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Musical Motives
Musical Motives
A Theory and Method for Analyzing
Shape in Music
B R E N T AU E R BAC H
1
3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Auerbach, Brent, author.
Title: Musical motives : a theory and method for analyzing shape in music / Brent Auerbach.
Description: [1.] | New York : Oxford University Press, 2021. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020025132 (print) | LCCN 2020025133 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197526026 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197526057 (oso) |
ISBN 9780197526033 (updf) | ISBN 9780197526040 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Musical analysis.
Classification: LCC MT90.A87 2020 (print) | LCC MT90 (ebook) | DDC 781.2—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025132
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025133
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026/001.0001
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
To my wife, Meli, and my daughters, Isabel and Natalie, for
their boundless love and support.
Contents
Acknowledgments  ix
About the Companion Website  xi
PA RT I : T H E G R O U N D S F O R A D I S C I P L I N E
O F M O T I V IC A NA LYSI S
1. Introduction to Motives  3
Motives Play a Central Role in Music  3
How Motives Move and Move Us  10
“Musical Motives”  20
2. A Brief History of Motives—Composition  25
Motive as a Style Element of Music  25
Early Developments  30
Motives in Ascendance: Compositional Practice, c. 1750–1900  39
More Recent Developments  50
Further Thoughts on Surveying Motives in Composition  53
3. A History of Motives—Theory and Analysis  55
Origins of the Musical Motive Concept, 1600–1750  56
The Rise of Melodielehre, 1750–1890  61
Schoenberg’s Conservative and Radical Conceptions of Motive  69
Unintended Legacy: A New Concept of Motive Develops in the
Twentieth Century  80
An Account of Present-Day Motivic Analytical Techniques  87
Summary: The Bridge to Part II, Methods of Motivic Analysis  100
PA RT I I : M E T HO D S O F M O T I V IC A NA LYSI S
4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Rules for Labeling Pitch and Pitch-Class Motives  108
Rules for Labeling Rhythmic Motives  119
5. Basic Motivic Analysis  129
Principles of Reduction  130
Principles for Linking Motives  150
Assembling Analysis: Preliminary Narrative Strategies  161
viii Contents
Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes   165

The Role of Narrative in Motivic Analysis in General and
Its Role in BMA in Particular  165
Theoretical Justification for Framing Motivic Analyses
as Narratives  165
The Four BMA Narrative Archetypes  169
6. Exemplars of Basic Motivic Analysis  183
A Pitch and Pitch-Class BMA of Beethoven’s Op. 2,
No. 1, Movement I  183
A Rhythmic BMA of Beethoven’s Op. 10, No. 1, Movement III  195
Interlude 2: CMA Narrative Archetypes  205
New Freedoms on the Focal Point’s Content and Location  205
Summary of BMA and CMA Narratives  216
7. Complex Motivic Analysis  219
Introduction: A Rationale for CMA  219
Formalizing Complex Motives  221
Complex Motive Assembly  235
The Paired End Products of CMA: Organic Map and Narrative  238
Conclusion to the Methodology Area  261
PA RT I I I : A NA LYSE S A N D C O N C LU SIO N
8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

“L’Ondine,” Op. 101, by Cécile Chaminade  267
“Paranoid Android,” by Radiohead  276
“At the Ballet,” by Marvin Hamlisch  296
9. Conclusion  311
Motivic Theory in Context  311
What Motives May and May Not Be  314
The Persistent Limitations and Future Promise of Motivic Analysis  324
Notes  329
Bibliography  355
Index  367
Acknowledgments
I would like to first to acknowledge my dear friends and colleagues at the

