of a Dalmatian. The ambi-

guity of such contexts (CXTs) leaves one better disposed to gauge the presence and absence of

a schema (I-CXT) and its operation, to test the presence and operation of schema-based knowl-

edge. Not hearing a G minor modulation would therefore be commensurate with not seeing a

Dalmatian in this image, because the relevant schema had not been formed in memory. In oth-

er words, the degree to which one hears a G minor modulation is directly proportionate to the

degree of schema activation.

In this connection, the more important fallout involves the ‘critical’ component of the Eroica

case study: of what it is a representative problem. The entire problem represented in Examples

1.2 and 1.4 may be reduced to the graded presence and absence of schema influence. The seem-

ingly less significant ‘Cloud’ strain is rather informative in this regard. The situation is roughly

analogous to a potentially third interpretation of the Necker Cube as neither a right- nor a left-

facing cube, but as a so-called ‘impossible cube’: an altogether unsettled and unstable interpreta-

tion. In describing their model of a Necker Cube schema-as-constraint network, Rumelhart et

al. suggest that conflicting information could lead to a simultaneous, albeit partial interpreta-

tion of elements of both a right- and left-facing geometry, as seen in Example 6.5 (Rumelhart,

Smolensky, et al. 1986: 13). Here, the interpretation of an impossible cube results not from the

complete absence of a schema, but from the absence of a fully realised constraint network, or the

321
presence of a partially realised constraint network. To state it differently, certain activations may

have been triggered for both interpretations simultaneously, but not enough or perhaps not any

of the necessary negative connections were activated to deactivate the competing rival schema,

and to produce the necessary ‘cloistering-effect’ to settle on an interpretation. With the Eroica,

the corpus evidence reveals that for a historical and historically-informed listener, no such fully

constrained rival schema exists for an E-flat major interpretation, and therefore the E-flat and G

minor oppositions cannot be likened directly to the right- or left-facing geometry binarism un-

derlying the Necker Cube; as seen in the preceding Chapter, other rival schemata certainly do

exist in the corpus from 1720–1840, such as the ‘Tonic variant,’ but all of these involve a modula-

tion and are inconsistent with an E-flat major tonality. It may well then be that some informa-

tion from the sound stimulus was processed in the ‘Cloud’ strain as G minor relevant: perhaps

the 6/4 chord of bar 9 alone. The end product is not an impossible cube but an ‘impossible to­

nality’ — neither E-flat, nor G minor, but some tonal ‘purgatory,’ ‘ravine,’ or ‘gorge,’ in a manner

of speaking; hence, the ‘mystery,’ ‘cloud,’ and ‘fog’ metaphors, and ‘out-of-key’ descriptions. To

return to the notion that these strains of reception lie on a continuum, the E-flat strain would

therefore also be schema-symptomatic, but in the sense of ‘schema absence’ (J. Mandler 1984:

102, 106–107) or ‘schema-irrelevance’ (Mandler and Johnson 1976). As discussed in Chapter 1,

ultimately the advantage of case study research lies in the ability to generalise an argument from

a single case ­— in ‘generating and testing of hypotheses’ from an exemplar. ‘To achieve information

that permits logical deductions of the type, “If this is (not) valid for this case, then it applies to

322
all (no) cases”’ (Flyvbjerg 2006: 229–230). Towards that end, the general principle that emerges

from the Eroica case is that historical and modern modes of tonal cognition differ specifically

in the presence and absence of schemata, respectively — reading Example 1.2 from right to left,

the three response-strains reflect are directly proportionate to a schema-absence-to-schema-

presence or to a schema-unresponsive-to-schema-responsive continuum. The G minor hearing is but

a symptom of a schema-oriented way of hearing in general.

II

Complementary Cases

The generalisability of this ‘critical’ property of the case, in Flyvbjerg’s terms, lies in the materi-

alisation of the same principle in other works. By even a cursory investigation, the same pattern

of schema-oriented/historical versus structural/modern modes of listening arises in documented re-

sponses to other works of the period. To be sure, comprehensiveness, that is, gathering several

case studies that project the same property, may be an endlessly difficult exercise, not least be-

cause gauging modes of hearing from the past will always involve a reconstruction from docu-

ments. But such a ‘historical ethnography,’ as it were, need not fall into disrepute simply because

the cultural ‘mosaic’ of the initial historical situation will always remain a reconstruction, and

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therefore necessarily incomplete: selected documentary evidence, or a few ‘tiles’ from the mo-

saic, often betray a pattern — as in Chapter 2 with the Culture of the Rule of the Octave — that

may be generalised into a principle.

Mozart, String Quartet in C Major, K. 465, ‘Dissonance’ (1785)

The most famous historical account of any eighteenth-century work is certainly Weber’s essay

on the tonality in the opening of Mozart’s celebrated ‘Dissonance’ Quartet. The essay represents

something of a pinnacle of eighteenth-century thought about harmony and key, in its virtually

obsessive reading of the tonality at a moment-by-moment level (1832/1994). As Gjerdingen

describes eighteenth-century patterns of listening in general, ‘The lodestar of galant music was

not a tonic chord but rather a listener’s experience’ and ‘global tonality . . . was foreign to their

more localized preoccupations’ (2007, 21; original emphasis). In Weber, as seen in Chapter 2, ‘a

listener’s experience’ is represented and objectified by das Gehör, and, more specifically, by the

‘Habits of the Ear’ (Gewonheiten des Gehöres), of which the Mozart analysis was to be an exem-

plary illustration (1832/1851, 1:345–367).121 Between bars 1–14, a minimum of five key changes

are registered following Weber’s reading and Weber’s categories for key perception in the Ver-

such, as shown in Example 6.6. Each modulation emerges as the consequence of some schema.

C minor and B-flat minor in bb. 1–4 and 5–8 respectively owe to variations of the le – sol – fi

– sol, which appears here in the viola, instead of the bass (bb. 1–4, 5–8), as an instance of yet an-

other ‘top-voice variant’ of the schema, which features the characteristic do – ti progression —

324
frequently found in the top-voice of the ‘default form’ (Example 5.5)122 — in the bass, as also seen

in Example 6.7. We know Weber had the schema in mind because he rationalises the famous

dissonances of the opening against the schema as a norm. Example 6.8 reproduces six potential

‘solutions’ Weber offered for realigning the rhythmically displaced non-harmonic tones, all of

them according to the harmonic criteria of the le – sol – fi – sol. The first notable disturbance

Weber lights upon, for example, is the apparent half-diminished seventh chord on beat 2 of bar

2 (Example 6.6). The recompositions in Example 6.8 interpret the A-natural in the first violin as

either having entered too early, and therefore as an anticipation, or G and F-sharp in the viola

as having entered too late, or both. The adjustments expose an underlying harmonic syntax of

VI6–i–II4/2(or +ivo4/3)–V6, one of the paradigmatic harmonisations of the le – sol – fi – sol

‘top-voice variant’ (cf. Examples 6.6–6.8). Moreover, G minor, B-flat minor, and F minor in bb. 4,

5, and 8 are all instances of what Weber describes in the Versuch as Neuer Anfang, or ‘New Begin-

ning’ (Weber 1832/1851, 1:345–346), the first among Weber’s ‘Habits,’ or, one may say, schemata

‘of the Ear’ (Saslaw 1991). Weber describes the emergence of G minor and B-flat minor in bb.

4–8 as occurring virtually ex nihilo:

On its own authority, and without any apparent motivation, [the B-flat in bar 4] takes the
law into its own hands and seeks to overthrow the G major triad [as dominant] . . . trans-
forming it now unilaterally into the triad of G minor. . . . The [B-flat–D-flat] dyad, seen in
the context of the next bar (b. 6), emerges as a genuine B-flat minor triad in intention —
indeed as the tonic chord of B-flat minor. It has therefore precipitated a modulation from
G minor, which has barely had time to establish itself, into B-flat minor . . . ; and precipitat-
ed it, furthermore, by way of a wholly unprepared chord of b-flat: i following directly from
the G minor triad g: i; in short two utterly remote keys stated one immediately after the
other (1832/1994: 168, 170).

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But in addition to Neuer Anfang, Weber does reference a more intermediate process between the

two distant tonalities. With the passage given in Example 6.9, Weber maintains the modulations

and cross relations which appear in bars 4–5 would be better mediated if the harmonic rhythm

of the underlying progression proceeded at a slower pace. The progression is a three-voice ver-

sion of what Gjerdingen, following Riepel (1752–68), would call a Monte schema (Example

5.13). By Gjerdingen’s definition, the Monte consists of two stages, each containing two events

involving the resolution of a dissonant seventh chord, most often in 6/5 position in figured bass

terms, to a consonant 5/3 harmony. The outer voices of each stage characteristically have a 7–1

and (5)–4–3 pairing (see Example 5.13). The resolving 5/3 chord may be a tonic or a dominant,

and the second stage of the schema is normally transposed one step higher than the first. The

Monte in bb. 4–5 of the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet, however, involves an interval of displacement of a

third, a similarly frequent variation of the schema, particularly in more chromatic environments.

Weber’s recomposition in Example 6.9 brings this Monte variation, operating in bb. 4–5 of the

Quartet, further into relief.

Beyond Weber’s categories and analysis, G minor and F minor in bb. 5 and 8 also emerge from

a telescoped instance of a ‘Fenaroli’ schema (Gjerdingen 2007: 225–240, 462) that consists of a

7–1–2–3 bass, which is frequently counterpointed by a 4–3–7–1 countermelody (see Example

6.10). In the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet the countermelody is absent, owing to a thinning-out of the

texture towards the end of bar 4. But more relevant to the Quartet is the Fenaroli schema’s close

326
association with a modulation to the dominant of the home key, as it frequently occurs follow-

ing a modulation to the dominant (Gjerdingen 2007: 228, 462). In the Quartet, the schema en-

acts the actual modulation, with an implication for G minor to continue across the barline at

bars 4–5 — as Weber also described it — with a completion of the Fenaroli, as does occur in the

analogous music in F minor at bb. 8–9 (see Example 6.6). But at bar 5, the unexpected D-flat in

the first violin, along with the ensuing parallelism between bb. 1–4 and bb. 5–8, retrospectively

turns the Fenaroli into a Monte schema. These prospective and retrospective implications are il-

lustrated with arrows in Example 6.6, with implied motions and scale degrees never realised rep-

resented in gray. Between bb. 1–4 and 5–8, then, a larger Fonte schema emerges, whose two stag-

es each contain a pairing of a le – sol – fi – sol with a Fenaroli (Example 6.6): the most basic feature

of a Fonte, as Riepel initially defined it, involves the transposition of some musical segment ‘one

step lower’ (Example 5.12; Gjerdingen 2007: 61–76, 456).

But the historicism of Weber’s schema-oriented hearing, like the historical resonance of the G

minor response in the Eroica Symphony, only emerges when contrasted with competing and

potentially modern-specific habits of listening: Schenker’s analysis from a century later in Der

freie Satz (1935), given in Example 6.11, registers no change of key whatsoever, instead reading

the opening as a tonic prolongation in C minor, which leads to a dominant via a series of paral-

lel-sixth progressions. Unlike the obsessive moment-by-moment orientation in Weber’s essay,

Schenker’s analysis represents an instance of ‘structural hearing’ (Salzer 1952), whereby harmon-

327
ic phenomena that lie outside the context of the principal tonality are viewed ‘not [as] modula-

tory agent[s],’ as Salzer relates it (1952/1982: 18), but serve a larger contrapuntal process that ul-

timately serves to elaborate the triad of the principal key (Schenker 1935). Without diminishing

the value of Schenker’s later integrative predispositions, by ‘sacrificing’ phenomena of the mo-

ment to the larger picture in this way, something in the historical resonance of the Quartet has

nonetheless been ‘lost’ in Dahlhaus and Cudworth’s terms. To borrow a metaphor Gjerdingen

applies in a related context, without those ‘localized preoccupations,’ those alluring and persis-

tent changes in the tonality of bb. 1–14, the colour of the opening theme, like the Parthenon of

Athens, subsides to a more black and white or greyscale image with the passing of time (2007:

19). The distance in Weber’s hearing is met only in diametric relation to Schenker’s competing

interpretation of the same work, and at a time when the very meaning of tonality’s concept was

undergoing radical ‘mutation’ in Foucault’s terms (Chap. 1), as something of a Kuhnian para-

digm shift (Kuhn 1962). We may see prominent symptoms of this shift literally materialising in a

series of misreadings that Oswald Jonas, as editor, brings to the English translation of Schenker’s

Harmonielehre from 1906 (1954). To begin with, Jonas deliberately suppressed Schenker’s own,

more historically-oriented hearing of the Quartet (Schenker 1906: 132–36), which closely cor-

responds to Weber’s, and replaced it with this later analysis from 1935. The several-page deletion

from the original German is a bona fide symptom of the paradigm shift that transpired c. 1930.

Jonas responded as if Schenker’s earlier, ‘cumbersome explanation . . . based on modulations and

keys’ (Eng. trans. 1954: 346), as he puts it, were somehow a contradictory threat to the newly-ris-

328
ing epistemology and institutionalisation of structural hearing, in the process of Americanising

Schenker (Rothstein 1990; Cook 2007).

Beethoven, Piano Sonata in E Minor, Op. 90 (1814)

Elsewhere in the Harmonielehre, Jonas takes Schenker’s description of Beethoven’s E minor Pi­

ano Sonata, Op. 90 (1814), to be mistaken. In 1906, Schenker dwells on the immediate transfor­

mation of the opening E minor tonic as the submediant of G major, as shown in Example 6.12.

To an eighteenth-century mentalité (Gjerdingen 2007: 19), the opening of the Sonata is unmis-

takably a variation on what Gjerdingen calls the ‘paired do – re – mi’ schema (2007: 85–88) ­— the

caesuraed form of Meyer’s ‘Adeste Fidelis’ archetype (see Example 1.18). In the galant style, the

convention customarily appears as an opening gambit to a movement, and therefore as the first

expression of a principal tonality, as in the opening of the third movement to Mozart’s D major

Piano Sonata, K. 576 (Example 6.13). The reinterpretation of E minor as submediant in Op. 90

functions within the larger context of this schema, oriented to the key of G major, as implied by

Schenker’s initial description (Eng. trans., 1954: 252); and this same, modulating variant of the

paired do – re – mi brings the tonality from G major to B minor in bb. 4–8 (Example 6.12). Noth-

ing of this occurred to Jonas: in a footnote, he writes, ‘Obviously, Schenker made a mistake here.

As a matter of fact, the sonata is in E minor’ (Eng. trans., 1954, 252: added emphasis).

Now, the question inevitably arises whether these differences in Schenker’s analysis and Jonas’

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misreading of Schenker — prompted, as they are, by ‘structural hearing’ — are simply instances

of theoretical predisposition and bias, or truly representative of a cognitive phenomenon, that

is, representative of a way of hearing — representative of another form of ‘hearing as’ in Scruton

and Spitzer’s terms. To answer the question is not a matter of establishing a direct causal chain of

relations between the theory of ‘structural hearing’ and modern modes of cognition or vice ver-

sa, but rather of determining whether (theoretical and analytic) descriptions of ‘structural hear-

ing’ may be symptomatic of some modern mode of cognition, or simply of circumstances im-

posed by a twentieth-century or present-day situation. Beside the Eroica’s E-flat strain, Schen-

ker’s reading of the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet and Jonas’ correction of Op. 90 betray a similar style

of reasoning. Beyond their similarly modern situation, the actors in the E-flat strain are alike in

their shared inclination to view the G minor 6/4 chords of bb. 6 and 9 as entirely incidental phe-

nomena, as discussed in Chapter 1. Like Schenker’s analysis of the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet and Jo-

nas’ (mis-)reading of Op. 90, with the E-flat response-strain in the Eroica case, events of the mo-

ment appear to have been similarly ‘sacrificed’ to the ‘larger context,’ to the recent memory of E-

flat major and the ‘tonic that controls the entire context’ in Hyer’s terms (1996: 91). Unlike the

preceding cases, however, the ‘structural hearing’ component in Hyer, Barry, and Klein appears

to operate outside the (at least conscious) influence of theoretical bias — by a ‘natural,’ or, rather,

by a ‘theoretically unmediated’ response to the opening theme. Together, all three cases there-

fore project an underlying pattern. The historical resonance in Weber (K. 465), Schenker (Op.

90), and Rochlitz’s (Eroica) hearings appears to lie in their re-cognition of these opening themes

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against a schema as a historically-determined mental ‘template,’ while the competing modern re-

sponses appear as a consequence of the schemata’s absence, loss, or suppression by modern hab-

its, whether mutually informed by structural hearing, or more simply as a result of the distance

from the original culture, as Clarke, Subotnik, and Halbwachs would argue.

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 III

Classical Scripts and Romantic Plans

The implications of the schema concept move well beyond the particulars and recognition of

the schemata themselves: prolonged exposure to eighteenth-century music may not only pro-

mote the cognitive assimilation and development of eighteenth-century schemata, such as the

1–7, 4–3 and le – sol – fi – sol, by process of statistical learning, but would also give rise to a more

general way of hearing that is consistent with an eighteenth-century mentalité; and it is precisely in

the underlying generalisability of the situation that one may speak of schema-oriented/histori-

cal versus schema-absent or structural/modern modes of cognition. In 1977, the psychologists

Roger Schank and Robert Abelson of Yale University distinguished between two different cat-

egories of schemata they called ‘scripts’ and ‘plans.’ A ‘script’ is an extremely detailed knowledge

‘structure that describes appropriate sequences of events in a particular context. [It is] is made

up of slots and requirements about what can fill those slots. The structure is an interconnected

whole and what is in one slot affects what can be in another. . . . Thus, a script is a predetermined,

stereotyped sequence of actions that defines a well-known situation’ (Schank and Abelson 1977: 41;

added emphasis). A ‘plan,’ on the other hand, is a more general structure, a ‘repository for gener-

al information that will connect events that cannot be connected by use of an available script or

by standard causal chain expansion,’ owing to the absence of ‘specific information about the con-

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nectivity’ of events: ‘i.e., a script . . . is not available’ (1977: 70).

In one of Leonard Meyer’s later contributions to schema theory (1989), he assigned these cat-

egories a historical dimension, arguing that eighteenth-century music is inherently ‘script’-ori-

ented, while nineteenth-century music is increasingly more ‘plan’-based in its organisation, not-

withstanding the presence of ‘scripts’ and ‘plans,’ generally speaking, in both ‘styles.’123 By this es-

timation, a historical and historically-informed listener will not only be culturally and psycho-

logically ‘equipped’ with eighteenth-century scripts, that is to say, with the actual schemata, but

will have cultivated a mode of listening or behaviour that continually seeks out those scripts in the act of

listening. In Music in the Galant Style, Gjerdingen provides both graphic and Markov-like repre-

sentations of this listening strategy which are based on historical descriptions of composition;

specifically, Leopold Mozart’s account of one defining ‘hallmark of a master composer’ — il fi-

lo (‘the thread’; Gjerdingen 2007: 369ff.).124 Gjerdingen interprets Mozart’s metaphor as a mat-

ter of ‘[p]lacing things in a suitable order[, thereby] creat[ing] the cognitive thread (il filo) that .

. . guides the listener through a musical work’ (369). The first, Markov-model representation of

the filo process, shown in Example 6.14, gives the probability for some schema A to be followed

by another schema B, based on a ‘small repertory’ of works and the stock of schemata discussed

in Gjerdingen’s monograph. For example, we see that the probability for an ‘Augmented Sixth’

to precede a ‘Ponte’ is quite high by comparison with most other transitions. In the second rep-

resentation, displayed in Example 6.15, Gjerdingen describes a ‘series of schemata . . . as beads on

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a mental string or cognitive thread — il filo’ (375). The ‘thread’ may consist of a ‘simple succes-

sion’ of schemata, as in Example 6.15(a), or of a more complex arrangement involving the ‘over-

lapping’ of schemata as well as the nesting of ‘lower-level’ within ‘higher-level’ schemata, as in Ex-

ample 6.15(b). Though Gjerdingen never explicitly describes these threaded representations as

scripts and plans as such, Examples 6.15(a) and (b) closely represent Meyer’s original description

in abstract, graphic form:

[C]hanging-note melodies [like the 1–7, 4–3], antecedent [and] consequent phrases, full
authentic cadences (subdominant–dominant–tonic), and sonata-form structures . . . are
scriptlike. Thus, once part of a changing-note pattern is comprehended [e.g., 1–7], sub-
sequent parts of the pattern are largely predictable. To the extent that the syntactic con-
straints shaping some script are unfamiliar, however, the listener will tend to understand
that script in terms of a more general plan. . . . While music of the Classic period employs
plan-based patternings, these are almost always coordinated and dominated by scripts. In
the nineteenth century, the situation is more or less reversed: what had been specific syn-
tactic scripts tend to be subsumed within or transformed into general plans.
(Meyer 1989: 245–46)

Meyer appropriated the ‘script’ category to eighteenth-century music in a way that suggests a

more general mentalité or episteme, in Foucault’s terms. By this view, the G minor response is a

consequence not only of the le – sol – fi – sol schema, but of the more general mentalité underly-

ing tonality of eighteenth-century Europe. The expression and perception of a key in music of

the long eighteenth century is fundamentally script-oriented in its design, in view of the preced-

ing evidence, and as can be gleaned from partimenti, the règle de l’octave, and other eighteenth-

century artefacts. The chord-form probability table from Corrette’s Prototipes of 1754, discussed

in Chapter 2 (see Example 2.14) is a case in point. Beyond the suggestive title of the treatise to-

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wards reconstructing a schema-theoretic conception of eighteenth-century tonality, Corrette’s

table of chord-form probability is isomorphic with Gjerdingen’s schema-succession probability

matrix in Example 6.14, and the le – sol – fi – sol transition matrix of Example 5.16, in providing

the statistically most probable successions for a particular chord-form situation. Together, they

speak to the same philosophy underlying the concept of a ‘script,’ by objectifying the ‘appro-

priate sequences of events in a particular context,’ the ‘stereotyped sequence of actions that de-

fine[] a well-known situation,’ in Schank and Abelson’s terms, and the probability relationships

of the style system in Meyer’s terms. The ‘script’-oriented conception of tonality is further doc-

umented by the moment-by-moment analytic descriptions seen in Vogler (1776; 1778), Koch

(1782–1793), Weber, Rochlitz, and even Mozart himself (1784; see Lester 1992, 86; cf. also Mark

Anson-Cartwright 2000: 177). That both Johann David Heinichen (1728) and David Kellner

(1732) used the term ‘schema’ to characterise the Rule of the Octave is perhaps not by mere co-

incidence (see Chap. 2 above).

Il filo: Navigating the ‘Thread ’

The orientation of the tonality throughout the opening theme of the Eroica is entirely consist-

ent with these historical artefacts in its progression of low-level ‘scripts.’ Example 6.16 illustrates

the progression of schemata that gives rise to the tonal scheme of the entire theme, E-flat ma-

jor–G minor–E-flat major, which is articulated by a progression of schemata analogous to the

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Mozart-Gjerdingen filo concept in Example 6.15(b). The progression begins with what might

be called a ‘Bastien’ variant of a ‘Tonic-Triad Arpeggiation,’ from the overture to Mozart’s Sing-

spiel Bastien und Bastienne (1768). This ‘Bastien’ schema then elides with the ‘inter-key variant’ of

the le – sol – fi – sol at bb. 4–6, which brings the tonality into G minor, and opens up a path for

the Symphony never fully realised in its opening theme. Example 6.17 replicates Gjerdingen’s

graphic illustration of this notion of ‘paths lesser known’ in a succession of schemata and their

probability. ‘The path, or the thread,’ he writes, ‘is the result of choices made at various forks. In

[Example 6.17], paths M, N, O, and P represent choices not made. The musical import of these

choices can vary from listener to listener. Someone new to the galant style will hardly be aware

of any of the paths not taken. A galant composer [or historically-informed listener], by contrast,

would have known several alternatives at each fork and their implications’ (2007: 379).

The disruption of the le – sol – fi – sol at bar 10, analogous to the divergent paths in Example 6.17,

occurs by way of another instance of schema-overlapping — the absence of resolution of the 6/4

at bar 10 is caused by a retrospective interpretation of the last two events of the le – sol – fi – sol as

the first two events of a Monte, which amounts to a modulating variant of the 1–7, 4–3, whereby

an implied but never fully realized 1–7 in G minor is answered by a 4–3 in E-flat (Example 6.18);

and as is common for a modulating 1–7, 4–3, the ‘first stage . . . involves subdominant rather than

tonic harmonies’ (Gjerdingen 2007: 115) — in this case, the C-sharp diminished seventh chord,

operating as a chromatically altered sous-dominante in bars 7–8.125 The V6/5–I progression in E-

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flat major at bb. 10–11 of the Eroica constitutes the second stage of the schema. The first stage

elided with the le – sol – fi – sol, however, remains incomplete, because of an elision that results

in the absence of resolution of the 6/4 chord at bar 9. But even this Monte/modulating 1–7,

4–3 which returns the tonality to E-flat major paradoxically supplies a mental resolution of the

6/4 chord in bar 9 to a G minor dominant, in order to (retrospectively) satisfy the parallelism

constraint between the two stages of the schema. The bass parallelism of C sharp–D, D–E-flat

would, under normal circumstances, be coupled with a G–F-sharp, A flat–G parallelism in the

top voice, as seen in the hypothetical recomposition of the opening theme in Example 6.18(b),

where the second stage of the modulating 1–7, 4–3 is rhythmically compressed, and in the ab-

stract representation of the schema in Example 6.10(a). In the Eroica, this parallelism between

stages in the Monte/modulating 1–7, 4–3 is further elaborated by the analogous suspension of

A-flat in the first violins at bar 11, which corresponds to the suspension of G in bar 9, and recalls

the paradigmatic ‘statement-response’ attribute of the 1–7, 4–3 schema (Example 6.16). Follow-

ing Gjerdingen’s metaphor, that the outer voices of a schema form a ‘musical pas de deux,’ in bb.

7–11, the ‘danseuse of the melody’ falls out of step with the ‘danseur of the bass’ in bb. 9–10, by

never resolving its G to an F-sharp as a proper 4–3 suspension within the larger context of a ca-

dential 6/4, as does occur in bar 10 with A-flat–G (Gjerdingen 2007: 142).126 The remainder of

the theme, then, consists of a cadenza composta — a perfect authentic cadence with a cadential

6/4— whose fa scale degree is elaborated by means of an Indugio (see Chap. 3 above). The com-

positional ‘make-up’ of the Symphony’s opening theme is therefore entirely consistent with mo-

337
ment-by-moment strategies of listening and compositional devices documented in eighteenth-

century analyses and thoroughbass artefacts.

The same process of a low-level ‘script’-progression regulates the succession of tonalities in the

opening of the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet (Example 6.6). Following the repetition of the le – sol – fi –

sol ‘top-voice variant’ and Fenaroli pair from bb. 1–4 in bb. 5–8, which takes the tonality from C

minor, through G minor and B-flat minor, into F minor, bb. 6–10 return the tonality to C minor,

through E-flat major, by means of a Fonte. As a low-level schema, the Fonte, also first introduced

by Riepel (1752–68), is the inverse of a Monte, containing two stages with two events, each stage

resolving a dissonant 6/3, 6/5, or 7/5/3 chord to a consonant triad, but the relation between

stages in the Fonte is descending and frequently by step from a minor to a major key (e.g., d mi-

nor to C major; see Example 5.12). Oftentimes, the dissonant seventh chord will be in the form

of a 6/4/2 (which results from flipping the top-voice and bass) that resolves to a more consonant

6/3 triad, as occurs in bb. 9–10 and 10–11 of the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet (Example 6.6).127 Like the

Monte, the Fonte is often varied (in chromatic environments), resulting in an interval of dis-

placement of a third between the two stages of the schema over a stepwise bass, as occurs in bb.

9–12 of the Quartet. The ti – do progression normally found in the bass, and normally coupled

with a fa – mi (or me), appears here in the second violin; and as occurs with much of the preced-

ing material in the Quartet’s opening, scale degree 7 in each stage of the schema is metrically

displaced, whereby D and B appear in bb. 10 and 11 as implied suspensions from bb. 9 and 10, but

338
actually sound as appoggiaturas and incomplete neighbour tones, coupled with the suspended

F and D in bb. 9–10 and 10–11, respectively.

Noteworthy is the emergence of a ‘plan’-like structure from this low-level succession of scripts:

namely, a descending chromatic bass from bb. 1–10, broken by the second stage of the Fonte in

bb. 11–12. The chromatic bass and parallel-sixths progression in Mozart’s ‘Dissonance’ Quartet,

as objectified in Schenker’s analysis (Example 6.11), illustrate a paradigmatic instance of Meyer’s

argument that, where higher-level ‘plans’ do arise in the Classical style, they are byproducts of

or ‘coordinated and dominated by scripts.’ But, whereas to an eighteenth-century mentalité the

chromatic bass ‘plan’ is a higher-level schema resulting from the low-level progression of scripts,

in Schenker’s analysis, by contrast, it becomes ‘The’ rationalising mechanism for interpretation,

to which the historically determined scripts-progression and the succession of changing tonali-

ties are entirely lost. The stylistically more neutral or general categories of the chromatic bass

and the fauxbourdon progression suggest a striking parallel with Schank and Abelson’s descrip-

tion of a plan: ‘In listening to discourse, people use plans to make sense of seemingly disconnect-

ed sentences. . . . For any two conceptualizations that are related by their occurrence in a story,

we must be able to trace a path between them. The path must be based on general information’

(1977, 70). Schank and Abelson’s formulation works equally well when substituting music for

‘discourse’: when listening to music, people use plans to make sense of seemingly disconnected

tonalities. . . . For any two chords or keys that are related by their occurrence in a musical passage

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or work, we must be able to trace a path (cf. chromatic scale) between them. The same phenom-

enon of privileging a larger-scale ‘plan’ over a series of low-level ‘scripts’ is common to every one

of the preceding cases, the ‘Dissonance’ Quartet, Op. 90, and the Eroica, and in each case privi-

leging a plan results in a difference in the perception of key, which suggests that a ‘plan’-oriented

mechanism for key-perception may have developed since the later nineteenth century, and that

elements and predispositions of so-called ‘structural hearing’ are perhaps an inexorable fallout

of these stylistic developments. It stands to reason that music containing low levels of statistical

and perceptual redundancy would desensitise those moment-by-moment strategies of listening

encouraged by highly perceptually-redundant styles, where the phenomenon of probability is

made centrestage: Mozart, Koch, Vog­ler, Rochlitz, Weber, and others’ moment-by-moment at-

tuning to a key is a consequence of the ‘script’-nature of European music in the long eighteenth

century, and the commensurate listening strategies it promotes.

Towards an ‘Archaeological’ Principle

‘Scripts’ and ‘plans’ may therefore provide a more formal perspective on the notion that histori-

cal and modern modes of cognition differ specifically in the presence and absence of schemata.

Schank and Abelson argued that ‘script-based processing is a much more top-down operation

[and therefore] . . . a process which takes precedence over plan-based processing when an ap-

propriate script is [cognitively] available’ (1977: 99; added emphasis; cf. also Meyer 1989: 345ff., and

340
Gjerdingen 1988: 8–9). The difference between the G minor and E-flat strains of response may

lie not simply in the presence and absence of the le – sol – fi – sol, but in the more general differ-

ence between ‘script’- versus ‘plan-‘based strategies of listening or key perception. In this way,

the modern hearings differ less in the absence of a schema per se, than in the unavailability of a

script schema, and the consequent employment of a more general and less probability-oriented

plan-strategy for negotiating the tonality. Implicit in Schank and Abelson’s definition of a plan

is that less information from the ‘sound stimulus’ is influenced by schema-based memory, which

results in a disproportionate distribution of schema-based memory — operating as a top-down

influence — across the acoustic substrate or ‘sound stimulus.’ Previous studies in visual percep-

tion indicate that ‘schemas control the amount of attention that is given to various aspects of a situation’

(J. Mandler 1984: 109), an interpretation that is consistent with Lerdahl’s more cognitively ori-

ented formulation of ‘structural hearing’:

[T]he specific content of an event degrades and generalizes into memory, depending on
the framework in which it is experienced. Consequently, at any prolongational level, on-
ly what is needed in that context is retained through a transformational operation. . . . The
transformations in question are deletion (Lerdahl 2001: 35–36).

The theoretical predisposition of ‘sacrificing’ phenomena of the moment to the larger picture

finds a cognitive correlate in this notion of transformational deletion. But ironically, these struc-

tural, or hierarchical modes of listening, often associated with top-down strategies — because

the surrounding hierarchy in the musical context is said to impose a top-down influence on the

events of the moment — are actually more bottom-up and data-driven: ‘Bottom-up or data-driv-

en processes are hard-wired, do not depend on learning or context, and rely on structural percep-

341
tual features of stimuli [added emphasis], not the stimuli’s meaning. Prior learning, context, and

meaning presumably make their contribution through top-down or conceptually-driven process-

ing’ (Johnson and Hirst 1993: 260). The underlying operation of a bottom-up versus top-down

strategy can be seen rather transparently in Hyer and Rochlitz’s descriptions, respectively. For

Hyer, the bass note D in bar 9 of the Eroica carrying a 6/4 chord is categorically heard as ‘a lead-

ing tone’ because of ‘our too recent memories of E-flat,’ from bb. 1–6. Rochlitz, on the other

hand, describes a G minor modulation as the result of some culturally determined rule implicit

in the qualifying term förmlich — ‘man förmlich nach G moll glaubt geleitet zu werden’ (‘one expects

to be led formally to G minor’). Whereas the E-flat hearing documented in Hyer’s essay appears

to be a consequence of a bottom-up strategy, of ‘rely[ing] on structural perceptual features of

stimuli’ — the memories of E-flat from the beginning of the Symphony — Rochlitz’s G minor

response is a consequence of a rather different form of memory: the memory of the le – sol – fi –

sol schema operating as a ‘top-down’ influence. Plans subverting scripts amounts to probability

giving way to structural salience. Lerdahl himself suggests that listeners perceive tonal tension

retrospectively and, therefore, hierarchically — ‘unless schematic intuitions are strong’ (Lerdahl and

Krumhansl 2007: 342, 358; added emphasis).

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The Archaeology and Psychology of Scripts and Plans

The ‘scripts’ versus ‘plans’ dichotomy returns the problem once more to ‘archaeology’ in Foucault’s

sense, whereby each category may substitute for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century epistemes or

spaces of musical knowledge respectively. Meyer’s Classical scripts versus Romantic plans interpre-

tation of style change resonates with Foucault’s articulation of a historical disconnect between

eighteenth- and nineteenth-century modes of thought in general (e.g. Foucault 1966/1994: xxii–

xxiv). Meyer viewed the transition from eighteenth- to nineteenth-century European musical

style as also corresponding with a transition from more culture-specific to more natural, ‘innate,’

or Gestalt-based musical structures (1989), which also corresponds with broadly-defined char-

acterisations of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as the ‘Age of Empiricism’ and ‘Age of

Romanticism,’ respectively. Spitzer interprets Meyer’s ‘evolution as a gradual shift from culture

to nature, from a classical style that is “rule-governed, learned, and conventional” (1989: 209)

to a “repudiation of convention” (164) in romantic music’ (2004: 46). The preceding evidence

surrounding the Eroica case study, alongside the complementary evidence afforded by the ‘Dis-

sonance’ Quartet and Op. 90, would indicate that a commensurate, albeit likely unconscious,

‘repudiation of convention’ exists for some modern listeners in a cognitive sense — whether in

the form of transformational ‘deletion,’ or by resorting to a ‘plan’ strategy, or both — alongside a

predilection for ‘rule-governed, learned, and conventional’ modes of listening for historical and

historically-informed listeners.

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‘When syntactic function ceases to shape musical experience,’ Meyer argued, ‘understanding changes

significantly’ — ‘syntactically unsophisticated listeners’ depend on ‘general gestalt-like cognitive

dispositions’ (1989: 329; added emphasis). That Lerdahl ties the hierarchical orientation of the

generative music theory programme to a nativist argument (Chap. 1) may be appropriate after

all: in the absence of learned, culturally driven ‘script’-schemata, the mind potentially makes re-

course to more innate, hard-wired, bottom-up, Gestalt-driven, or ‘plan’-based strategies for ne-

gotiating the flux of musical experience. It is precisely in this hypothesis that a modern mode of

listening may be synonymous or consistent with a structural, hierarchical, or more ‘plan’-based

orientation, and a historical mode of hearing commensurate with a ‘script’-based, schema-driv-

en, conception. Historical and cultural distance leads to schema loss or absence, which causes a

more weighted activation of bottom-up primitives — ‘interpret[ing] events with respect to events

already heard’ in a work (Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007: 358) — in the stead of top-down sche-

mata:128 ‘the absence of a schema requires the comprehender to seek an organizing framework;

whether successful or not, the situation involves more data-driven processing than when a schema is

easily and rapidly activated ’ (J. Mandler 1984: 106; added emphasis). The absence of a schema may

prompt the activation of the innate ‘laws of organisation’ specified by Gestalt psychology, ‘laws’

that not only strongly resonate with Schank and Abelson’s notion of a ‘plan’ but, as Piaget has

argued, are also ‘independent of development’ and of an ‘individual’s history’ (Piaget 1947/2001:

64, 67; and passim). Gestalt psychology is predicated on the law of Prägnanz, which stipulates that

the mind is predisposed to perceive environmental stimuli in as organised and orderly a man-

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ner as possible in accordance with a series of ‘laws,’ which include the laws of closure, similarity,

proximity, symmetry, continuity, and the law of common fate (Koffka 1935/1999; Smith 1988).

There are, furthermore, strong socio-historical factors that may explain such a transition from

schema-driven/’top-down’/probability-oriented to structural/‘bottom-up’/ hierarchy-oriented

strategies of listening — namely, in the transformation of eighteenth-century European music

from a productive and consumptive to a purely consumptive commodity. There no longer exists a social

necessity to engage the music on its own terms and by the dictates of its own time, whereas the

livelihood of musicians and composers in the eighteenth century, whether for employment at

court (Gjerdingen 2007), or for the sheer accessibility of their music to a diversity of audiences,

including Kenner und Liebhaber (Bonds 2008; Mirka and Agawu 2008), was entirely dependent

on their being entirely fluent with the international ‘language’ of eighteenth-century musical

style (Heartz 1995; 2003; 2009).

To the extent one may generalise from the Eroica case, it would be precisely this difference be-

tween schema-driven/historical versus hierarchical/modern modes of listening that further ‘ar-

chaeological’ inquiry of situated cognition would pursue as its basic principle, at least insofar as

tonality of eighteenth-century Europe is concerned. But I would not pretend to have arrived by

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these observations at any definitive conclusion to what remains a most vexing and formidable

problem surrounding the influence of history on cognition, despite having sketched some com-

pelling evidence on the drafting board, as it were. Instead, a more appropriate caesura, given the

nature of the problem, would be to submit the preceding to one final observation and re­flection:

Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, composed in 1803, begins with a novel application of a schema

whose population peaks strongly in the decade immediately preceding — namely the 1790s, as

seen in Example 3.54. More specifically, positioning the ‘inter-key variant’ of the le –sol – fi – sol

at the beginning of a Symphony is a paradigmatic instance of what Meyer called ‘positional mi-

gration,’ one means of effecting (and consequently tracing) style change (1989: 124). In another

sense, however, ‘positional migration’ is also a common eighteenth-century compositional de-

vice: as Meyer has argued in respect to Haydn’s Symphony No. 97 in C major as well as ‘Military’

Symphony No. 100 in G major (second movement), the opening phrase is a musical analogue

of the idiom ‘. . . and they lived happily ever after’ (Meyer 1973: 212, 214; 1989: 124). In the same

way, beginning a Symphony with the ‘inter-key variant’ of the le –sol – fi – sol is like beginning

an oration or novel in medias res, one of the principal attributes of positional migration: when

a schema normally associated with more dynamic musical situations or ‘with a processive pas-

sage is used as the beginning of a stable melody, as in the theme that begins the last movement

of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony’ (Meyer 1989: 124). The same phenomenon transpires in the

Vivace assai of the first movement to Haydn’s ‘Surprise’ Symphony, No. 94, in G major (1791),

which begins with a Fonte, an othwerwise ‘processive device’ often encountered after a double-

346
bar, and therefore after a structural formal division, frequently midway through a movement (cf.

Gjerdingen 2007: 61–71). That Beethoven was at once novel and conventional in his use of the

schema recalls Roger Norrington’s characterisation of the Symphony as unique, yet entirely of

its time — the ‘Eroica is ever a Classical Symphony. Haydn and Mozart may possibly have been

shocked. But they would have understood it as music of their time (Norrington 2002: my tran-

scription and translation of the original German; added emphasis).129

But are the historical circumstances surrounding the novel application of the le – sol – fi – sol in

the Eroica — that is, its positional migration occurring immediately after the schema peaked in

the 1790s — a matter of sheer coincidence? . . . Perhaps. But a more constructive interpretation

might understand the evidence as concretising Adorno’s argument — only presented in the ab-

stract — that composers are subject and respond to the historical forces and underlying sociol-

ogy of musical material (Adorno 2004). By pursuing this line of thought further, listeners whose

environment is shaped by music of late eighteenth-century Europe and its ‘affordances’ will re-

spond by the will of these same historical forces. Research in developmental cognitive psychol-

ogy (e.g. Piaget 1947; Piaget and Inhelder 1968) suggests that experiences are serially organised

(Bartlett 1932), that is, according to the particular prior experiences of an individual. ‘Schemata

. . . have a history,’ Piaget writes (1947/2001: 73). Mental structures are consequently adaptive to

the environment, resulting in a structural modification in the mind that is caused by the experi-

ences themselves. But in light of the preceding, we should understand not only ‘history’ in Pia­

347
get’s sense of the individual, but also the history of the individual as a reflection of the history of

the society that is metaphorically represented in Examples 2.18, 3.53–3.55, and 4.7. Inasmuch as

music of eighteenth-century Europe may become such an environment for present-day listen-

ers, they too will already have or will develop the same historically-determined mental struc-

tures and their commensurate probability-oriented strategy of listening. In the end, we might

fully agree with Dahlhaus after all — works do bring their own time along with them; and inso-

far as eighteenth-century tonal consciousness is accessible today, if at all, the means of its trans-

mission — of situating oneself in the cultural milieu and cognitive system of eighteenth-century

music and its tonality — appear to be schemata.