University of Massachusetts Amherst. This project could never have come to
fruition without their support. To Gary Karpinski, Jason Hooper, and Chris
White: thank you for all of your advice generously given about how to improve
this work. I owe a special debt to Jason Hooper for his adept co-mentoring and for
sharing his impeccable research on nineteenth-century conceptions of form and
motive. I would like to thank Erinn Knyt and Roberta M. Marvin for their advice
on navigating the publication and post submission process, and Chair Salvatore
Macchia for graciously protecting my time in the critical last months leading up
to manuscript submission. Laura Quilter, the Copyright and Information Policy
Librarian on campus, deserves recognition for helping me to fully understand
and to negotiate my publishing contract. Thanks go, last, to the graduate students
in the Department of Music and Dance, who bravely volunteered to serve as test
subjects for Musical Motives. Their feedback, both in and out of the classroom,
proved invaluable for improving the book’s style and content.
My sincere thanks go also to the Society for Music Theory for its generous
assistance in the form of a subvention grant helping to cover permissions
and indexing fees. I offer my gratitude as well to the Massachusetts Society of
Professors and UMass’s College of Humanities and Fine Arts for their sustained
and generous professional support in the form of travel grants and computer
replacement funds.
Further afield, I benefited greatly from the help of colleagues who saw and
commented on early versions of this book. Thanks go to Rob Haskins, my good
friend dating back to my Eastman days, for aid proofing the manuscript, and to
Scott Murphy at the University of Kansas for his insights and ideas for correcting
inconsistencies in the chapter on complex motivic analysis. Sincere thanks go
as well to René Rusch and Brad Osborn for their helpful suggestions for car-
rying out research on Radiohead. In particular, I am grateful to Alan Street at the
University of Kansas for his suggestions on broadening and strengthening the
portions of the method concerning narrative. His expertise and research have
not only impacted this project, but also will serve in perpetuity as resources in
my research and pedagogy.
My deep thanks go as well to Suzanne Ryan, former Editor in Chief in
Humanities at Oxford University Press, for believing in this project and for
expertly shepherding it through all but the very last stages of the publication
x Acknowledgments
process. Her feedback and suggestions, simultaneously pithy and kind, provided
the clearest guidelines imaginable for taking the next step forward through draft
revisions. Thanks go, as well, to the capable, supportive staff at OUP—to Sean
Decker, in particular—for their quick, informative, and good natured responses
to every minute query I sent their way.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge my loving, supportive family, for—how
else to put it?—everything! To my parents, Lisa and Richard: thank you for set-
ting me on the path for a life in music and for encouraging me at every step to
continue its pursuit. To my other parents, Ada and José Matos: thank you for all
you do to help keep my household happy and well fed, from emergency school
bus service to regular, world-class dining served at your home and delivered
as take-out. Last, I thank my precious wife, Melissa, and children, Isabel and
Natalie, for their love, good humor, and occasional interest in my work. Each of
them amazes me, daily, for who they are and for their willingness to share this life
with me.
About the Companion Website
www.oup.com/us/musicalmotives
Oxford has created a website to accompany Musical Motives: A Theory and
Method for Analyzing Shape in Music by Brent Auerbach. Supplementary mu-
sical examples are provided here. The reader is encouraged to consult this re-
source in conjunction with the chapters. Examples available online are indicated
in the text with Oxford’s symbol .
PART I
T HE GROU N DS F OR
A DISC IPL INE OF
MOT IV IC A NA LYSI S
1
Introduction to Motives
Motives Play a Central Role in Music
There are not many absolute truths that can be asserted about music, but here is
one: all music moves.1 The physical embodiment of music, sound waves, causes
particles in the air to vibrate. This in turn causes listeners’ eardrums and then
their basilar membranes, brains, and bodies to do the same. That’s all well and
good, most musicians might think, except that this first attempt at describing
musical “motion” falls far short of capturing what music truly is. Music is not
mere sound waves, although it may be best enjoyed when it actually hitches a
ride on these invisible sails. (Even when it sounds purely in the realm of imagina-
tion, the inner ear, music remains essentially music.) It is a sound-based art that
communicates sensation, emotion, and energy; it impels us to feel, to dance, and
to think. This awareness of what music is gives us cause to revise our original as-
sertion. It is not just that all music moves, but that music moves us.
We take this first point about music and movement as axiomatic. We next ex-
tend it with a claim that will ground this book: through exploring the mechanisms
by which music moves and moves us, we stand to gain understanding about art
and ourselves. Above, I summarized the path by which musical waves manifest
in the body, but how does music pervade our senses and our consciousness? The
answer is suggested by laws of perception known as Gestalt principles that de-
scribe how our brains involuntarily process stimuli, sonic and otherwise. For
example, humans tend to group together pitches that share attributes such as fre-
quency, timbre, and volume. (The well-known “law of common fate” in the visual
domain offers an example: a swarm of dots all moving together gives the impres-
sion of a larger, single entity in motion.) If we lacked this ability, the concept of
melody would likely never have developed in any culture. In musical settings,
we would be wholly unable to untangle the mass of sound waves arriving at our
eardrums into coherent strands. There would be no way to distinguish between
“more important” (solo) and “less important” (supporting) material. In listening
to a rock band play, it would be impossible to tell which sounds were coming
from the singer and which from the drums, bass, and guitars.
Although scientists who study the brain hardly ever take for granted our re-
liance on the processes that render human-intentioned sounds in the air into
music, the rest of us usually do. Anyone who enjoys, plays, or simply “gets” music
Musical Motives. Brent Auerbach, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0001.
4 Grounds for Motivic Analysis
does so by grace of a grand illusion that transforms streams of particulate sen-

sory data into coherent wholes. In the case of music, the standard bit of data is a
note, which by itself does not communicate a whole lot of musical meaning. To
confirm this, imagine the sound of a single, brief E4 played in the central register
of the piano, as shown in Example 1.1.2
Now imagine your reaction to my declaration that you’ve just heard a whole
piece of music. Pretend that this “Sonata in E” is being offered to the public
with no ironic or metaphysical wink. You can assume that this pseudo-micro-
masterpiece is meant as music and not as some highfalutin’, aesthetic statement
about music. In other words, it is not supposed to provoke any “big” questions
like “What is the essence of a ‘piece’ of music?” Even so, you’d find this piece fat-
uous. A single note hardly constitutes even the barest musical idea.
The piece is now newly expanded. In Example 1.2, the E4 is connected to a D
and then a C, with all of the notes played briefly and in close register. This second
effort is also not much of a piece, but it is at least recognizable as something.
Something wonderful has happened in that three separate notes are forged into
a coherent, descending, moving line.3 We have generated a recognizable musical
shape in motion, our first example of a musical motive.
Having broached the topic that will occupy our attention for the duration of
this study, we are not yet ready to address the bigger question, “What is a mo-
tive?” We will postpone that activity to c hapters 2 and 3, where paired histor-
ical surveys of the concept will prepare and inform a comprehensive method
for identifying, linking, and interpreting these shapes. A working definition will
have to do for now. Our starting point will be the conception of motive put for-
ward by Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951), the composer-theorist whose writings
and teachings were instrumental in establishing motivic analysis as a modern-
day discipline. As Schoenberg worked on the manuscript meant to enshrine his
Example 1.1 A single note, E4.
Example 1.2 The one-note piece is extended to three notes.