N
 Notes to Chapter 1

1. Independently of Geck and Schleuning, Robin Wallace offers another possibility for the author of
the review: Friedrich August Kanne (1986: 17). Chapter 1 of Wallace’s monograph treats the history of
Beethoven reception in the same journal, the Leipzig AmZ.

2. ‘Den Anfang dieser Sinfonie macht ein Allegro con brio im Dreyvierteltakt aus Es-dur. Nachdem
vom ganzen Orchester der harmonische Dreyklang zweymal kräftig angeschlagen worden, giebt das
Violoncell folgenden einfachen Hauptsatz, der hernach von allen Seiten aufgestellt, gewendet und aus-
geführt werden soll, leise, doch bemerkbar genug an: . . . Schon im 7ten Takte, wo über cis im Basse der
verminderte 7men, und im 9ten Takte, wo über D der 6/4ten-Accord vorkömmt, bereitet der Verf. den
Zuhörer vor, oft in der Harmonieenfolge angenehm getäuscht zu werden; und schon diese, gleichsam
präludirende Abweichung — wo man förmlich nach g moll glaubt geleitet zu werden, aber statt der
Auflösung des 6/4ten-Accords, die Quarte aufwärts in die Quinte geführt bekommt, und so sich, ver-
mittelst des 6/5ten-Accords unvermuthet wieder zu Hause in Es dur befindet — schon diese ist inter-
essant und angenehm.’

3. The theme for the Piano Variations, Op. 35, appears in two earlier compositions of Beethoven; first
in the Finale of the ballet, Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus (‘The Creatures of Prometheus’), Op. 43, and lat-
er as the theme for the seventh of Twelve Contredanses, WoO 14. For a general overview of the Sympho-
ny’s compositional origins, see Sipe 1998: 11–29.

4. ‘Movement-plan’ describes a species of draft showing a précis of an entire movement, or even of

a complete work, as in the case of the Eroica. These are most frequently encountered in Beethoven’s
sketches between the years 1800–1804, the time of Beethoven’s self-professed ‘Neue Weg’ (new path),
when the Eroica was itself composed; other terms designating the same meaning, but with slight varia-
tions in emphasis, include ‘tonal overview’ (Robert Winter) and ‘synopsis sketch’ (Barry Cooper). For a
discussion of Beethoven sketch-types in general, see Cooper 1990: 104–119, Chapter 8, ‘Types and Re-
lationships of Sketches,’ and Johnson et al. 1985.

5. Others have yet to identify, or call notice to, the appearance of G minor in staff XIII, bars 2–3, as well.
In fact, a good deal of G minor already manifests itself in the immediately preceding sketches for the
Op. 35 Piano Variations. Numerous fugal entrances and episodes in G minor appear that never mate-
rialized in the final version of the work, other than a four-bar episode in the Finale All Fuga. It may be
that Beethoven considered the exploration of the E-flat–G minor idea too involved for a set of Varia-
tions, and more properly the subject-matter for a Symphony.

6. Unlike ‘movement-plan’, ‘continuity draft’ is a more standardised term for a variety of sketch repre-
senting a relatively late stage of a work. The term was coined by Joshua Rifkin and has been a standard
since Lockwood 1970. See Cooper 1990: 105.

7. See Cooper 1990, Chapter 9 in general, ‘The Sketching of Form and Key.’

349
8. The contents of Landsberg 6 are enumerated and discussed in Wade 1977. For a more general discus-
sion, see Johnson et al. 1985: 137–145.

9. Richard Kramer has discussed the importance of G minor for the Symphony, and its set-up in the
opening, in his (unpublished) Beethoven lectures since the late 1960s. See also Lockwood 1991 on the
importance of G minor throughout the Symphony and for an understanding of the compositional
process.

10. The text has ‘F to D-flat,’ which is likely a typographical error. Another typographical error appears
in the bar numbers provided for the G minor modulation. The text has bb. ‘7–10,’ but 7–9 was probably
intended, as bar 10 consists of a V6/5 chord of E-flat.

11. I thank Markus Neuwirth of Leuven University for bringing this source to my attention.

12. ‘Le langage musical est un langage comme les autres, c’est-à-dire qu’il suppose un accord préalable
entre ceux qui le parlent.’

13. ‘La langue . . . est un produit social . . . et un ensemble de conventions nécessaires, adoptées par le
corps social pour permettre l’exercice de cette faculté chez les individus.’

14. ‘Les signes musicaux . . . résultent des conventions, et n’ont de sens que par rapport au groupe qui les
a inventés ou adoptés. . . . [C]es signes résultent d’une convention entre plusieurs hommes.’

15. ‘Les conventions verbales constituent donc le cadre à la fois le plus élémentaire et le plus stable de la
mémoire collective.’
16. ‘. . . le savoir . . . commun qu’on suppose inhérent au groupe.’

17. ‘[M]algrès ces analogies, si réelles et importantes qu’elles soient, il y a une grande différence entre la
société des musiciens, et toutes les autres communautés qui usent aussi de signes. . . . Quand on assiste
à une pièce de théâtre . . . [l]es paroles, les mots, les sons, ici, n’ont pas leur fin en eux-mêmes : ce sont les
voies d’accès au sens, aux sentiments et idées exprimées. . . . Nous avons d’autres moyens de conserver
par la mémoire le souvenir de ce que nous éprouvions alors. En d’autres termes la mémoire collective
de ces assemblées où l’on représente des pièces de théâtre retient sans doute le texte des œuvres, mais,
surtout, ce que ces paroles ont évoqué, et qui n’était plus du langage ou des sons. . . . Les musiciens au
contraire s’arrêtent aux sons, et ne cherchent point au-delà. . . . [S]oit qu’il exécute, soit qu’il écoute : à
ce moment, il est plongé dans le milieu des hommes qui s’occupent simplement à créer ou écouter des
combinaisons de sons : il est tout entier dans cette société. . . . [P]our assurer la conservation et le sou-
venir des œuvres musicales, on ne peut faire appel, comme dans le cas du théâtre, à des images et à des
idées, c’est-à-dire à la signification, puisqu’une telle suite de sons n’a point d’autre signification qu’elle-
même. . . . La musique est, à vrai dire, le seul art auquel s’impose cette condition. . . . C’est pourquoi il n’y
a point d’exemple où l’on aperçoive plus clairement qu’il n’est possible de retenir une masse de souve-
nirs avec toutes leurs nuances et dans leur détail le plus précis, qu’à condition de mettre en œuvre toutes
les ressources de la mémoire collective.’

350
18. ‘Pour apprendre à exécuter, ou à déchiffrer, ou, même lorsqu’ils entendent seulement, à reconnaître
et distinguer les sons, leur valeur et leurs intervalles, les musiciens ont besoin d’évoquer une quantité de
souvenirs. Où se trouvent ces souvenirs, et sous quelle forme se conservent-ils ? Nous disions que, si on
examinait leurs cerveaux, on y trouverait une quantité de mécanismes. . . . [P]our expliquer ces disposi-
tifs cérébraux, il faut les mettre en relations avec des mécanismes correspondants, symétriques ou com-
plémentaires, qui fonctionnent dans d’autres cerveaux, chez d’autres hommes. Bien plus, une telle cor-
respondance n’a pu être réalisée que parce qu’il s’est établi un accord entre ces hommes : mais un tel ac-
cord suppose la création conventionnelle d’un système de symboles ou signes matériels, dont la signifi-
cation est bien définie. . . . [L]es souvenirs qui sont en eux, souvenirs des notes, des signes, des règles, ne
se trouvent dans leur cerveau et dans leur esprit que parce qu’ils font partie de cette société, qui leur a
permis de les acquérir ; ils n’ont aucune raison d’être que par rapport au groupe des musiciens, et ils ne
se conservent donc en eux que parce qu’ils en font ou en ont fait partie. C’est pourquoi l’on peut dire
que les souvenirs des musiciens se conservent dans une mémoire collective qui s’étend, dans l’espace et
le temps, aussi loin que leur société.’
19. Note that Lerdahl, confusingly, uses ‘^3’ and ‘^5’ to indicate the third or fifth of a chord.

20. Several other of Lerdahl’s rules might have been incorporated into the analysis, but were purpose-
fully omitted because Lerdahl himself has already pointed out their problems and non-empirical basis.
See e.g. Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007.

21. ‘Although incidental changes of key [in Koch] may be brief and may only momentarily disturb the
continuity of the larger key, nevertheless such brief changes are indeed changes of key at the most local
level’ (Lester 1990: 283).

22. See Anderson 1938 passim and Anson-Cartwright 2000: 177.

Notes to Chapter 2

23. Modern German dictionaries also give ‘regularly.’ In translating the passage, Robert Winter uses a
somewhat stronger ‘predictably,’ which may perhaps reveal something about Winter’s own G minor
hearing of the opening, as I have not encountered this translation in any of the dictionaries consulted.

24. Perhaps not coincidentally, and despite claiming to ‘follow the original with a rather literal transla-
tion,’ Hyer omits this qualifying adverb from his own translation of Rochlitz’s text (1996: 77–78).

25. For the dissemination of Weber’s thought in the nineteenth century, see Saslaw 1992 and Chris-
tensen 2002: 787. Weber himself mentions Jelensperger 1830 in the third edition of the Verusch as one
theorist who had engaged his work (1832/1851, vol. 1: 373).

26. ‘Pour scavoir dans quel Mode ou Ton est une piece de Musique il faut voir la Note finale surtout de
la Basse.’

351
27. Bent translates Weber’s Modulation as ‘Tonal Scheme’ (Weber 1832/1994).

28. The essay was first published in Weber’s own journal Cäcilia. See Weber 1832/1994 entry in the bib-
liography.

29. Weber describes diminished-seventh chords as dominant-ninths without a root.

30. Cf. Bent’s ‘Introduction’ to the translation, in Bent 1994: 157.

31. ‘Pour rendre à la perception de ce signe toute sa valeur, il faut la replacer dans l’ensemble dont elle
fait partie : c’est dire que le souvenir d’une page couverte de notes n’est qu’une partie d’un souvenir plus
large, ou d’un ensemble de souvenirs : en même temps qu’on voit en pensée la partition, on entrevoit
aussi tout un milieu social, les musiciens, leurs conventions, et l’obligation qui s’impose à nous, pour en-
trer en rapports avec eux, de nous y plier.’

32. ‘Absent a master-set of detailed instructions known to have been carried out by composers, this
must be done inductively, leading to constantly tested-and-retested conclusions (a procedure similar
to that of formulating scientific hypotheses, consistently open to amendment and revision’ (Hepoko-
ski and Darcy: 605).

33. I should like to thank Allen Ferris of Indiana University, Bloomington for the suggestion of the ‘mo-
saic’ metaphor in this context.

34. See Wallace 1986, Chapter 1.

35. Weber’s discussion was originally published in 1817.

36. When hearing the opening Ds in relation to the immediately preceding Scherzo, there is indeed
something of a leading tone of quality to the opening octaves that is immediately contradicted by the
ensuing ‘progressions belonging to the scale of G minor.’

37. Slightly modified translation.

38. The possibility exists that the two reviews were written by the same person, but differences in style,
tone, and language are significant enough to suggest that two different reviewers are involved, in addi-
tion to the fact that one review is a concert-review (Konzertberichte), while the other is an analytic review
(Rezension). On the differences, see Kunze 1987.

39. Aus eben dem Gesichtspuncte betrachtet, ist es auch natürlich, dass das Gehör sich an manche,
besonders häufig gebräuchliche Arten von Modulation gewissermasen gewöhnt, und dadurch sehr ge-
neigt wird, eine Harmonieenfolge in dem gewohnten Sinne zu verstehen’ (Weber 1832: 157).

40. As Jairo Moreno has also argued, there are tensions in the Versuch between Weber’s predisposition
for a Linnaean type of taxonomy and generalisation and all opposition to the notion of a theoretical sys-
tem in favour of an empirical basis (Moreno 2004: 128–160).

352
41. ‘Chaque son d’une gamme, ayant un caractère particulier et remplissant une fonction spéciale dans
la musique, est accompagné d’une harmonie analogue à ce caractère et à cette fonction. La collection
des harmonies propres à chaque degré de la gamme détermine la tonalité.’ See Chapter 3 below for a
more formal approach to Fétis’ argument.

42. ‘On touche cette Basse de la main gauche, & de la droite l’Harmonie indiquée par la marche de la
Basse.’

43. ‘Des vint et une Tables dont le corps de cet ouvrage est composé, les sept premières sont destinées à
faire conoitre les acords qui se prèsentent le plus ordinairement, et dont l’emploi se règle par la modula-
tion, c’est à dire qui ont des places fixes sur certaines notes auxquèles ils sont affectez. Les septs suivantes
renferment des acords la plûpart dissonans. Ces accords qui sont plus rares que les precèdens, et dont
l’usage plus varié ne sauroit être dèsigné par des règles si constantes, ne sont pourtant pas moins neces-
saires à savoir, puisque sans leur secours l’harmonie seroit insipide et sans agrément. Enfin les sept der-
nières contiènent des acords dissonans si rarement employez qu’on peut par cète raison les nomer ex-
traordinaires. Cependant on doit s’èxercer à les aprendre aussi bien que les autres, parce qu’on les ren-
contre quelquefois, et parce qu’il y a des ocasions où ils font un bon èfet.’

44. Corrette introduces the 5/4 and 6/4 chords both in the context of a cadential dominant, while Ger-
vais describes the 6/4 on the dominant as ‘sometimes’ occurring on scale degree 5, and the 5/4 chord as
occuring ‘very often’ on scale degree 5.

45. ‘The idea behind the règle . . . is that each scale degree can be associated with a unique harmony,
one which reciprocally defines that scale degree’ (Christensen 1992: 91). ‘In the règle, it is the scale-step
status of each bass note that determines the harmony it supports. . . . As a result, if the scale degree is
known, then the chord type is known, and if the chord type is known, then the scale degree is known.
Via these correspondences, the règle promoted recognition of the manner in which harmony expresses
a key’ (Lester 1992: 72, and Chapter 3 in general).

46. ‘. . . une Musique est un assemblage d’une partie de ces octaves.’

47. ‘. . . se fait sur la Dominante.’

48. For good secondary sources of partimento studies see Fellerer 1940; 1930; Grampp 2004–2005, and
Volume 51:1 of the Journal of Music Theory, which is dedicated entirely to partimenti.

49. ‘La quale penultima nota del Partimento, così discendente, sarà la sesta minore del tono; e la risoluz-
ione dell’ accompagnamento, che si sarà sopra di essa, dovrà andare a sesta superfula, per indi salire all’
ottava della nota susseguente del Partimento (Vedi Ah [Example 2.17]).’

50. Emanuel Bach does the same with his own rules of the chromatic octave (see Example 2.8).

51. Cf. Choron’s Italian-biased discussion of the different schools of European composition and their
integration in his ‘Sommaire’ (Choron 1810: xi–xcij).

353
52. That thoroughbass was still the principal means of disseminating knowledge about harmony is also
evidenced in Beethoven’s own suggestion to Emanuel Aloys Förster that he publish the now relatively
well-known Anleitung zum Generalbass (1805). See Mann 1970.

53. The tension may also be seen in Weber’s theoretical recognition of the potential for the augmented
sixth to be used as a dominant while dismissing this possibility analytically (cf. Harrison 1995).

54. ‘[L]a règle de l’octave . . . est la Boussole de l’accompagnateur, qui doit toujours sçavoir dans quel ton
et sur quel degré du ton ou [sic] il est l’accord qui luy convient.’

55. ‘C’est un moyen sûr pour former l’oreille à la Modulation, pour acquerir l’habitude des Accords & la
connoissaince des dégrez qui leur conviennent.’

56. Many French thouroughbass treatises after Rameau classified harmony in this dual manner — that
is, as chord-forms above a bass, e.g. la petite sixte, etc., and in terms of their ‘affinity’ with other chords as
determined by common pitch-class content. See Chapter 3 below.

57. Slightly modified translation from the Loeb Classical Library edition.

Notes to Chapter 3
58. See n. 71 in this context and that of n. 66. For a broader discussion of statistics and the inherent prob-
lems and issues in defining a corpus, see Meyer 1989: 57–61.

59. ‘La mémoire d’une société s’étend jusque-là où elle peut, c’est-à-dire jusqu’où atteint la mémoire des
groupes dont elle est composée.’

60. The availability of sources was certainly another contributing factor. For example, of some 135 ex-
tant Symphonies attributed to Giovanni Battista Sammartini, only 29 are readily available in score edi-
tion.

61. ‘[L]a formule de la loi de succession mélodique et harmonique de la musique moderne réside dans
les modes majeur et mineur de la gamme. La gamme est à la fois la règle de l’ordre de succession des
sons, en raison de leurs affinités les plus immédiates, et la mesure des distances qui les séparent. . . . Les ré-
sultats des affinités harmoniques et mélodiques de la gamme majeure et mineure donnent aux succes-
sions de l’un et de l’autre genre un caractère de nécessité qui se désigne en général par le nom de tonalité.
. . . Chaque son d’une gamme, ayant un caractère particulier et remplissant une fonction spéciale dans la
musique, est accompagné d’une harmonie analogue à ce caractère et à cette fonction. La collection des
harmonies propres à chaque degré de la gamme détermine la tonalité.’

62. ‘La note sensible . . . fait sentir dans quel ton on est.’ Cf. Callcott: ‘The leading Note and the Sub-
dominant are the two characteristic Sounds, by one of which every Scale, whether Major or Minor, is

354
known, and its Tonic is immediately ascertained’ (1817: 140).

63. ‘Les degrés de la gamme se désignent par des noms dont quelques-uns indiquent le caractère mélo-
dique ou harmonique des sons qui la composent. Ainsi la première de la gamme d’un ton quelconque
est appelée tonique, parce qu’elle donne son nom au ton ; la deuxième s’appelle second degré (et, dans le
langage de quelques anciens harmonistes, sus-tonique); la troisième, troisième degré (autrefois médiante,
parce qu’elle est intermédiaire entre le premier son et le cinquième dans l’accord appelé parfait); la qua-
trième, quatrième degré (autrefois sous-dominante); la cinquième, dominante, parce qu’elle se trouve dans
un grand nombre de combinaisons d’harmonie ; la sixième, sixième degré (autrefois sus-dominante); la
septième, note sensible, lorsqu’elle a une tendance ascendante vers la tonique, et septième degré dans les
autres cas.’

64. The thoroughbass conception differs substantially from Rameau’s Newton-influenced underdomi-
nant: part of the theory of the geometric triple progression (1:3:9) that sought to explain the ontology
of mode by the balancing of the dominant and subdominant about the tonic, in the speculative Généra-
tion harmonique of 1727. With Rameau, sousdominante is reinterpreted to mean a literal dominant, but
one that lies a fifth below the tonic, which symmetrically mirrors the dominant on scale degree 5 lying
a fifth above, whereas the thoroughbass conception clearly refers to the scale degree lying immediately
below the dominant (cf. Christensen 1993: 178–180). In 1817, Callcott used the term in both senses, as
a step below the dominant and a fifth below the tonic, but claims ‘the term arises from its relation to the
Tonic, as the Fifth below’ (136–37). That even Callcott locates the origin of the term in Rameau’s the-
ory only further suggests that Dandrieu’s use is part of a largely undocumented French oral tradition.

65. ‘La première note d’un Mode se nome Finale, la troisième Mèdiante et la cinquième Dominante.
Ces notes sont apelées cordes essentièles du Mode, parce qu’elles en sont les points fixes et qu’elles le
constituent. Outres ces notes ou cordes essentièles il y en à [sic] d’autres qui leur sont subordonnées et
dont la connoissance est necessaire à celle de la Modulation. Ces notes subordonées sont cèles qui se
trouvent prècisement audessus ou audessous des notes essentieles et dont le nom s’aprendra aisément
dans la page suivante et dans les instructions qui sont au bas des Tables.’

66. See n. 71.

67. The anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss has an intriguing discussion on the culural determinacy of
the diatonic scale proper, which he calls a ‘first level of articulation’ of music, in The Raw and the Cooked
(1964/1969: 21ff.).

68. ‘En eux-mêmes les intervalles constituent déjà une espèce de syntaxe sonore, en ce sens que les sons
se trouvent lies les uns aux autres par couples’ (2002: 63). Cf. Carey and Clampitt 1989.

69. ‘Cet Accord n’est different de celuy de la petite Sixte, qu’en ce qu’on ajoûte un Dieze à la Sixte qui
étoit naturellement Majeure.’

70. ‘On fait assez souvent cet accord, qui est dissonant, sur la Finale quand cète note est précédée et sui-
vie come dans cète Table’ (added emphasis).

355
71. I am currently preparing a research project based on the Mozart Piano Sonatas that will do precise-
ly this. It involves a bass-line and figured-bass encoding of the Sonatas that may be subjected to compu-
tational statistical analysis. I intend to use the data to bring more concrete evidence to the architecture
of syntax represented in Example 10, as well as to ‘test’ the data against the principal argument underly-
ing the Culture of the Rule of the Octave.

72. Another instance of the +ivo7 category also appears in Fétis’ Traité. Fétis shows not 8 but 16 possible
resolutions of the diminished seventh, 8 as dominants, 8 as chromatically raised sous-dominantes (Fétis
1844/1879: 179).

Notes to Chapter 4

73. Lewin’s explicit influence was actually Husserl. See Rings 2006: 56.

74. On the cultural determinacy of Lewin’s ‘apperception’ and ‘intentionality,’ see Rings 2006: 9.

75. In truth, Lewin’s argument would be best represented by a second-order Markov transition matrix,
in which the antecedent state contains two events, I and IV. In other words, given the syntactic progres-
sion I–IV as a single state, what is the probability that V will follow as a consequent state?

76. I thank Brian Kane for pointing out this aspect of Lewin’s essay: that Lewin engaged Husserl’s ideas
largely as they are presented and interpreted by Miller.

77. ‘[L]eur siège est dans le cerveau. . . . Le rapport syntagmatique est in praesentia ; il repose sur deux
ou plusieurs termes également présents dans une série effective. Au contraire le rapport associatif unit
des termes in absentia dans une série mnémonique virtuelle.’ On the mechanics of Saussure’s langue, see
Chapter 5 below, ‘The Conceptual Resonance of the le – sol – fi – sol.’

78. ‘Le notion de style est inséparable de celle de système. En musique, le système est souvent appelé
“langage,” parfois aussi “genre.” Le cas le plus frappant est sans aucun doute celui de la tonalité, qui peut
fonder indifféremment un “style tonal,” un “système tonal” ou un “langage tonal”.’

79. ‘Le jugement stylistique [est] . . . un processus de comparaison, c’est-à-dire d’insertion des éléments
caractéristiques de l’œuvre considérée dans an réseau d’associations avec d’autres œuvres, sur un proces-
sus d’inscription dans un “champ stylistique”.’ The term ‘stylistic field’ is from Guiraud 1969: 83.

80. ‘The stimulus as a physical thing becomes a stimulus in the world of behavior only in so far as the mind
of the perceiver is able to relate it, on the one hand, to the habit responses which the perceiver has developed and,
on the other hand, to the particular stimulus situation’ (Meyer 1956: 30; added emphasis).

81. Added emphasis. See also Meyer 1956: 30, 42, 44, 57, 59–62, 72, 76, 151, 160, 197, 248–249, 273, 276.

356
82. However, see Meyer 1973: 4.

83. See especially pp. 71ff., on hermeneutics in history.

84. This should not be confused with Salzer’s ‘structural hearing.’ The difference becomes clear in what
follows. Adorno’s notion of ‘structure’ is a more general notion, and consistent with Meyer’s.

85. Adorno 2004: 262–293; see also Paddison 1993: 143–144; 154–156; and Paddison 1991.

86. Cf. Chapter 6 below, on ‘Classical Scripts versus Romantic Plans.’

87. See Byros 2008b on the problem of communication and convention in Berg’s Piano Sonata, Op. 1.

88. Tsourgas 2003 extends Lerdahl’s languages into ‘modal space.’

89. See Cross 1997 on pitch schemata. Lerdahl himself qualifies the structure of ‘pitch space’ as a sche-
ma in ‘Underlying Musical Schemata’ (1991: 273), and, more recently in Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007.

90. ‘Il me semble difficile . . . de mesurer empiriquement des niveaux de tension ou de distance tonale,
surtout si cela doit se faire . . . hors contexte et hors temps ; je crois au contraire que toute distance cog-
nitive est nécessairement liée à un contexte, en dehors duquel elle n’est pas mesurable.’

91. By the same estimation sheer exposure to a language does not presuppose its acquisition; one must
have already generalised and internalised rules about the specific language in question in order to recognise
something as belonging to, or as being part of, the possibilities of the language as a probability system.

92. Why present-day listeners in the G minor strain were not affected by this distance is treated in Chap-
ter 6 below.

93. In an informal capacity, Lerdahl at times states that the basic space was adjusted or is partly biased to
conform to elements of Classical practice (2001: 195–196). See Tsourgas 2003 for similar adjustments
involving modal music.

94. ‘Il suffit que nous nous reportions à un modèle schématique, où chaque morceau entendu se trouve
remplacé par une série de signes.’ The reference to Bergson is likely to his Matter and Memory of 1896.

95. ‘Mais ces combinaisons complexes se décomposent en combinaisons plus simples, les combinai-
sons simples sont plus nombreuses sans doute que les notes, néanmoins, elles se reproduisent souvent
dans un même morceau, ou d’un morceau à l’autre. Un musicien exercé, et qui a joué un grand nombre
de pièces différentes, sera comme quelqu’un qui a beaucoup lu. Les mots aussi sont plus nombreux que
les lettres, et les combinaisons de mots sont plus nombreuses que les mots eux-mêmes. Ce qui est nou-
veau, à chaque page, ce ne sont pas les mots, ni même les membres de phrase. . . Ce qu’il faut retenir ou
comprendre . . . c’est . . . des assemblages de notes ou de mots déjà connus . . . [et] il suffit qu’on ait présent
à l’ésprit, d’une manière ou de l’autre, un modèle qui représente schématiquement comment des termes con-
nus entrent dans un nouveau mode de combinaison’ (added emphasis).

357
96. ‘. . . à chaque audition il se produit dans son système cérébro-spinal une suite de réactions motrices,
toujours de même sens, qui se renforcent d’une audition à l’autre. Ces réactions finnisent par dessin-
er un schème moteur. C’est ce schème qui constitue le modèle fixe auquel nous comparons ensuite le
morceau entendu.’ On statistical learning, see e.g. Vapnik 2000.

97. ‘[P]our apprendre un langage quelconque, il faut se soumettre à un dressage difficile, qui substitue à
nos réactions naturalles et instinctives une série de mécanismes dont nous trouvons le modèle tout fait
hors de nous, dans la société.’

98. Original French in n. 19 of Chapter 1.

Notes to Chapter 5

99. ‘Primary sense-faculty’ is Hett’s translation from the Loeb edition (see Bibliography).

100. For Hume, the law of Contrast is a result of the combination of the laws of Similarity and Causal-
ity.

101. Bartlett was engaging Halbwachs’ earlier Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (1925), the later La mémoi-
re collective (1939) not yet being in print when Bartlett’s work was published in 1932.

102. Incidentally, Aristotle appears in the first sentence of the monograph.

103. Note that Gjeridngen uses the term ‘event’ where I use ‘stage.’

104. In truth, as a mental representation each chord would be a composite of smaller memory nodes or
‘simpler ideas’ in Locke’s terms (1706). See e.g. Bharucha 1991.

105. Bach always specifies the key context in the key signature.

106. This explains why not a single author in the G minor strain of reception makes reference to the
cause for their hearing G minor. Schemata may be made explicit, but are ultimately part of the tacit
knowledge base by which we negotiate the environment.

107. But for an at least implicit precedence, see G. Mandler 1985.

108. The term ‘loop of death’ comes from Elizabeth Peters, one of my undergraduate students at Yale.

109. ‘Les rapports [syntagmatiques et associatifs] . . . correspondent à deux formes de notre activité men-
tale.’ Perhaps the greatest misrepresentation of the langue concept in Saussure’s philosophy of language
by later twentieth-century linguists (Thibault 1997) is its (mis-)reading as a mere ‘systematic inventory

358
of items,’ as Chomsky characterised it (1965: 4). In fact, Chomsky rejected the concept entirely on these
grounds, viewing it as nothing but a stock of lexical items. This ‘systematic inventory’ needed to be re-
placed by a return to a ‘Humboldtian conception of underlying competence as a system of generative
processes’ (1965: 4). But Chapter VI of the Cours is entirely dedicated to an explicit discussion of the
‘Mechanism of langue.’ Chomsky’s claim results from a fundamental misreading, which some have sug-
gested was deliberate, or even ideologically driven (cf. Joseph 1990).

110. ‘Placé dans un syntyagme, un terme n’acquiert sa valeur que parce qu’il est opposé à ce qui précède
ou ce qui suit, ou à tous les deux.’

111. ‘[E]n dehors du discours, les mots offrant quelque chose de commun s’associent dans la mémoire,
et il se forme ainsi des groupes . . . [dont le] siège est dans le cerveau ; elles font partie de ce trésor inté-
rieur qui constitue la langue chez chaque individu.’

112. French in n. 5 of Chapter 4.

113. ‘[I]l faut attribuer à la langue, non à la parole, tous les types de syntagmes construits sur formes
régulières. . . . [C]es types n’existent que si elle [la langue] en a enregistré des spécimens suffisament nom-
breux . . . sous forme de souvenirs.’

114. ‘Un terme donné est comme le centre d’une constellation, le point où convergent d’autres termes
coordonnés.’

115. ‘En réalité l’idée appelle, non une forme, mais tout un système latent.’

116. ‘Ce mécanisme, qui consiste dans un jeu de termes successifs, ressemble au fonctionnement d’une
machine dont les pièces ont une action réciproque bien qu’elles soient disposées dans une seule dimen-
sion.’

117. ‘[Les] coordinations associatives . . . sont nécessaires pour l’analyse des parties du syntagme.’

118. ‘Notre mémoire tient en réserve tous les types de syntagmes . . . et au moment de les employer, nous
faisons intervenir les groupes associatifs pour fixer notre choix. Quand quelqu’un dit marchons !, il pense
inconsciemment à divers groupes d’associations à l’intersection desquels se trouve le syntagme mar-
chons ! Celui-ci figure d’une part dans la série marche ! marchez !, et c’est l’opposition de marchons ! avec
ces formes qui détermine le choix ; d’autre part, marchons ! évoque le série montons ! mangeons ! etc., au
sein de laquelle il est choisi par le même procédé.’

119. ‘Ce principe s’applique aux syntagmes et aux phrases de tous le types, même les plus complexes. Au
moment où nous prononçons la phrase : “que vous dit-il ?”, nous faisons varier un élément dans un type
syntagmatique latent, par exemple “que te dit-il ?” — “que nous dit-il ?”, etc. et c’est par là que notre choix
se fixe sur le pronom vous. Ainsi dans cette operation, qui consiste à éliminer mentalement tout ce qui
n’amène pas la différenciation voulue sur le point voulu, les groupement associatifs et les types syntag-
matiques sont tous deux en jeu.’

359
 Notes to Chapter 6

120. I should like to acknowledge and thank Edward Venn of Lancaster University (UK), for the char-
acterisation of the opening of the Symphony as beginning ‘in medias res,’ upon hearing my ‘Memorising
Tonality’ paper at the University of Cambridge (Byros 2008a).

121. The Mozart analysis was originally placed at the end of Volume III of the original German, but
properly belongs to the end of § 225 of Volume II, the last in Weber’s chapter on ‘Modulation’ and the
‘Attunement of the Ear to a Key,’ where the discussion of the ‘Habits of the Ear’ appears. At the end of
said paragraph, Weber references the essay as one among several ‘Examples for a practical application
of the foregoing principles,’ but defers its placement to Volume III owing to size constraints. Referenc-
es to the Quartet are also scattered throughout the treatise, and some of these have been incorporated
into the English translation of the essay in Bent 1994.

122. Alternative top-voice pairings include mi–re, do–mi–re, or mi–do–ti.

123. But Meyer only came to know Schank and Abelson’s research on ‘scripts’ and ‘plans’ through Gjer-
dingen 1984. See Meyer 1989: 245, n. 59.

124. Anderson 1938: Letter 323.

125. For paradigmatic examples of a modulating 1–7, 4–3, see the development of Mozart’s Piano Sona-
ta in A minor, K. 310 (1778), second movement, bb. 37–41. Incidentally, the two instances of the modu-
lating 1–7, 4–3 in Mozart’s Sonata — which modulate from C minor to G minor, and G minor to D mi-
nor, respectively — are followed by a ‘top-voice’ variant of the le – sol – fi – sol.

126. ‘The mode of the stable 5/3 sonority often cannot be predicted’ in a Monte (Gjerdingen 2007:
458).

127. For paradigmatic examples, see the development of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in C major, K. 279, first
movement (1774), bb. 40–43, and Gjerdingen 2007: 66, 68.

128. The alternative possibility is that modern listeners apply more recently-developed and -acquired
rival schemata, perhaps under the influence of other musical cultures. In respect to the Eroica Sym-
phony, such a rival schema does exist within the time period of 1720–1840, but one that would influ-
ence a D minor, not an E-flat hearing. Among the several variants of the schema is the ‘tonic variant’
discussed in Chapter 5. In the absence of empirical data for the years following 1840 the possibility of
a rival schema inevitably exists. But in view of the nature of the larger, more general argument regard-
ing ‘scripts’ and ‘plans,’ it is unlikely that an analogous ‘script’-level rival schema would have developed.
To the extent nineteenth-century music is more ‘plan-‘based, any existing rival schema would most like-
ly be a ‘plan’-like structure, and therefore would only return the problem to the ‘scripts’ versus ‘plans’ di-
chotomy. One might go so far to say that the opening of the Eroica constitutes a prototypical catego-
ry in itself, but this would constitute a category error insofar as memory is concerned. Generic knowl-
edge is ‘stored’ in schematic memory, whereas particular things, like events and actual compositions, are

360
stored and remembered differently in terms of what Bharucha calls ‘veridical memory’ (see Bharucha
1987; 1994). Outside music, veridical memory may involve the memory of a specific historical event, a
motion picture, etc. But ‘schematic’ memory generalises such specifics into an abstracted schema. The
opening theme of the Eroica, in itself, cannot be a schema.

129. ‘Aber nochmal zu erklären, die Eroica ist immer eine klassisches Symphonie. Haydn und Mozart
wären wohl schockiert gewesen. Aber, sie hätten es verstanden als Musik ihrer Zeit.‘

361
Foundations of Tonality as Situated Cognition, 1730–1830:
An Enquiry into the Culture and Cognition of
Eighteenth-Century Tonality
with
Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony
as a Case Study

Volume II: Examples, Appendices, and Bibliography

N
A Dissertation
Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School
of
Yale University
in Candidacy for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy

by
Vasileios (Vasili) Byros

Dissertation Director: Richard Cohn

December 2009
© 2009 by Vasileios Byros
All rights reserved.
 Volume II
——w——
Examples, Appendices, and
Bibliography
 EXAMPLES
____________________________________________

N
EXAMPLE 1.1, Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Op. 55, Eroica (1803), i,
bb. 1–15.

13

12
9
6

363
 G-MINOR STRAIN ‘CLOUD’ STRAIN E-FLAT STRAIN
(1807) Rochlitz (1857) Oulibicheff (1930) Schenker
(1859) Marx (1921) Heuss (1996) Hyer
(1880) Parry (1930) *Schenker (2000) Barry
(1930) *Schenker (1945) Tovey (2001/1983) **Lerdahl
(1936) Riezler (1979) Epstein (2005) Klein
(1961) Ringer (1991) Marston
(1982/1991) Lockwood (2000) Cooper
(1993) Earp (2000) Brinkmann

364
(1998) Sipe (2005) Rexroth
(2004) Rumph (2006) Hepokoski/Darcy

D (in b. 9) is ‘anything but a

‘settled in G minor’ ‘out-of-key’ leading tone to E-flat’
(Rumph, 90) (Marston, 214) (Hyer, 81)

KEY NO
1807–2006: a continuum projecting outward from a center of ambiguity.

CHANGE, ambiguous, mysterious, foreign, IMPACT,

EXAMPLE 1.2, Three Strains of Reception/Cognitive Response to bb. 6–9 of the Eroica, from

g minor obscure, distorted E-flat

 (a), Foreground Prolongational Analysis

365
(b), Normalisation of bb. 6–8: C-sharp as Deviated Passing Tone D-flat
EXAMPLE 1.3, Schenker’s Analysis of the Eroica, bb. 1–23 (1930/1997).

(c), Implicit Contradiction in Schenker’s Reading: E-flat–C-sharp Zug causes E-flat and D to become neighbours to one another.
 Rumph (2004)
Sipe (1998)
Earp (1993)
Parry (1880) Ringer (1961)
Rochlitz (1807) Marx (1859) Riezler (1936) Lockwood (1982)
G minor:
1800 1820 1840 1860 1880 1900 1920 1940 1960 1980 20002020
(a), Timeline Representation:

Hepokoski/Darcy (2006)
Rexroth (2005)

366
Brinkmann (2000)
Tovey (1945) Cooper (2000)
Schenker (1930) Marston (1991)
Oulibicheff (1857) Heuss (1921) Epstein (1979)
‘Cloud’:
1800 1820 1840 1860 1880 1900 1920 1940 1960 1980 20002020

Klein (2005)
Lerdahl (2001)
Barry (2000)
Schenker (1930) Hyer (1996)
E-flat major:
EXAMPLE 1.4, Historical Distribution of the Eroica Symphony’s Three Strains of Reception.

1800 1820 1840 1860 1880 1900 1920 1940 1960 1980 2000
 . . . EXAMPLE 1.4, continued.

(b), ‘Quantified’ Representation

2010
1980
1950
1920
1890
1860
1830
1800
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
G minor strain:
‘Cloud’ strain:
E-flat major strain:

EXAMPLE 1.5, A Hindostan Povāda . (Chivalric Song, from Strangways 1914: 69): The Cultural
Variability of Key Perception.

14

18

367
EXAMPLE 1.6(a), Muzio Clementi, Piano Sonata in G minor, Op. 7 no. 3 (1781–82), i, bb. 1–22,
102–130: The source for the theme of the Finale to Beethoven’s Eroica
Symphony, Op. 55, for the Op. 35 ‘Prometheus’ Variations for Piano, and for the
Contredanse No. 12, WoO 14 in E-flat major.

102

116
10

368
EXAMPLE 1.6(b), Eroica Symphony Finale, bb. 84–100: The Adaptation of Clementi’s Theme.

84

92

369
EXAMPLE 1.7, Eroica Symphony Finale: G minor–E-flat major Opening, bb. 1–23.

370
EXAMPLE 1.8, Eroica Symphony Finale, bb. 209–271: G minor March as ‘Set-Piece’ (bb. 212–258).

(G minor March
209

217

...

371
 . . . EXAMPLE 1.8, continued . . .

225

233

372
 . . . EXAMPLE 1.8, continued . . .

241

249

373
 . . . EXAMPLE 1.8, continued.

G minor
March )

258

374
EXAMPLE 1.9, Eroica Symphony Finale, bb. 417–439: G minor Trespass and Codetta (bb. 419–433).

(G minor Codetta
417

424

375
 . . . EXAMPLE 1.9, continued.

G minor Codetta) (E-flat Major Fanfare

433

376
EXAMPLE 1.10, Early ‘Movement-Plan’ Drafts for the Eroica, movements i–iii, from the
Wielhorsky Sketchbook (Beethoven 1802–1803), pp. 44–45.
movement 1
movement 2
mov. 3
movement 1 continued

377
. . . EXAMPLE 1.10, continued.

378
EXAMPLE 1.11, Movement-Plan Draft for the Eroica Finale, from Landsberg 6, p. 70
(transcribed by Nottebohm 1880/1979: 94).

EXAMPLE 1.12, Last Detailed Sketch for the G minor Opening of the Eroica Finale,
in Landsberg 6, p. 79 (transcribed by Nottebohm 1880/1979: 95)

379
EXAMPLE 1.13, Beethoven, Eroica Symphony, First Movement, Development, bb. 197–205:
Sturm und Drang Episode in G minor (excerpt).

197

204

380
EXAMPLE 1.14, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Symphony No. 21 in G minor, K. 183 (1773), i,
bb. 1–27: Sturm und Drang Syncopated Topic in G minor.

16

381
EXAMPLE 1.15, Eroica Symphony, Scherzo, bb. 38–78: G minor contra E-flat major (Dominant).

52

g: V . . .

65

. . . g: V E : V...

382
EXAMPLE 1.16, Beethoven, Eroica Symphony, Second Movement, Funeral March, bb. 143–161:
Grand Perfect Authentic Cadence in G minor.
143

150

383
EXAMPLE 1.17, Mozart, Piano Sonata in G major, K. 283 (1774), i, bb. 1–4:
1–7, 4–3 ‘Style Form’, from Meyer 1980.

( 1–7, 4–3 )

3
4
p
3
4 p

5e 4e 6t 5e
G: I V V I

EXAMPLE 1.18, Mozart, Horn Concerto in D major, K412 (1791), i, bb. 1–4:
Caesuraed ‘Adeste Fidelis’ or ‘Paired do – re – mi ’ Style Form.

( DO—RE, RE—MI )

5e 5e 7td 5e
D: I V V I

384
EXAMPLE 1.19, E-flat Hearing of the Eroica, bb. 1–15, from Hyer 1996: Example 5.3.

EXAMPLE 1.20, Harmonic Reduction of the Eroica, bars 6–11, from Friedrich Rochlitz, ‘Review,’
Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 9 (18 February 1807: 323)

385
 (a), The Form of Generative Music Theory (Lerdahl 2001: Figure 1.1)

Musical Surface Rule System Structural Description

(Sequence of events) (Musical Grammar) (Heard Structure)

FIGURE 1.1 The form of generative music theory

from Lerdahl 2001: 4.

386
(b), A Flow Chart of GTTM’s Components (Lerdahl 2001: Figure 1.2)

Grouping
structure Time-span Prolongational
Time-span reduction reduction
Metrical segmentation
structure
Stability
EXAMPLE 1.21, Flowcharts Outlining the Structure of Generative Music Theory,

conditions

FIGURE 1.2 A flow chart of GTTM’s components

 0
0

5
0
0 5
7
8 7
5 6

δ: 0 7 5 5 8 5 0 8 8 5 5 6 5
event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
top-voice: g g g g g a a g f g a g (horns) f (horns) e (horns)
p cresc. sf p p
cresc.
6 12
3
4

387
f
3
4 p
f cresc. sf p p
cresc.
...
5e 6r 7t 6r 6t 5r e 6t 6r 6e 6r 7td 5e
Structure, Key, Harmonic Function, and Tonal Tension.

E: I I iii +vi0 iii V I ii I IV I V I

[T ... Dep S (N) D T ] S P S (N) D T
[T Dep S (N) D T]
Diss: 1 1 2 1 2 4 3 1 3 3 2 3 3 0

Tseq: 1 1 9 6 7 12 8 1 11 11 7 8 7 5

1 1 9 13 22 9 3 1 13 25 19 19 9 0
EXAMPLE 1.22, Generative Analysis of the Eroica Symphony, bb. 1–15, including Prolongational

Thier:
EXAMPLE 1.23, The Diatonic Basic Space as Edifice of Prolongational Stability Conditions
(Lerdahl 2001: 47, Figure 2.4).

EXAMPLE 1.24, Levels of Embedding Representation of the Diatonic Basic Space

(Lerdahl 2001: 48, Figure 2.5).

388
EXAMPLE 1.25, Derivation of Some Chord Distances within a Key (Lerdahl 2001: 56, Figure 2.10).

EXAMPLE 1.26, Examples of Chord Distances Between Regions (Lerdahl 1988: 330, Figure 16).

389
EXAMPLE 1.27, ‘Prolongational Good Form’ (Lerdahl 2001: 25–32; ).

(a), Abstract Representation of ‘Normative Prolongational Structure’

(b), Abstract Representation of the ‘Balance Constraint’

(c), Abstract Representation of the ‘Recursion Constraint’

EXAMPLE 1.28, Example of ‘Transformational Deletion,’ in Johann Sebastian Bach, Prelude in

C major, WTC I, bb. 21–23, from Lerdahl 2001: 35–36.

a) b)

390
EXAMPLE 1.29, Distance and Sequential Tension Values for a G minor Hearing.

(a), Chord Distance:

10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
0
1–2 2–3 3–4 4–5 5–6 6–7 7–8 8–9 9–10 10–11 11–12 12–13 13–14

E-flat major throughout:

G minor modulation bb. 6–9:

(b), Sequential Tension:

20
18
16
14
12
10
8
6
4
2
0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

E-flat major throughout:

G minor modulation bb. 6–9:

391
 0
0
5

9
8 5
0

7 5
6 6

δ: 0 8 6 5 9 5 0 8 8 5 5 6 5
event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
top-voice: g g g g g a a g f g a g (horns) f (horns) e (horns)
p cresc. sf p p
cresc.

392
Prolongational Reading No. 1.

6 12
3
4
f
3
4 p
f cresc. sf p p
cresc.
...
5e 6r 7t 6r 6t 5r e 6t 6r 6e 6r 7td 5e
E: I g: VI i +iv0 i E :V I ii I IV I V I
Diss: 1 1 2 1 2 4 3 1 3 3 2 3 3 0

Tseq: 1 1 10 7 7 13 8 1 11 11 7 8 7 5

Thier: 1 23 37 30 16 9 3 1 13 25 19 19 9 0
EXAMPLE 1.30(a), Eroica, bb. 1–15, Generative Analysis incorporating a G minor modulation:
 0
0
5

9
5
0 5
7

5 6
8
δ: 0 8 6 5 9 5 0 8 8 5 5 6 5
event: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
top-voice: g g g g g a a g f g a g (horns) f (horns) e (horns)
p cresc. sf p p
cresc.

393
Prolongational Reading No. 2.

6 12
3
4
f
3
4 p
f cresc. sf p p
cresc.
...
5e 6r 7t 6r 6t 5r e 6t 6r 6e 6r 7td 5e
E: I g: VI i +iv0 i E :V I ii I IV I V I
Diss: 1 1 2 1 2 4 3 1 3 3 2 3 3 0

Tseq: 1 1 10 7 7 13 8 1 11 11 7 8 7 5

Thier: 1 27 37 20 16 9 3 1 13 25 19 19 9 0
EXAMPLE 1.30(b), Eroica, bb. 1–15, Generative Analysis incorporating a G minor modulation:
EXAMPLE 1.31, Graphic Comparison of Hierarchic Tension Values for the E-flat and G minor
Analyses in Examples 1.22 and 1.30(a)–(b).
40
35
30
25
20
15
10
5
0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
E-flat major throughout:
G minor modulation (bb. 6–9), No. 1:
G minor modulation (bb. 6–9), No. 2:

EXAMPLE 1.32, Felix Salzer, ‘Structural Hearing’ Analysis of J.S. Bach, Chorale No. 23,
‘Zeuch ein zu deinen Toren’ (Salzer, 1952/1982: vol. 1: 17–19, vol. 2: 3).

394
EXAMPLE 2.1, The Etymology of ‘Tonality’ as Signifying ‘Keyness.’

le mode la modulation
il modo la modulazione
die Mode die Modulation
mode modulation

le ton la tonalité
il tono la tonalità
die Tonart/der Thon die Tonalität
key keyness

tonality

EXAMPLE 2.2, Gottfried Weber, Versuch einer geordneten Theorie der Tonsetzkunst (1830–32):
Figure 219, Chapter IV, Modulation, § 218, Mehrdeutigkeit der Modulation.

EXAMPLE 2.3(a), Weber, Versuch einer geordneten Theorie der Tonsetzkunst (1830–32), Figure 198,
from § 207, Gewohnheiten des Gehöres: Besonders bekannte Lagen

395
EXAMPLE 2.3(b), Weber, Versuch, (1830–32), Figure 199, § 207, Gewohnheiten des Gehöres.

(c), Weber, Versuch, (1830–32), Figure 200, § 207, Gewohnheiten des Gehöres.

EXAMPLE 2.4, François Campion, Traité d’accompagnement et de composition (1716):

la règle de l’octave in the major and minor mode.

396
EXAMPLE 2.5, Jean François Dandrieu, Principes de l’accompagnement (1719): Rule of the Octave
Tables of Modulation (Tonality) in the Major and Minor Modes.

397
. . . EXAMPLE 2.5, continued.

398
EXAMPLE 2.6, Dandrieu, La petite sixte in Context (1719).

EXAMPLE 2.7, Francesco Gasparini, L’ armonico pratico al cimbalo (1708): Rule of the Octave.

399
EXAMPLE 2.8, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen
(1753: 328–329): Diatonic and Chromatic Rules of the Octave.

400
EXAMPLE 2.9, Laurent Gervais, Méthode pour l’accompagnement du clavecin (1733: 8–9): Scale
Degrees Appointed to Each Chord (Des Dégrez affectez à chaque Accord).

401
 . . . EXAMPLE 2.9, continued.

EXAMPLE 2.10, Gervais, Méthode (1733: 9–10): Different Chords Made on Each Degree
(. . . combien d’Accords differens se font sur chaque degré).

402
. . . EXAMPLE 2.10, continued.

403
EXAMPLE 2.11, Gervais, Méthode (1733: 15–16): The Rules of the Octaves (Regles des Octaves).

404
. . . EXAMPLE 2.11, continued.

405
EXAMPLE 2.12, Gervais, Méthode (1733: 19): Example of all the Chords and of the Degrees
that are appointed to them (excerpt).

406
EXAMPLE 2.13, Michel Corrette, Le maître de clavecin pour l’accompagnement (1753: 48–49):
Michel Corrette,AllLethemaître
Chordsde inclavecin
generalpour l’accompagnement,
and to which degrees they belong.
méthode théorique et pratique (1753)

407
. . . EXAMPLE 2.13, continued.

408
EXAMPLE 2.14, Corrette, Prototipes (1754: 12–13): Chord-Form Probability Table.

409
. . . EXAMPLE 2.14, continued.

410
EXAMPLE 2.15, John Frederik Lampe, A plain and compendious method of teaching thoroughbass
(1737: Lesson XXI): The Augmented Sixth Chord-Form in Context.

411
EXAMPLE 2.16, Campion, Traité d’accompagnement et de composition (1716):
Table of ‘Extraordinary’ Chords.

412
EXAMPLE 2.17, Fedele Fenaroli, Partimenti ossia basso numerato (c. 1800), Partimento for a
Descending Chromatic Bass: le sesta superflua in Context.

EXAMPLE 2.18(a), Historical Distribution of Treatises and Manuscripts in Christensen 1992.

1900
1880
1860
1840
1820
1800
1780
1760
1740
1720
1700
1 5 9 13 17 21 25 29 33 37 41 45 49 53 57 61

x- and y-axis values respectively equal the Entry Number and Date of Sixty-Three Treatises/
Manuscripts in Appendix C, compiled from Christensen 1992, from 1701–1808.

413
EXAMPLE 2.18(b), Geographical Distribution of Treatises and Manuscripts in Christensen 1992.

414
EXAMPLE 2.19, Weber, Versuch (1830–32), Figure 192, § 202.

EXAMPLE 2.20, Weber, Versuch (1830–32), Figure 204, § 208, Ungewöhnliche Lagen.

415
EXAMPLE 2.21(a), Georg Joseph Vogler, Gründe der kuhrpfälzischen Tonschule in Beispielen (1778):
Table XXX, Figure 2 (Image provided by The Irving S. Gilmore Music
Library of Yale University).

416
EXAMPLE 2.21(b), Vogler, Tonwissenschaft und Tonsetzkunst (1776: 86): ‘ein runder Tonkreis.’

417
 mode, for example vi6/5 (C, E, G, A in C major) or iii6/5 (G, B, D, E), to the
eighteenth-century way of listening and thinking, the ‘chord of the major sixth’ is
directly associated with scale degree four. Therefore upon hearing the chord (F, A, C,
D) the musician’s mind would immediately be in the key of C major.
EXAMPLE 2.22, Beethoven, Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 31 no. 3 (1801–02), i: Objectification
of The ‘Chord of the Large Sixth’ (l’accord de la grande sixte).
• Notice what Beethoven does with the opening of his E-flat major Piano Sonata, Op. 31
no. 3 (1801–02):

Rather than begin the sonata with a tonic E-flat major chord, he chooses a minor
seventh in first inversion (A-flat, C, E-flat, F), or the chord of the major sixth, expecting
his listeners to implicitly hear it as ii6/5 in E-flat major, which is confirmed by the
ensuing progression. This is not to say that the ‘chord of the major sixth’ will only occur
in such a context, but it is statistically most probable for it to do so in this style.

• Besides being confirmed by musical practice, we know this to be true because

EXAMPLE 2.23,
throughout Johann David Heinichen,
eighteenth-century manuals Derand
Generalbaß in der
treatises harmony(1728:
onKomposition and 745):
Six ‘Special Rules’ (special-Regeln).
accompaniment, in addition to the Rule of the Octave, we find Chord-Form Tables
specifying what chord-forms properly belong to each degree of the scale,
corresponding to Fétis’ argument.

• Here is one example from Michel Corrette’s Le Maitre de Clavecin (The Master of the
Keyboard) from 1753:

© Vasili Byros

418
EXAMPLE 2.24, Heinichen, Generalbaß (1728: 746–750): ‘Schemata Modorum.’

EXAMPLE 2.25, Heinichen, Generalbaß (1728: 905): Appropriation of the Schema Concept to
Chord-Form Progressions in General.

419
EXAMPLE 2.26, David Kellner, Treulicher Unterricht im General-baß (1732: 31, 34):
The Schemata of the Twelve Major and Minor Keys.

420
. . . EXAMPLE 2.26, continued.

421
EXAMPLE 3.1, An Abstract Historical Environment (from Gjerdingen 1988: 99, Figure 6.1).

EXAMPLE 3.2, Carl Stamitz, Symphony in G major, Op. 9 no. 2, i (1772), Title Page and basso part
excerpt as le – sol – fi – sol ‘partimento.’

422
. . . EXAMPLE 3.2, continued.

423
EXAMPLE 3.3, Joseph Haydn, String Quartet in C major, Op. 54 no. 2 (1788), i, bb. 43–62:
le – sol – fi – sol regola/Schema.
43

sol ti do ti do ti do
( )( )( ( )

G: V! I V6t I V6t i#

49

...
( ) ...

5e 6r K7t !
VI i +iv0 V ...

55

do
D ( )

8Q 7
inter-functional/-stage progression
V I intra-functional/-stage expansion and grouping

424
EXAMPLE 3.4, Jan Ladislav Dussek, Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 45 no. 1 (1800), i,
bb. 116–125: le – sol – fi – sol regola/Schema.

iV
!
6r
)

VI i +iv0
7t
6r
5e
(

ig:
(
116

121

EXAMPLE 3.5, Fenaroli, Partimenti ossia basso numerato (c. 1800), Book VI, Partimento No. 1.

6e 5e® 5e® 6r 7t ! 6r 7t ! 6r 7t !

425
EXAMPLE 3.6, Nicolaos Halikiopoulos Mantzaros, Realisation of Fenaroli’s Partimento in
Example 3.5, from Mantzaros 1850; 1856.

6e 5e® 5e® 6r 7t ! 6r 7t ! 6r 7t !

EXAMPLE 3.7(a), First-order scale-degree probabilities (diatonic continuations),

from Huron 2006: 159, Table 9.2.

(b), Schematic illustration of scale-degree successions for major-key melodies,

from Huron 2006: 160, Figure 9.7.

426
EXAMPLE 3.8, Eighteenth-century French scale-degree terminology, from Dandrieu 1719: 5.

427
EXAMPLE 3.9, Schematic illustration of scale-degree successions for scale-degrees 7, +4, and +1 for
major-key melodies, from Huron 2006: 161, Figure 9.8.

EXAMPLE 3.10, Schematic illustration of scale-degree successions for scale-degrees –6 and +4,
after Huron 2006 (line widths are relative).

428
EXAMPLE 3.11, Haydn, String Quartet in F minor, Op. 55 no. 2, ‘Razor’ (1788), ii, bb. 1–13:
le – sol – fi – sol regola: scalar variant with octave duplications.

12
Consequent
f: HC
Antecedent

429
 The Architecture of Eighteenth-Century Tonal Syntax:
A Summary Tonal Syntax: a Summary.
EXAMPLE 3.12, The Architecture of Eighteenth-Century

+6 Sla Tla

–6 Sle Tle

5 Tsol Ssol Dsol

4 Sfa Dfa

–+ 3 Tmi/me Smi Tmi/me

2 Sre Dre

1 Tdo Sdo Tdo

+7 Dti Dti

–7 Dte

+6 Sla

–6 Sle

5 Dsol

cadence galante schema

interfunctional progressions
intrafunctional progressions
neighbouring progressions (often elaborated by a double neighbour:
e.g. ( Dsol — Sle — Dsol ) becomes ( Dsol — Sle — Sfa —Dsol )
passing-expansive progressions

430
EXAMPLE 3.13, Table of Chord-Form Affinities, from Gervais, Méthode (1733: 25–26).

431
MUSI211 02 (Spring 2009)
© Vasili Byros 2009

TheThe
EXAMPLE 3.14, Vocabulary
Vocabulary ofof Eighteenth-Century
Eighteenth-Century Tonal
Tonal Syntax: Syntax:
a Summary.
A Summary

T S D
5/3 (I, i) 4/2 (ii, iiø)
do 6/4 (IV, iv)
6/3 (vi, VI)
[7]/5/3 (ii, iio[ø]) 4/3 (V)
re 6/[5]/3 (viio)
6/4 (V)
mi /me 6/3 (I, i) 4/2 (IV, iv)
6/[5]/3 (ii, iiø) 4/2 (V)
fa 6/3 (N) 6/4/[3] (viio)
5/3 (IV, iv)
fi
[7]/5/[+]3 (+ivo)***
6/[5] (II)***
sol
6/4 (I, i) 4/2 VI [7]/5/3[+] (V)
6/4 (I, i)
5/3 (vi, VI) 6/[5]/3 (IV, iv)
la/le
6/3 (IV, iv) 5/3 (vi, VI)
6/4/3 (ii, iiø)
4/2 (viio)
+6/3 (It.6)***
le +6/5/3 (Ger.6)***
+6/4/3 (Fr.6)***
ti
6/5 (V)
[7]/5/3 (viio[ø])
te 6/3 v
*** = +4-based chords

432
EXAMPLE 3.15, ‘Table for Exercising the Chord of the Second,’ from Dandrieu 1719.

433
EXAMPLE 3.16, The vi 6/3 Chord in Prototypical Syntactic Context, from Dandrieu 1719.

434
EXAMPLE 3.17, Chord Probability in a Sample of Baroque Music, from Huron 2006: 251.

EXAMPLE 3.18, Wenceslaus Wodiczka, Op. 1 no. 3, i, bb. 1–3, Harmonic Function in Romanesca
and Prinner Schemata, adapted from Gjerdingen 2007: 46.

do ti la mi fa mi re sol do

6e 6e 6e 7 7
I V vi I IV I ii V I

435
EXAMPLE 3.19, Mozart, Piano Sonata in C major, K. 545 (1788), i, bb. 1–12, Prinner Schema and
Harmonic Function, adapted from Gjerdingen 2007: 365.

C: HC

436
EXAMPLE 3.20, Mozart, Piano Sonata in C major, K. 279 (1774), i, bb. 25–30, Indugio Schema and
sous- and sus-dominante Sfa – Tsol – Sla expansions.
Indugio

EXAMPLE 3.21, Mozart, Fantasy in C minor K. 396 (1782), i, bb. 1–3: Sle – Tsol – Sfa expansion as
diatonic basis of the le – sol – fi – sol regola.

437
EXAMPLE 3.22, Mozart, Symphony in D major, ‘Prague,’ K. 504 (1786), Finale, bb. 41–60:
le – sol – fa – fi – sol hybrid/‘associate’ schema/regola.

5e~~* 5e~~* 6r
I VI i
a: HC (medial caesura)

7I~~* 7I~~* ! = becomes

iv +iv0 V

438
EXAMPLE 3.23, Mozart, Don Giovanni, Overture, K. 527 (1787), bb. 1–14: iv6–Ger. 6 ‘derivation’ as
mirror image of le – sol – fa – fi – sol regola.

d: HC

la

7 6e ^td 6r !
vi iv Ger. i V

439
EXAMPLE 3.24, Domenico Cimarosa, Piano Sonata in F major, C. 41 (1775?), bb. 21–24:
le – sol – fa – fi – sol hybrid/‘associate’ schema/regola.

te
do

f: HC

23
21

440
EXAMPLE 3.25, Vogler, Kuhrpfälzische Tonschule (1778), Table XXI, Figure 5:
Sharp-Four-Based Chords in the Context of ‘Ten Cadences’ (Image provided the
Irving S. Gilmore Music Library of Yale University).

Georg Joseph Vogler, Gründe der Kuhrpfälzischen Tonschule in Beispielen,

Table XXI, Figure 5 (Mannheim 1778),
Image provided by The Irving S. Gilmore Music Library of Yale University.

EXAMPLE 3.26, Vogler, Kuhrpfälzische Tonschule (1778), Table XXVII: ‘IV’ and ‘II’ used to
represent the Augmented Sixth and Diminished-Seventh Chords on scale degree
+4 (Image provided the Irving S. Gilmore Music Library of Yale University).

Georg Joseph Vogler, Gründe der Kuhrpfälzischen Tonschule in Beispielen,

Table XXVII (Mannheim 1778),
441
Image provided by The Irving S. Gilmore Music Library of Yale University.
EXAMPLE 3.27, T–D, D–T phrase-structure in Leonard Meyer’s Changing-Note Archetypes,
adapted from Gjerdingen 1988: 56, Example 4–1.

do re ti do
(( T D ) ; ( D T ))

do ti re do
(( T D ) ; ( D T ))

pedal: do do do do
(( T D ) ; ( D T ))
vii vii

do re ti do
(( T D ) ; ( D T ))

do re ti do
(( T D ) ; ( D T ))

442
EXAMPLE 3.28, Ludwig van Beethoven, Lamentations of Jeremiah sketch, p. 96r in the Kafka
Miscellany (Beethoven 1786–1799): le – sol – fi – sol regola.

... ...
96r
11/15
9/14 XX

ebenso eben so eben so usw

10/14 XX
12/15
mit dem knie

d: ( )

443
EXAMPLE 3.29, le – sol – fi – sol Cadential Probabilities.

1% (DC) 2% (DE)
14% (O)
Half Cadence
3% (IAC) Perfect Authentic Cadence
Imperfect Authentic Cadence
62% (HC)
18% (PAC) Other
Deceptive Cadence
Dominant Expanding

EXAMPLE 3.30, Emanuel Bach, Keyboard Sonata in A major Wq. 55:4 (1765), ii, bb. 29–32:
le – sol – fi – sol Schema as part of a PAC cadential formula.
f :

29

(
5e
f : VI

f :

)
6r 7tA 6r 5Q∑
i +iv0 i V i

444
EXAMPLE 3.31, Johann Sebastian Bach, Cello Suite in D minor (1720), BWV 1008, Courante,
le – sol – fi – sol regola PAC articulations in a Rounded-Binary Structure.

[ cadenza composta
[ Indugio

12

( ( ) )
]
]

16 a: PAC

do
T
i
20

24
F: PAC

[ cadenza composta ]
[ Indugio ]

d: PAC
28

( ( ) ) )

445
EXAMPLE 3.32, Dussek, Grande symphonie concertante in B-flat major, Op. 60 (1805–06), Finale
bb. 410–416: le – sol – fi – sol PAC articulation in a Codetta.

V I
7
6r~~*
I
)

i +iv0
7t~~#
6r~~§
VI
5e~~#
(
410

446
EXAMPLE 3.33, Dussek, Piano Sonata in A minor, Op. 18 no. 2 (c. 1792), i, bb. 176–183:
le – sol – fi – sol PAC articulation at moment of ESC (‘essential structural closure’).

176

a: PAC (ESC)
180

EXAMPLE 3.34, Giovanni Battista Sammartini, Symphony in G major, J–C 44 (early 1740s), i,
bb. 75–77: le – sol – fi – sol HC articulation in Da Capo Overture form.
75 g: HC

[f]

f p 3

f p 3

f [ p]

f p

[f]

( ( ( ) ) )

447
EXAMPLE 3.35, Sammartini, Symphony in G major, J–C 44, bb. 107–110: le – fi – sol variant in a
structural HC setting.

[Tempo Primo]

arco
[f]
[f]

f
f

)
g: HC

)
(
107
[Tr]

Viola A

Viola B

448
EXAMPLE 3.36, Haydn, Symphony No. 34 in D minor (1766), i, bb. 1–18, Symphonic Introduction,
le – sol – fi – sol Half Cadence.

d: HC

( ( ) )

449
EXAMPLE 3.37, Haydn, Symphony No. 34 in D minor (1766), i, bb. 67–76, le – sol – fi – sol Half
Cadence and Retransitional Dominant.

Retransition d: HC

67

( ( ) )

73 Recapitulation

450
EXAMPLE 3.38, Beethoven, Piano Trio in G major, Op. 1 no. 2 (1794–95), iv, bb. 220–228,
Retransitional Dominant, le – sol – fi – sol Half Cadence.

)
g: HC

)
(
Retransition

g:
220

451
EXAMPLE 3.39, Johann Baptist Vanhal, Symphony in G minor, g2 (1764–67), i, bb. 10–18:
le – sol – fi – sol Medial Caesura Half Cadence.

g: ( )

g: HC

Medial Caesura Second Theme

452
EXAMPLE 3.40, Vanhal, Symphony in G minor, g2 (1764–67), i, bb. 73–78:
le – sol – fi – sol Retransitional Dominant Half Cadence.

Recapitulation

)
g: HC

)
)(
)
Retransition

g:
73

453
EXAMPLE 3.41, Mozart, Piano Sonata in F major, K. 332 (1788), i, bb. 66–70, 201–06:
le – sol – fi – sol Half Cadences in Post-Medial Caesura Contexts.

EXPOSITION: Post-Medial Caesura

c: HC

EXPOSITION: Post-Medial Caesura

c: HC

... ( ) )

c:
... ( ) )
RECAPITULATION: Post-Medial Caesura
c:
f: HC

RECAPITULATION: Post-Medial Caesura

f: HC

f:
)

f:

454
EXAMPLE 3.42, Johann Christian Bach, Symphonie concertante in E major (early 1770s) ii, bb. 79–81,
le – sol – fi – sol Half Cadence as preparation for Cadenza.

e: HC
79

3 3 cadenza
3 3

f 3 3 3

[f] 3 3 3

[f]

f 3 3 3

[f] 3 3 3

f con bassi

( )

5e 6r 7t 6r !
e: i VI i +iv0 i V

455
EXAMPLE 3.43, Mozart, Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major, K. 488 (1786), i, bb. 12–24:
le – sol – fi – sol Cadenza PAC strategy.

12

5e~~*
a: VI

17

6r~~* 7t~~*
i +iv0

A: PAC
21

6r 7
I V ...

456
EXAMPLE 3.44, Haydn, Piano Concerto in D major, Hob. VXIII: 11 (1784), ii, Cadenza, bb. 7–8:
le – sol – fi – sol leading to PAC at point of soloist and orchestra reunion.

( )

5e~~* 6r~~* 7t~~* 6r

a: VI i +iv0 I

EXAMPLE 3.45, le – sol – fi – sol Intra- and Inter-Key Statistics: Modulating Variants.

.5%
1.3%

21.5%
Intra-Key Instances

Major Third (I~VI)

76.2% Minor Second (V~VI)

Minor Third (IV~VI)

Perfect Fifth (III~VI)

457
EXAMPLE 3.46, Emanuel Bach, Probestück No. 11 (1753, Sonata No. 4, ii): le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key
Variant, modulation from D major to F-sharp minor.

13

17

458
 . . . EXAMPLE 3.46, Continued.

21

( )

5e 5e •~6r ª``~ •~7t ª``~

D: I f : VI i +iv0

24

5Q® 6r
V i

25

459
EXAMPLE 3.47, Beethoven, Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 14 no. 1 (1798), i, bb. 71–83:
le – sol – fi – sol modulating variant and retransitional dominant.

C: PAC

74

((

77

e: HC Retransition

80

460
EXAMPLE 3.48, Franz Schubert, Piano Sonata in F-sharp minor, Unfinished, D. 571 (1817), i,
bb. 88–101: le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Variant as Expositional Retransition.

88

93

retransition
∫

98
∫

( )

5e 5e 6r 7t 6r 7Q
D: I f : VI i +iv0 i V

461
EXAMPLE 3.49, Beethoven, Triple Concerto, Op. 56 (1804), i, bb. 456–461: le – sol – fi – sol
Inter-Key Variant in a DC: HC Strategy/Cadential Pairing.

c: HC

V
5e
)

+iv0
dt7~~#
6r~~#
i
∫
VI
e5~~*
c:
c: DC (b. 453)

456

8td~~#E
I
A:
456

462
EXAMPLE 3.50, Haydn, String Quartet in D major, Op. 50 no. 6 (1787), i, bb. 138–150:
le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Variant in a DC-to-PAC strategy.

138 D: DC

D: B:

143

( )

e5~~* e5~~* 6r~~* t7~~* 6r

B: I d: VI i +iv0 I

147
D: PAC (ESC)

do
)

7td
V I

463
EXAMPLE 3.51, Mozart, Grabmusik, K. 42 (1767), Aria, ‘Felsen, spaltet euren Rachen,’
bb. 144–154: le – sol – fi – sol regola, Inter-Key Variant.

)
g: HC
LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY VARIANT

V
!
)

VI i +iv0
7t
6r
5e
(

g:

∫
I
5e
(

((

E:
144

464


( LE—SOL—FI—SOL )

43 –nam, et lux per–pe– –tu–a et lux per–pe– –tu–a lu– –ce– at e – – is

of le – sol – fi – sol regola.

et lux per – pe – tu–a et lux per – pe – tu–a lu– –ce–at e – – is

–na,

465
6r 7e~~I 6 5 6r 5e~~Q

( )

5e 6r 7I 6r 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 i V
EXAMPLE 3.52, Mozart, Reqiuem, K. 626 (1791), ‘Introitus,’ bb. 43–46: the extramusical resonances
EXAMPLE 3.53, Geographical Distribution of the le – sol – fi – sol Population, 1720–1840:
(Cities and towns were registered that either featured at least one instance in a com-
position known to have been composed or performed there, or otherwise were resi-
dences of composers whose works employ the schema.

466
EXAMPLE 3.54, Historical Distribution of the le – sol – fi – sol Population, 1720–1840.

150
135
120
105
90
75
60
45
88.4%
30
15
0
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830

EXAMPLE 3.55, Historical Distribution of the 1–7, 4–3 Population, 1720–1840, after
Gjerdingen 1988.

150
135
120
105
90
75
60
45
30
90.4%
15
0
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830

467
EXAMPLE 4.1, Schubert, ‘Morgengruß,’ from Die schöne Müllerin (1823).

12

17

468
EXAMPLE 4.2, Formal Tabulation of Perceptions (p), Events (EV), Contexts (CXT), and
Perception-Statements (PR-list) for ‘Morgengruß,’ from Lewin 1986 (Figure 7).

469
EXAMPLE 4.3, Perception-Statements on ‘Morgengruß,’ Lewin 1986: Figure 8 (cf. Example 4.2).

EXAMPLE 4.4, Apperception and the ‘Theoretical Context’ of Cognition, Lewin 1986 (Figure 5).

EXAMPLE 4.5, Weber, Versuch (1830–32), Figure 195.i., § 214, 205, Gewohnheiten des Gehöres.

470
EXAMPLE 4.6, The ‘Schema’ as Epistemological Centre of Situated Cognition:
Memory, Culture, and Communication as Radial Categories Operating on
Linguistic and Historical Axes.

ry

C ul o
u re c a t i o n

m
Me
ni

Comm t
u
historical SCHEMA

linguistic

EXAMPLE 4.7, Combined Historical Population Distributions of the le – sol – fi – sol and 1–7, 4–3
Schemata as Symptoms of the Classical Style (cf. Examples 3.54–3.55).
67+% of peak = ‘High Classical Style’

200
180
160
140
120
100
80
60
40
20 89.1%
0
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830
combined:
le – sol – fi – sol:
471
1–7, 4–3:
EXAMPLE 4.8, Representation of the Classical Style as Highly Constrained, using the data of
Example 4.7 as ‘Input’ to the Situated Cognition Framework
(cf. Examples 4.6–4.7).

67+% of peak = ‘High Classical Style’

Memory
Culture
200 Communication
180
160
140
120
100
80
60
40
20
historical
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830

SCHEMA

linguistic

472
EXAMPLE 4.9, ‘A Uniform Distribution,’ Representing a Highly Unconstrained Style Form,
from Gjerdingen 1988: 101 (cf. Examples 3.54–3.55 and 4.7).

EXAMPLE 4.10, ‘Possible Population Distribution of A Common Style Form,’ Representing a

Loosely Constrained Structure, Potentially Relevant to Several Musical Styles and
Cultures, from Gjerdingen 1988: 102 (cf. Examples 3.54–3.55 and 4.7).

473
EXAMPLE 5.1, The Association of Schemata by Memory Nodes (Gjerdingen 1988: 61;
adapted from Becker 1973: 410).

EXAMPLE 5.2, The Association of Concepts by a Network of Memory Nodes (Gjerdingen 1988:
60; adapted from Lachman and Lachman 1979: 163).

474
EXAMPLE 5.3, 1–7, 4–3 Schema: Abstract Mental Representation (Gjerdingen 1988: 64).

EXAMPLE 5.4, 1–7, 4–3 Schema: Abstract Mental Representation (Gjerdingen 2007: 459).

Open Closed

Weak Strong Weak Strong

5 6 6 5
3 3 5 3

 


475
EXAMPLE 5.5, le – sol – fi – sol Schema: Abstract Mental Representation.

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL)

∂
5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ ®6r 7tK

EXAMPLE 5.6, Emanuel Bach, Versuch, Voice-Leading Issues with Diminished Seventh Chords on
Scale Degree +4 (1753: 133).

476
EXAMPLE 5.7, Mozart, Piano Concerto No. 1 in F major, K. 37 (1767), ii, Andante, bb. 47–51:
le – sol – fi – sol Schema: 6/4/2 First-Order Variable (cf. Example 5.5).

V
5e
)

+iv0
d7t~~#
6rs~~#D
i
VI
5e~~#
(

c:

477
EXAMPLE 5.8, le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Variant: Abstract Mental Representation

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY VARIANT)

key:

∂
5e M3rd 5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ ®6r 7tK

EXAMPLE 5.9, The Schema as Constraint Network (Rumelhart, Smolensky, et al. 1986: 10).

L R

. . . etc . . .

478
EXAMPLE 5.10, le – sol – fi – fa . . . Variant: (a) Haydn, Piano Sonata in C major, Hob.XVI: 21, i,
Allegro, bb. 79–83; (b) Abstract Mental Representation.

i
6e

6e
vii0
6Rs
)

+iv0
7t

6Rs~ ~~d∂
(LE—SOL—FI—FA . . . )
i
6r
VI
5e
(

7tK∂
i
a:

s6r∂
5e
(a)

(b)

479
EXAMPLE 5.11(a), Haydn, Symphony in C major, ‘Laudon’ (c. 1778), iv, bb. 158–171:
le – sol – fi – sol Modulating Fonte Variant.

5e 6r
d: i VI i

K7t 6rS 7tK 5e

+iv0 C: vii0 V I

480
EXAMPLE 5.11(b), le – sol – fi – sol Modulating Fonte Variant: Abstract Mental Representation.

5e
(LE—SOL—FI—SOL ‘FONTE’ VARIANT:

7tK
∂
LE—SOL—FI—FA LE—SOL)

6rs
M2nd
key:

7tK∂
s6r∂
5e

481
EXAMPLE 5.12, ‘Fonte’ Schema, from Gjerdingen 2007: 456.
Minor
Major

Weak Strong
Weak Strong
x w x w
➪
6 5
3 3 6 5
One step
3 3
lower
j
p j
p

EXAMPLE 5.13, ‘Monte’ Schema, from Gjerdingen 2007: 458.

Weak Strong
Weak Strong
yx
yx w
w
➪ 6 5
6 5 One step 5 3
5 3 higher
j
j p
p

482
EXAMPLE 5.14(a), Beethoven, Eroica Symphony, Recapitulation, bb. 398–408:
le – sol – fi – sol ‘Fonte-Monte Hybrid’Variant.

I
5I
)

pizz.
LE—SOL—FI—SOL ‘FONTE-MONTE’ HYBRID

V
sf

sf

7tK
vii0
6rS
F:
cresc.

i +iv0
p

7tK
6r
VI
5e
(

g:
I
5e
fp
(

E:
4

4
3

483
EXAMPLE 5.14(b), le – sol – fi – sol ‘Fonte-Monte Hybrid’ Variant: Abstract Mental Representation.

5e
7tK
∂
6rs
(LE—SOL—FI—SOL ‘FONTE-MONTE’ HYBRID:

M2nd
key:
DO LE—SOL—FI—FA LE—SOL)

7tK∂

M2nd
key:
s6r∂
5e
5e

484
EXAMPLE 5.15, Beethoven, Trio for Strings in C minor, Op. 9 no. 3 (1797–98), i, bb. 188–193:
Tdo (I) ~ Sle (VI) Transformation:

5e 5e 7tK
D: I f: VI V

EXAMPLE 5.16, Third- and Fourth-Order Markov Transition Matrices: Formal Representation of
the ‘Spreading Activation’ and Highly Constrained Disposition of the
le – sol – fi – sol Schema (cf. Examples 5.17–5.18, 3.7(a), and 3.17).

R1 R2 R3 R4
I (+1)MA5/3 (+1)MI5/3 (–1)DOM4/2 (–1)DOM7
[MA5/3(–1)MI6/4(–1)DIM7] 85.94 6.25 4.53 3.28

le — sol — fi — sol ~ ti – do – fa ~ le – sol

R
I (0)MA5/3
[MA5/3(–1)MI6/4(–1)DIM7(+1)MI6/4] 100

le — sol — fi — sol . . . sol

485
EXAMPLE 5.17, Abstract Representation of Schema Implication and Realisation,
from Gjerdingen 2007: 374.

(a), An Implication I and Realisation R Combined in Schema A.

I R

I R

A
(b), An Implication I can join with Various Realisations R1, R2, R3 . . .

R1 A

R1 A

I R2 B

I R2 B

R3 C

R3 C

486
EXAMPLE 5.18, Three Different Realisations of la fausse Quinte, from Gjerdingen 2007: 375.

487
EXAMPLE 5.19(a), Mozart, Symphony No. 16 in C major, K. 128, i (1772), bb. 46–62:
le – sol – fi ~ ti – do Tonic Variant.

( )

5e~~# 6r~~# d7t~~# 7td~~# 5e

g: VI i +iv0 d: vii0 i

488
EXAMPLE 5.19 (b), le – sol – fi ~ ti – do Tonic Variant: Abstract Mental Representation

(LE—SOL—FI TI—DO TONIC VARIANT)

key:

5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ P5th 7tK∂ 5E

EXAMPLE 5.2o, An Associative Network of Changing-Note Schemata (Gjerdingen 1988: 62).

489
EXAMPLE 5.21(a), Haydn, Piano Sonata No. 18 in B-flat major, i (1767), bb. 69–74: Schema
Variation by Second-Order Variable: The 6/3-Chord Variant.

8e
i
&r
V
7Q
LE—SOL—FI—SOL 6/3 VARIANT

i
6r
)

+iv0
7t
i
6r
iv
6e
(

g:

490
EXAMPLE 5.21(b), le – sol – fi – sol 6/3-Chord Variant: Abstract Mental Representation.

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL 6/3 VARIANT)

or

∂
6e 8yf *ug *yg∂ ®6r 7tK
or

EXAMPLE 5.22, Mozart, Symphony in G major, K. 124, ii (1772), Andante, bb. 11–12, 43–44:
Changing-Note Archetype Parallelism and Implications of Memory Nodes for
Analysis, from Gjerdingen 1988: 63 (cf. Example 5.20).

491
EXAMPLE 5.23(a), Beethoven, Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58, i (1804), bb. 104–111
(Exposition) and 278–281 (Recapitulation): Formal Identification of
104 le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key and Top-Voice Inter-Key Variants.

109

( )

5e~~* 5e~~* 6r~~* 7t~~* 5Q

( )
+iv0
5e~~* 5e~~* 6r~~* 7t~~* 5Q
B: I d: VI i V
B: I d: VI i +iv0 V
492
 . . . EXAMPLE 5.23(a), continued.

V
5Q
)

Ger.
^td~~E
g:
piano:

5e~~#
I
E:
278

493
EXAMPLE 5.23(b), le – sol – fi – sol Top-Voice Inter-Key Variant: ‘Derivation’ and Abstract
Mental Representation.

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY VARIANT)

key:

∂
5e M3rd 5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ ®6r 7tK

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY TOP-VOICE VARIANT)

key:
∂
5e M3rd 8td 7td ^td ®6r 7tK

494
EXAMPLE 5.24, Emanuel Bach, Sonata for Two-Manual Harpsichord, Wq. 69, iii (1747):
le – sol – fi and Augmented Sixth Chord Identifications.

Theme

( )

5e 6r 7t 6r 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 i V

Var. I

^td &tA~~~~~~~8
d: Ger. V

Var. II

( )

5e 6r 7t 6r 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 i V

495
 . . . EXAMPLE 5.24, continued . . .

Var. III

( )

5e 6r 7t 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 V

Var. V

^td &tA~~~~~~~8
d: Ger. V

Var. VI

( )

5e 6r 7t 6r 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 i V

496
 . . . EXAMPLE 5.24, continued.

Var. VII

( )

5e 6r 7t 6r 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 i V

Var. VIII

( )

5e 6r 7t 5Q
d: VI i +iv0 V

Var. IX

^td &tA~~~~~~~8
d: Ger. V

497
EXAMPLE 5.25(a), Beethoven, Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Op. 37, i (1800–03), bb. 410–416
and Cadenza, bb. 1–5: le – sol – fi – sol Interpolated Augmented Sixth and
Augmented Sixth Variants, and their Identification with the ‘Default Form.’

410

( ) ( )

5e~ ^td 6r~~ K7t~~ 6r ^td 6r~~ K7t~ 6r

c: VI Ger. i +iv0 i Ger. i +iv0 i

( )

5e~ 6r~~ 7t~ 6r

c: VI i +iv0 i

498
EXAMPLE 5.25(b), le – sol – fi – sol (Interpolated) Augmented Sixth Variant:
Abstract Mental Representation.

(LE—SOL—FI—SOL [INTEROLATED] AUG. SIXTH VARIANT)

7tK
∂
®6r
*ug
8yf
^td
5e

499
EXAMPLE 5.26, Mozart, String Quintet in D major, K. 593, iv (1790), bb. 246–255: le – sol – fi – sol
Augmented Sixth Variant with Nested Top-Voice Inter-Key Variant.

V
)

5e®
)
INTERPOLATED AUG. SIXTH & TOP-VOICE VARIANT

+iv0
7t
i
6r
d: Ger.
^td~~I
I
5e
(

B:
(
246

500
EXAMPLE 5.27(a), Haydn, Symphony No. 65 in A major, i (c.1771/1773), bb. 66–80:
le – sol – fi . . . sol Chromatic ‘Loop of Death’ Variant (cf. Example 2.21).