Introduction to Motives 5
fully realized theory of music, he defined motive as “the smallest part of a piece
or section of a piece that, despite change and repetition, is recognizable as pre-
sent throughout” (1995, 169).4
The open-ended character of Schoenberg’s definition, meant to render the
term “motive” flexible and intuitive, may also be seen as impractically vague.
Consulting his many writings, however, affords us with a set of more useful
particulars. For instance, it is clear that for Schoenberg a motive is a small en-
tity, typically shorter than a four-measure phrase in common or triple time.
A motive’s identity may derive from any musical domain, including articula-
tion, timbre, or harmony. Inclusion of this last area means that, for Schoenberg, a
chord progression may serve as a motive, although that occurs less often in prac-
tice. In the vast majority of published analyses, including those by Schoenberg,
motives are generally assumed to be melodic, monophonic, entities. To facilitate
the present introduction to the concept, we will initially fall back on that assump-
tion. In later chapters, this view will be broadened to allow for more complex,
polyphonic motives that are more analytically rich.
In a separate treatise, The Fundamentals of Musical Composition, Schoenberg
explains that a melodic motive is encoded primarily by its “intervals and rhythms,
combined to produce a memorable shape or contour which usually implies an in-
herent harmony” (1967, 8). Rhythmically, a gesture as small as a two-note pickup
figure may qualify. Similarly pitch-wise, a bare two-note configuration (a basic
intervallic second, third, fourth, etc.) can serve as a motive in analysis. Often the
domains of pitch and rhythm work together: the profile of the three note shape
from Example 1.2 would be sharpened if, in a larger work, it always appeared in
a characteristic rhythm such as q q h. But this does not always happen. In many
instances, analysts will equate one set of pitches with another in the same piece,
even when the gestures have no rhythm in common.
The adagio excerpt by Mozart shown in Example 1.3 illustrates a case in which
pitch motives act independently of rhythm. The first melodic gesture shown in
brackets is a “neighbor” figure, C5–D♭–C, set in a dotted, siciliana rhythm. The
shape is imitated in pitch and rhythm in the alto and tenor voices in mm. 2–3.
The pattern of descending entries suggests the bass should eventually have it,
too, and so it does in mm. 5–7. The characteristic rhythm disappears; however,
the neighbor shape’s pitch-intervallic connection remains strong and audible.5
By virtue of being set in more ponderous, dotted half notes, the neighbor motive
figure seems to gain stature and importance.
Even in cases where this kind of patterning is absent, an open interval can
sound striking enough to suggest itself as an important span to be explored. In
Haydn’s Piano Sonata 31 in E, Hob. XVI: 31 I, shown in Example 1.4, the first
melodic gesture heard is given by the left hand. It is the intervallic fifth, E4-B.
Example 1.3 Neighbor (N) motives in Mozart’s Piano Sonata in F, K. 280 (II),
mm. 1–8.
Example 1.4 Opening of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E, Hob.XVI: 31 (I).
The melody takes longer to move from its first high B5, but as it does it traverses
the same letter-note span in reverse, B down to E. The two zones of activity, both
fifths, echo each other.
It is worthwhile to mine Schoenberg’s writings for technical guidance in how to
treat motives. That task will in fact be the focus of major portions of a later chapter.
Yet at the same time that we strive to read between the lines of Schoenberg’s
definition to discern more and less “correct” methods, we should keep another
approach in mind. To wit, we should embrace the notion that Schoenberg’s im-
precise mode of communication, in its own ideal way, conveys valuable informa-
tion. It may not directly answer the question “What does a motive look like?”;
however, it squarely addresses an equally important concern, “What is the essence
of motive?” Here we may expressly link the words “recognizable” and “memo-
rable” from our previous Schoenberg quotations. The two terms are functionally
equivalent. Memorability emerges as the essential measure of music’s “unity, rela-
tionship, coherence, logic, comprehensibility, and fluency” (Schoenberg 1967, 8).
Memorability, it turns out, is everything for Schoenberg.
It is easy to test whether a motive within a piece is memorable. The process is
personal, intuitive, and efficient, and even today remains the primary means for
determining which figures in a work qualify as motivic. As a practical matter, the
memorability requirement allows us to derive a working set of subrequirements.
A motive must
• be short enough to fit in memory

• be distinct enough from its surroundings to be perceived as a whole, and
• exhibit sufficient character to compel listeners’ attention.
There is a further advantage in acknowledging the role of memory. Doing so

prioritizes subjectivity and musicianship in analysis, accurately reflecting the
fact that all listeners will hear or remember a piece in different ways.
Schoenberg’s conception of motive has proved itself sufficiently sturdy, having
remained largely in effect for almost a century now. Nonetheless, it could do with
some fortification; an update is well past due. Though academics and performers
of all stripes to this day routinely work with motives, these entities often serve
an auxiliary function in their analyses. Few scholars at present seek to analyze
the motivic content of a piece, in and of itself. Instead their primary goal is usu-
ally to examine a work’s form, harmony, counterpoint, and/or narrative. Motivic
connections, when noted at all, usually are mentioned in asides or footnotes.
Where motives play this kind of supporting role in analysis, authors have two
reasons for pointing them out. One is to bolster evidence for conclusions already
reached by other means. Often, it seems that the more complicated and technical
the primary method is, the more pressing the need to defend it in terms of an
audible motivic connection. Another reason authors turn to motivic analysis is
to demonstrate their cleverness. Even where a motivic relationship is not central
to the primary analytic argument, an author will usually mention it anyway. The
temptation to exhibit her credentials as an analyst possessed of deep musicality
and ingenuity is too strong to pass up.
As we shall soon see, music is oversaturated by motives. This condition
is a boon, artistically. Most composers think in motivic terms as they write.
Consciously or not, they begin by designing a set of shapes and then take in-
spiration in deciding how to deploy them from one passage to the next. When
listeners later partake of their creations, the underlying unity of motivic content
within registers as coherence, with all ideas seeming to connect logically.
Concurrently, the overabundance of motives in music causes problems, analyt-