5e~~* 5e~~*
G: I b: VI

) (

6r~~* d7t~~ 6rs 7td ^td

i +iv0 a: vii0 V g : Ger.

501
 . . . EXAMPLE 5.27(a), continued.

6r~~* d7t~~ 6rs 7td

i +iv0 f : vii0 V

502
EXAMPLE 5.27(b), le – sol – fi . . . sol Chromatic ‘Loop of Death’ Variant:
Abstract Mental Representation (cf. Example 2.21).

key:

m2nd
(LE—SOL—FI . . . SOL CHROMATIC ‘LOOP OF DEATH’ VARIANT)

7tK
6rs M2nd
key:

7tK∂
s6r∂
∂
^td
5e

503
EXAMPLE 5.28(a), Mozart, Symphony No. 27 in G major, K. 199, ii (1773), bb. 21–27:
Interpolated Augmented Sixth as ‘Summary’ of the le – sol – fi Progression.

V
7tA
i
6r
Ger.
^td
‘
‘
i
6r
)

+iv0
7t~~*
6r~~
i
VI
5e~
(

d:

504
EXAMPLE 5.28(b), Dussek, Piano Trio in E minor, Op. 2 no. 3 (Craw 32), i (1787), bb. 125–129:
Interpolated Augmented Sixth as ‘Summary’ of the le – sol – fi Progression.

V
5Q
Ger.
^td
)

+iv0
7t~~*
6r~~
i
VI
5e~
(

e:

505
EXAMPLE 5.29, Saussure, Cours de linguistique général (1922: 175):
Constellation of Linguistic Terms Associated by Semantic, Grammatical,
Syntactic, and Acoustic Resonances.

EXAMPLE 5.30, Saussure, Cours de linguistique général (1922: 178): Paradigmatic Construction and
Analysis of the Syntagm.

506
EXAMPLE 5.31, Mapping of the Becker-Gjerdingen Memory System onto Saussure’s
‘Constellations’ as Representations of the ‘Mechanism of langue.’
(Saussure 1922; Becker 1973; Gjerdingen 1988)

(Schema D)
(Node II)
(Schema C)

(Node I)

(Schema B)
(Schema A)

507
EXAMPLE 5.32, Application of Linguistic Categories to the Becker-Gjerdingen Memory System,
after Saussure 1922 (cf. Example 5.29–5.31).

(dé-coller) (re-faire)
(FAIRE)

(DÉ)

(contre-faire)

(dé-placer)
(dé-faire)

508
EXAMPLE 5.33, le – sol – fi – sol Associative Network: light-grey area represents the augmented
sixth concept as an emergent property of the system; dark-grey area represents
the augmented sixth chord as a feature in the schema
(cf. Examples 5.1, 5.20, 5.29–5.32).

6e
®6r 7tK

®6r 7tK
∂

6Rs~ ~~d∂
7tK∂

7tK∂
7tK∂
s6r∂

s6r∂
s6r∂
5e

5e
5e M3rd
key:

5e
(INTER-KEY VARIANT)

(LE—SOL—FI—FA . . . )
(‘DEFAULT FORM’)

509
 ∂
(AUG. SIXTH VARIANT)
5e ^td 8yf *ug ®6r 7tK

key:
∂
(‘FONTE’ VARIANT) 5e

510
s6r∂ 7tK∂ M2nd 6rs 7tK 5e
. . . EXAMPLE 5.33, continued . . .

key:
∂
(‘FONTE-MONTE’ HYBRID) 5e
5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ M2nd 6rs 7tK 5e

key: M2nd
 key: key:
∂
(‘LOOP OF DEATH’) ^td
5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ M2nd 6rs 7tK m2nd

key:
∂
(TOP-VOICE VARIANT)

511
5e M3rd 8td 7td ^td ®6r 7tK
. . . EXAMPLE 5.33, continued.

key:

(TONIC VARIANT)
5e s6r∂ 7tK∂ P5th 7tK∂ 5E
EXAMPLE 6.1, Beethoven, Op. 2 no. 1 (1795), ii, Adagio, bb. 6–8: cadence galante Schema.

( CADENCE GALANTE )

*
6

EXAMPLE 6.2(a), Historical Distribution of the le – sol – fi – sol Inter-Key Variant, 1720–1840.

100
90
80
70
60
50
40
30
20
10 89%
0
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830 1840

512
EXAMPLE 6.2(b), Composers as Historical Agents: Population Distribution of the le – sol – fi – sol
in Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven’s Oeuvres (cf. Example 3.1).

30

25

20

15

10

0
1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820 1830 1840

Haydn:
Mozart:
Beethoven:

EXAMPLE 6.3, Significance of Ambiguous Perceptual Stimuli for the Indication of Schema
Activation, from Palmer 2002 :206. Photography by R.C James.

513
EXAMPLE 6.4, Weber, Versuch, § 215: the effects of re-hearing in the Vogelfänger song from Mozart’s
Die Zauberflöte, ‘Die Vogelfänger Bin Ich Ja,’ bb. 5–8.

EXAMPLE 6.5, ‘Cloud’ strain response as synonymous with an ‘Impossible Cube’ interpretation of
the Necker Cube (cf. Example 1.2).

‘Impossible Cube’

≈ G minor strain ≈ ‘Cloud’ strain ≈ E-flat strain

514
 ( FONTE
( FENAROLI/
MONTE )
( LE—SOL—FI—SOL ) ( LE—SOL—FI—SOL ) ( FENAROLI
viola: Neuer Anfang viola: Neuer Anfang

p cresc. f p cresc. f
anticipation anticipation
3
4 p
p p p

515
3
4
p cresc. p cresc.
f f
...

( ( ) )( ( ) ( ) )(

6e 5e 6Rs 6t∑ 5E 6t∑ _# 6e 5e 6rs 7W 6e 6t∑ 5E 6t∑

c: i VI i II V g: V i vii0 b: VI i II V f: V i vii0
b :V i
EXAMPLE 6.6, Mozart, String Quartet in C major, K. 465, ‘Dissonance,’ i (1785), Adagio, bb. 1–14.
 . . .)

. . .) ( FONTE )
violin 2:
9 p f
cresc.

516
cresc.
p f

...
. . . EXAMPLE 6.6, continued.

)( )( ) ( )( )

7
6e 6rd∑ 6e 6e 6rd∑ 6e
f: i E : viiø I vii0 c: vii0 i V I i
EXAMPLE 6.7, Haydn, Symphony No. 96 in D major, ‘The Miracle (1791), i , bb. 194–197:
le – sol – fi – sol Schema ‘Top-Voice Variant.’

( LE—SOL—FI—SOL )
top-voice variant

194

ff

ff

( )

6e 5e 6Rd 6t
d: VI i +iv0 V

EXAMPLE 6.8, ‘Dissonance’ Quartet, Recomposition of Dissonances in bb. 1–4, from Weber 1832,
§ 46617, based on the harmonic criteria of the le – sol – fi –sol ‘top-voice’ variant.

517
EXAMPLE 6.9, ‘Dissonance’ Quartet, Recomposition of bb. 4–5, from Weber 1832, § 495.

( MONTE )

EXAMPLE 6.10, ‘Fenaroli’ Schema, from Gjerdingen 2007, 462.

 
 

} 6
5
5
3
6
3
6
3 }
  


518
EXAMPLE 6.11, ‘Dissonance’ Quartet Prolongational Analysis from Schenker 1935.

519
EXAMPLE 6.12, Beethoven, Piano Sonata in E minor, Op. 90, i (1814), Mit lebhaftigket und
durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck, bb. 1–9:
Modulating ‘Paired do – re – mi Schema.’

( MODULATING DO—RE, RE—MI )

3
4
f p ...
3
M3rd
4

5e 5e 5e 5e 5e
e: i G: vi V V I

( MODULATING DO—RE, RE—MI )

4

... f p

5e 5e e5~~Q! e5~~Q! 5e
G: I b: VI V V i

520
EXAMPLE 6.13, Mozart, Piano Sonata in D major, K. 576 (1789), Allegretto, bb. 1–4:
‘Paired do – re – mi Schema.’

( DO—RE, RE—MI )

2
4
p
2
4
p

6e 6e 6e 5e
I ii V I

EXAMPLE 6.14, First-Order Markov Chain of Schema Probability, from Gjerdingen 2007: 372.
Converg. Cad.

Passo Indietro
Clausula Vera
Mod. Prinner

Evaded Cad.

Decep. Cad.
Falling 3rds
Quiescenza
Romanesca

Cudworth
Do-Re-Mi

Sol-Fa-Mi
Half Cad.

to
Jommelli
Aug. 6th
Cadence

Fenaroli

Indugio
Comma
Prinner

Jupiter
Monte

Meyer

Ponte
Fonte

from
Coda

Romanesca
Prinner
Mod. Prinner
Fonte
Cadence
Do-Re-Mi
Monte
Evaded Cad.
Meyer
Half Cad.
Comma
Clausula Vera
Ponte
Cudworth
Quiescenza
Fenaroli
Coda
Sol-Fa-Mi
Converg. Cad.
Indugio
Falling 3rds
Aug. 6th
Decep. Cad.
Jommelli
Jupiter
Passo Indietro

521
EXAMPLE 6.15(a), ‘Threaded’ Representation of Low-Level Schema Successions
(‘A string of schemata — il filo’), from Gjerdingen 2007: 376.

(b), ‘Threaded’ Representation of Schema Nesting and Overlapping, from

Gjerdingen 2007: 376.

a
b
d
c

522
EXAMPLE 6.16, Beethoven, Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Eroica, Op. 55 (1803), Allegro con
brio, bb. 1–18: Schema-Based Analysis and Demonstration of the filo Concept.

( “BASTIEN” ARPEGGIATION ) ( MONTE/MODULATING 1–7, 4–3 )

( LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY VARIANT )

p cresc. sf p
6
3
4
f
3
4 p
f cresc. sf p

( )

5e 5e 6r 7t 6r 6t 5r e
E: I g: VI i +iv0 i E :V I

( CADENZA COMPOSTA )
(INDUGIO) ( “BASTIEN” )
horns:
12
p
cresc.

cresc. p

( )

6t 6r 6e 6r 7td 5e
ii I IV I V I

523
EXAMPLE 6.17, Alternative Schema Paths, from Gjerdingen 2007: 379.

N P

EXAMPLE 6.18(a), Modulating 1–7, 4–3/Monte Schema.

(MODULATING 1–7, 4–3/MONTE)

key:

∂ d6t 5e
7tK∂ ®6r 7td M3rd

524
 ( “BASTIEN” ARPEGGIATION ) ( MODULATING 1–7, 4–3/MONTE )
( LE—SOL—FI—SOL INTER-KEY VARIANT )

p cresc. sf p
6

525
3
4
f
3
Underlying bb. 6–9 of the Eroica Symphony.

4 p
f cresc. sf p

( )

5e 5e 6r 7t 6r 5Q 6t 5r e
E: I g: VI i +iv0 i V E :V I
EXAMPLE 6.18(b), Hypothetical Realization of Implicit Modulating 1–7, 4–3/Monte Schema
 APPENDICES
____________________________________________

N
 APPENDIX A
w
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Drei Sonaten und drei Rondos für Klavier (Wq. 56)
Drei Sonaten und drei Rondos für Klavier (Wq. 57).
Zwei Sonaten, drei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Klavier (Wq. 58)
Zwei Sonaten, zwei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Klavier (Wq. 59)
Zwei Sonaten, zwei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Klavier (Wq. 61)
Klaviersonaten. Auswahl. Banden 1–3. Ed. by Darrell M. Berg. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Achtzehn Probe-stücke zu dem ‘Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen’ (Wq. 63). Ed. by Erich Doflein.
Mainz: B. Schott’s Söhne, 1935.
Klavier-Konzert C-moll. Wq. 43:4. Transcription for Two Pianos. Ed. and transcribed by Hugo Riemann.
Leipzig: Steingräber Verlag, c. 1910.

BACH, Johann Christian

Twelve Keyboard Sonatas: A Facsimile Edition with an Introduction by Christopher Hogwood in Two Sets. Oxford:
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BACH, Johann Sebastian

Mass in B minor. New York: Dover, 1989.
St. Matthew Passion. New York: Dover, 1990.
The Six Brandenburg Concertos and the Four Orchestral Suites. New York: Dover, 1976.
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Klavierbüchlein für Anna Mgdalena Bach. Ed. by Georg von Dadelsen. Kassel: Bärenreiter.
The Art of the Fugue and A Musical Offering. New York: Dover, 1992.
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527
Fantasy in C minor for Organ, BWV 562. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. 1851–1899.
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Sonata in D minor for Clavichord, BWV 964. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. 1851–1899.
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371 Harmonized Chorales and 69 Chorale Melodies. Ed. by Albert Riemenschneider. Schirmer, 1941.

BEETHOVEN, Ludwig van

Klaviersonaten. 2 vols. Ed. by B.A. Wallner. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
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Klavierstücke. Ed. by Otto von Irmer. G. Henle Verlag.
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Symphonies Nos. 5, 6, and 7. New York: Dover, 1989.
Symphonies No. 8 and 9. New York: Dover, 1989.
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The Creatures of Prometheus, Op. 43. New York: Dover, 2002.
The Ruins of Athens and Other Overtures. New York: Dover, 1999.
Six Great Overtures. New York: Dover, 1985.
Fidelio. New York: Dover, 1984.
Songs for Solo Voice and Piano. New York: Dover, 1986.
Mass in C and Christ on the Mount of Olives. New York: Dover, 1996.
Missa Solemnis. New York: Dover, 1991.

BENDA, Georg (Jiří Antonín)

35 Sonatinas for Keyboard. Ed. by Timothy Roberts. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.
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Symphonie fantastique, Op. 14. New York: Dover, 1997.

528
CHERUBINI, Luigi
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CIMAROSA, Domenico
Sonate per clavicembalo o fortepiano. 2 vols. Ed. by Andrea Coen. Padova, Italy: G. Zanibon, 1989.

CLEMENTI, Muzio
The London Pianoforte School. Volume 1: Works for Pianoforte Solo by Muzio Clementi, Published from 1771 to 1783.
Ed. by Nicholas Temperley. New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1987.
The London Pianoforte School. Volume 2: Works for Pianoforte Solo by Muzio Clementi, Published from 1784 to 1802.
Ed. by Nicholas Temperley. New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1984.
The London Pianoforte School. Volume 3: Works for Pianoforte Solo by Muzio Clementi, Published from 1787 to 1804.
Ed. by Nicholas Temperley. New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1984.
Samlung Berühmter Sonaten von Muzio Clementi. Band I–IV. Ed. by Adolf Ruthart. Leipzig: C. F. Peters.

COUPERIN, François
Complete Keyboard Works. Series II: Ordres XIV–XXVII and Miscellaneous Pieces. New York: Dover, 1988

CRAMER, John Baptist

The London Pianoforte School. Volume 10: Works for Pianoforte Solo by John Baptist Cramer. Ed. by Nicholas
Temperley. New York & London: Garland, 1984.

DITTERSDORF, Carl Ditters von

Metamorphosen. Sechs Symphonien nach Ovid. Study Score 438. Munich: Repertoire Explorer, 2005.
Symphonies 1. Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 2000.
Symphonies 2. Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 2000.

DONIZETTI, Gaetano
Sinfonia D-moll, per la morte di Capuzzi. Ed. by Marc Andreae. Frankfurt, New York, and London: Henry
Litolff ’s Verlag/C.F. Peters, 1979.

DURANTE, Francesco
Tocatte in C major. Milan: Ricordi.

DUSSEK, Franz Xavier

Sinfonia (Altner G2). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.
Sinfonia (Altner G4). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.
Sinfonia (Altner A4). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.
Sinfonia (Altner B-flat2). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.
Sinfonia (Altner F4). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.
Sinfonia (Altner E-flat3). Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 1997.

529
DUSSEK, Jan Ladislav
Sonate I–XXIX. 4 vols. Ed. by Jan Racek. Prague, 1960–1963.
Trois sonates pour le pianoforte avec violin et basse (Op. 2). Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel.

ERSKINE, Thomas, The Earl of Kelly

Symphony in E-flat (Periodical Overture 17). Ed. by David Johnson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974.
Trio Sonata No. 4 in C major. Ed. by David Johnson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973.
Six Sonatas for Two Violins or Flute and Violin and Continuo. Chamber Music from Georgian England.
Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire: Kings Music Gmc. 1984.

FERDINAND, Prince Louis

Piano Quintet in Cminor, Op. 1. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. 1900.
Piano Trio No. 2 in E-flat major, Op. 3. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel. 1900.

FIELD, John
The London Pianoforte School. Volume 13: Works for Pianoforte Solo by John Field, Published from 1817 to 1867. Ed. by
Nicholas Temperley. New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1986, pp. 1–230.

HANDEL, George Frideric

Messiah. Ed. by Alfred Mann. New York: Dover, 1989.
Keyboard Works for Solo Instrument. New York: Dover, 1982.

HAYDN, Joseph (1732–1809):

Critical Edition of the Complete Symphonies. Volumes I–IX. Symphonies 1–87, ‘A,’ ‘B.’ 2nd edition. Ed. by H.C.
Robbins Landon. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1981.
Symphonies Nos. 88–92. New York: Dover, 1983.
London Symphonies Nos. 93–98. New York: Dover, 1997.
London Symphonies Nos. 99–104. New York: Dover, 1999.
Frühe Streichquartette. Series 12, volume 1 of Joseph Haydn: Werke. Munich: Henle Verlag, 1973.
Streichquartette ‘Opus 9.’ Series 12, volume 2 of Joseph Haydn: Werke. Munich: Henle Verlag, 1963.
String Quartets Op. 17, Complete. New York: Dover, 2000.
String Quartets Opp. 20 and 33, Complete. New York: Dover, 1985.
String Quartets Opp. 42, 50 and 54. New York: Dover, 1982.
Twelve String Quartets. Opp. 55, 64 and 71, Complete. New York: Dover, 1980.
Eleven Late String Quartets. Opp. 74, 76 and 77, Complete. New York: Dover, 1979.
Concerto in C major for Cello and Orchestra. New York: International Music Company, 1967.
Concerto in D major for Cello and Orchestra. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1988.
Konzerte für Violine und Orchester. Series 3, volume 1 of Joseph Haydn: Werke. Munich: Henle Verlag, 1969.
Konzerte für Klavier (Cembalo) und Orchester. Series 15, volume 2 of Joseph Haydn: Werke. Munich: Henle
Verlag, 1983.
Complete Piano Sonatas. Volume I. Hoboken Nos. 1–29. New York: Dover, 1984.
Complete Piano Sonatas. Volume II. Hoboken Nos. 30–52. New York, Dover, 1984.
Piano Variations in F minor, Hob. XVII:6. In Oxford Keyboard Classics: Haydn. Oxford University Press, 1972.
Great Piano Trios. New York: Dover, 1995.
Trios für Pianoforte, Violine und Violoncell. Band 1. New York, London, and Frankfurt: C.F. Peters.

530
Trios für Klavier, Violine und Violoncello. Band I. Ed. by Wolfgang Stockmeier. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Trios für Klavier, Violine und Violoncello. Band II. Ed. by Wolfgang Stockmeier. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Klaviertrios. Band III. Flötentrios. Ed. by Wolfgang Stockmeier. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Trios für Klavier, Violine und Violoncello. Band IV. Ed. by Irmgard Becker-Glauch. Munich: G. Henle Verlag
Trios für Klavier, Violine und Violoncello. Band V. Ed. by Irmgard Becker-Glauch Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Die Schöpfung. Oratorium für Solostimmen, Chor, und Orchester. Frankfurt, Leipzig, London, and New York: C.F.
Peters.
The Seasons in Full Score. New York: Dover, 1986.

HAYDN, Michael
Symphony in B-flat major (1766). Budapest: Editio Musica, 1969.
Symphony in E-flat major (P17). Vienna: Dobligner, 1977.
Symphony in B-flat major (P18). Vienna: Doblinger, 1987.
Symphony in F major (P22). Vienna: Verlag Doblinger, 1981
Symphony in D minor (ST393/P20). Budapest: Editio Musica, 1960.
Symphony in F major (P32). Vienna: Doblinger, 1991.

HUMMEL, Johann Nepomuk

Sonatas, Rondos, Fantasies and Other Works for Solo Piano. New York: Dover, 1996.

KRAUS, Joseph Martin

Symphonies I. Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 2000. (VB 127, 128, 129, 138)
Symphonies II. Ed. by Allan Badley. Wellington: Artaria Editions, 2000. (VB 137, 140, 141, 144)

KUHLAU, Friedrich
Sonatina in C major, Op. 20. New York: Schirmer.

LÜBECK, Vincent
Clavier Uebung bestehend im Praeludio Fuga, Allemande, Courante, Sarabande und Gigue als auch einer Zugabe von
dem Gesang Lobt Gott ihr Christen allzugleich in einer Chaconne (Hamburg, 1728).

MÉHUL, Etienne-Nicolas
Symphony No. 1 in G minor. Ed. by David Charlton. Madison, Wisconsin: A-R Editions, 1985.

MENDELSSOHN, Felix
Symphony in C minor, Op. 11. London and Zurich: Ernst Eulenburg Ltd.
Complete Works for Piano and Orchestra. New York: Dover, 1996.
Song Without Words, Op. 38 No. 5. Frankfurt: C.F. Peters.

MOZART, Wolfgang Amadeus

Sonatas and Fantasies for the Piano. Revised edition. Ed. by Nathan Broder. King of Prussia, PA: Theodore
Presser Company, 1960.
Piano Concertos Nos. 1–6. New York: Dover, 2005.
Piano Concertos Nos. 7–10. New York: Dover, 2000.
Piano Concertos Nos. 11–16. New York: Dover, 1987.

531
Piano Concertos Nos. 17–22. New York: Dover, 1978.
Piano Concertos Nos. 23–27 and Concerto Rondo in D major. New York: Dover, 1978.
Symphonies Nos. 1–21. New York: Dover, 2000.
Symphonies Nos. 22–34. New York: Dover, 1991.
Later Symphonies. Nos. 35–41. New York: Dover, 1974
Complete String Quartets. New York: Dover, 1970.
The Violin Concerti and Sinfonia Concertante, K. 364. New York: Dover, 1986.
Concerti for Wind Instruments. New York: Dover, 1986.
Complete Sonatas and Variations for Violin and Piano: Series 1. New York: Dover, 1992.
Complete Sonatas and Variations for Violin and Piano: Series 2. New York: Dover, 1992.
Complete String Quintets with the Horn and Clarinet Quintets. New York: Dover, 1978.
Complete Piano Trios and Quartets and Piano Quintet. New York: Dover, 1991.
Six Masses. New York: Dover, 1992.
Requiem. New York: Dover, 1987.
Sacred Vocal Music: Masses. Volume 1. Series I, group 1 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1968.
Vespers and Vesper Psalms. Series I, group 2, part 2 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1959.
Betulia liberata. K. 118. Series I, group 4, part 2 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1960.
Davide penitente. K. 469. Series I, group 4, part 3 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1987.
Cantatas. Series I, group 4, part, 4 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1957.
Bastien und Bastienne. Series II, group 5, part 3 of Neue Mozart-Ausgabe. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1974.
La Clemenza di Tito. New York: Dover, 1993,
Così fan tutte. New York: Dover, 1983.
Die Entführung aus dem Serail. New York: Dover, 1989.
Don Giovanni. New York: Dover, 1974.
Idomeneo. New York: Dover, 1992.
Le Nozze di Figaro. New York: Dover, 1979.
Die Zauberflöte. New York: Dover, 1985.

OGIŃSKI, Michał Kleofas
Polonaise Célèbre in F major. Arranged by F. W. Backemann. Martens Brothers, 1881.

RAMEAU, Jean-Philippe
Complete Works for Solo Keyboard. Ed. by Camille Saint-Saëns. New York: Dover, 1993.

REICHA, Antonín
Tre Quartetti, Op. 98. Prague: Státní hudební vydavatelství, 1964.

SAMMARTINI, Giovanni Battista

The Symphonies of G.B. Sammartini. Ed. Bathia Churgin. 1968.

SCARLATTI, Domenico
Sonatas L. 191–200. Ed. Alessandro Longo. Milan: Ricordi, 1906–08.
Sonatas L. 481–500. Ed. Alessandro Longo. Milan: Ricordi, 1906–08.

532
SCHUBERT, Franz
Four Symphonies. New York: Dover, 1978.
Overtures ‘In the Italian Style’ and Other Works. New York: Dover, 2002.
Acht Symphonien. 2 vols. Leipzig and Vienna: Eulenburg, 1925.
Complete Pianoforte Sonatas, including the unfinished works. Vol 1. Ed. by Howard Ferguson. The Associated
Board of the Royal Schools of Music, 1979.
Complete Pianoforte Sonatas, including the unfinished works. Vol 2. Ed. by Howard Ferguson. The Associated
Board of the Royal Schools of Music.
Complete Pianoforte Sonatas, including the unfinished works. Vol 3. Ed. by Howard Ferguson. The Associated
Board of the Royal Schools of Music.
Impromptus. Moments musicaux. Ed. by Walter Gieseking. Munich: G. Henle Verlag.
Complete Chamber Music for Strings. New York: Dover, 1973.
Complete Chamber Music for Pianoforte and Strings. New York: Dover, 1973.
Complete Song Cycles. New York: Dover, 1970.

SCHUMANN, Robert
Sinfonie G-moll. Ed. by Marc Andreae. Frankfurt, New York, and London: C.F. Peters, 1972.

STAMITZ, Johann
The Complete Orchestral Trios. Ed. by Allan Badley. Madison, Wisconsin: A-R Editions, 2000.

TOMÁŠEK, Václav Jan Křtitel

Symphony in D major, Op. 30. Ed. by Šárka Jedičková. Prague: Editio Suprahon, 1990.

VANHAL, Johann Baptist

Six Symphonies. Part I. Ed. by Paul Bryan. Madison, Wisconsin: A-R Editions, 1985.
Six Symphonies. Part II. Ed. by Paul Bryan. Madison, Wisconsin: A-R Editions, 1985.

VIVALDI, Antonio
L’estro armonico, Op. 3. New York: Dover, 1999.
The Four Seasons and Other Violin Concertos, Op. 8 Complete. New York: Dover, 1995.

VOGLER, Georg Joseph

112 Petits Préludes für die Orgel. Ed. by Joachim Dorfmüller. Bonn-Bad Godesberg, Germany: Rob. Forberg,
Musikverlag, 1980.
Pièce de Clavecin (1798) and Zwei und Dreisig Präludien (1806). Ed. by Floyd K. Grave. Madison, Wisconsin:
A-R Editions, 1986.

WEBER, Carl Maria von

Symphony No. 2 in C major. London, Zürich, Mainz, New York: Edition Eulenburg.
Complete Sonatas, Invitation to the Dance and Other Piano Works. New York: Dover, 1992.

WEYSE, C. F. E.
The Symphonies. 4 vols. Ed. Carsten E. Hatting. Engstrøm & Sødring. 1998–2003.

533
 SYMPHONY COLLECTIONS

Mannheim Symphonists. A Collection of Twenty-Four Orchestral Works. 2 vols. Ed. by Hugo Riemann. New York:
Broude Brothers.

The Symphony 1720-1840: A comprehensive collection of full scores in sixty volumes. Barry S. Brook, editor-in-chief.
Barbara B. Heyman, associate editor. A Garland Series.

Series A, Volume I. Italy. Antecedents of the Symphony. The Ripieno Concerto. Garland, 1983.
Giuseppe Torelli (1658–1709)
Guilio Taglietti (ca. 1660–1718)
Tomaso Albinoni (1671–1751)
Evaristo Felice dall’Abaco (1675–1742)
Domenico Sarro (Sarri) (1679–1744)
Francesco Feo (1691–1761)
Leonardo Vinci (ca. 1696–1730)
Giovanni Battista Pergolesi (1710–1736)
Giuseppe Sellitto (Sellitti) (1700–1777)
Leonardo Leo (1694–1744)
Niccolò Jommelli (1714–1774)
Anonymous, (Santa Geneviafa/1741)
Giovani Paisiello (1740–1816)
Domenico Cimarosa (1749–1801)

Series A, Volume II. Sammartini. Ten Symphonies. Garland, 1984.

Giovanni Battista Sammartini (1700 or 1701–1775)

Series A, Volume III. Brioschi. Chelleri. Sacchini. Pugnani. Garland, 1985.

Antonio Brioschi (active ca. 1725–ca. 1750)
Fortunato Chelleri (ca. 1690–1757)
Antonio Sacchini (1730–1786)
Gaetano Pugnani (1731–1798)
Series A, Volume IV. Martini. Lampugnani. Anfossi. Boccherini. Mayr. Donizetti. Garland, 1983.
Padre Giovanni Battista Martini (1706–1784)
Giovanni Battista Lampugnani (ca. 1708–ca. 1788)
Pasquale Anfossi (1727–1797)
Luigi Boccherini (1743–1805)
Simone Mayr (1763–1845)
Gaetano Donizetti (1797–1848)

Series A, Volume V. Brunetti. Nine Symphonies. Garland, 1979.

Gaetano Brunetti (1744–1798)

Series A, Volume VII. The Symphony in Naples, 1800–1840. Garland, 1983.

Domenico Tritto (1776–1851)

534
 Saverio Mercadante (1795–1870)
Francesco Florimo (1800–1888)

Series A, Volume VIII. Mattei. Zingarelli. Garland, 1980.

Stanislao Mattei (1750–1825)
Niccolò Zingarelli (1752–1837)

Series B, Austria, Bohemia, Slovakia, and Hungary. Volume II. Italians in Vienna. Garland, 1983.
Francesco Bartolomeo Conti (1682–1732)
Antonio Caldara (ca. 1670–1736)
Antonio Salieri (1750–1825)

Series B, Volume III. Wagenseil. Fifteen Symphonies. Garland, 1981.

Georg Christoph Wagenseil (1715–1777)

Series B, Volume VI. Austrian Cloister Symphonists. Garland, 1982.

Johann Georg Zechner (1716–1778)
Franz Josef Aumann (1728–1797)
Johann Georg Albrechtsberger (1736–1809)
Franz Schneider (1737–1812)
Marian (Carl) Paradeiser (1747–1775)

Series B, Volume VII. Asplmayr. Hofmann. Pichl. Salzburg Part I, Leopold Mozart. Garland 1984.
Franz Asplmayr (1728–1786)
Leopold Hofmann (1738–1793)
Wenzel Pichl (1741–1805)
Leopold Mozart (1719–1787)

Series B, Volume VIII. Salzburg Part II, Eberlin, Adlgasser, M. Haydn. Garland, 1982.
Johann Ernst Eberlin (1702–1762)
Anton Cajetan Adlgasser (1729–1777)
Johann Michael Haydn (1737–1806)

Series B, Volume IX. Witt. Reicha. Eberl. Garland, 1983.

Friedrich Witt (1770–1836)
Antoine Reicha (1770–1836)
Anton Eberl (1765–1807)

Series B, Volume X. Gassmann. Vaňhal. Garland, 1981.

Florian Leopold Gassmann (1729–1774)
Jan Křtitel Vaňhal (1739–1813)

Series B, Volume XI. Gyrowetz. Dussek. Garland, 1983.

Adalbert Gyrowetz (1763–1850)
Jan Ladislav Dussek (1760–1812)

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Series B, Volume XII. The Symphony in Hungary. The Symphony in Bohemia. Garland, 1984.
Ferenc Novotny (ca. 1749–1806)
František Xaver Dušek (1731–1799)
František Xaver Brixi (1732–1771)
Antonín Vranický (1761–1820)

Series C, Germany. Volume I. Agrell. J.G. Graun. C. H. Graun. Lang. Garland, 1983.
Johann Agrell (1701–1765)
Johann Gottlieb Graun (1702/1703–1771)
Carl Heinrich Graun (1703/1704–1759)
Johann Georg Lang (1772?–1798)

Series C, Volume III. The Symphony at Mannheim. Garland, 1984.

Johann Stamitz (1717–1757)
Christian Cannabich (1731–1798)

Series C, Volume VIII. C. P. E. Bach. Six Symphonies. Garland, 1982.

Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–1788)

Series C, Volume IX. Spohr. Three Symphonies. Garland, 1980.

Louis Spohr (1784–1859)

Series C, Volume XII. Ries. Three Symphonies. Garland, 1982.

Ferdinand Ries (1784–1838)

Series D, France, Volume I. The Symphony in France, 1730–1790. Guillemain. Garland, 1984.
Jean-Féry Rebel (1666–1747)
Jean-Baptiste Cupis (1711–1788)
Louis Aubert (1720–after 1783)
François Martin (1727–1757)
Pierre Talon (1721–1785)
Marie-Alexandre Guénin (1744–1835)
Guillaume Navoigille (ca. 1745–1811)
Pelissier
Jean-Baptiste Cardonne (1730–after August 1792)
Louis-Gabriel Guillemain (1705–1770)

Series D, France, Volume III. Gossec. Garland, 1983.

François-Joseph Gossec (1734–1829)

Series D, France, Volume IV. Le Duc. Saint-Georges. Garland, 1983.

Simon Le Duc (1742–1777)
Le Chevalier de Saint-Georges (1739–1799)

536
Series D, Volume V. The Symphonie concertante. Garland, 1983.
Jean-Baptiste Davaux (1742–1822)
Giuseppe Maria Cambini (ca. 1746–ca. 1825)
Etienne-Bernard-Joseph Barrière (1748–1816 or 1818)
Jean-Baptiste Sébastien Bréval (1753–1823)
Isidore Bertheaume (1752–1802)

Series D, France, Volume VI. Pleyel. Garland, 1981.

Ignaz Pleyel (1757–1831)

Series D, France, Volume VII. The Overture in France, 1790–1810. Garland, 1983.
Etienne-Nicolas Méhul (1763–1817)
Charles-Simon Catel (1773–1830)
François-Adrien Boieldieu (1775–1834)
Rodolphe Kreutzer (1766–1831)
Jacques Widerkehr (1766–1823)
Pierre Rebeyrol (1798–1850)

Series D, France, Volume VIII. Méhul. Garland, 1982.

Etienne-Nicolas Méhul (1763–1817)

Series E, Great Britain, Volume II. Abel. J. C. Bach. Garland, 1983.

Carl Friedrich Abel (1723–1787)
Johann Christian Bach (1735–1782)

Series E, Great Britain, Volume IV/V. Crotch. Clementi. Garland, 1984.

William Crotch (1775–1847)
Muzio Clementi (1752–1832)

Series F, Volume I. The Symphony in Norway: Three Symphonies. Garland, 1981.

Johan Daniel Berlin (1714–1787)
Johan Henrich Berlin (1741–1807)
Hans Hagerup Falbe (1772–1830)

Series F, Volume II. The Symphony in Sweden, Part 1: Twelve Symphonies. Garland, 1982.
Johann Helmich Roman (1694–1758)
Joseph Martin Kraus (1756–1792)

Series F, Volume III. The Symphony in Sweden, Part 2: Fifteen Symphonies. Garland, 1983.
Ferdinand Zellbell, Sr. (1689–1765)
Arvid Niclas friherr von Höpkin (1710–1778)
Hinrich Philip Johnsen (1716–1779)
Ferdinand Zellbell, Jr. (1719–1780)
Anders Wesström (ca. 1720–1781)
Jonas Åman (fl. 1750–1770)

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 Francesco Antonio Baldassare Uttini (1723–1795)
Anders Piscator (1736–1804)
Pehr Frigel (Frigelius) (1750–1842)
Johan David Zander (1753–1796)
Johann Friedrich Gresner (1758–1795)
Johann Christian Friedrich Haeffner (1759–1833)
Joachim (Georg) Nikolas Eggert (1779–1813)
Johan Fredrik Berwald (1787–1861)
Johan Wikmanson (1753–1800)

Series F, Volume IV. The Symphony in Madrid: Seven Symphonies. Garland, 1981.
Francisco Javier Moreno (1748–1836)
Pablo del Moral (fl. 1765–1805)
Juan Balado (?–1832)
Felipe de Mayo (1789–?)
José Nonó (1776–1845)

Series F, Volume V. The Symphony in Portugal: Two Symphonies. The Symphony in Spain: Three Symphonies.
Garland, 1983.
António Leal Moreira (1758–1819)
João Domingos Bomtempo (1775–1819)
José Pons (ca. 1768–1818)

Series F, Volume VI. The Symphony in Denmark: Seven Symphonies. Garland, 1983.
Simoni dall Croubelis (ca. 1727–ca. 1790)
Johann Ernst Hartmann (1726–1793)
Claus Nielsen Schall (1757–1835)
Christoph Ernst Friedrich Weyse (1774– 1842)
Georg Gerson (1790–1825)
Johan Peter Ernst Hartmann (1805–1900)

Series F, Volume VII. The Symphony in Poland: Seven Symphonies. Garland, 1983.
Michał Orłowski (fl. 1750–1800)
Jakub Pawłowski (fl. 1750–1800)
Karol Pietrowski (fl. 1750–1800)
Bazyli Bohdanowicz (1740–1817)
Jakub Gołąbek (ca. 1739–1789)
Jan Wański (1762–1821)
Ignacy Feliks Dobrzyński (1807–1867)

538
 APPENDIX B:
w
le – sol – fi – sol Schema List

In pp. 548–605 below, all of the ‘past experiences’ relevant to the ‘sound stimulus’ (Meyer 1956)

of bb. 1– 9 of the Eroica’s opening theme have been registered from the corpus in Appendix A.

In addition to the le – sol – fi – sol schema and its variants discussed in Chapters 3, 5 and 6, sever-

al other variants have also been registered that do not form part of the discussion. For each en-

try, information is given which includes the COMPOSER and WORK, the date used for the

historical distribution statistics of Examples 3.54 and 6.2 (DATE 1), more detailed information

regarding the work’s origin (DATE 2),1 and a character string indicating the TYPE of schema in

question. For each entry in the COMPOSER/WORK column, details are also provided re-

garding the movement, bars, and key(s) in which the particular instance occurs. When a sche-

ma instance appears in a single key — that is., is a non-modulating variant — the key is registered

using accolades: {g minor}; if the schema instance does modulate, the keys and their succession

1. For example, many compositions have a range of dates, such as 1777–78, given as the date of composition.
Where more than one date was given for DATE 2, the earliest in the range was normally taken in deciding the
DATE 1 for the historical distribution statistics. When specifics about a work’s origin are unknown (as in Cima-
rosa), the year chosen for DATE 1 was based on the years that the composer flourished.

539
are coded with conventional brackets: [E-flat major–g minor].

The schema TYPE is recorded using a character string that belongs to one of four character sets.

Each set is defined by a single character placed at the beginning of the string. By way of example,

the character ‘•’ represents the default, ‘intra-key’ form of the le – sol – fi – sol, as defined in Chap-

ters 3 and 5, and graphically summarised in Example 5.5. Characters appended to this base char-

acter of each string provide information regarding ‘deviations’ from the default form of the char-

acter set. The symbol ‘§’, for example, indicates that a modulation is present. The number of in-

stances of this character in a character string represents the number of modulations in the vari-

ant. Whenever the symbol is present, a character string in brackets will follow that provides in-

formation about the modulation. For example, the ‘inter-key variant’ of the le – sol – fi – sol dis-

cussed in Chapter 3 (abstract representation in Example 5.8), which modulates up a major third, is

represented by the character string: ‘•§[I~VI].’ Not only are the characters appended to the base

character of a character set conceived as deviations from the default form of the character set, but the

three remaining character sets represent deviations from the default form of Example 5.5, or ‘•’. The

four sets of variants are categorised by the following base characters:

• = –1, –1, +1 bass (le – sol – fi – sol)

o = –2, +1 bass (le – fi – sol)
\ = –1, –1, –1 bass (le –sol – fi – fa)
^ = –1, –1, +1 top-voice (le – sol – fi – sol)

The schema variants represented by the latter three symbols deviate from the ‘default form’ (•)

540
in specific ways: variant ‘o’ deviates by omitting the passing i6/4 between le and fi; ‘\’ deviates by

descending instead of ascending a semitone after fi; and ‘^’ deviates by placing the characteristic

scale-degree progression in the top-voice. Examples of ‘o’, ‘\’, and ‘^’ may be seen in Example 3.35,

Example 5.10, and Example 5.23(b), respectively.

Further variations which include changes for one or more chords in the default harmonisation

of each set’s bass are expressed using parentheses: ‘•(6)’, for example, indicates that a iv6 chord

takes the place of VI on le (Example 5.21); ‘•(ß)’ indicates an augmented-sixth variant (Example

5.25); ‘•(II6/5)’ specifies that an altered supertonic appears either in place of the +ivo7 chord on

fi, or immediately follows it; and the rarer, ‘•(ii/o4/3)’ indicates that a half-diminished seventh

chord substitutes for VI on le. Similarly, the character string ‘o(ß)’ indicates a variation of the le –

sol – fi – sol in which the passing 6/4 chord between le and fi is omitted, while an augmented sixth

chord substitutes for the diatonic sus-dominante. The alternate harmonisations will often com-

bine with one another: e.g., ‘•(ß–II6/5)’ indicates the augmented sixth sounds in place of VI, and

that II6/5 substitutes for +ivo7. When a modulation and a chord-form substitution happen to

occur simultaneously, the latter is placed at the end of the string:

\§[I~VI](II6/5)

But when a given chord-form substitution participates in the actual modulation, i.e., is part of

the ‘pivot process,’ it is included with the modulation information in brackets:

\§[i6~iv6]

541
for example, is a le – sol – fi – fa variant that also has a 6/3 chord substitute for the usual VI on le.

However, this chord-form substitution participates in a modulation whereby a tonic in first in-

version is reinterpreted as iv6, resulting in a modulation up a fifth. Because the chord-form sub-

stitution is involved in the modulation, it is included in brackets. The following legend should

suffice for reading the remainder of the schema list.

FIGURE B1. Character Legend.

• le – sol – fi – sol default form (–1, –1, +1, bass)

o passing Tsol between le and fi is omitted (–2, +1, bass)
\ le – sol – fi – fa (–1, –1, –1, bass)
6 iv6 instead of VI on le
ß augmented sixth instead of VI on le
ii/04/3 ii/04/3 instead of VI on le
II6/5 II6/5 instead of +ivo7 on fi
o3rd ‘inverted’ augmented sixth chord instead of +ivo7 on fi
§ indicates the presence of a modulation
^ Top-voice variant
(…) indicates a chord-form substitution
[…] information about the modulation(s) involved
Fonte ‘Fonte variant,’ modulation in which the would-be fi becomes le (Example 5.11)
T ‘Tonic variant,’ modulation in which the would-be fi becomes ti (Example 5.19)
iv–ß le – sol – fi over a fa – sol – le bass

In spite of the many variations and possibilities for combination, a single chord-form harmoni-

sation dominates the list and, by extension, the corpus in terms of frequency (see Chap. 3). The

‘default form’ qualification of the particular chord-form harmonisation of a –1, –1, +1 bass dis-

542
cussed in Chapter 3 is warranted not only by the specific problem addressed by the Eroica case

study but also by its frequency of occurrence. The 550 instances of the le – sol – fi – sol default har-

monisation account for 37.2 % of the 109 total variants in the corpus. In the schema register be-

low (pp. 548–605), the default harmonisation is represented by five character strings:

•
•§[I~VI]
•§[V~VI]
•§[IV~VI]
•§[III~VI]

These five variants (see also Example 3.45) are the only ones included in the historical distribu-

tion statistics of Example 3.54, from a total of 43 variations based on a –1, –1, +1 bass. The chord-

form harmonisation common to the five variants above (the 550 instances of the ‘default form’)

accounts for 58% of the 23 different harmonisations of a –1, –1, +1 bass.

Finally, all the schema variants/character strings and their percentages are arranged in terms of

their frequency in descending order in the table of Figure B.2. Like many social, scientific, eco-

nomic, and other empirically observable phenomena, the le – sol – fi – sol schema variants ap-

proximate a ‘power law’ statistical distribution known as a Pareto distribution, as seen in Figure

B.3. The principle underlying the Pareto distribution is more simply known as the ‘80–20’ rule,

which specifies that 20% of the rank of the observables in question accounts for 80% of the total

population, which can be graphically seen by the sharp decline followed by the formation of a

543
‘tail’ in the graph of Figure B.3. With the le – sol – fi – sol schema variants, 20.2% of the rank (nos.

1–22 in Figure B.2) accounts for 83.3% of the total population. Within this power law distribu-

tion, the ‘default form’ (•, Example 5.5), the omitted passing 6/4 variant (o, Example 3.35), and

the inter-key variant that modulates up a major third (•§[I~VI], Example 5.8) are the three most

frequent variants of the schema, accounting for 49.7% of the total population.

FIGURE B2. Schema Variants and Their Frequency

RANK TYPE INSTANCES PERCENTAGE

1 • 419 28.3
2 o 198 13.4
3 •§[I~VI] 118 8.0
4 •(ß) 111 7.5
5 •(6) 57 3.9
6 •§[T](II6/5) 32 2.2
7 \(ß) 29 2.0
8 \ 27 1.8
9 ^ 24 1.6
10 •(6–II6/5) 24 1.6
11 •§[T] 24 1.6
12 o§[I~VI] 23 1.6
13 ^§[I~ß] 22 1.5
14 •(II6/5) 18 1.2
15 o(ß) 18 1.2
16 o(II6/5) 17 1.1
17 •§[V7~ß] 15 1.0
18 •§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 14 0.9
19 •§§[I~VI][T] 12 0.8
20 \§§[I~VI][Fonte] 11 0.7
21 •§[T](ß) 11 0.7

544
22 •§§[i6~iv6][T] 9 0.6
23 ^(iv–ß) 8 0.5
24 \§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 8 0.5
25 •§[T](ß–II6/5) 8 0.5
26 \(6–II6/5) 7 0.5
27 \(6) 7 0.5
28 \§[Fonte] 7 0.5
29 •(ß–II6/5) 7 0.5
30 •§[i6~iv6] 7 0.5
31 •§[V~VI] 7 0.5
32 o(6) 7 0.5
33 o(ß–II6/5) 7 0.5
34 ^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 6 0.4
35 \§[V7~ß] 6 0.4
36 \o 6 0.4
37 o(iio(6)/4) 6 0.4
38 \§[Fonte](ß) 5 0.3
39 •§(II6/5) 5 0.3
40 •§[I~ß] 5 0.3
41 •§[T](6–II6/5) 5 0.3
42 o§[T](II6/5) 5 0.3
43 \(II6/5) 4 0.3
44 \(ß–II6/5) 4 0.3
45 •§[T](6) 4 0.3
46 o(6–II6/5) 4 0.3
47 o§[i6~iv6] 4 0.3
48 \§[I~ß] 3 0.2
49 •(6–ß) 3 0.2
50 •(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 3 0.2
51 •(ii/o4/3) 3 0.2
52 •§[III~VI] 3 0.2
53 •§[IV~VI] 3 0.2
54 o(ii/o4/3) 3 0.2
55 o§(II6/5) 3 0.2
56 ^(VI6–II4/2) 2 0.1
57 ^§[i~iv–ß] 2 0.1
58 ^§[V~VI] 2 0.1
59 ^o 2 0.1

545
60 \§[I~VI] 2 0.1
61 \§[i6~iv6] 2 0.1
62 \§§[Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 2 0.1
63 \§§[IV~VI][Fonte] 2 0.1
64 \§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß] 2 0.1
65 \§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 2 0.1
66 \o§§[Fonte][V7~ß] 2 0.1
67 •(o3rd) 2 0.1
68 •§[T=+ivo7~viio6/5] 2 0.1
69 •§§[i6~iv6][T](II6/5) 2 0.1
70 •§§[IV~VI][T](II6/5) 2 0.1
71 •§§[V~VI][T](II6/5) 2 0.1
72 o(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 2 0.1
73 o(ß–o3rd) 2 0.1
74 o§[I~VI](II6/5) 2 0.1
75 o§[V7~ß] 2 0.1
76 ^(iv6/4–II4/2) 1 0.1
77 ^(VI6–+ivo6/5) 1 0.1
78 ^(VI6–v–ß) 1 0.1
79 ^§[I~VI–+ivo6/5] 1 0.1
80 ^§[IV~VI–ß] 1 0.1
81 ^§§[I~VI][T] 1 0.1
82 ^§o[I~ß] 1 0.1
83 \(6–II6) 1 0.1
84 \§[+ivo~V4/2] 1 0.1
85 \§[I~VI](II6/5) 1 0.1
86 \§§[Fonte][V7~ß] 1 0.1
87 \§§[Fonte][V7~ß](II6/5) 1 0.1
88 \o§[o3rd~V4/2] 1 0.1
89 \o§[T=viio4/3~viio4/2] 1 0.1
90 •(6–o3rd) 1 0.1
91 •(iio(6)/4) 1 0.1
92 •(ß–II6) 1 0.1
93 •(ß–o3rd–3) 1 0.1
94 •§[I~N](V6/5) 1 0.1
95 •§[I~ß–II6/5] 1 0.1
96 •§[IV~N](II6/5) 1 0.1
97 •§[T](6–II6) 1 0.1

546
98 •§[T=+ivo7~+iio7] 1 0.1
99 •§[T=+ivo7~viio6/5](ß) 1 0.1
100 •§[V6/5](II6/5) 1 0.1
101 •§§[V7~ß][T](II6/5) 1 0.1
102 o(6–+iv/o7) 1 0.1
103 o(II6) 1 0.1
104 o§ 1 0.1
105 o§(+ivo7–o3rd) 1 0.1
106 o§[T] 1 0.1
107 o§[V~VI–o3rd] 1 0.1
108 o§§[I~ß][T](II6/5) 1 0.1
109 o§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1 0.1

FIGURE B3. Schema Variant Frequency Distribution

450
400
350
300
250
200 83.3% 16.7%

150
100
50
0
1 7 13 19 25 31 37 43 49 55 61 67 73 79 85 91 97 103 109

20.2% 79.8%

547
 TYPE DATE 1 DATE 2 COMPOSER and WORK

ABEL, Carl Friedrich (Cöten 1723–1787 London)

o 1761 1761 Symphony in C major, Op. 1 no. 2, ii, bb. 41–42 {c minor}

ADLGASSER, Anton Cajetan (Niederachen n. Inzell 1729–1777 Salzburg)

o 1765 1765–1772 Symphony in E-flat major (124), i, bb. 57–58 {c minor}

ALBRECHTSBERGER, Johann Georg (Klosterneuburg 1736–1809 Vienna)

• 1772 1772 Symphony in D major (Somfai 3), vi, bb. 233–239 {b minor}
o 1772 ____________. bb. 41–46, 49–54 {d minor}
• 1772 ____________. bb. 241–247 {b minor}

ÅMAN, Jonas (fl. 1750–1770 Sweden)

•§[I~VI] 1765 1765 (before) Symphony in C major (1), i, bb. 14–15 [E-flat major–g minor]

548
ANFOSSI, Pasquale (Taggia 1727–1797 Rome)
•§[i6~iv6] 1776 1776 Sinfonia in B-flat major (B-flat5), i, bb. 19–21 [B-flat major–minor–F major]
o 1776 ____________. bb. 87–88 {g minor}

ASPLMAYR, Franz (Linz 1728–1786 Vienna)

• 1766 1766 Symphony in F major (B VII 2), i, bb. 70–74 {d minor}
• 1766 ____________. bb. 133–137 {f minor}
o 1766 ____________. iv, bb. 55–56 {c minor}
o 1766 ____________. bb. 63–64 {f minor}

BACH, Carl Philipp Emanuel (Weimar 1714– 1788 Hamburg)

\§[Fonte] 1743 1743 Keyboard Sonata in B minor, W65:13, i, bb. 78–81 [d minor–c minor]
•§[T] 1743 ____________. bb. 110–113 [e minor–b minor]
• 1743 ____________. bb. 133–138 {b minor}
 \ 1743 ____________. iii, bb. 25–28 {d minor–major}
• 1743 ____________. bb. 38–41 {e minor}
•(6) 1744 1744 Keyboard Sonata in C major, Wq. 62:7, iii, bb. 19–22 {g minor}
o 1746 1746 Keyboard Sonata in G minor, W65: 17, i, bb. 52–53 {d minor}
• 1746 ____________. b. 97 {g minor}
• 1746 ____________. ii, bb. 15–17 {b minor}
• 1746 ____________. bb. 52–55 {g minor/major}
•§[T] 1747 1747 Sonata for Two-Manual Harpsichord in D minor, Wq. 69, i, bb. 57–60 [d minor–a minor]
• 1747 ____________. iii, bb. 6–8 {d minor}
• 1747 ____________. Variation 2, bb. 38–40 {d minor}
• 1747 ____________. Variation 3, bb. 55–56 {d minor}
• 1747 ____________. Variation 6, bb. 103–104 {d minor}
• 1747 ____________. Variation 7, bb. 119–120 {d minor}
• 1747 ____________. Variation 8, bb. 135–136 {d minor}
o 1747 1747 Keyboard Sonata in E-flat major, Wq. 52:1, ii, bb. 46–48 {c minor}
•§[T] 1748 1748 Keyboard Sonata in G major, Wq. 65:22, i, bb. 47–49 [a minor–e minor]

549
o 1757 1757 Keyboard Sonata in A major, Wq. 65:31, i, b. 8 {c minor}
•§[T] 1757 1757 Keyboard Sonata in G major, Wq. 62:19, ii, bb. 50–51 [e minor–b minor]
•(6) 1757 ____________. iii, bb. 3–6 {g minor}
•(6) 1757 ____________. bb. 36–39 {d minor}
• 1757 ____________. bb. 48–49 {b minor}
•§[T] 1758 1758 Keyboard Sonata in A major, Wq. 65:32 (70:1), i, bb. 45–46 [f-sharp minor–c-sharp minor]
o 1758 1758 Keyboard Sonata in A minor, Wq. 62:21, iii, bb. 39–41 {d minor}
• 1763 1763 Keyboard Sonata in A major, Wq. 65:37, i, bb. 50–52 {f-sharp minor}
•(6) 1763 ____________. bb. 29–32 {a minor}
o§[I~VI] 1765 1765 Keyboard Sonata in E-flat major, Wq. 65:42, i, bb. 30–32 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1765 1765 ____________. bb. 46–48 {d minor}
•(6) 1765 ____________. iii, bb. 97–100 {E-flat major}
^ 1766 Keyboard Sonata in B-flat major, Wq. 65:44, i, bb. 79–80 {b-flat minor/major}
•(6–II6/5) 1766 ____________. Ursprünglicher Mittelsatz, bb. 55–57 {E-flat major}
 • 1753 1753 Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen, p. 100 (German ed., 1753) {b minor}
• 1753 ____________. p. 133 {b minor}
1753 Sechs Sonaten: Achtzehn Probestücke zu dem Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen, Wq. 63
o(6) 1753 ____________. Sonata No. 3 (Wq. 63:3), i, bb. 21–22 {a minor}
o 1753 ____________. iii, bb. 47–48 {c-sharp minor}
•§[I~VI] 1753 ____________. Sonata No. 4 (Wq. 63:4) ii, bb. 22–24ff. [D major–f-sharp minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1753 ____________. b. 24 [G major–b minor–f-sharp minor]
•§[IV~VI] 1753 ____________. Sonata No. 6 (Wq. 63:6), ii, bb. 32–34 [C-flat major–a-flat minor]
o§[i6~iv6] 1753 ____________. iii, Fantasia, final cadence [f minor–c minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1758 1758 Sechs Sonaten für Kenner und Liebhaber, Wq. 55:2, ii, p. 11: 3–4 [e-flat minor–b-flat minor]
• 1774 1774 ____________. Wq. 55:3, ii, bb. 3–5 {b minor}
o(iio(6)/4) 1765 1765 ____________. Wq. 55:4, i, p. 20: bb. 11–12 {c-sharp minor}
• 1765 ____________. ii, bb. 30–32 {f-sharp minor}
• 1772 1772 ____________. Wq. 55:5, i, bb. 28–29 {F major}
o(ß) 1772 ____________. iii, bb. 14–16 {C major}
•§[V7~ß] 1765 1765 ____________. Wq. 55:6, i, bb. 40–42 [B-flat major–a minor]

550
•§[T] 1765 ____________. ii, bb. 27–28 [c minor–g minor]
^§[I~ß] 1765 ____________. iii, bb. 77–82 [E-flat major–g minor]
\(ß) 1774 1774 Drei Sonaten und drei Rondos für Kenner und Liebhaber, Wq. 56:2, Sonata I, i, bb. 20–21 {d minor–major}
\(ß) 1774 ____________. bb. 63–64 {g minor–major}
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1778 1778 ____________. Wq. 56: 5, Rondo III, p. 29: bb. 4–7 [f-sharp minor–f minor–E-flat major]
•§[V7~ß] 1778 ____________. bb. 7–10 [E-flat major–d minor]
•(II6/5) 1774 1774 Drei Sonaten und drei Rondos für Kenner und Liebhaber, W57:2, Sonata I, iii, bb. 36–39 {a minor}
• 1766 1766 ____________. W57:4, Sonata II, ii, bb. 22–23 {b-flat minor}
•§[T](6) 1766 ____________. bb. 37–38 [d minor/major–a minor]
• 1766 ____________. bb. 71–72 {g minor}
\o 1763 1763 ____________. Wq. 57:6, Sonata III, i, bb. 30–32 {c minor}
•(ß) 1782 1782 Zwei Sonaten, drei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Kenner und Liebhaber, Wq. 58:6, Fantasy I, bb. 33–34 {a minor}
\§[Fonte](ß) 1782 1782 ____________. Wq. 58:7, Fantasy II, p. 35: systems 4–5 [a minor–(B-flat major–)g minor]
\§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 1782 ____________. p. 35: system 5 [g minor–f-sharp minor–(G major–)E-major–e-flat minor]
 \§[Fonte](ß) 1782 ____________. p. 38: system 2 [c minor–(D-flat major–)b-flat minor]
\§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 1782 ____________. p. 38: systems 2–3 [b-flat minor–a minor–(B-flat major–)G major–f-sharp minor]
•§[I~VI] 1785 1785 Zwei Sonaten, zwei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Kenner und Liebhaber, Wq. 59:6, Fantasy II, p. 29: system 6
[E-flat major–g minor]
• 1786 1786 Zwei Sonaten, zwei Rondos, und zwei Fantasien für Kenner und Liebhaber, Rondo II, Wq. 61:4, bb. 5–7 {d minor}
• 1786 ____________. bb. 86–88 {a minor}
\ 1755 1755 Symphony in F major (650), i, bb. 18–19 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1755 ____________. iii, bb. 69–72 [A-flat major–c minor]
o 1755 ____________. bb. 78–80 {f minor}
o(ß) 1757 1757 Symphony in E-flat major (654), i, bb. 7–8 {e-flat minor/major}
o(ß) 1757 ____________. bb. 32–33 {b-flat minor/major}
o(ß) 1757 ____________. bb. 48–50 {c minor}
o(ß) 1757 ____________. bb. 84–85 {e-flat minor/major}
T(V6/5) 1757 ____________. bb. 50–52 {g minor}
• 1758 1758 Symphony in G major (655), i, bb. 52–53 {e minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1772 1771–72 Piano Concerto in C minor, Wq. 43:4, iv, bb. 98–99 [f minor–c minor]

551
• 1772 ____________. bb. 103–106 {c minor}

BACH, Johann Christian (Leipzig 1735–1782 London)

^ 1766
• 1766
• 1779
• 1770
• 1770
•(6) 1765
• 1765
1766 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 5 no. 2, ii, bb. 32–33 {g minor}
1766 Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 5 no. 6, i, bb. 77–79 {c minor}
1779 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 17 no. 4, i, bb. 51–52, 53–54 (also published as Op. 12 in Paris, 1773/4) {e minor}
1770s early Symphonie concertante in E major, ii, bb. 81–82 {e minor}
____________. iii, 94–97 {e minor/major}
1765 Symphony in E-flat major, Op. 6 no. 5 (Op. 8 no. 6), S. 14, i, bb. 71–74 {c minor}
____________. ii, bb. 43–45 {c minor}

BACH, Johann Sebastian (Eisenach 1685–1750 Leipzig)

o 1720 1720 before English Suites. No. 1 in A major, Sarabande, bb. 30–32 {a minor–major}
•§[T](II6/5) 1720 ____________. No. 3 in G minor, Allemande, bb. 10–12 [g minor–d minor]
 \ 1720 ____________. No. 6 in D minor, Prelude, p. 74: bb. 3–5 {g minor}
•(6) 1720 1720–22 c. French Suite No. 4 in E-flat major, BWV 815, Gavotte bb. 11–12 {c minor}
o 1731 1726–1731 Six Partitas (Clavierübung I). No. 2 in C minor, BWV 826, Sinfonia, bb. 27–3o {g minor–major}
^(VI6–+ivo6/5) 1731 ____________. bb. 45–46 {g minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1731 ____________. bb. 70–71 {c minor}
T(N6)^ 1731 ____________. No. 3 in A minor, Gigue, bb. 2–3 {a minor}
T(N–V6/5) 1731 ____________. bb. 4–5 {e minor}
T(N–V6/5) 1731 ____________. bb. 9–10 {a minor}
T(N–V6/5) 1731 ____________. bb. 15–16 {e minor}
T(N6)^ 1731 ____________. bb. 21–22 {a minor}
• 1731 1731 ____________. No. 4 in D major, BWV 828, Allemande, bb. 34–35 {b minor}
o(II6/5) 1723 1723 Three-Part Sinfonia No. 15 in B minor, BWV 801, bb. 34–36 {b minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1722 1722 The Well-Tempered Clavier, Prelude in G minor, BWV 861, Book I, bb. 3–4 {g minor}
•§[T] 1720 1720 c. Suite for Unaccompanied Cello No. 2 in D minor, BWV1008, Prelude, bb. 49–51 [g minor–d minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1720 ____________. bb. 53–55 [g minor–d minor]
o 1720 ____________. Allemande, 21–22 {d minor}

552
• 1720 ____________. Courante, bb. 14–16 {a minor}
• 1720 ____________. Courante, bb. 30–32 {d minor}
o 1720 1720 c. Suite for Unaccompanied Cello No.5 in C minor, BWV1011, Prelude, bb. 168–171 {c minor}
o 1740 1741 before Sonata for Viola da Gamba No. 3 in G minor, BWV 1093, ii, 28–30 {b-flat minor–major}
o(6) 1723 1723 before Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in D minor, BWV 903, Fantasy, b. 8 {d minor}
o 1730 1730 c. Fantasy in C minor for Organ, BWV 562, bb. 58–59 {c minor}
•(6) 1747 1747–49 c. Mass in B minor, BWV 232, Agnus Dei, b. 39 {d minor}
•(6) 1727 1727–1729 St. Matthew Passion, BWV 244, 'Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen,' bb. 7–10 {e minor}
•§[T](6–II6/5) 1727 ____________. 'Blute nur, du liebes Herz,' bb. 22–23 [e minor–b minor]
•§[I~ß] 1727 ____________. 'Ich will bei meinem Jesu wachen,' bb. 7–9 [A-flat major–c minor]
\§[I~ß] 1727 ____________. p. 72: bb. 2–4 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~ß] 1727 ____________. p. 76: bb. 2–4 [A-flat major–c minor]
•(6–II6/5) 1727 ____________. 'Was mein Gott will,' bb. 11–12 {b minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1727 ____________. 'Geduld,' b. 3 [d minor–a minor–e minor]
 •(6) 1727 ____________. 'Weissage uns, Christe,' bb. 4–5 {d minor}
T(N) 1727 ____________. 'Aus Liebe will mein Heiland sterben,' bb. 52–53 {a minor (hint of d minor)}
o(II6/5) 1727 ____________. 'Und da sie an die Stätte kamen,' bb. 5–6 {c minor–major}
T(N–V6/5) 1727 ____________. 'Der du den Tempel Gottes zerbrichst,' {b minor}
•(II6/5) 1733 1725–1741 Orchestral Suite No. 4 in D major, BWV 1069, Overture, pp. 249–250: 11–14 {a minor}
•(II6/5) 1733 ____________. p. 256: bb. 7–10 {d minor}
• 1736 c. 1736 Concerto for Two Harpsichords in C minor, BWV 1060, i, p. 7: b. 1 {c minor}
• 1736 ____________. p. 12: b. 7 {f minor}
o§[T] 1730 c. 1730 Concerto for Three Harpsichords in C major, BWV 1064, iii, p. 207: bb. 4–9 [f minor–c minor]
o 1747 1747 A Musical Offering, BWV 1079, Trio Sonata, ii, Allegro, bb. 31–33 {c minor}
•§[T](6–II6/5) 1747 ____________. [g minor–d minor]
\ 1747 ____________. iii, Andante, bb. 5–7 {b-flat minor}
\ 1747 ____________. bb. 22–24 {e-flat minor–major}
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1750 1750 The Art of the Fugue, BWV 1080, Contrapunctus III, bb. 28–29 [d minor–a minor]
^ 1750 ____________. Contrapunctus IV, bb. 133–134 {d minor}
o(II6/5) 1750 ____________. Contrapunctus V, bb. 76–77 {d minor}

553
•(6–o3rd) 1750 ____________. bb. 84–86 {d minor}
o(ß) 1750 ____________. Contrapunctus VII, bb. 58–60 {d minor}
•(ß) 1750 ____________. Contrapunctus IX, bb. 56–57 {d minor}
•(6) 1750 ____________. bb. 157–158 {d minor}
•(ß) 1750 ____________. bb. 181–184 {d minor}
• 1750 ____________. Contrapunctus XIX, bb. 224–226 {c minor}
•(6) 1730 1730? Chorale No. 47: 'Vater unser in Himmelreich,' bb. 11–12 {d minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 56: 'Christum wir sollen loben schon,' bb. 13–14 [e minor–b minor]
•§[T](6–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 81: 'Christus, der uns selig macht,' b. 11 [g minor–d minor]
•(6) 1730 Chorale No. 94: 'Warum betrübst du dich, mein Herz,' bb. 9–10 {g minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 115: 'Was mein Gott will, das,' bb. 11–12 {b minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 142: 'Schwing' dich auf zu deinem Gott,' bb. 6–7 [d minor–a minor]
•(ß–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 146: Wer nur den lieven Gott läßt walten,' bb. 4–5 {a minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 321: 'Wir Christenleut,' bb. 10–11 {g minor}
 •§[IV~N](II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 332: 'Von Gott will ich night lassen,' bb. 13–14 [C major–e minor]
•(6) 1730 Chorale No. 338: 'Jesus, meine Zuversicht,' b. 4 {D major}
•(6–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 339: 'Wer nur den lieben Gott läßt walten,' bb. 4–6 {a minor}
•(ß) 1730 Chorale No. 340: 'Befiehl du deine Wege,' b. 10 {d minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1730 Chorale No. 360: 'Wir Christenleut,' b. 7 {f-sharp minor}
•(o3rd) 1736 1736 Chorale Melody No. 3: 'Der Tag ist hin, die Sonne gehet nieder,' BWV447, b. 4 {d minor}
•(II6/5) 1736 1736 Chorale Melody No. 17: 'Die bittre Leidenszeit,' BWV450, b. 16–17 {c minor}

BEETHOVEN, Ludwig van (Bonn 1770–1827 Vienna)

•§[I~VI] 1791 1791c. Lamentations of Jeremiah, Sketch, 96 recto [B-flat major–d minor]
\(ß) 1800 1800 Symphony No. 1 in C major, Op. 21, iv, pp. 40–41: bb. 22–25 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1801 1801–02 Symphony No. 2 in B-flat major, Op. 36, iii, p. 81: bb. 5–9 [B-flat major–d minor]
o 1801 ____________. iv, p. 99: bb. 3–4ff. {d minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1803 1803 Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Eroica, Op. 55, i, bb. 1–9 [E-flat major–g minor]
•§[I~VI] 1803 ____________. bb. 95–97 [D-flat major–f minor]
•§[T] 1803 ____________. bb. 243–245 [g minor–d minor]

554
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1803 ____________. bb. 398–408 [E-flat major–g minor–F major]
^§[i~iv–ß] 1803 ____________. ii, bb. 21–23 [f minor–c minor]
•(ß) 1803 ____________. bb. 149–154 {g minor}
\ 1803 ____________. bb. 159–166 {c minor}
o 1803 ____________. iii, bb. 64–65 {g minor}
•§[T] 1803 ____________. iv, bb. 169–171 [g minor–d minor]
T(N–V6/5) 1803 ____________. bb. 233–234, 241–42, 244–246 {g minor}
o(iio(6)/4) 1806 1806 Symphony No. 4 in B-flat major, Op. 60, i, bb. 9–10 {b-flat minor}
o(iio(6)/4) 1806 ____________. bb. 21–22 {b minor}
• 1807 1807–08 Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67, iii, pp. 42–43: bb. 36–44 {c minor–major}
o§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1808 1808 Symphony No. 6 in F major, Pastorale, Gewitter Sturm, p. 138: bb. 6–12 [D-flat major–f minor–c minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1808 ____________. p. 146: bb. 3–10 [D-flat major–f minor–c minor]
• 1811 1811–12 Symphony No. 7 in A major, Op. 92, iv, p. 252: bb. 11–15 {c minor}
• 1811 ____________. p. 254: bb. 2–6 {b-flat minor}
 • 1811 ____________. p. 254: bb. 8–12 {a minor}
o 1822 1822–24 Symphony No. 9 in D minor, Op. 125, i, bb. 326–331 {g minor}
• 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in F minor, Op. 2 no. 1, iv, bb. 22–26 {c minor}
• 1795 ____________. bb. 161–65 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 2 no. 2, ii, bb. 63–64 [B-flat major–d minor/major]
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in C major, Op. 2 no. 3, i, bb. 31–33 [c minor–g minor–d minor]
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1795 ____________. bb. 37–39 [g minor–d minor–a minor]
o(6) 1795 ____________. bb. 128–129 {c minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1795 ____________. bb. 165–167 [f minor–c minor–g minor]
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1795 ____________. bb. 171–173 [c minor–g minor–d minor]
•(6) 1795 ____________. iii, bb. 69–72 {e minor}
• 1796 1796–97 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 7, i, bb. 106–111 {B-flat major}
• 1796 ____________. bb. 286–291 {E-flat major}
o(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 1796 ____________. ii, bb. 31–32 {f minor}
•(ß) 1796 ____________. bb. 36–39 {c minor}
•(ß) 1796 1796–98 Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 10 no. 1, i, bb. 264–271 {c minor}

555
o(ß–II6/5) 1796 ____________. iii, bb. 41–43 {E-flat major}
o(II6/5) 1796 ____________. bb. 96–97 {c minor}
o(ß–II6/5) 1796 ____________. bb. 98–100 {c minor}
\o 1796 1796–98 Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 10 no. 2, i, bb. 45–46 {c minor}
\ 1796 ____________. bb. 110–112 {f minor–major}
o 1798 1798–99 Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 13, Pathetique, i, bb. 17–19 {c minor}
o 1798 ____________. bb. 25–27 {c minor}
•(II6/5) 1798 ____________. bb. 129–132 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1798 ____________. bb. 129–133 (repeat) [c minor–g minor]
• 1798 ____________. bb. 291–295 {c minor}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 304–310 {c minor}
\(ß) 1798 ____________. bb. 189–191 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1798 1798–99 Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 14 no. 1, i , bb. 75–81f. [C major–e minor]
\o 1798 ____________. ii, bb. 2–5 {e minor}
 •§[T](II6/5) 1798 1798–99 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 14 no. 2, i, bb. 81–86 [c minor–g minor]
•(6) 1800 1800–01 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 27 no. 1, ii, bb. 35–40 {c minor}
o§[I~VI] 1800 ____________. bb. 72–73 (repeat) [A-flat major–c minor]
•(6) 1800 ____________. bb. 122–128 {c minor}
\(6) 1801 1801 Piano Sonata in C-sharp minor, Op. 27 no. 2, iii, bb. 159–165 {c-sharp minor}
• 1801 1801 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 28, ii, b. 9 (repeat) {d minor}
•§[III~VI] 1801 ____________. bb. 54–55 [a-minor–d-minor}
• 1801 1801–02 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 31 no. 1, i, bb. 156–158 {g minor–major}
• 1801 1801–02 Piano Sonata in D minor, Op. 31 no. 2, 'Tempest,' i, bb. 63–67 {d minor}
• 1801 ____________. bb. 193–197 {g minor}
\(ß) 1801 1801–02 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 31 no. 3, i, bb. 92–98 {c minor}
\§[Fonte](ß) 1804 1804 Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 54, ii, bb. 37–40 [c minor–B-flat major]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1804 ____________. bb. 40–45 [B-flat major–a minor–G major]
o 1804 ____________. bb. 73–75 {d-flat minor}
•(ß) 1804 ____________. bb. 131–134 {f minor}
o§[V~VI–o3rd] 1804 1804–05 Piano Sonata in F minor, Op. 57, Appassionata, i, bb. 143–144 [G-flat major–f minor]

556
•(6) 1804 ____________. iii, bb. 83–85 {c minor}
•(6) 1804 ____________. bb. 275–277 {f minor}
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1809 1809 Piano Sonata in F-sharp minor, Op. 78, i, bb. 42–43 [A major–c-sharp minor–g-sharp minor]
•§[I~VI] 1809 1809–10 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Les Adieux, Op. 81a, i, bb. 8–10 [C-flat major–e-flat minor]
•(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 1809 ____________. bb. 37–39 {b-flat minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1814 1814 Piano Sonata in E minor, Op. 90, i, bb. 118–121 [d minor–a minor]
•(ß–II6/5) 1816 1816 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 101, ii, bb. 7–8 {c minor}
o§[i6~iv6] 1817 1817–18 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 106, Hammerklavier, Finale, bb. 267–68 [e minor–b minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1820 1820 Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 109, ii, bb. 128–130 [a minor–e minor]
•§[I~VI] 1820 ____________. iii, Variation II, bb. 51–52 [E major–g-sharp-minor]
•(ß) 1821 1821–22 Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 111, i, bb. 34–35 {c minor}
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1821 ____________. bb. 69–72 (repeat) [A-flat major–c minor–g minor]
•(ß) 1821 ____________. bb. 84–86 {c minor}
o 1821 ____________. bb. 140–41 {c minor}
 o§(II6/5) 1821 ____________. ii, b. 125 [A-flat major–c minor]
o§[I~VI] 1821 ____________. bb. 129–130 [A-flat major–c minor–major]
•(6–II6/5) 1793 c. 1793 Piano Trio in E-flat major, Op. 1 no. 1, iii, p. 17: bb. 55–60 {E-flat major}
o 1794 1794–95 Piano Trio in G major, Op. 1 no. 2, i, p. 38: bb. 7–10 {g minor}
• 1794 ____________. iv, bb. 224–228f. {g minor–major}
o 1794 1794–95 Piano Trio in C minor, Op. 1 no. 3, iv, p. 93: bb. 1–13 {c minor}
\§[+ivo~V4/2] 1798 1798 Piano Trio in B-flat major, Op. 11, i, bb. 29–32 [e-flat minor–E major]
• 1808 1808 Piano Trio in E-flat major, Op. 70 no. 2, i, bb. 103–104 {f minor}
•§[T] 1808 ____________. bb. 104–105 [f minor–c minor]
o§[I~VI] 1808 ____________. ii, bb. 107–109 [A-flat major–c minor]
\ 1810 1810–11 Piano Trio in B-flat major, Op. 97, Archduke, ii, p. 174: bb. 4–8 {b-flat minor}
•(ß) 1810 ____________. iv, bb. 361–364 {B-flat major}
\ 1796 1796 Cello Sonata in F major, Op. 5 no. 1, i, p. 4: bb. 16–18, p. 5: bb. 5–7 {c minor–major}
\ 1796 ____________. p. 4: bb. 20–22, p. 5: bb. 9–11 {d minor}
• 1796 ____________. p. 5: bb. 18–19, 20–24 {c minor–major}
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1796 ____________. p. 7: bb. 4–7 [A-flat major–c minor–B-flat major]

557
\ 1796 ____________. p. 14: bb. 10–12, 22–24 {f minor–major}
\ 1796 ____________. p. 14: bb. 14–16, 26–27 {g minor}
• 1796 ____________. p. 15: bb. 6–7, 8–12 {f minor–major}
•(6–II6/5) 1796 1796 Cello Sonata in G minor, Op. 5 no. 2, ii, bb. 17–22 {g minor}
• 1796 ____________. p. 40: bb. 9–10, 11–12 {e-flat-minor–major, as part of a tonicization of IV within B-flat}
• 1796 ____________. p. 47: bb. 3–4, 5–6 {c-minor, as part of a tonicization of iv within g minor}
• 1807 1807–08 Cello Sonata in A major, Op. 69, i, p. 73: bb. 3–4 {f-sharp minor}
o 1807 ____________. ii, bb. 27–30 {e minor}
• 1807 ____________. iii, p. 89: bb. 11–16 {a minor–major}
o 1815 1815 Cello Sonata in C major, Op. 102 no. 1, i, p. 100: bb. 22–24 {a minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1815 Cello Sonata in D major, Op. 102 no. 2, ii, bb. 7–8 {a minor}
• 1815 1815 ____________. p.121: bb. 3–7 [B-flat major–d minor]
•§§[I~VI][T] 1796 1796 Variations for Cello and Piano, WoO45, Var. VIII, bb. 13–15 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
o(ß–II6/5) 1796 1796 Variations for Cello and Piano, Op. 66, Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen, Var. XI, bb. 19–21 {f minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1797 1797–98 Violin Sonata in D major, Op. 12 no. 1, iii, p. 17: bb. 24–28ff. [B-flat major–d minor]
\(ß) 1797 ____________. p. 19: bb. 22–24 {D major}
\(ß) 1797 ____________. p. 19: bb. 30–32 {D major}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1800 1800 Violin Sonata in A minor, Op. 23, i, p. 63: 22–24 [F major–a minor–e minor]
o 1800 ____________. iii, bb. 7–8 {a minor}
o§[T](II6/5) 1800 ____________. p. 75: 20–24 [d minor–a minor]
• 1800 ____________. p. 77: bb. 27–32 {a minor}
o 1800 ____________. p. 80: bb. 6–9ff. {a minor}
•(II6/5) 1801 1801 Violin Sonata in F major, Op. 24, Spring, i, bb. 28–30 {c minor}
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1801 ____________. bb. 99–102 [b-flat minor–f minor]
o 1801 ____________. bb. 114–116 {d minor}
•§[T] 1801 ____________. iv, p. 98: 10–12 [g minor–d minor]
o 1802 1802 Violin Sonata in C minor, Op. 30 no. 2, i, bb. 21–23 {c minor}
o 1802 ____________. p. 130: bb. 9–11 {c minor}
• 1802 ____________. p. 131: bb. 7–9 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1802 ____________. p. 132: bb. 13–15 [f minor–c minor]

558
o 1802 ____________. p. 134: bb. 8–10 {c minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T](II6/5) 1802 1802 Violin Sonata in G major, Op. 30 no. 3, i, p. 154: bb. 5–8 [a minor–b minor–f-sharp minor]
•§§[i6~iv6][T](II6/5) 1802 ____________. p. 154: bb. 9–14 [b minor–f-sharp minor–c-sharp minor]
• 1802 1802–03 Violin Sonata in A minor, Op. 47, Kreutzer, i, p. 176: bb. 26–28 {e minor}
• 1802 ____________. p. 185: bb. 3–5 {a minor}
o§[I~VI] 1812 1812–15 Violin Sonata in G major, Op. 96, i, p. 218: bb. 17–19ff. [E-flat major–g minor]
•(6) 1812 ____________. ii, p. 223: bb. 5–7ff. {e-flat minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. iv, bb. 16–17 [G-major–B-major]
•§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. bb. 23–25 [G-major–B-major]
o§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. bb. 64–65 [G-major–B-major]
o§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. bb. 128–129 [G-major–B-major]
•§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. bb. 136–137 [G-major–B-major]
•§[I~VI] 1812 ____________. bb. 152–153 [G-major–B-major]
^(iv6/4–II4/2) 1812 ____________. bb. 225–226 {g minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1797 1797–98 String Trio in G major, Op. 9 no. 1, i, bb. 123–126 [E-flat major–g minor]
o§(II6/5) 1797 ____________. bb. 224–229 [E-flat major–G major]
•(ß) 1797 ____________. iv, bb. 249–251 {G major}
o(iio(6)/4) 1797 String Trio in C minor, Op. 9 no. 3, i, bb. 18–19 {c minor}
o(iio(6)/4) 1797 ____________. bb. 97–98 {g minor}
^§[I~ß] 1797 ____________. ii, b. 6 [A-flat major–c minor]
\o§§[Fonte][V7~ß] 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in F major, Op. 18 no. 1, bb. 98–100 [c minor–B-flat minor–a minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1798 ____________. bb. 158–159 [G-flat major–b-flat minor–f minor]
•§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. bb. 163–67 [D-flat major–f minor]
o(6) 1798 ____________. ii, bb. 104–106 {d minor}
o 1798 ____________. iii, bb. 24–25 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. p. 14: bb. 27–30 [D-flat major–f minor]
•§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. iv, p. 19: bb. 28–29 {f minor}
o 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in G major, Op. 18 no. 2, iv, p. 37: bb. 4–8ff. {d minor}
^§[I~VI–+ivo6/5] 1798 ____________. pp. 37–38: bb. 61–66 [F major–A major]
o 1798 ____________. p. 41: bb. 4–8ff. {g minor}

559
^§[I~ß] 1798 ____________. p. 41: bb. 61–66 [B-flat major–d minor]
o§[I~VI] 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in D major, Op. 18 no. 3, iv, p. 58: bb. 18–22 [F major–A major]
o§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. p. 63: bb. 13–17 [B-flat major–D major]
o(ß) 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in C minor, Op. 18 no. 4 in C minor, i, b. 7 {c minor}
^ 1798 ____________. bb. 107–108 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. iii, bb. 24–25 [ D-flat major–f minor]
•§[III~VI] 1798 ____________. bb. 26–27 [f minor–c minor]
o 1798 ____________. bb. 37–38 {f minor}
o(ß) 1798 ____________. bb. 38–39, 41–43 {c minor}
o§[I~VI] 1798 ____________. iv, bb. 40–41 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[T] 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in A major, Op. 18 no. 5, i, p. 85: bb. 36–39 [d minor–a minor]
o 1798 ____________. p. 87: bb. 7–8 {a minor–major}
•§[T](6) 1798 ____________. ii, p. 90: bb. 16–20 [a major/minor–e minor]
o 1798 ____________. iii, Variation IV, bb. 6–8 {f-sharp minor}
 ^§[I~ß] 1798 ____________. Variation V, bb. 24–25 [B-flat major–d minor]
o(II6/5) 1798 ____________. bb. 48–49 {D major}
• 1798 1798–1800 String Quartet in B-flat major. Op. 18 no. 6, i, p. 106: bb. 28–29 {b-flat minor}
•§[T](6) 1806 1806 String Quartet in F major, Op. 59 no. 1, i, p. 125: bb. 4–13 [b-flat minor–f minor]
o§[I~VI] 1806 ____________. ii, p. 123: bb. 41–43 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§§[I~VI][T] 1806 ____________. p. 134: bb. 28–34 [D-flat major–f minor–c minor]
•§§[I~VI][T] 1806 ____________. p. 139: bb. 26–32 [G-flat major–b-flat minor–f minor]
•§[I~VI] 1806 1806 String Quartet in E minor, Op. 59 no. 2, iv, p. 177: bb. 26–28 [C major–e minor]
•(6–ß) 1806 String Quartet in C major, Op. 59 no. 3, ii, p. 188: bb. 14–15 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1806 ____________. p. 189: bb. 1–5 [b-flat minor–f minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1806 ____________. p. 190: bb. 28–32 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1806 ____________. p. 192: bb. 7–9 [b-flat minor–f minor]
^§[I~ß] 1809 1809 String Quartet in E-flat major, Op. 74, iv, bb. 10–12 [E-flat major–g minor]
•§[I~VI] 1809 1809 ____________. bb. 31–32 [E-flat major–g minor]
•(6) 1814 1810–1814 String Quartet in F minor, Op. 95, ii, bb. 53–54 {d minor}
•§§[IV~VI][T](II6/5) 1814 ____________. bb. 65–68 [A-flat major–f minor–c minor]