ically. This condition, together with the flexibility of Schoenberg’s “memorability”
clause, means it is usually possible to assert some kind of motivic connection be-
tween any two events in a work, no matter how dissimilar. It also means that motivic
analysis can yield irrelevant, nonsensical results when carried out without sufficient
training or care. Example 1.5 from Sharpe 1983, shows how one could begin with the
E♭ minor theme from Beethoven’s Sonata in C minor (Pathétique), movement I, and
gradually transform it into the theme from the Colonel Bogey March.6
Sharpe’s demonstration is designed to produce a laughable result; therefore, both
it and its accompanying claim that “there is something wrong with a theory that
allows” for such shenanigans may be set aside (Sharpe 1983, 279–280). The goal of
motivic analysis is not to impose far-fetched readings on works. It is to clarify the
nature of already-intuited connections. As in all things musical, this requires a fair
amount of analytic know-how. Convincingly establishing a motivic connection be-
tween dissimilar shapes is difficult. An analyst must sense the underlying unity, seek
an explanation for the similarity—hidden correspondences in pitch, rhythm, con-
tour, and so forth—and effectively communicate the finding to the audience.
The musical community has long regarded motivic analysis with ambivalence.
Analysts have generally been unwilling to give up on a practice that yields rich
and rewarding results, but at the same time they cannot help viewing it skepti-
cally. One barrier to motivic analysis’s acceptance is the long-standing awareness
that few rules exist for identifying and associating motive forms, which amounts
to saying that no proper theory of motivic analysis exists. The solution to this
problem entails advancing a consistent set of rules for working with motives.
Other barriers to acceptance are cultural in nature. In addition to the distrust
held by many scholars and specialists about the viability of motivic analysis,
there is the matter of the general low regard held for it by musicians of all types.
One might guess that the problem stems from musicians not having had
enough experience in working with motives. The situation is quite the opposite,
in that motives and motivic analysis have become overexposed. Most performers
and academics are aware that little shapes and rhythms recur throughout pieces,
having sat before a score with an instructor or a colleague watching him draw
circles around scads of seemingly insignificant pitch configurations. Charles
Rosen, in a staged moment of doubt, fills two pages of an essay with a host of trite
analytical findings to show “how easy motivic analysis can be.” He asserts that it
can “be taught in five minutes to any student, [who] can produce term papers on
motivic analysis while watching television or doing anything else that engages
his mind while leaving his hands free” (Rosen 1994, 95).
These are harsh words from Rosen, but his agenda is, fortunately, construc-
tive. His aim is to rescue motives by reframing the questions we ask of them,
namely: “What has the composer done to make us responsible for hearing these
Example 1.5 Abuse of analytic transformation technique (Sharpe 1983, 279–280).
The numbers that appear in line (a), which indicate “order position,” track specific
note shifts that occur in subsequent lines.
relationships?” and “How else do these invariances enter into the experience of
the work?” (1994, 97). Questions such as these take motives seriously by acknow-
ledging their role in musical structure and by weaving them into the listening
experience.
The spirit of this book endeavor is closely aligned with Rosen’s. Instead of
suggesting a single avenue toward elevating the status of motives, I will propose
and proceed down many. I start with the premise that the concept of motive can
be strengthened as new attributes are grafted on to it. The chapters and interludes
that follow will carry out this task by introducing increasingly stringent
definitions and rules. The first and perhaps most important step will occur in
the philosophical realm, as Schoenberg’s classical definition is extended. My for-
mulation, which embodies the musical truth declared at the outset, is as follows:
Proposition 1: For a musical figure to earn motivic status it must not only be
memorable, but must move and move us.
The two new requirements “to move” and “to move us” overlap to a large extent;
however, as a thought experiment, it is useful to try and tease them apart. Let us
think for a moment what it would mean to develop a comprehensive theory for
explaining how musical particles are able first, to instantiate motion, and second,
to provoke listeners’ emotions. Were that endeavor to succeed, it would not only
cement the importance of motives; it would also establish them as the smallest
possible elements that can be music. For anyone who wishes to truly understand
music, it is hard to imagine a worthier set of structures to examine than the ones
constituting its very essence.
How Motives Move and Move Us
Our original E4-D-C shape from Example 1.2 will serve us one last time as we
further explore how motives embody motion and musical meaning. The three
pitch events occur successively and thus take time to traverse a distance: this
fulfills the basic definition of motion. The shape, furthermore, stands in direct
opposition to any single-note utterance—for example: just the E alone—that by
itself implies no continuation or direction. By extension, no piece can proceed
forward except through the activity of motives.7 With regard to moving us, this
is where the aforementioned Gestalt principles come into play. If listeners con-
sciously engage the shape as it forms, then at the moment the final C sounds
there will be a real sense that they have moved along with it. Physiologically
speaking, each note heard is a note recreated, or “re-performed” in the brain,
immediately and internally.8
Each listener traverses the same journey that the notes do and in the same time.
That experience is universal. What remains individualized is the manner in which
different listeners feel and conceptualize their journeys. Listener TM, a trained
musician, might imagine herself inside the musical texture, thus experiencing a
downward glide through space. Listener NM, a nonmusician less familiar with
the up/down metaphor of pitch, might regard the notes externally as moving to-
ward or pulling away from him.9 If the E4-D-C gesture is played more rapidly, it
becomes more likely that the two listeners will hear the tones fitting within one
beat. The shape will still be experienced as motion, but perhaps in different ways.
Listener TM now might feel the shape as a footfall in a purposeful stride forward,
while NM may only be able to perceive it as a kind of energy that coils up and then
is released.
The mechanism just described can be represented by the following graphic:
motive motion
The arrow is double-headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