560
•§§[IV~VI][T](II6/5) 1814 ____________. bb. 71–72 [G-flat major–e-flat minor–b-flat minor]
o(6–+iv/o7) 1814 String Quartet in E-flat major, Op. 127, ii, p. 54: b. 5 {A-flat major}
o(6–II6/5) 1814 ____________. p. 56: bb. 4–5 {A-flat major}
•(ß) 1814 ____________. iii, bb. 3–4 {E major}
o(6–II6/5) 1825 1825–6 String Quartet in C-sharp minor, Op. 131, i, b. 90 {c-sharp minor}
• 1825 ____________. bb. 112–116 {f-sharp minor}
o 1827 1827 String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 130, Finale, p. 111: bb. 20–21 {g minor}
•(ß) 1825 1825 String Quartet in A minor, Op. 132, i, p. 163: 14–17 {a minor]
^§[IV~VI–ß] 1825 ____________. v, p. 182: 34–35 [C major–a minor]
•(II6/5) 1825 ____________. p. 186: bb. 17–18 {a minor}
^§[I~ß] 1795 1795–1800 Piano Concerto No. 1 in C major, Op. 15, i, p. 11: bb. 13–15 [E-flat major–g minor]
• 1795 ____________. p. 24: bb. 1–4 {c minor}
•(6) 1795 ____________. p. 68: bb. 3–5 {c minor}
^(VI6–v–ß) 1795 1795 Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat major, Op. 19, i, pp. 78–79: bb. 14–15 {f minor}
 •§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1795 ____________. pp. 83–84: bb. 16–19 [B-flat major–d minor–a minor]
o§[I~VI] 1795 ____________. p. 86: bb. 18–20 [D-flat major–f minor]
•(6–II6/5) 1795 ____________. p. 87: bb. 2–3 {f minor}
• 1795 ____________. p. 93: bb. 12–15 {b-flat minor}
o§[I~VI] 1795 ____________. p. 98: bb. 16–18 [G-flat major–b-flat minor]
•(6–II6/5) 1795 ____________. p. 100: bb. 2–3 {b-flat minor}
o(6–II6/5) 1795 ____________. Cadenza, p. 363: b. 7 {c minor}
o(II6/5) 1795 ____________. ii, bb. 65–67 {e-flat minor–major}
•(ß) 1795 ____________. bb. 72–74 {E-flat major}
o 1800 1800–03c Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor, Op. 37, i, bb. 102–103 {c minor}
•(ß) 1800 ____________. bb. 412–414 {c minor}
•(ß) 1800 ____________. bb. 414–416 {c minor}
• 1800 ____________. Cadenza, bb. 1–3 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1804 1804–07 Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58, i bb. 109–111 [B-flat major–d minor]
^§[I~ß] 1804 ____________. bb. 279–281 [E-flat major–g minor]
• 1804 ____________. Cadenza, p. 373: bb. 16–22 {g minor}

561
\o§§[Fonte][V7~ß] 1804 ____________. iii, pp. 252–253: bb. 15–24 [c minor–B-flat major–a minor]
•§[T] 1809 1809 Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat major, Op. 73, Emperor, p. 290–291: bb. 8–17 [e-flat minor–b-flat minor]
^ 1806 1806 Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, i, p. 28: bb. 7–9 {d minor}
\(ß) 1804 1804–07 Triple Concerto in C major, Op. 56, i, bb. 200–203 { a minor}
\§[I~VI] 1804 ____________. bb. 222–227 [F major–a minor]
\(ß) 1804 ____________. bb. 437–440 {c minor–major}
•§[I~VI] 1804 ____________. bb. 459–464ff. [A-flat major–c minor]
^§[I~ß] 1804 ____________. iii, bb. 6–8 [C major–e minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1814 1814 Fidelio, Op. 72, Act 1 no. 7, p. 83: bb. 1–3 [g minor–d minor]
• 1814 ____________. Act 1 no. 8, Duet: Jetzt, Alter. hat es Eile, pp. 96–97: 12–17 {a minor–major}
•§(II6/5) 1814 ____________. Act 1 no. 9, bb. 26–31 [C major–E major]
• 1814 ____________. Act 1 no. 10, Finale, Chorus of Prisoners, p. 118: bb. 10–14 {g minor}
o 1814 ____________. p. 145: bb. 4–5 {b-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1814 ____________. Act 2 no. 13, Terzetti, p. 181: bb. 3–4ff. [G major–b minor]
 o 1814 ____________. Act 2 no. 14, Quartett, p. 196: bb. 3–5 {d minor}
o§[I~VI] 1814 ____________. p.201–202: bb. 9–18 [B-flat major–d minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1814 ____________. Act 2 no. 16, Finale, p. 233: bb. 7–10 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1800 1800 The Creatures of Prometheus, Op. 43, No. 7, Grave, p. 71: b. 1 [g minor–d minor]
• 1800 ____________. p. 71: bb. 2–4 {d minor}
o§[T](II6/5) 1800 ____________. No. 8, pp. 84–85: bb. 11–13 [g minor–d minor]
•§[T](6) 1807 1807 Overture to Coriolanus, Op. 62, p. 13: bb. 1–5 [c minor–g minor]
•§§[V7~ß][T](II6/5) 1804 1804–05 Leonore Overture No. 2, Op. 72, bb. 18–20 [B-flat major–a minor–e minor]
•(ß–II6/5) 1804 ____________. bb. 22–24 {e minor}
\(ß) 1804 ____________. p. 108: bb. 8–11 {e minor/major}
o(ß) 1805 1805–06 Leonore Overture No. 3, Op. 72, p. 169: bb. 2–4 {c minor}
•(ß) 1803 1803–04 Christ on the Mount of Olives, Op. 85, No. 1: Introduzione, pp. 7–8: bb. 10–11 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1803 ____________. p. 9: bb. 1–5 [e-flat minor–B-flat major]
• 1803 ____________. No. 3: Verkündet, Seraph—So ruhe denn mit ganzer Schwere, p. 58: bb. 13–15 {f minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1803 ____________. No. 5: Die mich zu fangen ausgegozen sind, p. 66: bb. 3–7 [e minor–b minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1803 ____________. p. 77: bb. 1–3 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]

562
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1813 1813 Wellington's Victory, Op. 91, Battle, bb. 14–20 [B-flat major–a minor–G major]
o 1813 ____________. Charge [March], p. 34: bb. 8–9 {f-sharp minor}
• 1807 1807 Mass in C, Op. 86, Agnus Dei, p. 253: bb. 1–2 {c minor}
•§[i6~iv6] 1823 1819–23 Missa Solemnis, Op. 123, Gloria, p. 78: bb. 3–4 [g minor–d minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1823 ____________. Credo, pp. 117–118: bb. 5–7 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
• 1809 1809 Sechs Gesängen, 'Neue Liebe, neues Leben,' Op. 75 no. 2, bb. 51–53 {c minor}
o§[I~VI] 1809 1809? Vier Arietten und ein Duett, Op. 82, No. 4, 'L'amante impaziente,' bb. 44–46 [G-flat major–b-flat minor/major]
o 1783 1783 Rondo in C major, WoO 48, bb. 70–71 {c minor}
•(ß) 1795 1795–96 Rondo for Piano in B-flat major (Kinsky-Halm Anh. 6), bb. 177–178 {c minor}
• 1795 ____________. bb. 180–81 {c minor}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1791 1791–92 Leichte Sonate in C major, WoO 51, bb. 46–47 [D-flat major–f minor–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1796 1796–97 Rondo for Piano in C major, Op. 51 no. 1, bb. 80–83 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§§[I~VI][T] 1796 ____________. bb. 112–113 [D-flat major–f minor–c minor]
o(II6/5) 1802 1802 Sieben Bagatellen, Op. 33, No. 4 in A major, bb. 28–30 {a minor}
 ^ 1802 ____________. No. 5 in C major, bb. 29–31 {c minor}
• 1802 1802 Piano Variations in E-flat major, 'Prometheus' ('Eroica'), Op. 35, Var. VI {c minor}
•(ß–II6) 1819 1819 Thirty-Three Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli in C major, Op. 120, Var. III, bb. 29–30 {C major}
• 1819 1819 ____________. Var. XXXI, b. 6 {g minor}
o 1820 1820–22 Elf neue Bagatellen, Op. 119, No. 1 in G minor, bb. 7–8 {g minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1820 ____________. No. 5 in C minor, bb. 10–12 [f minor–c minor]
\§[Fonte] 1820 ____________. No. 11 in B-flat major, bb. 8–10 [g minor–F major]

BENDA, Georg (Ji!í Antonín) (Staré Benátky bap. 1722–1795 Köstritz)

o 1757 1757 Sonata No. 4 in F major, ii, bb. 13–14 {c minor}
•(ß) 1757 1757 Sonata No. 5 in G minor, i, bb. 48–50 {c minor}
•(ß) 1757 ____________. bb. 54–67 {d minor}
•(ß) 1757 ____________. bb. 88–92 {g minor}
\(6) 1780 1780 Sonata No. 8 in G major, i, bb. 61–65 {b minor}
\(ß) 1782 1782 c. Sonata No. 10 in C major, i, b. 31 {c minor}
• 1785 1785c. Sonata No. 14 in F major, i, bb. 32–36 {d minor}

563
o§[I~VI] 1785 1780–87 Sonatina No. 29 in E-flat major, bb. 58–61 [E-flat major–g minor]

BERLIN, Johan Henrich (Memel 1741–1807 Trondheim)

o 1765 1765–70 Symphony in C major (Korsten C2), i, bb. 97–101 {e minor}
o 1765 ____________. bb. 138–140 {c minor}
• 1765 ____________. iii, bb. 55–57, 59–61 {g minor}
• 1765 ____________. bb. 243–47, 249–51 {c minor}

BOCCHERINI, Luigi (Lucca 1743–1805 Madrid)

• 1775 1775 Sinfonia No. 13 in B-flat major, Op. 21 no. 5, i, bb. 82–3 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1782 1782 Sinfonia No. 15 in D major, Op. 35 no. 1, ii, bb. 4–5 [F major–a minor]
^ 1782 ____________. bb. 23–24 {g minor}
o 1782 1782 Sinfonia No. 20 in B-flat major, Op. 35 no. 6, ii, b. 52 {g minor}
 BREVAL, Jean-Baptiste Sébastien (Paris 1753–1823 Colligis, Aisne)
• 1777 1777 Symphonie concertante in D major (19), Op. 4 no. 1, i, bb. 109–112 {b minor}

BRIOSCHI, Antonio (active c. 1725–c. 1750 Milan?)

o 1733 1733 Symphony in G major, i, bb. 70–72 {g minor}
• 1740 1740s Symphony in E-flat major (A III 3), ii, bb. 15–16 {c minor}

BRUNETTI, Gaetano (Fano 1744–1798 Colemar de Oreja/Madrid)

• 1798 1798d. Symphony in D major (9), i, bb. 145–153 {d minor–major}
• 1779 1779 Symphony in E-flat major (20), iv, bb. 135–138 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1784 1784 Symphony in E-flat major (21), i, bb. 178–194 [D-flat major–f minor]
• 1790 1790 Symphony in F major (34), i, bb. 148–160 {d minor}
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1790 ____________. ii, bb. 62–71 [B-flat major–d minor–C major–minor]
• 1798 1798d. Symphony in A minor-A major (36), i, bb. 123–126 {a minor}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1798 ____________. iv, bb. 83–84 [G major–b minor–f-sharp minor]
CAMBINI, Giuseppe Maria (Leghorn c. 1746–c. 1825 Paris ?)

564
• 1777 1777 Symphonie concertante in C major (B24), ii, bb. 132–133 {c minor}
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1794 1794 Symphonie concertante in D major, 'La Patriote' (G6), iii, bb. 139–42 [C major–e minor–b minor]

CANNABICH, Johann Christian (Mannheim 1731–1798 Frankfurt)

• 1798 1798d. Ouverture à 15, bb. 52–55 {g minor–major}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 199–201f. {g minor–major}

CARDONNE, Jean-Baptiste (Versailles 1730–after August 1792 ?)

\ 1781 1781 Symphony in G major (1), i, bb. 73–80 {e minor}
•(6) 1781 ____________. ii, bb. 7–8 {g minor}

CATEL, Charles-Simon (Laigle 1773–1830 Paris)

\(ß) 1801 c. 1801–02 Overture to Sémiramis, pp. 23–24, bb. 7–9 {f minor/major}
 CHERUBINI, Luigi (Florence 1760–1842 Paris)
•(6) 1780 1780 Sei Sonate per Cimbalo, No. 4, ii, bb. 85, 86 {g minor}
• 1780 ____________. No. 6, i, bb. 109–111 {e-flat minor} (Milan)
o 1800 1800 Les deux journées, Overture, bb. 79–81 {b minor}
•(II6/5) 1800 ____________. bb. 82–85 {b minor}
o 1800 ____________. bb. 187–189 {e minor}
•(II6/5) 1800 ____________. bb. 190–193 {e minor}
•§(II6/5) 1800 ____________. No. 4, Duo: 'Jusqu'à ce que vous puissiez...,' bb. 10–13 [B-flat major–d minor]
•(ß) 1800 ____________. bb. 33–34 {f-sharp minor}
o 1800 ____________. No. 10, Introduction to Act III, bb. 98–99 {d minor}
•(II6/5) 1800 ____________. No. 13, Ensemble, bb. 94–98 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1797 1797 Médée, Act III: Introduction, bb. 29–45 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1797 ____________. bb. 145–151 {d minor}
• 1797 ____________. Air: 'Eh quoi,' '. . . regretter un parricide,' p. 341–42, bb. 15–17 {a minor}
\ 1797 ____________. Finale: 'Oh Dieux,' p. 387, bb. 5–10 {d minor}
o 1797 ____________. p. 388, 9–11 {d minor}

565
• 1815 1815 Symphony in D major, i, bb. 154–55 {e minor}
•(ß) 1815 ____________. bb. 243–244 {g minor}

CIMAROSA, Domenico (Aversa 1749–1801 Venice)

o 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in D minor (C. 42), bb. 17–18 {d minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in F major (C. 43), bb. 54–55 {f minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in G minor (C. 52), bb. 3–4 {g minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in G major (C. 53), bb. 48–49 {g minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in C major (C. 56), bb. 62–63 {c minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in C minor (C. 68), bb. 65–66, 69–70 {c minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in D minor (C. 75), bb. 76–77 {d minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in D major (C. 76), bb. 39–40 {b minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in D major (C. 81), i, bb. 46–48 {d minor}
• 1775 N/A Piano Sonata in C major (C. 88), bb. 79–83 {g minor–major}
 • 1775 N/A ____________. bb. 142–47 {c minor–major}

CLEMENTI, Muzio (Rome 1752–1832 Evesham, Worcs.)

•(ß) 1790 1790? Piano Sonata in F major, WO 3, ii, p. 139: bb. 26–30 {F major}
• 1779 1779 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 2 no. 6 (rev. 1790–5), ii, bb. 47–48 {c minor}
o 1782 1782 Piano Sonata in G minor, Op. 7 no. 3, iii, bb. 78–80 {g minor}
• 1782 1782 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 8 no. 3, iii, bb. 47–50 {b-flat minor}
•(6) 1783 1783 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 9 no. 1, i, p. 178: b. 17 {b-flat minor}
o 1784 1784 Sonata and Toccata, Op. 11, Toccata, bb. 18–20ff. {f minor}
• 1784 1784 Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 12 no. 3, i, bb. 93–95 {f minor–major}
• 1784 1784 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 12 no. 4, bb. 29–31 {a-flat minor}
•(ß) 1786 1786 Op. 16, 'La Chasse,' p. 98: bb. 36–39 {d minor}
• 1787 1787 Capriccio in B-flat major, Op. 17, bb. 114–117 {d minor}
^ 1787 1787 Musical Characteristics, Op. 19, bb. 17–18 {f minor}
•(ß) 1789 1789–90 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 23 no. 1, ii, p. 52: bb. 26–28 {c minor}
•(ß) 1790 1790 Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 23 no. 2, iii, p. 24 (Peters): bb. 26–28 {d minor}

566
•(ß–II6/5) 1790 ____________. p. 62: bb. 39–41 {d minor}
•(ß) 1789 1789 Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 24 no. 1, i, p. 16: bb. 6–10 {c minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1790 1790 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 25 no. 3, ii, p. 100: bb. 54–56 {d minor}
•(ß) 1790 1790 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 25 no. 4, p. 106: bb. 19–23ff. {A major}
•(ß) 1790 ____________. ii, p. 57 (Peters): bb. 33–35ff. {f-sharp minor}
• 1790 1790 Piano Sonata in F-sharp minor, Op. 25 no. 6, ii, bb. 10–13 {b minor}
• 1794 1794 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 33 no. 1, ii, p. 94 (Peters): bb. 28–31 {f-sharp minor}
•(ß) 1794 1794 Piano Sonata in C major, Op. 33 no. 3, iii, pp. 18–19 (Peters): bb. 60–63 {d minor}
o 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in C major, Op. 34 no. 1, i, p. 65 (Peters): bb. 18–19 {e minor}
• 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in G minor, Op. 34 no. 2, iii, p. 202: bb. 50–61 {g minor–major}
o 1797 1797 Piano Sonatina, Op. 36 no. 6 in D major, bb. 32–33ff. {a minor}
• 1798 1798 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 37 no. 3, i, bb. 30–31 {a minor}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 77–79 {d minor}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 166–67 {d minor}
 \§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1802 1802 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 40 no. 1, i, bb. 103–104 [E-flat major–g minor–f minor]
•§[V7~ß] 1802 ____________. bb. 106–110 [g minor/major–f-sharp minor]
o 1802 ____________. iv, pp. 170–71 (Garland), bb. 26–27, 48–49 {g minor}
• 1802 1802 Piano Sonata in B minor, Op. 40 no. 2, ii, bb. 8–10 {b minor}
•(ß) 1802 ____________. bb. 21–23 {b minor}
o(II6) 1802 ____________. bb. 8–9 {b minor}
•(ß) 1802 ____________. p. 187 (Garland): bb. 10–12 {b minor}
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1802 1802 Piano Sonata in D minor, Op. 40 no. 3, iii, bb. 127–128 {d minor}
•§[I~VI] 1802 ____________. bb. 153–54 [F major–d minor]
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1802 ____________. bb. 183–184 [E-flat major–g minor–F major]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1802 ____________. bb. 184–186 [F major–e minor–d minor]
• 1819 1819 Symphony No. 2 in D major (WO 33), iii, bb. 24–26 {f-sharp minor}
• 1819 ____________. iv, bb. 25–31 {a minor–major} : HC
•(ß) 1819 ____________. bb. 151–155 {e-flat minor/major}
o 1780 1780–81c. Fugue in F major, Op. 5 no. 2, p. 73, bb. 14–16 {F major}

567
COUPERIN, François (Paris 1668–1733 Paris)
\ 1716 1716–1717 L'art de toucher le clavecin, Cinquième Prélude in A major, bb. 16–17 {b minor}
• 1730 1730 Quatrième de pièces de clavecin, 22ème Ordre, 'Anguille,' p. 122, bb. 1–4 {d minor}

CRAMER, Johann Baptist (Mannheim 1771–1858 London)

•(ß) 1791 1791–92? Piano Sonata in A minor, Op. 6 no. 4, i, p. 11: bb. 18–19 {f-sharp minor}
• 1799 1799 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 19 no. 3, i, p. 23: bb. 12–15ff. {a minor–major}
•§[T] 1800 1800 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 20, iii, Variation 3, bb. 12–13 [g minor–d minor]
• 1800 ____________. bb. 13–14 {d minor}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1801 1800–01? Piano Sonata in A minor, Op. 22 no. 3, i, bb. 26–27 [C major–e minor–b minor]
• 1801 1801 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 25 no. 3, i, p. 97: bb. 3–6 {d minor}
\(6–II6/5) 1802 1802? Piano Sonata in F major, Op. 27 no. 1, ii, bb. 6–7 {a minor}
o 1802 ____________. bb. 7–8 {a minor}
o 1802 ____________. iii, p. 133: bb. 25–26 {g minor}
 •(ß–o3rd–3) 1817 1817 Piano Sonata in E minor, Op. 59, i, p. 245: bb. 31–34 {e minor}
•(ii/o4/3) 1818 1818/1821? Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 62, i, p. 266: b. 19 {E major}

CROTCH, William (Norwich 1775–1847 Taunton)

^§[I~ß] 1814 1814 Symphony in F major, i, pp. 23–24: bb. 5–15 [D-flat major–f minor–major]

CROUBELIS, Simoni dall (? c.1727–c.1790 Copenhagen)

• 1780 1780c. Symphonie concertante in B-flat major, iii, bb. 123–126 {b-flat minor/major}

CUPIS, Jean-Baptiste (Brussels 1711–1788 Montreuil)

• 1745 1745c. Symphony in A major, Op. 3 no. 3, i, bb. 48–50 {a minor–major}
o 1745 ____________. iii, bb. 20–22 {e minor}

DITTERSDORF, Carl Ditters von (Vienna 1739–1799 Neuhoff)

•(6) 1781 1781c. Metamorphosen: Sechs Symphonien nach Ovid. No. 4 in F major, 'Die Rettung...,' i, bb. 112–117 {F major}
\§[I~VI] 1781 ____________. iv, bb. 79–87 [B-flat major–d minor]

568
\(ß) ____________. No. 5 in D major, 'Die Versteinerung...,' ii, bb. 13–17 {b minor}
•§[I~VI] 1781 1781c. ____________. iv, bb. 201–226 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1781 1781–82 ____________. No. 6 in A major, 'Verwandlung...,' ii, bb. 41–42, 43–44 {d minor}
^ 1781 ____________. bb. 82–84 {d minor}
\(6–II6) 1781 ____________. iv, bb. 27–30 {a minor}
• 1763 1763 Sinfonia in A minor (Grave a2), iv, bb. 115–119 {a minor}
\(6–II6/5) 1771 1771 Sinfonia in D major (Grave D16), vi, bb. 9–11 {d minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1766 1766 Sinfonia in F major (Grave F7), ii, bb. 10–12 {a minor}
\o 1768 1768 Sinfonia in G minor (Grave g1), i, bb. 121–124 {g minor}
o 1768 ____________. iii, bb. 29–32 {g minor}
\(6) 1768 ____________. iv, bb. 44–47 {B-flat major}
\o§[T=viio4/3~viio4/2] 1768 ____________. bb. 68–75 [f minor–d minor]
\(6) 1768 ____________. bb. 124–127 {g minor}
 DOBRZY"SKI, Ignacy Feliks (Romanów 1807–1867 Warsaw)
•§[I~VI] 1831 1831 Symphony in C minor (2), i, bb. 28–36 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1831 ____________. bb. 279–288 [C-flat major–e-flat minor–major]
\(ß) 1831 ____________. bb. 597–598 {c minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1831 ____________. bb. 602–11 [A-flat major–c minor]
• 1831 ____________. ii, bb. 85–86 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1831 ____________. iii, bb. 55–59 [A-flat major–c minor]
•(ß) 1831 ____________. iv, bb. 560–62 {c minor/major}

DONIZETTI, Gaetano (Bergamo 1797–1848 Bergamo)

• 1816 1816 Sinfonia in C major/minor (232), bb. 71–73 {e-flat minor}
• 1816 ____________. bb. 128–129 {c minor}
o§(+ivo7–o3rd) 1818 1818 Sinfonia in D minor (per la morte di Capuzzi), bb. 10–15ff. [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1818 ____________. bb. 204–205 {d minor}

DU#EK, Franti$ek Xaver (Chotěborky 1731–1799 Prague)

569
o 1767 1767 Symphony in C major (C1), i, bb. 5–6 {c minor}
• 1799 1799d. Symphony in D major (D11), i, bb. 46–48 {a minor–major}
• 1799 ____________. bb. 119–21 {d minor–major}
o 1799 1799d. Symphony in A major (A1), i, bb. 89–91 {f-sharp minor}
• 1774 1774–7 Sinfonia in A major (Altner A3), bb. 5–6 {a minor}
•§[I~VI] 1774 1774–7 Sinfonia in E-flat major (Altner E-flat3), i, bb. 139–145 [ A-flat major–c minor]
• 1774 1774–7 Sinfonia in F major (Altner F4), i, bb. 112–113, 114–115 {d minor}
o 1774 ____________. iv, b. 66 {d minor}
o 1774 1774–7 Sinfonia in B-flat major (Altner B-flat2), iii, bb. 70–71 {g minor}

DUSSEK, Jan Ladislav (Bohemia 1760–1812 St. Germain-en-Laye)

•§[I~ß] 1787 1787 Piano Trio in C major, Op. 2 no. 1 (Craw 30), iii, bb. 136–140 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1787 1787 Piano Trio in E minor, Op. 2 no. 3 (Craw 32), i, bb. 126–129 [C major–e minor]
^ 1787 ____________. bb. 128–129 {e minor}
 • 1788 1788 Piano Sonata in A-flat major, Op. 5 no. 3, i, bb. 64–66 {e-flat minor}
• 1788 ____________. bb. 213–215 {a-flat minor}
• 1788 1785–88c. Piano Sonata in C major, Op. 9 no. 2, i, bb. 103–104 {d minor}
o 1788 ____________. bb. 111–112 {a minor}
^§[V~VI] 1788 ____________. bb. 143–145 [D-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1788 1785–88c. Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 9 no. 3, i, bb. 48–52 [F major–a minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1788 ____________. bb. 111–116 [B-flat major–d minor/major]
o 1788 1785–88c. Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 10, no. 1, i, bb. 186–187 {A major}
• 1788 1785–88c. Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 10 no. 3, i, bb. 90–92 {c-sharp minor}
\(6) 1788 ____________. ii, bb. 146–154 {e minor}
•(6) 1788 ____________. bb. 189–191 {e minor}
\(ß) 1792 1792c. Piano Sonata in A minor, Op. 18 no. 2, i, bb. 12–13 {a minor}
•§[I~VI] 1792 ____________. bb. 104–113 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1792 ____________. bb. 176–181 {a minor}
o 1792 ____________. ii, bb. 69–70 {f-sharp minor}
•§[V7~ß] 1795 1795 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 25, no. 2, i, bb. 12–14ff. [E-flat major–d minor/major]

570
•§[I~VI] 1797 1797 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op 35. no. 1, i, bb. 137–143f. {b-flat minor–major}
^ 1797 ____________. bb. 138–140 {b-flat minor}
• 1797 1797 Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 35 no. 3, i, bb. 110–111 {e-flat minor}
• 1797 ____________. bb. 235–236 {c minor}
•§[IV~VI] 1797 ____________. iii, Intermezzo, bb. 10–14 [E-flat major–c minor]
o 1797 ____________. iv, bb. 38–40 {a minor}
•(ß) 1797 ____________. bb. 134–137ff. {c minor}
• 1799 1799 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 39 no. 1, ii, bb. 48–49 {g minor}
• 1799 ____________. bb. 95–96 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1800 1800 Piano Sonata in A major, Op. 43, 'Grande Sonate,' i, bb. 104–106 [D major–f-sharp minor]
^§[I~ß] 1800 ____________. ii, bb. 91–92 [C major–e minor]
•§[T](ß) 1800 1800 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 44, 'Grande Sonate: The Farewell,' iv, bb. 95–98 [a-flat minor–e-flat minor]
• 1800 ____________. bb. 215–218 {g minor–major}
• 1800 1800 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 45 no. 1, i, bb. 122–124 {g minor–major}
 •§[I~N](V6/5) 1800 ____________. iii, bb. 191–193 [C-flat major–B-flat major]
•(ß–II6/5) 1802 1802 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 45 no. 2, ii, bb. 48–49 {a minor}
• 1802 1802 Piano Sonata in D major, Op. 45 no. 3, i, bb. 99–105 {b minor}
•§[I~VI] 1801 1801 Piano Sonata in G major, Op. 47 no. 2, i, bb. 88–91 [F major–a minor]
^ 1805 1805–06 Grande symphonie concertante in B-flat major, Op. 63, i, bb. 78–80 {d minor}
•§[V7~ß] 1805 ____________. bb. 139–146 [G-flat major–f minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1805 ____________. iii, bb. 271–273 [C-flat major–e-flat minor–b-flat minor]
• 1805 ____________. bb. 412–15 {b-flat minor–major}
\(ß) 1807 1807 Piano Sonata in F-sharp minor, 'Elegie harmonique' Op. 61, iii, bb. 66–67 {b minor}
•(ß) 1812 1812 Piano Sonata in F minor, Op. 77, 'L'invocation,' ii, bb. 55–57 {C major}

EBERL, Anton (Vienna 1765–1807 Vienna)

\(6–II6/5) 1803 1803 Symphony in E-flat major, Op. 33, iv, bb. 108–114 {b-flat minor}
\(6–II6/5) 1803 ____________ . bb. 330–36 {e-flat minor}

EBERLIN, Johann Ernst (Jettingen 1702–1762 Salzburg)

571
• 1751 1751 Symphony in D major (D1), i, bb. 12–13 {a minor}
• 1751 ____________. i, bb. 46–47 {d minor}

EGGERT, Joachim (Georg) Nikolas (Ginst, Rügen 1779–1813 Thomestorp, Östergötland, Sweden)
\ 1807 1807 Symphony in E-flat major (3), i, bb. 20–21 {e-flat minor/major}
\§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß] 1807 ____________. bb. 234–43 [C-flat major–e-flat minor–D-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1807 ____________. bb. 261–270 [C-flat major–e-flat minor/major]

EICHNER, Ernst (Arolsen 1740–1777 Potsdam)

• 1772 1772 Symphony in D major, Op. 7 no. 5, iii, bb. 104–105 {d minor}

FALBE, Hans Hagerup (Copenhagen 1772–1830 Christiana (Oslo))

• 1810 1810–12 Symphony in D major (Korsten D1), iv, bb. 82–83 {d minor/major}
 FERDINAND, Prince Louis (Berlin 1772–1806 Saalfeld)
•§[I~VI] 1803 1803 Piano Quintet in C minor, Op. 1, iv, bb. 121–133 [E-flat major–g minor–major]
•§[I~VI] 1803 1803 ____________. bb. 368–384 [A-flat major–c minor–major]
•§[I~VI] 1806 1806 Piano Trio No. 2 in E-flat major, Op. 3, ii, Variation II, bb. 20–23 [G-flat major–b-flat minor]
•(ß) 1806 ____________. Variation IV, bb. 11–14 {f minor–major}
• 1806 ____________. Variation IV, bb. 30–32 {b-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1806 ____________. iii, bb. 224–225 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1806 ____________. bb. 237–238 [A-flat major–c minor]

FIELD, John (Dublin 1782–1837 Moscow)

•(ß) 1818 c. 1818 Chanson russe varié, Var. III, bb. 3–4 {d minor}
•(6) 1822 1822 Nocturne No. 8 in E minor (second version), bb. 31–34 {e minor}
o(II6/5) 1832 1832 Rondo No. 6 in C major, p. 129: bb. 5–8 {c minor}
o(II6/5) 1833 1833? Fantasia on 'We Met,' p. 164: bb. 32–34 {g minor/major}
•(6–II6/5) 1836 1836 Nocturne No. 15 in C major, bb. 18–21 {c minor/major}
\(6–II6/5) 1838 1838 Nocturne No. 5 (second version), p. 217: 1–3 {b-flat minor/major}

572
o(II6/5) 1840 1840 Fantasia on In the Garden, p. 225: bb. 13–14 {G major}
\§[I~ß] 1840 1840 ____________. p. 227: bb. 8–10 [A-flat major–c minor]

FILTZ, Anton (Eichstätt 1733–1760 Mannheim)

• 1760 1760d. Sinfonie périodique No. 10 in D major, i, bb. 58–59 {b minor}

GASSMANN, Florian Leopold (Most 1729–1774 Vienna)

•§[I~VI] 1768 1768 Symphony in B-flat major, Hill 62, ii, bb. 40–42 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§§[I~VI][T] 1768 1768 Symphony in A major (64), iv, bb. 94–97 [C major–b minor–f-sharp minor]

GERSON, Georg (Copenhagen 1790–1825 Copenhagen)

\ 1813 1813–1817 Symphony in E-flat major (1), i, bb. 122–124 {e-flat minor}
•(ß) 1813 ____________. bb. 236–238 {e-flat minor}
 \ 1813 ____________. bb. 254–256 {a-flat minor}

GOSSEC, François-Joseph (Vergnies, Hainaut 1734–1829 Passy)

• 1761 1761 Symphony in D major (27), Op. 5 no. 3, i, bb. 116–123 {d minor–major}
• 1762 1762 Symphony in A major (32), Op. 6 no. 2, i, bb. 172–174 {c-sharp minor}
• 1765 1765 Symphony in F major (44), Op. 8 no. 2, i, bb. 95–97 {d minor }
o 1765 ____________. ii, bb. 13–14 {b-flat minor/major}
o 1765 ____________. bb. 53–54 {b-flat minor/major}
o 1769 1769 Symphony in E-flat major, Op. 7 no. 5 (58), i, bb. 16–17 {c minor}
• 1775 1775 Symphonie concertante No. 1 in D major (88/92), i, bb. 206–07 {d minor}
o 1775 ____________. bb. 209–10 {d minor}
• 1809 1809 Symphonie à 17 parties (91) (F major), i, bb. 214–217 {f minor}
•(ß) 1809 ____________. ii, bb. 28–30 {g minor}

GRAUN, Carl Heinrich (Wahrenbrück 1703/04–1759 Berlin)

•§[I~VI] 1749 1749 Coriolano, Overture, bb. 21–22 [B-flat major–d minor]

573
GUÉNIN, Marie-Alexandre (Maubeuge 1774–1835 Etampes)
\§[Fonte] 1768 1768 Symphony in D major, Op. 6 no. 1 (10), iii, bb. 123–130 [b minor–A major]

GYROWETZ, Adalbert (České Budějovice 1763–1850 Vienna)

•§[I~VI] 1790 1790c. Symphony in C major (B XI 1), i, bb. 62–74 [ E-flat major–g minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1790 ____________. bb. 217–27 [A-flat major–c minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1790 ____________. iv, bb. 169–181 [A-flat major–c minor/major]
\ 1792 1792 Symphony in E-flat major (B XI 3), i, bb. 7–10 {E-flat major}
•(ß) 1792 ____________. p. 24, bb. 13–17 {e-flat minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1792 ____________. ii, bb. 62–66 [A-flat major–c minor/major]
o 1792 ____________. iv, p. 48, bb. 13–14 {c minor}
 HANDEL, George Frideric (Halle 1685–1759 London)
•§[T](6–II6/5) 1741 1741 Messiah, No. 6: Aria, bb. 74–77 [g minor–d minor]
• 1741 ____________. No. 11: Aria, bb. 2, 6 {b minor}
• 1741 ____________. bb. 21, 26 {e minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1741 ____________. No. 23: Aria, bb. 65–67 {g minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1741 ____________. No. 24: Chorus, bb. 3–4 {f minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1741 ____________. bb. 7–8 [f minor–c minor]
•(II6/5) 1741 ____________. bb. 10–11 {c minor}

HARTMANN, Johann Ernst (Gros Glackau 1726–1793 Copenhagen)

\ 1765 before 1770 Symphony in D major, i, bb. 72–74 {b minor}

HARTMANN, Johan Peter Emilius (Copenhagen 1805–1900 Copenhagen)

•(ß) date? Symphony in G minor, Op. 17, iii, bb. 58–59 {c minor}

HAYDN, Johann Michael (Rohrau an der Leitha 1737–1806 Salzburg)

574
• 1766 1766/72 Symphony in B-flat major, i, bb. 77–79 {g minor}
o 1766 ____________. bb. 129–132 {B-flat major}
o 1771 1771 Symphony in E major (P44/Brook17), i, bb. 122–126 {e minor}
• 1783 1783–85 Symphony in E-flat major (P17), iii, bb. 65–69 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1783 ____________. bb. 106–110 [E-flat major–g minor]
^§[I~ß] 1784 1784 Symphony in B-flat major (P18), ii, bb. 26–31 [G-flat major–B-flat major]
^§[I~ß] 1784 ____________. bb. 90–95 [C-flat major–E-flat major]
• 1784 1784 Symphony in D minor (P20), iii, bb. 222–225 {d minor}
•(ß) 1789 1789 Symphony in F major (P32), ii, bb. 39–42 {b-flat minor}

HAYDN, Joseph (Rohrau 1732–1809 Vienna)

• 1760 1760? Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Hob.XVI:2, ii, bb. 37–38 {g minor}
• 1763 1763 Piano Sonata in A major, Hob.XVI:5, i, bb. 46–48 {e minor}
• 1763 ____________. bb. 125–27 {a minor}
 • 1767
• 1767
• 1750
• 1750
•(6) 1767
• 1767
• 1771
• 1771
\ 1773
• 1773
o 1773
•(ß) 1773
^ 1773
o 1773
• 1773
o 1773
575
•(ß) 1773
• 1773
• 1773
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1774
•§[I~VI] 1779
•§[T=+ivo7~viio6/5](ß) 1779
o 1779
o 1779
•(ß) 1784
o 1765
•§[I~VI] 1789
o 1794
\(6) 1793
• 1762
1767/ 1760? Piano Sonata in C major, Hob.XVI: 10, iii, bb. 23–26 {g minor}
____________. iii, bb. 81–84 {c minor}
1750–55? Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Hob.XVI: 16, i, bb. 16–17 {b-flat minor/major}
____________. bb. 53–54{e-flat minor/major}
1767? Piano Sonata in B-flat major, Hob.XVI: 18, i, bb. 70–74 {g minor}
1767 Piano Sonata in D major, Hob.XVI: 19, i, bb. 55–56 {b minor}
1771? Piano Sonata in C minor, Hob.XVI: 20, i, bb. 63–65 {g minor}
____________. iii, bb. 64–65 {g minor}
1773 Piano Sonata in C major, Hob.XVI: 21, i, bb. 80–83 {a minor}
1773 Piano Sonata in F major, Hob.XVI: 23, i, bb. 29–32 {c minor}
____________. ii, bb. 30–31 {f minor}
1773 Piano Sonata in D major, Hob.XVI: 24, i, bb. 26–28 {a minor}
____________. bb. 43–44 {a minor}
____________. bb. 75–77 {b minor}
____________. bb. 84–88 {b minor}
____________. bb. 89–91 {b minor}
____________. bb. 119–121 {d minor}
____________. ii, bb. 7–8 {d minor}
1773 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Hob.XVI: 25, i, b. 44{f minor}
1774–76? Piano Sonata in G major, Hob.XVI: 27, iii, bb. 93–94 {g minor}
1780 before Piano Sonata in C major, Hob.XVI: 35 i, bb. 89–97 [F major–a minor]
1780 before Piano Sonata in C-sharp minor, Hob.XVI: 36, i, bb. 57–60 [a minor–c-sharp minor]
1780 before Piano Sonata in D major, Hob.XVI: 37, i, bb. 93–99 {d minor–major}
____________. ii, bb. 3–4 {d minor}
Piano Sonata in G major, Hob.XVI: 40, i, bb. 27–29 {d minor}
1765/67 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Hob.XVI: 45 , ii, bb. 46–48 {a-flat minor}
1789/90 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, Hob.XVI: 49, i, bb. 95–107 [D-flat major–f minor]
1794/95 Piano Sonata in C major, Hob.XVI: 50, i, bb. 82–83 {e minor}
1793 Variations for Piano in F minor, Hob. XVII: 6, bb. 136–137 {C major}
1762 String Quartet in B-flat major, Hob.III: 1 (Op. 1 no. 1), i, b. 38 {b-flat minor}
 • 1771 1771(1769?) String Quartet in C major Op. 9 no. 1, i, bb. 41–43 {a minor}
•§[T](ß) 1771 ____________. iv, bb. 61–65 [g minor–d minor]
•§[I~VI] 1771 1771(1769?) String Quartet in E-flat major, Op. 9 no. 2, iii, bb. 56–58 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[T](ß) 1771 1771 String Quartet in D minor, Op. 9 no. 4, i, bb. 42–43 [d minor–a minor]
•§[V7~ß] 1771 1771 String Quartet in F major, Op. 17 no. 2, iii, bb. 44–47 [A-flat major–g minor]
•(ß) 1771 1771 String Quartet in C minor, Op. 17 no. 4, ii, bb. 63–66 {c minor}
^ 1771 1771 String Quartet in G major, Op. 17 no. 5, iv, bb. 117–119 {g minor}
• 1771 1771 String Quartet in D major, Op. 17 no. 6, i, bb. 114–116 {d minor}
^o 1771 1771 String Quartet in C major, Op. 20 no. 2, i, bb. 4o–44 {g minor–major}
• 1771 ____________. bb. 58–60 {d minor}
• 1771 ____________. ii, bb. 30–33 {c minor}
• 1771 ____________. iii, bb. 65–66 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1771 1771 String Quartet in G minor, Op. 20 no. 3, ii, bb. 8–10 [B-flat major–d minor]
o§[T](II6/5) 1771 ____________. bb. 68–71 [c minor–g minor]
• 1771 1771 String Quartet in D major, Op. 20 no. 4, ii, bb. 109–111 {d minor}
•(ß) 1771 1771 String Quartet in F minor, Op. 20 no. 5, i, bb. 9–12 {f minor}