The heads are of different sizes, though, to reflect the unequal logical status of the
two claims. All motives suggest motion; however, motion in music is not created
purely though motivic activity.
The next link in the chain in the experience of hearing music is that con-
necting the sensation of motion with the experience of emotion. This slightly
more complicated mechanism can be represented as follows:
motive motion emotion
The close linguistic correspondence between the latter terms, “motion” and
“emotion,” is hardly coincidental. One of English’s main words for denoting state
of mind, “emotion,” derives its meaning from a reference to literal motion. The
Oxford English Dictionary dates this usage to as early as 1330, when if some-
thing “moved the blood” it meant that it excited or stirred a passion.
This connection invites us to speculate on a mechanism by which musical
motives produce emotion. The motives of a piece, consciously attended to or
not, are perceived as figures in motion. The listener’s mind hears these shapes
while simultaneously re-creating them. This produces a cascade of novel
thoughts. The brain’s self-awareness that it is thinking new things and trav-
eling through virtual space—and all this quite without effort!—causes pleas-
urable sensations: feelings of inspiration, joy, excitement, and so forth. This
mental activity engenders secondary physiologic responses in the brain, where
neurotransmitters are triggered and neurochemicals released, and in the body,
where heart rate and vasodilation are impacted by hormonal signals.10 In the
end it seems there is something to the Old English notion of “moving the blood”
after all.
This informal proof of the causative link between motive and emotion is perhaps
unnecessary, but it remains valuable. Taking the time to consider the mechanism
that links sound, mind, and body helps us to appreciate the primary role motives
play in the musical experience. This, again, helps establish their legitimacy as objects
of inquiry. We can only advance our argument so far, though, by speaking in terms
of a single, abstract third-motive (E-D-C) and idealized listeners. In the next stage of
our philosophical excursion into the role of motives, we open the frame to include
some concrete, real-world examples.
The discussion will move beyond the issue of what motives look like to con-
sider how they interact. The typical textbook account of motives’ behavior
conveys some accurate and useful information. Readers who consult introduc-
tory texts on musical form learn that motives may recur dozens or even hun-
dreds of times throughout a piece, aiding the sense of flow in the music. Before
all that repetition happens, motives typically combine early on to generate a
piece’s larger primary melodies, otherwise known as its themes. This process is
illustrated in Example 1.6, where an early theme from Sousa’s Liberty Bell march
is shown to be made up of four motives.
To facilitate analysis, each unique motive is given a label. For this purpose,
analysts traditionally have used neutral symbols such as “Motive X” or “Motive
alpha” or loosely descriptive names such as “Neighbor figure.” The analysis in
Example 1.6 strives for greater precision in labeling by referring wherever pos-
sible to pitch interval content, namely 3rds (see pickup figure and mm. 3–4), 4ths
(mm. 3–4), and 2nds/stepwise motion (the neighbor shape in m. 1). By means
of the brackets above and below the staff, the graphic further indicates how mul-
tiple motivic interpretations may arise.
The clinical accounts given in musical dictionaries offer the bare and true facts
about motives but illuminate little about their inner life. Our response will be
to step back and take motives in with a fresh perspective. This endeavor has al-
ready begun, in fact, with our earlier etymological study of the word “motive.”
It continues now with an illustration of additional roles played by motives that
Example 1.6 Motives combine to form a theme in Sousa’s Liberty Bell, mm. 5–8.
Example 1.7 The primary motive as a texture element in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 (I).
is better demonstrated in a musical context. The setting will be an early passage

from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, mm. 25–48 (see Example 1.7).
One important function that motives achieve through repetition is the forging
of a coherent texture. The passage given in Example 1.7 is twenty-four measures
long, which means that, at Beethoven’s indicated tempo of Allegro con brio (m.m.
h = 108), it will occupy a little more than thirteen seconds. In the context of the
full movement lasting seven or so minutes, this amounts to a modest swath of
canvas. Yet if we take time to fully contemplate it, playing it through in tempo in
the mind, thirteen seconds comes to feel like a significant span of time.
This sonic space is saturated by motive (see arrows). The original, iconic form
of this motive shown in Example 1.8 is constituted in rhythm as three eighth
notes followed by an elongated half note and in pitch as spanning a descending
diatonic third.11
For the purposes of this discussion, the motive will be defined loosely, as a
shape with the rhythmic profile of three- shorts-then-long (S-
S-S-
L), ori-
ented as a pickup gesture with the contour profile of repeated-pitch-then-leap.
Formulating the motive in this looser, generalized manner is tantamount to
arguing that all of the shapes identified in Example 1.7 register as equivalent,
even those that leap upward at the end. Counting up the incidences of the motive
reveals that it occurs about twenty-two times: that averages out to about once per
measure and twice per second. More occurrences could be included in the tally
if we relax the contour requirements further. A space that once was empty is now
motivically embroidered, as in the manner of cloth tapestry or wallpaper.12
This is not an analogy made lightly: a vast body of evidence from art history
attests to humans’ near-universal desire to enliven blank expanses of visual space
with patterns of small, repeating figures. Such figures, known as motifs—the
Example 1.8 The opening four-measure idea of movement I consists of a single

motive characterized by its pitch interval, rhythm, and contour.
Example 1.9 (a) Inner court of the Mausoleum of Mulay Isma’il, Morocco (c. 1727).
From Degeorge and Porter 2002, 79.
Example 1.9 Continued