576
• 1771 1771 String Quartet in A major, Op. 20 no. 6, i, bb. 18–21 {end-oriented to E major}
^§[I~ß] 1781 1781 String Quartet in G major, Op. 33 no. 5, i, bb. 226–231 [E-flat major–g minor]
•§[I~VI] 1781 ____________. ii, bb. 38–41 [E-flat major–g minor]
o 1781 ____________. bb. 45–47 {g minor}
• 1781 1781 String Quartet in D major, Op. 33 no. 6, ii, bb. 43–46 {d minor}
• 1787 1787 String Quartet in E-flat major, Op. 50 no. 3, iv, bb. 60–65 {B-flat major}
o§[I~VI] 1787 1787 String Quartet in D major, Op. 50 no. 6, i, bb. 42–49 [F major–A major]
•§[I~VI] 1787 ____________. bb. 142–149 [B-flat major–d minor/major]
• 1788 1788c. String Quartet in C major, Op. 54 no. 2, i, bb. 48–56 {g minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1788 1788c. String Quartet in E major, Op. 54 no. 3, i, bb. 80–94 [D major–f-sharp minor]
• 1788 1788c. String Quartet in A major, Op. 55 no. 1, ii, b. 53 {d minor—major}
• 1788 1788c. String Quartet in F minor and major, 'Razor,' Op. 55 no. 2, i, bb. 130–31 {f minor}
• 1788 ____________. ii, bb. 7–8 {f minor}
• 1788 1788c. String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 55 no. 3, i, bb. 121–122 {g minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1790 1790/92 String Quartet in C major, Op. 64 no. 1, i, bb. 71–76 [B-flat major–d minor]
•(ii/o4/3) 1790 ____________. ii, bb. 65–66 {c minor}
o 1790 1790/92 String Quartet in B minor, Op. 64 no. 2, i, bb. 51–53 {f-sharp minor}
^(iv–ß) 1790 1790/92 String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 64 no. 3, i, bb. 41–42 {f minor–major}
• 1790 1790/92 String Quartet in G major, Op. 64 no. 4, i, bb. 53–59 {e minor}
\(ß) 1790 1790/92 String Quartet in D major, Op. 64 no. 5, The Lark; Hornpipe,' i, bb. 137–139 {d minor/major}
•§[T] 1790 ____________. ii, bb. 29–30 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
• 1790 1790/92 ____________. bb. 37–38 {a minor}
•§[I~VI] 1793 1793 String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 71 no. 1, ii, bb. 25–31 [D-flat major–f minor]
•(ß) 1793 1793 String Quartet in D major, Op. 71 no. 2, iv, bb. 93–97 {d minor/major}
• 1793 1793 String Quartet in E-flat major, Op. 71 no. 3, iv, bb. 16 {B-flat major/minor}
•(ß) 1793 1793 String Quartet in C major, Op. 74 no. 1, i, bb. 13–15 {c minor/major}
•§[T] 1793 ____________. bb. 80–82 [d minor–a minor]
o 1793 1793 String Quartet in F major, Op. 74 no. 2, iv, bb. 121–122 {d minor}
o 1793 1793 String Quartet in G minor, Op. 74 no. 3, 'Horseman,' i, bb. 165–168 {g minor}
o 1793 ____________. iii, bb. 67–68 {c minor}

577
• 1796 1796–97 String Quartet in D major, Op. 76 no. 5, i, bb. 54–57 {d minor/major}
• 1799 1799 String Quartet in G major, Op. 77 no. 1, i, bb. 22–27 {d minor/major}
•(iio(6)/4) 1799 1799 String Quartet in F major, Op. 77 no. 2, i, bb. 83–84 {e-flat minor}
o(II6/5) 1766 1766 Piano Trio in G minor, iii, bb. 92–94 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1760 1760? Piano Trio in F minor Hob. XV: f1, i, bb. 40–42 [D-flat major–f minor]
\o 1784 1784 before Piano Trio in C major, Hob. XV: 3, i, bb. 173–179 {a minor}
• 1785 1785 Piano Trio in B-flat major, Hob. XV: 8, i, bb. 80–82 {g minor}
•(ß) 1785 1785 Piano Trio in E-flat major, Hob. XV: 10, i, bb. 46–48, 48–50 {B-flat major}
•§[V~VI] 1785 ____________. bb. 72–85 [G-flat major–f minor]
o 1789 1789 before Piano Trio in E minor, Hob. XV: 12, ii, bb. 19–22 {b minor}
o 1789 ____________. bb. 71–74 {e minor}
•§[I~VI] 1789 1789 Piano Trio in C minor, Hob. XV: 13, ii, bb. 234–251 [A-flat major–c minor/major]
• 1790 1790 Piano Trio in D major, Hob. XV: 16, iii, bb. 170–176 {d minor–major}
•§[V7~ß] 1794 1794 Piano Trio in B-flat major, Hob. VX: 20, i, bb. 49–52 [A-flat major–g minor]
 •(ß) 1794 ____________. bb. 59–61 {d minor}
o 1794 ____________. iii, bb. 53–54 {b-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1795 1795 Piano Trio in E-flat major, Hob. XV: 22, i, bb. 53–64 [G-flat major–b minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1795 ____________. bb. 199–212 [ C-flat major–e-flat minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1795 1795 Piano Trio in F-sharp minor Hob. XV: 26, ii, bb. 38–40 [ D major–f-sharp minor/major]
• 1795 ____________. iii, bb. 65–66 {f-sharp minor}
o 1795 ____________. bb. 67–68 {f-sharp minor}
o 1766 1766 Piano Trio in F major, Hob. XV: 37, i, Cadenza, bb. 8–9 {f minor}
• 1757 1757/61c. Symphony 'A' in Bb major, Hob. I: 107, ii, bb. 35–36 {E-flat major}
• 1757 1757/61c. Symphony No. 2 in C major, i, bb. 53–57 {g minor–major}
• 1757 ____________. bb. 167–168 {c-minor–major}
o 1757 ____________. ii, bb. 50–51 {g minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1757 1757/61c. Symphony No. 4 in D major, i, bb. 49–51 [a minor–e minor–b minor]
• 1761 1761 Symphony No. 7 in C major, 'Le Midi,' ii, bb. 42–45 {g minor–major}
• 1761 1761? Symphony No. 8 in G major, 'Le Soir,' i, bb. 109–113 {e minor}
• 1762 1762? Symphony No. 9 in C major, i, bb. 55–58 {a minor}

578
^ 1762 1762 Symphony No. 13 in D major, iii, bb. 66–68 {g minor}
• 1760 1760c. Symphony No. 18 in G major, i, bb. 20–24 {d minor–major}
• 1760 ____________. bb. 57–61 {g minor–major}
• 1757 1757/63 c. Symphony No. 20 in C major, i, bb. 50–54 {g minor–major}
• 1757 ____________. bb. 162–166 {c minor–major}
•§[T] 1764 1764 Symphony No. 21 in A major, i, bb. 38–39 [f-sharp minor–c-sharp minor]
•§[I~VI] 1764 1764 Symphony No. 24 in D major, ii, bb. 31–36 [ C major–e minor]
• 1765 1765 Symphony No. 28 in A major, i, bb. 40–44 {e minor}
o 1765 1765 Symphony No. 29 in E major, i, bb. 83–86 {c-sharp minor}
• 1766 1766 c. Symphony No. 34 in D minor, i, bb. 15–18 {d minor}
• 1766 ____________. ii, bb. 71–72 {d minor}
• 1757 1757/61 c. Symphony No. 37 in C major, iv, bb. 45–46 {c minor}
• 1768 1768 c. Symphony No. 39 in G minor, iv, bb. 58–61 {d minor}
• 1768 ____________. bb. 64–65 {g minor}
 o 1771 1771 Symphony No. 42 in D major, ii, bb. 91–92 {f-sharp minor}
• 1771 ____________. bb. 99–105 {f-sharp minor}
o 1771 ____________. iv, bb. 81–81 {d minor}
•(ß) 1771 1771 c. Symphony No. 43 in E-flat major, 'Mercury,' iv, bb. 92–95 {c-sharp minor}
• 1772 1772 Symphony No. 45 in F-sharp minor, 'Farewell,' iv, bb. 112–114 {f-sharp minor}
• 1772 1772 Symphony No. 46 in B major, i, bb. 96–99 {g-sharp minor}
•§[III~VI] 1771 1771/73 Symphony No. 51 in B-flat major, i, bb. 104–107 [g minor–c minor]
o 1774 1774 Symphony No. 54 in G major, i, bb. 11–12 {g minor}
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1774 ____________. iv, bb. 108–111 [B-flat major–d minor–c minor]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1774 ____________. bb. 111–114 [c minor–b minor–a minor]
•(6–II6/5) 1774 1774 Symphony No. 56 in C major, i, bb. 39–40 {g minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1774 ____________. ii, bb. 73–75 {d minor}
• 1774 1774 Symphony No. 57 in D major, i, bb. 25–31 {d minor}
\ 1766 1766–1768 Symphony No. 58 in F major, i, bb. 76–81 {d minor}
• 1766 1766–68c. Symphony No. 59 in A major, 'Feuersymphonie,' i, bb. 25–27 {e minor}
• 1766 ____________. bb. 100–102 {a minor}

579
o 1774 1774 Symphony No. 60 in C major, i, bb. 50–52 {g minor}
• 1774 ____________. bb. 174–177 {c minor}
o 1774 ____________. iii, bb. 41–42 {c minor}
o 1774 ____________. iv, bb.6–8, 14–16 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1776 1776 Symphony No. 61 in D major, ii, bb. 41–44 [C major–e minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1776 ____________. bb. 50–53 [C major–e minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1776 ____________. bb. 120–122 [F major–a minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1776 ____________. bb. 129–131 [F major–a minor/major]
\§[Fonte] 1777 1777? Symphony No. 63 in C major, 'La Roxelane,' i, bb. 125–129 [d minor–C major]
\(II6/5) 1773 1773 c. Symphony No. 64 in A major, 'Tempora mutantur,' ii, bb. 87–89 {d minor/major}
• 1771 1771/73c. Symphony No. 65 in A major, i, bb. 33–34 {e minor}
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1771 ____________. bb. 70–73 [G major–b minor–a minor]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1771 ____________. bb. 73–76 [a minor–g-sharp minor–f-sharp minor]
• 1771 ____________. bb. 111–112 {a minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1778 1778 c. Symphony No. 67 in F major, i, bb. 104–114 [B-flat–d minor]
o 1778 ____________. ii, bb. 90–92 {b-flat minor/major}
\§[Fonte] 1778 1778 c. Symphony No. 69 in C major, 'Laudon,' iv, bb. 163–169 [d minor–C major]
^§§[I~VI][T] 1779 1779 Symphony No. 70 in D major, iv, bb. 154–157 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
\ 1779 1779/80 c. Symphony No. 71 in B-flat major, ii, bb. 116–122 {f minor–major}
•§[I~VI] 1781 1781 c. Symphony No. 73 in D major, 'La Chasse,' iv, bb. 113–118 [C major–e minor]
•§[V~VI] 1782 1782 Symphony No. 76 in E-flat major, iv, bb. 80–88 [A-flat major–g minor]
•(6) 1782 1782 Symphony No. 78 in C minor, i, bb. 94–97 {g minor}
•(ß) 1782 ____________. iii, bb. 21–24 {c minor}
\§§[IV~VI][Fonte] 1782 1783/84c. Symphony No. 80 in D minor, iv, bb. 65–68 [A major–f-sharp minor–E major]
• 1783 ____________. bb. 175–185 {b minor}
\§§[IV~VI][Fonte] 1783 ____________. bb. 231–234 [D major–b minor–A major]
\o 1783 1783–84 Symphony No. 81 in G major, i, bb. 118–119 {g minor–major}
•(ß) 1783 ____________. bb. 62–63 {e minor}
• 1783 ____________. iv, bb. 79–93 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1786 1786 Symphony No. 82 in C major, 'L'Ours,' iv, bb. 129–140 [E-flat major–g minor]

580
• 1785 1785 Symphony No. 83 in G minor, "La Poule," i, bb. 115–120 {d minor–major}
• 1785 ____________. iv, bb. 23–25 {d minor}
• 1785 ____________. bb. 75–77 {g minor}
•(ß) 1785 ____________. bb. 91–94 {G major}
•§[I~VI] 1786 1786 Symphony No. 86 in D major, i, bb. 118–124 [G major–b minor]
•§[I~VI] 1786 ____________. ii, bb. 24–28 [B-flat major–d minor]
•§[I~ß–II6/5] 1786 ____________. iv, bb. 138–149 [B-flat major–D major]
^(iv–ß) 1787 1787 c. Symphony No. 88 in G major, ii, bb. 89–91 {d minor}
• 1787 1787 Symphony No. 89 in F major, i, bb. 122–127 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1788 1788 Symphony No. 90 in C major , ii, bb. 128–135 [D-flat major–f minor]
• 1788 1788 Symphony No. 91 in E-flat major, i, bb. 124–127 {c minor}
• 1791 1791 Symphony No. 93 in D Major, iii, bb. 22–23 {d minor}
• 1791 1791 Symphony No. 94 in G major, 'Surprise', i, bb. 64–67 {d minor–major}
•§[V7~ß] 1791 ____________. bb. 139–142 [c minor/major–b minor]
 o 1791 1791 Symphony No. 95 in C minor, i, bb. 128–129 {c minor–major}
o 1791 ____________. iv, bb. 67–68, 69–70 {g minor}
^o 1791 ____________. bb. 71–75 {g minor–major}
•§[I~VI] 1791 1791 Symphony No. 96 in D Major, 'Miracle,' i, bb. 63–64 [C major–e minor]
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1791 ____________. bb. 195–196 {d minor}
o 1791 ____________. iii, bb. 67–68 {d minor}
•§[V~VI] 1792 1792 Symphony No. 97 in C Major, i, bb. 66–68 [A-flat major–g minor/major]
^§o[I~ß] 1792 ____________. bb. 117–123 [E-flat major–g minor]
•§[V~VI] 1792 ____________. bb. 206–08 [D-flat major–c minor/major]
o(ii/o4/3) 1792 ____________. bb. 260–261f. {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1792 1792 Symphony No. 98 in B-flat major, ii, bb. 33–36 [A-flat major–c minor]
o 1792 ____________. bb. 36–38 {c minor}
• 1792 ____________. bb. 45–48 {d minor}
o 1792 ____________. iv, bb. 132–138 {F major}
o 1793 1793–94 Symphony No. 100 in G major, 'Military,' i, bb. 144–146 {d minor}
o 1793 1793–94 Symphony No. 101 in D, 'The Clock,' i, bb. 2–4 {d minor}

581
• 1793 ____________. bb. 242–254 {d minor}
•§[T](ß) 1793 ____________. bb. 295–298 [a minor–e minor]
o(iio(6)/4) 1794 1794 Symphony No. 102 in B-flat major, i, bb. 19–20 {b-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1794 ____________. ii, bb. 54–57 [D-flat major–f minor/major]
• 1794 ____________. iii, bb. 79–82, 103–106 {b-flat minor–major}
•§[I~VI] 1761 1761–65c. Cello Concerto in C major, Hob. VIIb: 1, i, bb. 75–77 [F major–a minor]
• 1761 ____________. i, bb. 82–83 {a minor}
• 1761 ____________. iii, bb. 87–90 {g minor}
• 1761 ____________. iii, bb. 230–233 {c minor}
o 1783 1783 Cello Concerto in D major, Hob. VIIb: 2, i, bb. 162–164 {d minor–major}
^ 1783 ____________. ii, bb. 41–42 {a minor}
• 1771 1771 Violin Concerto in A major, Hob. VIIa: 3, i, bb. 121–123 {f-sharp minor}
o 1781 1781 Piano Concerto in G major, Hob. XVIII: 4, iii, bb. 210–213 {g minor}
•(6) 1784 1784 Piano Concerto in D major, Hob. XVIII: 11, i, bb. 99–102 {a minor/major}
 o 1784 ____________. bb. 157–158 {f-sharp minor}
o 1784 ____________. Cadenza No. 5 (Werke), bb. 19–13 {d minor–major}
o 1784 ____________. Cadenza No. 6 (Werke), bb. 16–18 {d minor—major}
• 1784 ____________. ii, Cadenza No. 13 (Werke), bb. 7–11 {a minor—major}
\(ß) 1798 1798 Die Schöpfung, No. 1: Ouvertüre, 'Die Vorstellung des Chaos,' bb. 25–27 {e-flat minor}
\(ß) 1798 ____________. bb. 37–40 {e-flat minor–c minor]
•§[T](ß) 1798 ____________. bb. 54–55 [f minor–c minor]
• 1798 ____________. No. 2: 'Im Anfange Schuf Gott Himmel und Erde,' bb. 11–16 {e-flat minor}
o(ß) 1798 ____________. No. 7: 'Rollend in Schäumenden Wellen,' bb. 43–45 {F major}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 67–72 {d minor}
•(ß) 1798 ____________. No. 30:'Aus Rosenwolken bricht,' bb. 19–20 {a minor/major}
• 1799 1799–1800 Die Jahrseitzen, 'Der Frühling,' No. 1, 'Einleitung,' bb. 106–107 {f minor}
• 1799 ____________. No. 4, 'Arie,' bb. 57–58 {c minor}
\(ß) 1799 ____________. 'Der Winter,' No. 36, 'Arie,' bb. 26–27 {G major}

HOFMANN, Leopold (Vienna 1738–1793 Vienna)

582
• 1762 1762 Symphony in D major (D7), iv, bb. 51–55 {d minor}

HUMMEL, Johann Nepomuk (Bratislava 1778–1837 Weimar)

o(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 1804 1804c. Rondo in E-flat major, Op. 11, p. 3: bb. 24–26 {B-lat major}
• 1804 ____________. p. 4: bb. 24–25 {e-flat minor}
o(6) 1805 1805c. Fantasy in E-flat major, Op. 18, bb. 10–11 {e-flat minor}
o 1819 1819 Piano Sonata No. 5 in F-sharp minor, Op. 81, i, bb. 3–4 {f-sharp minor}
• 1819 ____________. ii, bb. 2–3 {b minor}
• 1819 ____________. p. 142: bb. 15–16 {b minor}
• 1819 ____________. iii, p. 149: bb. 8–9 {g-sharp minor}
•§[I~VI] 1819 ____________. p. 153: bb. 8–10 [D-major–f-sharp minor]
o(II6/5) 1824 1824 Piano Sonata No. 6 in D major, Op. 106, ii, bb. 15–16 {g minor}
o(II6/5) 1824 ____________. bb. 19–20 {a minor}
•(II6/5) 1824 ____________. bb. 25–27 {d minor}
 o(II6/5) 1824 ____________. p. 169: bb. 9–10 {g minor}
o(II6/5) 1824 ____________. bb. 13–14 {a minor}
•(II6/5) 1824 ____________. bb. 19–21 {d minor}

KRAUS, Joseph Martin (Meiltenberg am Main 1756–1792 Stockholm)

o 1768 1768–1772 Symphony in A major (VB 127), i, bb. 65–69 {f-sharp minor}
o 1768 ____________. iii, bb. 53–54 {a minor}
• 1781 1781 Symphony in C major (VB 138) iii, bb. 104–108 {a minor}
•§[I~VI] 1782 1782 Symphony in C-sharp minor (VB 139) i, bb. 18–22 [A major–c-sharp minor]
o 1782 ____________. iv, bb. 118–121 {c-sharp minor}

KUHLAU, Friedrich (Hanover 1786–1832 Copenhagen)

• 1820 1820 Sonatina in C major, Op. 20 no. 1, bb. 39–41 {c minor}

LANG, Johann Georg (Svojšín 1722?–1798 Ehrenbreitstein)

o 1760 1760 Symphony in D major (D2), i, bb. 33–34 {a minor}

583
• 1760 ____________. bb. 35–37 {a minor–major}
o 1760 ____________. bb. 115–116 {d minor}
• 1760 ____________. bb. 117–119 {d minor–major}

LE DUC, Simon (Paris 1742–1777 Paris)

o 1767 1767 Orchestral Trio in G minor, Op. 2 no. 2, i, bb. 51–52, 53–54 {b-flat minor}
o 1767 ____________. bb, 103–04, 105–06 {g minor}
o 1767 Orchestral Trio in B-flat major, Op. 2 no. 3, iii, 160–65 {f minor}
• 1777 1777 Symphony No. 2 in D major (8), i, bb. 48–51f. {a minor–major}
• 1777 ____________. bb. 155–158f. {d minor–major}
o(ii/o4/3) 1777 1777 ____________. iii, bb. 199–200 {e minor}

LÜBECK, Vincent (Paddingbüttel c. 1654–1740Hamburg)

•§[IV~VI] 1728 1728 Clavier Uebung, Fuga in A minor, b. 45 [F major–d minor]
 • 1728 ____________. b. 45 {d minor}

MATTEI, Stanislao (Bologna 1750–1825 Bologna)

o 1790 1790 Sinfonia in D minor (first version), bb. 21–25 {d minor}
o 1790 ____________. bb. 99–103 {d minor}
• 1791 1791 Sinfonia a 2 cori in E-flat major (14), bb. 74–75, 82–83 {b-flat minor–major}
• 1791 ____________. bb. 221–222 {e-flat minor–major}

MÉHUL, Etienne-Nicolas (Givet 1763–1817 Paris)

•(ß) 1808 1808 Symphony in G minor (1), iv, bb. 47–49 {d minor}
•(6) 1808 1808–09 Symphony in C major (3), i, bb. 27–30 {c minor/major}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1808 ____________. iii, bb. 51–53 [d minor–a minor–e minor]
\§[V7~ß] 1809 1809–10 Symphony in E major (4), i, bb. 127–28 [C major–b minor/major]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1809 ____________. bb. 150–52 [E-flat major–d minor–C major]
\§[V7~ß] 1809 ____________. bb. 152–54 [C major–b minor/major]
\§[V7~ß] 1809 ____________. bb. 300–01 [F major–e minor]

584
\§[V7~ß] 1809 ____________. bb. 324–28 [F major–e minor/major]
•§[i6~iv6] 1810 1810–11 Symphony in A major (5), i, bb. 37–48 [D major/minor–a minor/major]
• 1797 1797 La Chasse du Jeune Henri, Overture, bb. 15–17 {d minor–major}
• 1793 1793–94 Adrien, Overture, bb. 55–65 {a minor/major}
• 1793 ____________. bb. 105–115 {d minor/major}
•§[i6~iv6] 1793 ____________. bb. 191–195f. [g minor–d minor/major]

MENDELSSOHN, Felix (Hamburg 1809–1847 Leipzig)

• 1837 1837 Lieder ohne Worte, Op. 38 no. 5, 'Passion,' bb. 14–16 {e minor}
• 1837 ____________. bb. 41–45 {a minor}
•(ß) 1827 1827 Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 13, i, bb. 327–331 {c minor}
• 1827 ____________. bb. 349–51 {c minor}
• 1827 1827 ____________. bb. 457–48 {c minor}
o 1827 ____________. bb. 470–71 {c minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1827 ____________. iii, bb. 85–97 [A-flat major–c minor]
\(ß) 1827 ____________. iv, bb. 269–270 {C major}
•(ß) 1832 1832 Piano Concerto in G minor, Op. 25, i, p. 40: bb. 2–13 {B-flat major}
• 1832 ____________. iii, p. 66: bb. 4–6 {e minor}
•(6) 1837 1837 Piano Concerto in D minor, Op. 40, i, pp. 126–27: bb. 11–15ff. {F major}
\(6) 1837 ____________. iii, p. 163: bb. 6–13 {D major}

MERCADANTE, Saverio (Altamura 1795–1870 Naples)

• 1815 1815–1818 Sinfonia in C major (7), bb. 99–108 {g minor–major}
• 1815 ____________. bb. 199–208 {c minor–major}
^ 1830 1830–35c Sinfonia in C minor (18), bb. 15–16 {c minor}
• 1830 ____________. bb. 56–59 {e-flat minor}

MONN, Geog Matthias (Vienna 1717–1750 Vienna)

o 1740 1735–1750 Cello Concerto in G minor, iii, bb. 65–66 {d minor}

585
MORAL, Pablo del (fl. Madrid 1765–1805)
o§ 1790 c. 1790 Sinfonía in C major-C minor, i, bb. 139–146 [A-flat major–c minor]

MOREIRA, Antiónio Leal (Abrantes 1758–1819 Lisbon)

• 1793 1793 Sinfonia a due orchestre in D major, ii, bb. 117–120 {b minor}

MORENO, Francisco Javier (Madrid 1748–1836 Bordeaux)

• 1801 c.1801–05 Sinfonia A in C major (1), iv, bb. 192–210 {c minor}
• 1801 c.1801–05 Sinfonia a grand'orchestra titola la sala di scherma in E-flat major, i, bb. 18–22 {e-flat minor}
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1801 ____________. bb. 93–105 [D-flat major–f minor–E-flat major]
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1801 ____________. bb. 181–193 [G-flat major–b-flat minor–A-flat major]

MOZART, Leopold (Augsburg 1719–1787 Salzburg)

• 1760 1760c. Symphony in D major (New Grove D.1), 'De gustibus non est disputandum,' iii, bb. 33–38 {b minor}
 MOZART, Wolfgang Amadeus (Salzburg 1756–1791 Vienna)
•(ß) 1767 1767 Die Schuldigkeit des Ersten Gebots, K. 35, No. 5 Aria: 'Jener Donnerworte Kraft,' bb. 104–105 {c minor}
• 1767 ____________. bb. 120–121 {c minor}
• 1768 1768 Missa Solemnis in C minor K. 139, Credo, bb. 126–127 {c minor}
• 1768 ____________. bb. 246–48 {a minor}
• 1769 1769 Missa Brevis in D minor, K. 65, Kyrie, bb. 21–23 {g minor}
• 1769 ____________. Gloria, bb. 24–25 {g minor}
•(ß) 1774 1774 Missa Brevis in F major, K. 192/186f, 'Gloria,' p. 7: bb. 18–19 {g minor}
•(ß) 1774 ____________. p. 8: bb. 2–3 {d minor}
\§[Fonte](ß) 1774 ____________. 'Agnus Dei,' p. 23: bb. 10–11 [g minor–F major]
o(ß) 1775 1775 Missa Longa in C major, K. 262/246a, 'Gloria,' p. 39: bb. 8–9 {f minor}
\§[Fonte](ß) 1775 ____________. p. 40: bb. 5–8 [e minor–d minor]
o 1776 1776 Mass (Missa Brevis) in C major, K. 258, 'Kyrie,' bb. 14–16 {g minor}
o 1776 ____________. bb. 44–46 {c minor}
•(ß) 1776 ____________. 'Agnus Dei,' b. 6 {g minor}
•(ß) 1776 ____________. b. 22 {c minor}

586
•(6) 1779 1779 Mass in C major, 'Coronation,' K. 317, 'Kyrie,' bb. 4–5 {c minor/major}
•(6) 1779 ____________. 'Sanctus,' bb. 11–14 {c minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1780 1780 Mass in C major, K. 337, 'Credo,' p. 190: bb. 14–17 [d minor–a minor–e minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1780 ____________. 'Benedictus,' bb. 7–8 [a minor–e minor]
o 1783 1783 Mass in C minor, K. 427, Kyrie, p. 219: bb. 3–4 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1783 1783 ____________. pp. 228–29: bb. 4–6 [A-flat major–c minor]
o 1783 ____________. p. 230: bb. 2–3 {c minor}
o 1783 ____________. 'Domine,' bb. 31–32 {f minor}
o 1783 ____________. bb. 48–49 {d minor}
•(ß) 1783 ____________. 'Cum sancto spiritu,' p. 279: bb. 6–7 {a minor}
•§[T](ß) 1783 ____________. p. 281: bb. 3–6 [a minor–e minor]
• 1771 1771 La Betulia liberata, K. 118, Aria (No. 15), 'Quei moti che senti,' bb. 20–21 {a-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1774 1774 Vespers, 'Dixit et Magnificat,' K. 193, 'Magnificat,' b. 65 [F major–a minor]
• 1780 1780 Vespers, 'Vesperae solennes de Confessore,' K. 339, 'Confitebor,' b. 44f. {c minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1785 1785 Davide penitente, K. 469, No. 1, Coro: 'Alzai le flebili voci al Signor,' bb. 82–85 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[I~VI] 1767 1767 Grabmusik, K. 42, Aria: 'Felsen, spaltet euren Rachen,' bb. 144–154 [E-flat major–g minor]
• 1767 1767 ____________. Duetto: 'Jesu, was hab ich getan?', bb. 33–38 {b-flat-minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1767 1767 ____________. bb. 73–78 [E-flat major–g minor]
• 1791 1791 'Die ihr des unermeßlichen Weltalls Schöpfer ehrt,' K. 619 (Cantata, Voice/Keyboard), bb. 127–29 {d minor}
\(II6/5) 1785 1785–86 Le Nozze di Figaro, K. 492, Overture, bb. 101–102 {a minor/major}
\(II6/5) 1785 ____________. bb. 204–205 {d minor/major}
•§[I~VI] 1785 ____________. Act II, No. 11, 'Voi che sapete che cosa è amor,' bb. 44–49 [A-flat major–c minor]
^(iv–ß) 1785 ____________. bb. 49–50 {g minor}
• 1785 ____________. Act III, No. 18, Sestetto: 'Riconosci in questo amplesso,' bb. 111–112, 113–114 {F major}
\(6–II6/5) 1785 ____________. No. 28, Finale, bb. 42–43, 45–46 {D major}
• 1791 1791 La Clemenza di Tito, K. 621, Act 1, No. 10, Terzetto, 'Vengo! Aspettate! Sesto!', bb. 81–85 {g minor—major}
• 1791 ____________. Act II, No. 18, Terzetto, 'Quello fi Tito è il volto!', bb. 37–40 {c minor}
^§[i~iv–ß] 1791 ____________. No. 19, Aria: 'Deh, per questo instante,' bb. 50–53 [d minor–a minor]
•(6) 1789 1789–90 Cosi fan tutte, K. 588, Act I, No. 4 Duet: 'Ah guarda sorella,' bb. 61–65 {a minor}
• 1789 ____________. No. 11, Aria: 'Smanie implacabili,' bb. 23–25f. {b-flat minor–major}

587
• 1789 ____________. No. 18, Finale: 'Ah che tutta in un momento,' bb. 272–273, 278–279 {c minor}
•(ß) 1789 ____________. Act II, No. 29, Duet: 'Fra gli amplessi,' bb. 96–101 {A major}
•(6) 1782 1781–82 Die Entführung aus dem Serail, K. 384 Act I, No. 6, Aria: 'Ach ich liebte,' bb. 87–88 {B-flat major}
\(ß–II6/5) 1782 ____________. Act II, No. 16, Quartet: 'Ach Belmonte! ach mein Leben!', bb. 349–352 {d minor/major}
o§[T](II6/5) 1787 1787 Don Giovanni, K. 527, Overture, bb. 17–19 [g minor–d minor]
\o§[o3rd~V4/2] 1787 ____________. bb. 19–21 [d minor–E-flat major]
•(ß) 1787 ____________. Act I, No. 1, Introduction, bb. 174–176 {F major}
•(ß) 1787 ____________. No. 10, Recitative and Aria, 'Don Ottavio, son morta!', bb. 10–16 {c minor}
• 1787 ____________. bb. 50–52 {a minor}
•§[T=+ivo7~viio6/5] 1787 ____________. No. 10a, Aria, 'Dalla sua pace la mia dipende,' bb. 25–29 [g minor–b minor]
o 1787 ____________. No. 13, Finale, bb. 555–557 {c minor}
o 1787 ____________. bb. 584–586 {c minor}
o§[i6~iv6] 1787 ____________. Act II, No. 21b, Recitative and Aria, 'In quali eccessi, o Numi,' bb. 15–16 [c minor–g minor]
•(6) 1787 ____________. Scene XI, Recitative, bb. 52–55 {a minor/major}
 •(6) 1787 ____________. bb. 61–63 {g minor/major}
• 1787 ____________. No. 22, Duet, 'O statua gentilissima,' bb. 29–32f. {b minor–B major}
•§[T](II6/5) 1787 ____________. bb. 44–46 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
^(iv–ß) 1787 ____________. No. 23, Recitative and Aria, 'Crudele! Ah no, mio bene!' bb. 60–62 {f minor}
o 1787 ____________. No. 24, Finale, bb. 451–453 {d minor}
• 1787 ____________. bb. 502–504f. {b-flat minor}
o(ß) 1787 ____________. bb. 546-548 {d minor}
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1791 1791 Die Zauberflöte, K. 620, Overture, bb. 105–106 {b-flat minor}
• 1791 ____________. bb. 107–108 {c minor}
• 1791 ____________. bb. 111–112 {c minor}
o(ß) 1791 ____________. Act I, No. 4, Aria: 'O zitt're nicht,' bb. 43–44 {g minor}
• 1791 ____________. No. 8, Finale: 'Die Weisheitslehre dieser Knaben,' b. 94 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1781 1781 Idomeneo, K. 366, Act II, Scene III: Recitative: 'Qual mi conturba i sensi,' bb. 19–20[e minor–b minor]
o 1781 ____________. No. 18, Chorus: 'Corriamo, fuggiamo,' b. 10 {d minor}
o 1781 ____________. bb. 44–46 {d minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1781 ____________. Act III, Scene V: 'Sventurata Sidon!', bb. 27–29 [g minor–d minor]

588
•§[T](ß) 1781 ____________. No. 23: 'Volgi intorno lo sguardo, oh sire,' bb. 38–47 [d minor–a minor]
•(ß) 1781 ____________. No. 24, Chorus: 'Oh voto tremendo!', bb. 5–6 {c minor}
•§[T](ß) 1781 ____________. bb. 7–8 [f minor–c minor]
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1781 ____________. bb. 17–18 [f minor–c minor]
• 1767 1767 Piano Concerto No. 1 in F major, K. 37, ii, bb. 48–50 {c minor}
• 1767 ____________. iii, bb. 125–127 {d minor}
• 1767 1767 Piano Concerto No. 3 in D major, K. 40, ii, bb. 29–30 {e minor–major}
• 1767 ____________. bb. 61–62, 62–63 {a minor–major}
•(ß) 1777 1777 Piano Concerto No. 9 in E-flat major, K. 271, 'Jeunehomme,' ii, bb. 69–72 {c minor}
•(ß) 1777 ____________. bb. 113–116 {c minor}
•(6) 1782 1782–83 Piano Concerto in F major, K. 413, ii, bb. 63–64 {B-flat major}
•(ß) 1782 1782 Piano Concerto No. 12 in A major, K. 414, ii, Cadenza No. 1 (Dover) bb. 6–10 {d minor/major}
• 1782 1782 ____________. Cadenza No. 2 (Dover) bb. 5–10 {d minor— major}
•§[I~VI] 1784 1784 Piano Concerto No. 14 in E-flat major, K. 449, ii, bb. 35–36 [E-flat–g minor]
 \§[Fonte] 1791 ____________. bb. 37–38 [g minor–F major]
•§[I~VI] 1784 ____________. bb. 63–65 [D-flat major–f minor]
•(6) 1784 1784 Piano Concerto No. 16 in D major, K. 451, i, bb. 21–36 {d minor–major}
\§§§[V7~ß][Fonte][V7~ß] 1784 1784 Piano Concerto No. 17 in G major, K. 453, i, bb. 199–203 [A-flat major–g minor–F major–e minor]
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1784 ____________. ii, bb. 74–76 [d minor–a minor]
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1784 ____________. bb. 76–78 [a minor–e minor]
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1784 ____________. bb. 78–80 [e minor–b minor]
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1784 ____________. bb. 80–82 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
•(ß) 1784 1784 Piano Concerto No. 18 in B-flat major, K. 456, iii, bb. 289–291 {b-flat minor–major}
^ 1784 ____________. Cadenza (Dover), bb. 24–26 {b-flat minor–major}
o(ß) 1784 ____________. Cadenza (Dover), bb. 25–31 {b-flat minor–major}
•§[V7~ß] 1784 1784 Piano Concerto No. 19 in F major, K. 459, i, bb. 229–235ff. [E-flat major–d minor]
• 1785 1785 Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor, K. 466, iii, bb. 324–329 {d minor}
•(ß) 1785 1785 Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K. 467, i, bb. 374–384 {c minor}
^(iv–ß) 1785 ____________. iii, bb. 228–232 {a minor}
•(ß) 1785 ____________. bb. 296–301f. {c minor}

589
•(6) 1786 1786 Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major, K. 488, i, bb. 285–87 {a minor/major}
• 1786 ____________. Cadenza (Dover), bb. 16–24 {a minor–major}
•(6) 1786 1786 Piano Concerto No 24. in C minor, K. 491, i, bb. 485–486 {c minor}
• 1786 1786 Piano Concerto No. 25 in C major, K. 503, iii, bb. 20–24 {c minor–major}
• 1786 ____________. bb. 141–45 {a minor}
o 1788 1788 Piano Concerto No. 26 in D major, K. 537, 'Coronation,' iii, bb. 92–93 {a minor}
o 1788 ____________. bb. 243–44 {d minor}
•(ß) 1791 1791 Piano Concerto No. 27 in B-flat major, K. 595, i, bb. 54–57 {B-flat major}
o 1791 ____________. bb. 121–122 {f minor}
•(ß) 1791 ____________. bb. 182–185 {F major}
•(6) 1791 ____________. bb. 356–357 {B-flat major}
• 1791 ____________. Cadenza (Dover and NMA), bb. 32–36 {b-flat minor—major}
•(ß) 1791 ____________. iii, bb. 174–177 {d minor}
o(ß) 1772 1772 String Quartet in D major, K. 155, ii, bb. 6–8 {a minor}
 • 1772 1772–73 String Quartet in F major, K. 158, i, p. 30: bb. 17–18 {f minor}
^(iv–ß) 1773 1773 String Quartet in B-flat major, K. 159, iii, p. 43: bb. 45–47 {b-flat minor}
o 1773 1773 String Quartet in F major, K. 168, i, p. 54: bb. 19–20 {c minor}
o 1773 ____________. ii, p. 56: bb. 23–25 {f minor}
•§[I~VI] 1773 1773 String Quartet in A major, K. 169, i, p. 61: bb. 20–25 [D major–f-sharp minor]
•(ß) 1773 1773 String Quartet in C major, K. 170, iii, p. 75: bb. 35–38 {f minor}
•§[T](6–II6/5) 1773 1773 String Quartet in D minor, K. 173, iv, p. 103: bb. 12–13 [d minor–a minor]
•§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1773 ____________. p. 104: b. 9 [F major–a minor–e minor]
• 1782 1782 String Quartet in G major, K. 387, ii, bb. 124–126 {g minor}
o 1782 ____________. iv, bb. 157–160 {g minor}
o 1783 1783 String Quartet in E-flat major, K. 428, i, p. 139, bb. 23–29 {g minor}
^(VI6–II4/2) 1785 1785 String Quartet in C major, K. 465, 'Dissonance,' i, bb. 1–3 {c minor}
^(VI6–II4/2) 1785 ____________. bb. 5–7 {b-flat minor}
•§[V7~ß] 1785 ____________. bb. 116–119 [B-flat major–a minor]
• 1785 ____________. bb. 142–145ff. {c minor}
\§[I~ß] 1786 1786 String Quartet in D major, K. 499, iv, bb. 186–189 [G major–f-sharp minor/major]

590
• 1789 1789 String Quartet in D major, K. 575, iii, p. 234: bb. 6–7 {d minor–major}
•(ß) 1790 1790 String Quartet in F major, K. 590, ii, p. 267: b. 22 {c minor/major}
•(ß) 1787 1787 String Quintet in C major, K. 515, Menuetto, bb. 40–41 {f minor}
o§[I~VI] 1787 1787 String Quintet in G minor, K. 516, i, bb. 26–29 [E-flat major–g minor]
•§[T](ß) 1787 ____________. bb. 233–35 [c minor–g minor]
o§[I~VI] 1787 ____________. iii, bb. 25–27 [G-flat major–b-flat minor/major]
o(ß) 1787 ____________. bb. 65–66 {e-flat minor–major}
\(6–II6/5) 1790 1790 String Quintet in D major, K. 593, i, bb. 243–247 {d minor/major}
^§[I~ß] 1790 ____________. iv, bb. 248–251 [B-flat major–d minor]
•(ß) 1790 ____________. bb. 249–255 {d minor}
o(II6/5) 1791 1791 String Quintet in E-flat major, K. 614, iv, bb. 154–155 {e-flat minor}
o 1786 1786 Trio for Piano, Clarinet, and Viola in E-flat major, K. 498, ii, bb. 63–64 {c minor}
o 1786 ____________. bb. 66–67 {b-flat minor}
o 1786 ____________. bb. 149–151, 153–155 {B-flat major}
 •§§[I~VI][T](II6/5) 1788 1788 Piano Trio in E major, i, bb. 124–128 [A major–c-sharp minor–g-sharp minor]
o 1788 ____________. bb. 167–173 {e minor–major}
•§[I~VI] 1788 1788 Piano Trio in C major, K. 548, ii, bb. 33–34 [E-flat major–g minor]
•(ß) 1767 1767 Symphony No. 6 in F major, K. 43, i, bb. 20–22 {c minor}
o 1767 ____________. iii, p. 67: bb. 5–6 {d minor}
o 1769 1769 Symphony No. 9 in C major, K. 73, iii, p. 107: bb. 27–29, 35–37, p. 108: bb. 14–16, 30–32 {c minor}
•§[T] 1772 1772 Symphony No. 16 in C major, i, K. 128, bb. 54–60 [g minor–d minor]
• 1773 1773 Symphony No. 25 in G minor, K. 183, i, p. 15: bb. 2–3 {b-flat minor}
o 1773 ____________. p. 42: bb. 28–29 {g minor}
• 1773 ____________. p. 45: bb. 11–12 {g minor}
o 1773 ____________. ii, bb. 57–58 {e-flat minor}
o 1773 ____________. iv, p. 54: b. 27–p. 55: b. 1 {g minor}
• 1773 1773 Symphony No. 26 in E-flat major, K. 184, i, p. 65: bb. 1–3, 5–7f. {c minor}
•(ß) 1773 ____________. ii, p. 67: bb. 6–9 {c minor}
• 1773 1773 Symphony No. 27 in G major, K. 199, ii, p. 85: bb. 5–9, 10–14 {a minor}
• 1773 ____________. p. 87: bb. 11–15, 16–20 {d minor}