(b) Pottery from Susa, Iran, c. 4000–5000 b.c.e. (Janson’s History of Art 2007, 91).
cognate with our motive can hardly be missed—appear in tile work from tenth-
century mosques and tapestries from Europe’s Middle Ages (see Example 1.9(a)).13
They also frequently appear in the buildings, furniture, and fabrics associated with
more ornate design styles, such as Beaux-Arts and Art Deco.
Example 1.9(b) shows a piece of early Iranian art dating from more than
5,000 years ago. The work is beautiful—timelessly so. It points up a critical
function of motive as a tool that connects two spheres of existence. The con-
crete world is invoked by the container’s subject matter, the animals it depicts.
The plane of the abstract manifests by means of the decorative, highly artificial
patterning. The vertical lines ringing the top segment are birds’ necks, and the
thick curved and straight lines in the bottom half derive from the ram’s horns,
legs, and body. The horizontal divider between them takes the form of a parade
of hounds, whose elongated bodies create the impression of a gentle spiral. The
stylized animals bind together the real and the abstract in a breathtaking syn-
thesis that makes them seem both utterly familiar and impossibly alien.14
Artists of all kinds have known since time immemorial that the zone lying be-
tween reality and abstract thought is where a kind of magic resides. The shapes
that play about in this realm freely associate. Causality and connections may be
strongly implied—as when one object in a painting resonates with another—but
cannot be proven. Whole other levels of interaction are possible, too, as when
shapes associate loosely with meanings. A set of lines or curves in a painting may
assemble in viewers’ minds so as to remind them of an object or a human figure,
especially if a title is given to nudge their perceptions. But even if viewers do not
recognize a form from their daily lives, they will still assemble the smaller images
into conglomerations that have their own local meanings and directed energies.
A potent description of this instinctive, energetic process is given by
Christopher Alexander in his treatise on visual patterning, The Nature of Order
(2002). In the series of graphics shown in Example 1.10, for example, he shows
how every individual element added to a sheet of blank paper generates a field of
Example 1.10 Five-stage illustration of the visual fields created when a single dot is
placed on a piece of paper (from Alexander 2002, 81–82; numbers and arrows mine).
Example 1.11 Beethoven Symphony No. 5 (I). A singable melody emerges from the
motivic interplay among voices at the surface.
energy and how, taken together, these fields merge in the mind to create a larger
sense of wholeness. Alexander’s diagram models unconscious perception as a set
of stepwise processes.15 The six images in the series describe the effects of placing
a single dot on a piece of paper. It acquires power as soon as it appears, dividing
the visual field into zones and radiating energy as a focal point.
To apply this notion to music, we will delve further into the phenomenon of
motives joining to assemble themes. Example 1.11 centers on mm. 6–10 of the
same Beethoven symphony movement from before. The surface of the music,
shown in the lower staff, acts as the source for the motives. In the upper staff,
which “reduces” the busy surface by concentrating only on changes in pitch, we
see how these separate four-note shapes (dotted circles) assemble into an emer-
gent, singable line.
But wait: we can now be more precise. In this example, it is more accurate to
say that the close succession of motives at the surface can be heard joining to-
gether to create the broader, singable line. This shift in wording, which assigns
the listener an active role in perception, expands our conception of how motives
work. Very quickly, even the most run-of-the-mill motives such as the trivial E-
D-C introduced earlier, acquire new life. They remind us less of dull, nondescript
puzzle pieces and more of ceramic shards inscribed with glowing symbols. We
move beyond the view that motives are simple building blocks; it is more proper
to regard them as elements of expression, artifacts of musical thought.
As for assigning a specific meaning to these motives, that is a compli-
cated task. It is certainly true that a musical shape can accommodate literal,
texted meaning, as in the case of song. In Schubert’s song “Erlkonig,” a re-
curring, high-pitched semitone gesture conveys urgency, fear, and alarm by
literally evoking the cry of a sick child calling out for help (Father! Father!).
Similarly powerful text/music associations are routinely explored in opera and
film music, to the extent that certain note configurations can come to stand
for characters or ideas even when they are not literally present onstage or
onscreen.16 Importantly, for our purposes of studying Western music, we must
clarify that emotional and dramatic meaning is also quite possible in music in
the absence of any text.17
It may seem we have stumbled onto a conundrum: does musical meaning de-
pend on the presence of a text or not? To avoid confusion, we will sidestep that
minefield of intentions and instead assert a second proposition for motives that
concerns meaning:
Proposition 2: At the same time that motives are capable of communicating

many kinds of meaning, at their base level they communicate essentially mu-
sical meaning.
I am claiming here that an inalienable purpose of motives is to communi-

cate intentional musical relationships such as, “these notes follow from those”
or “this pattern resonates with the one adjacent to it.” This is not to deny that
motives carry a host of other meanings intended by the composer and inferred
by listeners.18 We have to start somewhere, though, and so here we temporarily
strip motives of subjective associations so as to concentrate on this more ob-
jective quality.19 The analyses created in the initial methodology chapters, spe-
cifically chapters 5 and 6, will manifest as networks of almost purely musical
association (to the extent that is possible!). Only after the procedure for building
these networks is established will we consider how to layer other associations,
meanings, and stories back onto them.
Proposition 2 may seem radical, but a short thought experiment will help to il-
lustrate that it is not. I invite you to imagine hearing the start of a piece by Mozart
in which one phrase presents a set of small, melodic shapes and the next repeats
them. The first movement of any of his symphonies or overtures will do. Now,
imagine further that you are an amateur listener who does not notice that there is
any correspondence between the phrases. You may be enjoying this music vastly;
I hope you are! If you are, though, you are doing so in a manner differently from
how trained Classical musicians (Mozart included) do. Perhaps you appreciate
the sheen of the violins in the recording, or the sweet harmonies of the chords.
All this is wonderful, but does not change the fact that you are not understanding
the language of this music. Anyone who is unaware of the tonal, formal, and ges-
tural structure of such music, by definition, does not “speak” the language of the
High Classical style.
This extreme declaration is softened by some mitigating factors. First, the hy-
pothetical “you” being addressed is not really meant to apply to you, the reader,
or really anyone. All humans possess the ability to process musical shapes at least
to some extent by virtue of the Gestalt principles mentioned earlier. Composers
who consciously plant motives in their music, moreover, are not doing it to
hide their musical intentions, but to make them clear. One reason of many that
Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-shorts-and-a-long so often in his

Fifth Symphony is that he wants the motive to accrue meaning and be memo-
rable. Whenever Franz Liszt, Radiohead, and George Crumb write music, they
employ repetition to achieve the same end. Second, there is no “right way” to
prove that you are hearing motives in the music. You can demonstrate your mo-
tivic literacy by successfully singing a verse of a song from memory. You are enti-
tled to full credit even if you forget some of the words at times and lapse into
half-singing on nonsense syllables. The point is that if there are motives in the
music and you can accurately reproduce them by whatever means, that signals
that you are aware of them.
All this is to say that a person’s knowledge of motivic content need not be ex-
plicit. Most people who know instinctively what motives are can’t define them
even informally or identify them. Surely that is a technicality that means little.
Think about all the fluent speakers of English who, despite consistently demon-
strating the ability to construct a proper noun clause, would be unable to iden-
tify the one that I am just now insinuating into this sentence. Passing grammar
exams does not make one a good speaker. Likewise, the ability to define and list
motives does not make one a good listener and/or musician. It is one’s primary,
unthinking ability to speak a language that defines competence and fluency in it.
And yet, schools continue to require their students to study grammar. They do so
because upper-level skills in reading and analyzing a language serve as important
tools for raising one’s level of expertise. No matter what a person’s current level
of fluency with a language is, an increased knowledge of its grammar will make
them more qualified to describe, teach, and control it.
“Musical Motives”
This book’s title is a play on words. At the most basic level, the term “motive” has
a mundane, technical meaning. It refers to literal note configurations that recur
in pieces. As this introduction has indicated, the goal of this study is to further
both our technical proficiency with and philosophical understanding of these el-
emental musical objects. On the former front, this will require a lot of theoretical
groundwork. New definitions will be developed to account for the many kinds of
content motives may contain: intervallic, rhythmic, harmonic, and so forth. As
part of that process, I will propose a universal nomenclature system for motives.
I will offer, in addition, a set of strict procedural rules for extracting motives from
a busy musical texture (reduction) and for judging which shapes may be linked
in a logical, explanatory chain.
Another reading of the book’s title turns on the common-parlance meaning
of “motive,” indicating “a need or desire, that causes a person to act.”20 The term
“motive” is familiar to most from criminal court proceedings, where it refers to