591
•(6) 1780 1780 Symphony No. 34 in C major, K. 338, i, p. 244: bb. 11–15 {g minor}
o(6) 1780 ____________. p. 252: bb. 9–11 {c minor}
•(6) 1780 ____________. p. 252: bb .11–15 {c minor}
o(ß) 1783 1783 Symphony No. 36 in C major, K. 425, 'Linz,' iv, p. 72: bb. 20–24 {c minor}
^§[I~ß] 1786 1786 Symphony No. 38 in D major, K. 504, 'Prague,' ii, p. 122: bb. 12–19 [E-flat major–g minor]
•(ß) 1788 1788 Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550, ii, bb. 68–69 {c minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1788 ____________. iii, bb. 7–9 [g minor–d minor]
^(iv–ß) 1775 1775 Violin Concerto No. 5 in A major, K. 219, i, b. 42 {a minor}
•(ß) 1775 ____________. bb. 43–44 {a minor/major}
\§[V7~ß] 1775 ____________. ii, bb .68–72 [A major–g-sharp minor]
Hybrid 1775 ____________. bb. 93–96 {e minor}
•§[T] 1775 ____________. iii, bb. 101–102 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
• 1779 1779 Sinfonia Concertante for Violin and Viola in E-flat major, K. 364, i, bb. 323–25 {e-flat minor–major}
•(6) 1778 1778 Flute Concerto in G major, K. 313, ii, b. 55 {D major}
 •(ß) 1778 ____________. iii, bb. 151–154 {g minor}
•(6) 1779 1779–80 Andante for Flute and Orchestra, K. 315, bb.91–92 {C major}
^ 1774 1774 Piano Sonata in F major, K. 280, ii, bb. 4–5, 6–7 {f minor}
^(iv–ß) 1775 1775 Piano Sonata in D major, K. 284, iii, Variation 12, bb. 28–29 {d minor}
•§[V6/5](II6/5) 1777 1777 Piano Sonata in D major, K. 311, i, bb. 50–52 [b minor–G major]
^§[I~ß] 1777 ____________. bb. 52–53 [G major–b minor]
o 1778 1778 Piano Sonata in A minor, K. 310, i, bb. 96–97 {a minor}
^ 1778 ____________. ii, bb. 41–43 {d minor}
• 1778 1778 Piano Sonata in F major, K. 332, i, bb. 66–70 {c minor}
•(6) 1778 ____________. bb. 167–173 {f minor}
•(6) 1778 ____________. iii, bb. 5–6 {F major}
• 1778 ____________. bb. 202–206 {f minor}
o 1778 1778 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, K. 333, iii, bb. 196–199 {b-flat minor}
o 1784 1784 Piano Sonata in C minor, K. 457, i, bb. 170–176 {c minor}
•(ß) 1784 ____________. iii, bb. 194–197 {c minor}
•(ß) 1784 ____________. bb. 209–213f. {c minor}

592
• 1788 1788 Piano Sonata in F major, K. 533, i, bb. 38–41 {c minor}
• 1788 ____________. i, bb. 165–68 {f minor}
o(ii/o4/3) 1789 1789 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, K. 570, ii, b. 14 {c minor}
• 1782 1782 Fantasy and Fugue in C major, K. 394, b. 46 {a minor}
^ 1782 1782 Fantasy in C minor, K. 396, bb. 42–43 {c minor}
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1782 ____________. bb. 52–53 {c minor}
o(6–II6/5) 1766 1766 Violin Sonata in E-flat major, K. 26, i, p. 79: bb. 8–9 {c minor}
o(II6/5) 1778 1778 Violin Sonata in G major, K. 301, ii, p. 141: bb. 5–7 {g minor}
• 1778 1778 Violin Sonata in E-flat major, K. 302, ii, p. 150: bb. 32–36 {b-flat minor–major}
• 1778 ____________. p. 154: bb. 22–26 {e-flat minor–major}
T(N–V6/5) 1778 Violin Sonata in E minor, K. 304, i, bb. 189–191 {e minor}
o 1778 1778 Violin Sonata in D major, K. 306, ii, p. 198: bb. 22–23 {g minor}
•(6–II6/5) 1781 1781 Violin Sonata in F major, K. 377, iii, p. 32: bb. 46–48 {F major}
o 1781 c.1781 Violin Sonata in G major, K. 379, i, p. 60: bb. 6–8 {g minor}
 o 1781 ____________. p. 60: bb. 10–13 {g minor}
o(6) 1781 1781 Violin Sonata in E-flat major, K. 380, iii, p. 80: bb. 25–27 {g minor}
^§[V~VI] 1787 1787 Violin Sonata in A major, K. 526, ii, p. 155: b. 15 [E-flat major–d minor]
•(ß) 1787 ____________. p. 155: bb. 15–16 {d minor}
\(ß) 1788 1788 Violin Sonata in F major, K. 547, i, p. 173: bb. 20–21 {F major}
•§[T] 1781 1781 Variations on 'Hélas, j'ai perdu mon amant' for Violin and Piano, K. 360, bb. 16–17 [c minor–g minor]
•§[T](ß) 1781 ____________. Variation IV, p. 199: bb. 4–5 [c minor–g minor]
•§[I~VI] 1791 1791 Requiem in D minor, K. 626, 'Introitus, requiem aeternum,' bb. 43–46 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1791 ____________. 'Tuba Mirum,' b. 33–34 {d minor}
• 1791 ____________. 'Domine Jesu Christe,' b. 17 {b-flat minor}
• 1791 ____________. 'Domine Jesu Christe,' b. 20 {c minor}
•§[T](ß) 1791 ____________. 'Hostias,' bb. 49–51 [c minor–g minor]
• 1791 ____________. 'Hostias,' bb. 51–54 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1791 ____________. 'Agnus Dei,' bb. 76–79 [B-flat major–d minor]

MYSLIVE%EK, Josef (Prague 1737–1781 Rome)

593
• 1777 1777–78 Octet for 2 Oboes, 2 Clarinets, 2 Horns, and 2 Bassoons in E-flat major, iii, bb. 21–23 {f minor}

NAVOIGILLE, Guillaume (Givet c. 1745–1811 Paris)

•§[T] 1776 1776c. Symphony in C major, Op. 8 no. 2, i, bb. 27–28 [d minor–a minor]
• 1776 ____________. bb. 80–83 {g minor–major}
•(6–II6/5) 1776 ____________. bb. 150–155 {c minor/major}

NONÓ, José (San Juan de Abadesas 1776–1845 Aranda de Duero)

• 1814 c.1814 Sinfonía in F major-C major (1), ii, bb. 43–48 {c minor}
o 1814 ____________. iii, bb. 69–72 {c minor}

NOVOTNY, Ferenc (? c. 1749–1806 Pécs)

o 1793 1782–1806 Symphony in D major (2), i, bb. 60–61 {b minor}
 OGI"SKI, Micha& Kleofas (Warsaw 1765–1833 Florence)
• 1803 1803? Warsaw Polonaise Célèbre in F major, bb. 13–16 {f minor}

PARADEISER, Marian (Carl) (Riedental 1747–1775 Melk)

o 1772 c.1772 Symphony in E major (4), i, bb. 64–68 {e minor/major}

PAW'OWSKI, Jakub (fl. 1750–1800 in Poland)

o 1750 1750–1800 Symphony in B-flat major (B-flat 1), i, bb. 169–172 {g minor}

PELISSIER (unknown places and dates of birth within France)

• 1780 1780c. Symphony in G major, i, bb. 108–11 {g minor}

PICHL, Wenzel (Bechynĕ, nr Tábor 1741–1805 Vienna)

• 1769 1769–70 Symphony in B-flat major, Op. 1 no. 5, i, bb. 131–134 {g minor}
o§[I~VI] 1769 Symphonie concertante in D major, Apollo, Op. 6 (25), iii, bb. 73–77 [G major–b minor]

594
PIETROWSKI, Karol (fl. 1740–1800 in Poland)
• 1750 1750–1800 Symphony in D major, iii, bb. 18–20 {d minor}
T(N6)^ 1750 ____________. bb. 25–28 {d minor}
• 1750 ____________. bb. 28–32 {d minor}

PISCATOR, Anders (Karlstad 1736–1804 Karlstad)

o date? Symphony in F major (2), iv, bb. 56–57 {a minor}

PLEYEL, Ignaz (Ruppersthal 1757–1831 Paris)

\ 1790 1790 Periodical Symphony No. 25 in C major (25), i, bb. 137–141 {a minor}
•§[I~VI] 1790 ____________. bb. 265–272 [A-flat–c minor/major]
• 1791 1791 Periodical Symphony No. 20 in D minor (20), i, bb. 255–261f. {b minor}
^ 1791 ____________. iii, bb. 94–97 {d minor}
• 1791 ____________. iv, bb. 76–78 {d minor}
 • 1791
• 1803 1803
• 1803
• 1803
• 1803
\§[Fonte] 1803
____________. bb. 130–131 {d minor}
Periodical Symphony No. 27 in C major (27), i, bb. 75–76, 79–80 {g minor}
____________. bb. 140–141 {b minor}
____________. bb. 182–183 {a minor}
____________. bb. 196–197 {c minor}
____________. iv, bb. 41–51 [d minor– C major]

PUGNANI, Gaetano (Turin 1731–1798 Turin)

• 1780 1780 Symphony in B-flat major, Op. 4 no. 4, ii, bb. 47–48 {g minor}

REICHA, Antoine (Prague 1770–1836 Paris)

•(6–II6/5) 1799 1799–1801 Symphonie à petit orchestre No. 1 in C minor, i, bb. 3–5 {c minor}
\§[i6~iv6] 1799 ____________.bb. 58–61 [c minor–g minor–major]
\§[i6~iv6] 1799 ____________.bb. 166–69 [f minor–c minor–major]
•(6) 1808 1808 Symphony in F major, i, bb. 61–63 {F major}
•§[V7~ß] 1808 ____________. bb. 226–32 [E-flat major–d minor]

595
•§[T](ß–II6/5) 1814 1814 Quartet for Flute and Strings in C major, Op. 98 no. 2, Finale, bb. 99–100 [c minor–g minor]
\(ß–II6/5) 1814 ____________. bb. 100–101 {g minor–major}
\(ß–II6/5) 1814 ____________. bb. 101–104 {d minor–major}
\(ß–II6/5) 1814 ____________. bb. 150–151 {c minor–major}
\(ß) 1814 1814 Quartet for Flute and Strings in G major, Op. 98 no. 3, i, bb. 202–205 {g minor/major}
• 1814 ____________. ii, b. 13 {b-flat minor/major}
• 1814 ____________. b. 62 {b-flat minor}

RICHTER, Franz Xaver (Holleschau 1709–1789 Strasbourg)

• 1764 1764 Symphony in F major, Op. 4 no. 2, i, bb. 53–55 {d minor}
o§[i6~iv6] 1764 1764 Symphony in C major, Op. 4 no. 3, i, pp. 198–99: bb. 13–15 [a minor–e minor]
o 1764 1764 Symphony in A major, Op. 4 no. 5, i, bb. 42–46 {e minor}
o 1764 ____________. p. 217: bb. 5–9 {a minor}
• 1764 1764 ____________. ii, bb. 18–19 {b minor–major}
 • 1764 ____________. bb. 37–38 {e minor/major}

RIES, Ferdinand (Bonn 1784–1838 Frankfurt am Main)

\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1809 1809 Symphony No. 1 in D major, Op. 23, i, bb. 6–9 [B-flat major–d minor–C major]
•(ß) 1809 ____________. bb. 197–199 {d minor}
•§[I~VI] 1809 ____________. bb. 329–337 [B-flat major–d minor/major]
\§§[I~VI][Fonte] 1809 ____________. ii, bb. 94–98 [A-flat major–c minor–B-flat major]
\§[V7~ß] 1809 ____________. bb. 98–101 [B-flat major–a minor]
• 1809 ____________. iii, bb. 62–68 {f-sharp minor}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1809 ____________. iv, bb. 318–19 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
\(ß) 1809 ____________. bb. 363–65 {d minor/major}
• 1814 1814 Symphony No. 2 in C minor, Op. 80, i, bb. 4–6, 222–224 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1814 ____________. iii, bb. 59–66 [C-flat major–e-flat minor/major]
• 1814 ____________. iv, bb. 70–71 [f minor]

ROMAN, Johann Helmich (Stockholm 1694–1758 Heraldsmåla)

596
o 1730 1730–1758 Symphony in E major (BeRI 3), v, bb. 76–78 {e minor/major}

SACCHINI, Antonio, (Florence 1730–1786 Paris)

\ 1777 1777 The periodical overture in C minor, ii, bb. 122–23 {c minor}

SAMMARTINI, Giovanni Battista (Milan ? 1700/01–1775 Milan)

•§§[I~VI][T] 1730 c.1730 Symphony in C major (J-C 7), ii, bb. 19–20 [A-flat major–c minor–g minor]
• 1740 early 1740s Symphony in G major (J-C 44), i, bb. 75–79 {g minor}
o 1740 ____________. bb. 108–09 {g minor}
o§[I~VI] 1740 early 1740s Symphony in G minor (J-C 57), iii, bb. 101–103f. [E-flat major–g minor]

SCARLATTI, Domenico (Naples 1685–1757 Madrid)

•§[T](II6/5) 1750 before 1757 Keyboard Sonata No. 474 in F major, bb. 79–82 [g minor–d minor]
 SCHALL, Claus Nielsen (Copenhagen 1753–1835 Copenhagen)
o 1780 1780/90 Symphony in B-flat major (1), iv, bb. 77–81 {f minor}

SCHUBERT, Franz (Vienna 1797–1828 Vienna)

• 1811 1811 Overture to the Comedy with Songs 'The Devil in Hydraulicus,' D. 4 p. 11–12: bb. 23–32 {e minor}
\(II6/5) 1812 1812 Overture in D major, D. 26 (2nd edition), p. 29: bb. 3–6 {d minor}
o 1812 ____________. pp. 29–30: bb. 19–41 {d minor/major}
•§[T](II6/5) 1817 1817 Overture in D major, D. 556, p. 52: bb. 9–11 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
•(II6/5) 1817 ____________. p. 54: bb. 12–15 {a minor–major}
•§[T](II6/5) 1817 ____________. p. 59: bb. 12–14 [e minor–b minor]
•(II6/5) 1817 ____________. p. 60: bb. 15–18 {d minor–major}
^§[I~ß] 1817 1817 Overture in the Italian Style in C major, D. 591, bb. 23–33 [A-flat major–c minor–major]
•§[I~ß] 1817 1817 Overture in the Italian Style in D major, D. 592, pp. 87–88: bb. 10–22 [F major–a minor–major]
•§[I~ß] 1817 ____________. pp. 94–95: bb. 12–24 [B-flat major–d minor–major]
• 1814 1814/15 Symphony No. 2 in B-flat major, D. 125, iv, bb. 142–161 {e-flat minor}
•(ß) 1814 ____________. bb. 683–703 {b-flat minor–major}

597
o§§[I~ß][T](II6/5) 1815 1815 Symphony No. 3 in D major, D. 200, i, bb. 52–57 [B-flat major–d minor–A major]
• 1815 ____________. bb. 72–79, 80–87 {a minor–major}
^ 1815 ____________. iv, bb. 388–402 {d minor–major}
•(6–II6/5) 1816 1816 Symphony No. 4 in C minor, 'Tragic,' D. 417, ii, p. 26: bb. 17–22 {A-flat major}
• 1816 1816 Symphony No. 5 in B-flat major, D. 485, ii, p. 79: bb. 4–6 {g minor}
^§[I~ß] 1816 ____________. p. 80: bb. 1–3 [A-flat major–c minor]
• 1816 ____________. p. 84: bb. 2–4 {e-flat minor}
•(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 1816 ____________. iv, p. 94: bb. 15–17 {b-flat minor/major}
•(ii/o4/3–II6/5) 1816 ____________. p. 95: bb. 8–10 {f minor/major}
•(ß) 1817 1817 Symphony No. 6 in C major, iv, bb. 531–538 {C major}
o(ß–II6/5) 1816 1816 Piano Sonata in E major, D. 459, iii, bb. 7–8 {d minor}
o(ß–II6/5) 1816 ____________. bb. 59–60 {d minor}
o(ß–II6/5) 1816 ____________. bb. 67–68 {c minor}
o(ß–II6/5) 1816 ____________. bb. 71–72 {f minor}
 •§[i6~iv6] 1816 ____________. v, bb. 44–46 [e minor–b minor]
•(ß–II6/5) 1816 ____________. b. 100 {E major}
•§[V7~ß] 1817 1817 Piano Sonata in A minor, D. 537, i, bb. 48–53 [G-flat major–F major]
o§[V7~ß] 1817 ____________. iii, bb. 92–95 [F major–E major]
o§[V7~ß] 1817 ____________. bb. 263–266 [B-flat major–A major]
• 1817 1817 Piano Sonata in E-flat major, D. 568 (Op. 122), i, bb. 32–39 {e-flat minor}
^ 1817 ____________. bb. 150–151 {e-flat minor}
•§(II6/5) 1815 1815 Unfinished Piano Sonata in E major, D. 157, ii, bb. 89–94 [C major–e minor]
•§[V~VI] 1817 1817 Unfinished Piano Sonata in E minor, D. 566, ii, bb. 74–82 [C major–b minor/major]
•§[V~VI] 1817 ____________. bb. 204–212 [F major–e minor/major]
•§[I~VI] 1817 1817 Unfinished Piano Sonata in F-sharp minor, D. 571, i, bb. 98–101 [D major–f-sharp minor]
o(ß–o3rd) 1817 1817 Piano Sonata in B major, D. 575, bb. 24–25 {e minor}
o(ß–o3rd) 1817 ____________. bb. 111–112 {a minor}
• 1817 ____________. iv, bb. 84–85, 86–87, 92–93, 94–95 {f-sharp minor–major}
• 1817 ____________. bb. 288–89, 290–91, 296–97, 298–99 {b minor–major}
•(ß) 1819 1819 Unfinished Piano Sonata in C-sharp minor, i, bb. 17–18 {E major}

598
•§[T](II6/5) 1826 1826 Piano Sonata in G major, D. 894, i, bb. 66–68 [g minor–d minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1826 ____________. bb. 83–85 [b-flat minor–f minor]
•§[T](II6/5) 1826 ____________. iv, bb. 305–321 [c minor–G major]
•(6–ß) 1828 1828 Piano Sonata in C minor, D. 958, i, bb. 77–85 {e-flat minor–major}
•(ß) 1828 ____________. bb. 132–133 {A-flat major}
•(ß) 1828 ____________. bb. 141–142 {D-flat major}
•(6–ß) 1828 ____________. bb. 227–234 {c minor–major}
o 1828 ____________. iv, bb. 19–20 {c minor}
•(ß) 1828 ____________. bb. 253–255 {F-sharp major}
•§[T](II6/5) 1828 1828 Piano Sonata in A major, D. 959, iv, bb. 163–165 [b minor–f-sharp minor]
^§[I~ß] 1828 1828 Piano Sonata in B-flat major, D. 960, i, bb. 33–39 [G-flat major–B-flat major]
•§[I~VI] 1828 ____________. iv, bb. 296–298 [C-flat major–e-flat minor]
•§[I~VI] 1828 ____________. bb. 304–306 [B-flat major–d minor]
o§[I~VI] 1812 1812 String Quartet No. 1 in Various Keys, bb. 24–26 [B-flat major–g minor]
 • 1812 1812 String Quartet No. 2 in C major, i, p. 37: bb. 12–14 {g minor}
• 1812 ____________. p. 59: bb. 19–23 {a minor}
• 1812 ____________. p. 60: bb. 17–19 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1813 1813 String Quartet No. 4 in C major, i, p. 85: bb. 7–10 [G major–b minor]
• 1813 ____________. iii, bb. 33–36 {c minor}
\§§[Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 1813 ____________. iv, p. 94: bb. 15–21 [g minor–F major–e minor]
\§§[Fonte][V7~ß] 1815 1815 String Quartet No. 9 in G minor, iv, p. 186: bb. 41–47 [c minor–B-flat major–a minor]
•§[I~VI] 1817 1817 c. String Quartet No. 10 in E-flat major, iv, p. 205: bb. 1–9 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[i6~iv6] 1817 1817 c. String Quartet No. 11 in E major, Op. 125 no. 2, ii, p. 215: bb. 12–13 [A major–E major]
•(6) 1817 ____________. p. 216: bb. 8–9 {C major}
o§[I~VI] 1817 ____________. p. 216: bb. 10–11 [C major–e minor]
•(ß) 1820 1820 String Quartet No. 12 in C minor (Quartett-Satz), i, p. 229: bb. 20–26 {g minor–major}
•(ß) 1820 ____________. p. 233: bb. 17–23 {c minor–major}
•§(II6/5) 1824 1824 String Quartet No. 14 in D minor, 'Death and the Maiden,' ii, bb. 20–24[E-flat major–g minor–major]
\§§[Fonte][V7~ß](ß) 1824 ____________. iv, p. 284: bb. 25–27 [c minor–B-flat major–a minor]
o§(II6/5) 1826 1826 String Quartet No. 15 in G major, Op. 161, i, p. 296: bb. 2–5 [E-flat major–g minor]

599
•(II6/5) 1826 ____________. p. 301: bb. 11–13 {d minor}
•(II6/5) 1826 ____________. p. 302: bb. 1–3 {g minor}
•§[T=+ivo7~viio6/5] 1826 ____________. iii, p. 315: bb. 36–37 [g minor–b minor]
o 1816 1816 Adagio and Rondo Concertant in F major for Pianoforte, Violin, Viola, and Cello, p. 61: bb. 10–15 {c minor}
• 1816 ____________. p. 62: bb. 14–16 {e-flat minor}
• 1816 ____________. p. 62: bb. 27–29 {e minor}
o 1816 ____________. p. 72: bb. 4–9 {f minor}
• 1816 ____________. p. 73: bb. 6–8 {a-flat minor}
• 1816 ____________. p. 73: bb. 19–21 {a minor}
•§§[V~VI][T](II6/5) 1827 1827 Four Impromptus, D. 935 (Opus. posth. 142), No. 1 in F minor, bb. 89–92 [a minor–a-flat minor–E-flat major]
•§§[V~VI][T](II6/5) 1827 ____________. bb. 201–205 [g-flat minor–f minor–C major]
• 1827 ____________. No. 3 in B-flat major, Variation III, bb. 77–78 {b-flat minor}
^§[I~ß] 1827 ____________. Variation IV, bb. 99–101 [G-flat major–b-flat minor–major]
^§[I~ß] Die schöne Müllerin, Op. 25, no. 6, Der Neugierige, bb. 41–43 [G major–B major]
 • 1827 1827 Die Winterreise, Op. 89 no. 2,'Die Wetterfahre,' bb. 8–9 {a minor}
o ____________. bb. 37–38 {a minor}
• 1827 ____________. no. 4, 'Erstarrung,' b. 3 {c minor}
•§[I~VI] 1827 ____________. no. 14, 'Der greise Kopf,' bb. 25–26 [A-flat major–c minor]
•§[i6~iv6] 1827 ____________. no. 15, 'Die Krähe,' bb. 36–38 [f minor–c minor]
• 1827 ____________. no. 16, 'Letze Hoffnung,' bb. 2, 4 {e-flat minor}
•(ß) 1827 ____________. b. 6 {e-flat minor}
•(o3rd) 1827 ____________. bb. 21–22 {e-flat minor}
•§[T](II6/5) 1828 1828 Schwanengesang, no. 2, 'Kreigers Ahnung,' bb. 95–96 [d minor–a minor]
\§[I~VI](II6/5) 1828 ____________. no. 6, 'In der Ferne,' bb. 18–24 [B-flat major–d minor–major]

SCHUMANN, Robert (Zwickau, Saxony 1810–1856 Endenich)

•(ß) 1829 1829–33 Symphony in G minor, Incomplete, i, bb. 12–13 {g minor}
• 1829 ____________. bb. 15–18 {g minor}
• 1829 ____________. ii, bb. 79–85 {b minor}

600
SPOHR, Louis (Brunswick 1784–1859 Kassel)
•§[V7~ß] 1841 1841 Symphony in C major (7), Op. 121, i, bb. 110–115 [A-flat major–g minor–major]
•§[V7~ß] 1841 ____________. bb. 255–260 [D-flat major–c minor–major]
\§§[V7~ß][Fonte] 1841 ____________. iv, bb. 269–276 [A-flat major–g minor–F major]

STAMITZ, Carl (Mannheim 1745–1801 Jena)

• 1772 1772 Symphony in G major, Op. 9 no. 2, i, bb. 89–96 {g minor}

STAMITZ, Johann (Německý Brod 1717–1757 Mannheim)

•(ii/o4/3) 1763 1763 Symphony in B-flat major, Op. 8 no. 5, iii, bb. 39–40 {g minor}
•§[T] 1758 1758 Orchestral Trio in C minor, Op. 4 no. 3 (Wolf c1), iv, bb. 136–138 [c minor–g minor]

TALON, Pierre (Reims 1721–1785 Paris)

• 1753 1753c. Symphony in A major, Op. 1 no. 6, ii, bb. 14–16 {e minor}
 • 1753 ____________. bb. 58–60 {a minor}

TOESCHI, Carl Joseph (Ludwigsburg 1731–1788 Munich)

• 1765 1765 Symphony in B-flat major, Op. 3 no. 3, ii, bb. 35–37 {d minor}

TOMÁ#EK, Václav Jan K!titel (Skuteč 1774–1850 Prague)

•§[I~VI] 1807 1807 Symphony in D major, Op. 30, i, bb. 17–19 [B-flat major–d minor]
•(6) 1807 ____________. bb. 38–41 {d minor–major}
•(6) 1807 ____________. bb. 175–178 {d minor–major}

TRITTO, Domenico (Naples 1776–1851 Naples)

• 1826 1826 Sinfonia in D minor (2), bb. 14–15 {d minor}
• 1826 ____________. bb. 53–54 {c minor}
• 1826 ____________. bb. 110–111 {d minor}
•§§[i6~iv6][T] 1826 ____________. bb. 175–176 [c minor–g minor–d minor]

601
UTTINI, Francesco Antonio Baldassare (Bologna 1723–1795 Stockholm) Italin born Swede
o 1760 1760 Symphony in F major (3), ii, bb. 6–7 { g minor}

VA(HAL, Johann Baptist (Nechanicz, Bohemia 1739–1813 Vienna)

o 1762 1762–64 Symphony in F major (F3), iv, bb. 37–39 {a minor}
• 1764 1764–67 Symphony in G minor (g2), iv, bb. 13–16 {g minor}
•§[T] 1764 ____________. bb. 64–68 [d minor– a minor]
• 1764 ____________. bb. 73–77 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1772 1772–73 Symphony in D minor (d1), i, bb. 62–65 [B-flat major–d minor]
o 1764 1764–67 Symphony in E minor (e1), ii, bb. 43–44 {e minor}
•(6) 1764 ____________. iii, bb. 22–24 {e minor}
o 1764 ____________. iv, bb. 77–79 {e minor}
• 1764 ____________. bb. 112–114 {e minor}
o 1770 1770 Symphony in C minor, i, bb. 91–93 {c minor}
 o§[T](II6/5) 1771 1771–72 Symphony in E minor (e2), i, bb. 109–111 [e minor–b minor]
•(ß) 1771 ____________. bb. 112–115 {b minor}
o 1771 ____________. bb. 186–188ff. {e minor}
•§[V7~ß] 1771 ____________. iii, bb. 23–31 [F major–e minor]
o 1771 ____________. iv, bb. 85–89 {d minor}
• 1773 1773–74 Symphony in D minor (d2), i, bb. 336–51 {d minor}
o 1773 ____________. iii, bb. 13–16 {d minor}
^§[I~ß] 1773 ____________. bb.66–68 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1773 ____________. bb. 88–89 {d minor}
•(ß) 1773 1773–74 Symphony in D major (D4), i, bb. 98–101 {b minor}

VIVALDI, Antonio (Venice 1678–1741 Vienna)

•§[T](6–II6) 1723 early 1720s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 8 no. 11, i, bb. 102–103 [b minor–f-sharp minor]

VOGLER, Georg Joseph (Abbé) (Würzburg 1749–Darmstadt 1814)

o 1766 1766 112 Petits Préludes pour l'orgue ou le clavecin, No. 42 in F minor, bb. 1–2, 3–4 {f minor}

602
o 1766 ____________. bb. 7–8 {f minor}
\(ß) 1766 ____________. No. 61 in G minor, bb. 7–9 {g minor}
^(VI6–+ivo4/3) 1766 ____________. No. 79 in A minor, bb. 7–8 {a minor}
o 1798 1798 Pièces de clavecin, Barcarolle de Venise, bb. 14–15 {g minor}
• 1798 ____________. Min far han var en Vestgöthe han han: Chanson suedoise, bb. 28–30, 31–32 {c minor}
• 1798 ____________. Höns gummans visa: Chanson suedoise, bb. 117–118 {g minor}
• 1798 ____________. Air barbaresque, bb. 46–48 {f-sharp minor}
• 1806 1806 Drei und zweisig Präludien, No. 20 in F-sharp minor, bb. 32–33 {f-sharp minor}
•(ß) 1806 ____________. No. 24 in G minor, bb. 13–15 {d minor}

VRANICK), Antonín (Neureisch 1761–1820 Vienna)

•§[I~VI] 1820 1820d. Symphony in C minor (C4), i, bb. 177–179 [A-flat major–c minor]
o 1820 ____________. iii, bb. 29–30 {c minor}

• 1745
• 1748
• 1748
• 1748
• 1756
• 1756
• 1756
• 1760
•(II6/5) 1764
WAGENSEIL, Georg Christoph (Vienna 1715–1777 Vienna)
1745 Symphony in D major (D1), ii, bb. 33–36 {d minor}
1748 Symphony in D major (D9), i, bb. 37–39 {a minor}
____________. bb. 115–117 {d minor}
____________. ii, bb. 113–116 {d minor}
1756 Symphony in C major (C3), i, bb. 55–64 {g minor–major}
____________. bb. 154–158 {c minor–major}
1756 Symphony in G major (G1), ii, bb. 56–60 {g minor}
1760 Symphony in G major (G2), i, bb. 64–68 {b minor}
1764 Symphony in B-flat major (B-flat4), i, bb. 84–86 {b-flat minor/major}

WEBER, Carl Maria von (Eutin ? 1786–1826 London)

• 1806 1806 Symphony No. 2 in C major, i, bb. 45–47 {G major}
•§[T=+ivo7~+iio7] 1806 ____________. bb. 41–43 [c minor–E-flat major]
•§[V~VI] 1808 1808 Variations on an Original Theme, Op. 9, Var. VII, bb. 50–58 [F-sharp major–(a minor)–F major]
• 1812 1812 Piano Sonata No. 1 in C major, Op. 24, iii, bb. 108–112 {e minor}

603
\(ß) 1812 ____________. iv, p. 26: bb. 23–25 {c minor–major}
\§§[Fonte][V7~ß](II6/5) 1816 1816 Piano Sonata No. 2 in A-flat major, Op. 39, p. 30: bb. 5–6 [e-flat minor–D-flat major–c minor]
\(ß) 1808 1808 Momento Capriccioso, Op. 12, b. 41 {c minor/major}
o(ß) 1808 ____________. bb. 43–46 {C major}
\(ß) 1808 ____________. p. 121: bb. 20–21 {f minor–major}
• 1808 1808 Grande Polonaise, Op. 21, bb. 13–22 {e-flat minor}
•§[I~VI] 1812 1812 Variations on a Theme from Méhul's Joseph, Op. 28, Var. VI, bb. 19–20 [A-flat major–c minor]
\ 1814 1814 Variations on a Russian Theme, 'Schöne Minka,' Op. 40, Introduction, bb. 6–8 {c minor–major}
• 1814 ____________. bb. 18–25 {c minor}
•(ß) 1814 ____________. Var. IV, bb. 6–8 {c minor}

WEYSE, Christoph Ernst Friedrich (Hamburg 1774–1842 Copenhagen)

•§[T] 1795 1795/1803 Symphony No. 1 in G minor, ii, bb. 18–21 [b flat-minor–f minor]
• 1795 1795/1797 Symphony No. 2 in C major, iv, bb. 93–97 {g minor–major}
 • 1795 ____________. bb. 257–261 {c minor–major}
•§§[I~VI][T] 1795 1795/1800 Symphony No. 3 in D minor, ii, bb. 36–38 [E-flat major–g minor–d minor]
•(ß–II6/5) 1795 ____________. iv, bb. 225–231f. {d minor–major}
•(ß) 1795 1795 Symphony No. 4 in E minor, iii, bb. 48–56 {e minor}
o§[I~VI](II6/5) 1796 1796 Symphony No. 5 in E-flat major, i, bb. 149–151 [G-flat major–b-flat minor]
o§[I~VI](II6/5) 1796 ____________. bb. 400–402 [C-flat major–e-flat minor]
•§[I~VI] 1796 ____________. ii, bb. 33–37 [D-flat major–f minor]
• 1798 1798 Symphony No. 6 in C minor, i, bb. 137–140 {g minor}
o 1798 ____________. bb. 192–193 {c minor}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 213–221 {c minor}
\ 1798 ____________. ii, bb. 20–24 {b-flat minor–major}
• 1798 ____________. bb. 46–48 {c minor}
•(ß) 1798 ____________. bb. 87–90 {e-flat minor–major}
\(ß) 1799 1799 Symphony No. 7 in E-flat major, iv, bb. 277–279 {E-flat major}

ZANDER Jr., Johann David (Stockholm 1753–1796 Stockholm)

604
• 1786 1786
o 1786
• 1786
• 1786
Symphony in B-flat major (1), i, bb. 13–17 {g minor}
____________. bb. 16–17 {g minor}
____________. iv, bb. 87–93 {f minor–major}
____________. bb. 270–276 {b-flat minor–major}

ZELLBELL Jr., Ferdinand (Stockholm 1719–1780 Stockholm)

o 1750 1750 (before) Symphony in D minor, iii, bb. 9–10 {g minor}

ZINGARELLI, Nicollò Antonio (Naples 1752–1837 Torre del Greco)

•§(II6/5) 1785 1785 Milanese Sinfonia in D minor, i, bb. 136–141 [B-flat major–d minor]
• 1820 1820–35 Sinfonia in E minor (52), bb. 8–9, 42–43 {e minor}
• 1820 ____________. bb. 165–167, 188–88 {e minor}
•(6) 1836 1836 Sinfonia funebre in C minor (69), bb. 27–28 {c minor}
•(6) 1836 ____________. bb. 40–41 {g minor}
 •§[I~VI] 1836 ____________. bb. 49–51 [E-flat major –g minor ]
• 1836 ____________. bb. 52–55 {g minor}
•§[I~VI] 1836 ____________. bb. 84–89 [A-flat major–c minor]
• 1836 ____________. bb. 106–108 {c minor}
• 1836 ____________. bb. 114–117 {c minor}

605
 APPENDIX C
w
Selected Treatises and Manuscripts
from Christensen 1992

1701 Böddecker, Philipp Friedrich, Neue Vortheilhaffte Reale Handleitung zu dem general Baß (Stuttgart)
1704 Samber, Johann Baptist, Manuductio ad Organum (Salzburg)
1708 Gasparini, Francesco, L’armonico pratico al cimbalo (Venice)
1711 Bruschi, Antonio, Regole per il contrapunto, e per l’accompagnatura del basso continuo (Lucca)
1716 Campion, François, Traité d’accompagnement et de composition selon la règle des octaves de musique (Paris)
1716 Clérambault, ‘Régles d’accompagnement par Clerambault’ (F-Psg: Ms 2374, Bibliothèque Sainte-
Geneviève, Paris)
1717 Bayne, Alexander, An Introduction to the knowledge and practice of the thoro-bass (Edinburgh)
1719 Mattheson, Johann, Exemplarische Organisten-Probe im Artikel von General-Baß (Hamburg)
1719 Gugl, Matthaeus, Fundamenta partiturae in compendio data (Salzburg)
1719 Dandrieu, Jean-François, Principes de l’accompagnement du clavecin (Paris)
1721 Malcolm, Arnold, A Treatise of Musick (Edinburgh)
1722 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, Traité de l’harmonie (Paris)
1723 Desponsiatone, Justinus à, Musikalische Arbeith und Kurtz-Weil (Augsburg)
1723 Delair, Denis, Nouveau traité d’accompagnement pour le théorbe, et le clavecin (Paris)
1728 Heinichen, Johann David, Der General-Baß in der Composition (Dresden)
1729 Campion, François, Lettre du Sieur a un philosophe disciple de la règle de l’octave (Paris)
1730 Campion, François, Addition au Traité d’accompagnement et de composition par la règle de l’octave (Paris)
1732 Kellner, David, Treulicher Unterricht im General-Baß (Hamburg)
1733 Gervais, Laurent, Methode pour l’accompagnement du clavecin (Paris)
1735 Mattheson, Johann, Kleine General-Baß-Schule (Hamburg)
1737 Haltmeier, Carl Johann Friedrich, Anleitung: wie man einen General-Baß, oder auch Hand-Stücke, in alle
Tone transponiren könne (Hamburg)
1738 Maichelbeck, Franz Anton, Die auf dem Clavier lehrende Caecilia (Augsburg)
1739 Blankenburg, Quirinus van, Elementa Musica (Den Haag)
1739 Mizler, Christoph Lorenz, Anfangs-Gründe des General Basses (Leipzig)
1746 Anonymous, Principes de la basse continue collectés par Msr. Grundler Maître du Clavecin à Lausanne
(D-Dl: MB 8o 6055 R)
1750 Reinhard, Leonhard, Kurzer und deutlicher Unterricht von dem General-Baß (Augsburg)
1751 Nauss, Johann Xaver, Gründlicher Unterricht den General-Baß recht zu erlernen (Augsburg)
1751 Duluc, Jean-Baptiste, Principes de Composition (F-Pn: BN Mus. Ms. 15197)

606
1753 Corrette, Michel, Le maître de clavecin pour l’accompagnement, méthode théorique et pratique (Paris)
1753 Porte, Claude de la, Traité théorique et pratique de l’accompagnement du clavecin (Paris)
1754 Geminiani, Francesco, L’art de bien accompagner du clavecin (Paris)
1756 Daube, Johann Friedrich, General-Baß in drey Accorden (Leipzig)
1757 Vallade, Johann Baptist Anton, Der Präludierende Organiste (Augsburg)
1758 Adlung, Jakob, Anleitung zu der musikalischen Gelahrtheit (Erfurt)
1762 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (Berlin)
1765 Löhlein, Georg Simon, Clavier-Schule, oder kurze und gründliche Anweisung zur Melodie und Harmonie
(Leipzig)
1767 Sorge, Georg Andreas, Anleitung zur Fantasie oder zu der schönen Kunst, das Clavier[ . . .] zu spielen
(Lobenstein)
1772 Schröter, Christoph Gottlieb, Deutliche Anweisung zum General-Baß (Halberstadt)
1773 Scheiber, Johann Adolph, Ueber die musikalische Composition (Leipzig)
1774 Martini, Giambattista, Esemplare ossia saggio fondamentale pratico di contrapunto (Bologna)
1774 Braun, Johann Christoph, Leichter und ganz kurz gefaßter General-Baß für die Anfänger im Clavier
(Augsburg)
1775 Wiedeburg, Michael Johann Friedrich, Dritter Theil des sich selbst infromirended Clavier0Spielers
(Halle)
1775 Fenaroli, Fedele, Regole musicali per il principanti di cembalo (Naples)
1777 Heck, John Caspar, The Art of Playing Thorough Bass (London)
1780 Sacchi, Giovenale, Delle Quinte Successive nel Contrappunto e delle Regole degli Accompagnamenti (Milan)
1781 Kirnberger, Johann Philipp, Grundsätze des General-Basses als erste Linien zur Composition (Berlin)
1782 Paisiello, Giovanni, Regole per bene accompagnare il partimento (St. Petersburg)
1786 Riepel, Joseph, Baßschlüssel, das ist Anleitung für Anfänger und Liebhaber der Setzkunst (Regensburg)
1786 Culant, René-Alexandre, Nouvelle règle de l’octave (Paris)
1786 Fricke, Joseph, A Treatise on Thorough Bass (London)
1786 Azopardi, Francesco, Le musicien pratique, ou leçons qui conduisent les élèves dans l’art du contrepoint
(Paris)
1787 Miller, Edward, Elements of Thorough Bass and Composition (London)
1788 Mattei, Stanislao, Pratica d’accompagnemento sopra bassi numerati (Bologna)
1789 Prixner, Sebastian, Kann man nicht in zwey, oder drey Monaten die Orgel gut und regelmässig schlagen
lernen (Landshut)
1789 Sabbatini, Luigi Antonio, Elementi teorici della musica cola pratica del’medesimi (Rome)
1790 Anonymous, Armonici erudimenti nei quali si contengono le regole e suoi esempi per imparare accompagnare
sul cimbalo il basso continuo (Florence)
1794 Vierling, Johann Gottfried, Versuch einer Anleitung zum Präludiren für Ungeübtere (Leipzig)
1794 Sala, Nicolo, Regole del contrappunto pratico (Naples)
1795 Tomeoni, Pellegrino, Regole pratiche per accompagnare il basso continuo (Florence)
1798 Rigler, Franz Xaver, Anleitung Gesange, und dem Klaviere, oder die Orgel zu spielen (Ofen)
1800 Fenaroli, Fedele, Partimenti ossia basso numerato(Milan)
1804 Choron, Alexandre and Vincenzo Fiocchi, Principes d’accompagnement des ecoles d’Italie extrait des
meilleurs auteurs (Paris)
1808 Jousse, John, Lectures on Thorough Bass (London)

607
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