the reason(s) a defendant might have for committing a crime. In the theater, ac-
tors looking to fully inhabit their characters will often ask the director what their
characters’ motivations are. The term “motive” readily applies to music making
as well. One might assume that only composers, performers, and listeners can
harbor musical motives. That viewpoint makes sense in that it reserves the ca-
pacity for thought and feeling to humans. How could it be otherwise? Can it ever
be said that music itself harbors motives? With a little imagination and a will-
ingness to skirt the metaphysical realm on our part, it turns out that it can. All
it requires is projecting our thoughts about a piece of music outward from our-
selves and onto it.
This behavior may seem complicated, but for most it is as routine as any
other act of personifying objects from daily life. We might say a tight lid
on a jar is stubborn or that a car with a faulty transmission is complaining.
Listeners to music similarly cannot help ascribing human characteristics to
it, intention among them.21 The moment we embrace that kind of metaphor-
ical thinking, a host of new players in the musical fabric pop up that all seem
capable of emotion and desire. Musicians talking about their art often feel
that tones “want” to move in certain ways; for example, a suspension tone that
“seeks” downward resolution or the raised seventh step in a major scale that
“leads to” tonic.
Our impulse to personify phenomena such as music is more than a habit;
it is hard-wired behavior that arises out of our dependence on metaphor for
comprehending the world around us.22 Just as we empathize with inanimate
objects that are acted on by natural forces, we empathize with motives, the most
recognizable objects in music. These entities can be likened to characters that
are subject to musical forces such as tonal or registral gravity (e.g., melody’s
tendency to descend over time). The changes a motive undergoes in successive
appearances in direction, register, and tone will naturally suggest to many its
desires and actions. In some cases, it may seem to flow along with the music, con-
tent in its setting, and in others it may seem to clash or strain against the elements
in the accompanying texture.
Following from the assumption that our culture bestows a sense of life to
motive, the present study will dedicate considerable effort to investigate how
motives convey drama and meaning. The analytic techniques laid out in Part II
of the book will, among other things, offer recommendations for selecting both
motivic main characters and plot archetypes in which to situate them. Potential
storylines include journeys to a far-off destinations and “struggles” against other
motives or musical forces that result in triumph, failure, or synthesis. The ex-
tended sample analyses provided in c hapters 6–8 will demonstrate how motivic
narrative theory applies to the analysis of complete works.
Just earlier, I called attention to the word “motive” as denoting the human
desire to act, which caused the discussion to veer off to entertain the notion of
personified music. In doing so, it skipped over another highly relevant type of
musical motive, that being the practical impulse that underlies a musician’s de-
cision to make or do music. A near-infinite variety of motives explain why indi-
viduals choose to participate in musical culture. Some of these motives seem
purer, such as a composer’s desire to craft something beautiful or a performer’s to
communicate with an audience. Some seem more worldly, such as the desire for
wealth, fame, or influence in public and/or academic sectors.
I would not presume to speak for anyone as to why they engage in musical
activities and thought, but I feel it is appropriate to disclose some of my own
musical motives. My primary aim is to revive discussion, and, if possible, faith in
the discipline of motivic analysis. This is to be achieved by shoring up definitions
and methods of analysis, then applying them to a large set of pieces in a variety of
styles. The large-scale analyses that result will be offered as one argument in the
case for motivic analysis’s viability.
Another argument for motives appeals to their near universality. Motives ap-
pear in most musics, and can thus be used to better understand those musics.
Though I wish it could be otherwise, it will have to suffice for now to assert this
point instead of proving it. It should also be made clear at the outset that discus-
sion and analysis in this book will center on Western Classical music, the rep-
ertoire that originated the notion of motive and the one I know best. Readers,
however, should feel free to apply these principles to any music they like, in-
cluding world music (popular and classical) and jazz. The latter two analyses of
chapter 8, which center on prominent works from rock and Broadway traditions,
are intended as a light primer in this regard.
With regard to my motives as an author, I will admit to a further ambition,
which is that this work will expand the lay public’s awareness of music analysis.
In earlier generations, a significant body of amateur musicians in Europe and
America sought to read published analyses. They subscribed to trade journals
such as The Musical Quarterly and tuned into radio talks such as those given by
Arnold Schoenberg and Hans Keller. As the practice of creating and studying
music migrated from the home into the college and conservatory classroom,
theory and analysis became increasingly insular. The degree of specialization is
so acute at present that most published music analyses are incomprehensible to
all but the relative few who have undertaken graduate-level training in music.
The widespread reliance on expert-level techniques such as Schenkerian and set-
theory analysis has only accelerated that condition.
In contrast to those methods, motivic analysis is more accessible to
nonexperts. As such, this book is intended for the general public. Any individual
with any amount of musical training can hear and work with motives at least
at some level. To reach as many readers as possible, this text has been designed
progressively. Early chapters discuss and analyze the simplest types of motive in
the simplest environments. In later chapters, the scope of the discussion will ex-
pand. More attributes will be grafted on to motives (harmony, contrapuntal and
multivoice content, coloristic features, etc.), and more advanced techniques for
assembling results will be introduced.
The most complex analyses have been written in a manner to ensure that all
who can read music should be able to follow their arguments to some extent.
This does not mean that novice readers will wish to read this book from cover to
cover. There are large swaths of it that concern more purely scholarly issues, such
as the entirety of chapter 3. Amateurs keen to get started with motivic analysis
can skip that chapter, moving directly from the close of chapter 2 to the meth-
odology section initiated at chapter 4. Academics interested in the history and
theory of motive will likely want to engage it. By virtue of the other sections com-
prising historical and analytic research, Music Motives in its entirety is suited to
a professional audience of music theorists, music historians, composers, and
performers. The book may be read as a treatise on motivic theory and analytical
technique. Owing to the instructional, step-by-step tone of many of the analyses,
it may alternatively serve as a text for graduate seminars or advanced undergrad-
uate courses in music analysis and/or Western music history.
2
A Brief History of Motives—Composition
Motive as a Style Element of Music
Chapter 1 established motives as a primary concern of music analysis on the

basis of their capacity to project motion, emotion, and unity. The first lines of
argument supporting that point were couched in somewhat abstract, philosoph-
ical terms. Yet had we opted for a different approach for our first look at motives,
for example, a chronologic musical survey, the same conclusion would be borne
out. It is this:
Proposition 3: Motives constitute one of the several generative forces in music.
The historical account presented in this chapter will support and elucidate this
point. In that it spans several centuries, the survey will need to remain extremely
general. It will also need to remain sensitive to the fact that artistic styles change.
As they do, the sub-elements that characterize them—motives numbering
among these—fluctuate in prominence.
The first task of this chapter will be to establish a context for discussing how
the role of motives has changed over time. We take inspiration from Leonard
Meyer, one of the preeminent style critics of the twentieth century. Meyer’s
Music, the Arts and Ideas advances a model for understanding the life cycle of a
style, musical or otherwise (Meyer 1967, 117–121). The approximate time span
for such a cycle is a generation, or roughly thirty to fifty years. Meyer tracks this
evolution in terms of relative levels of “information,” meaning the number and
sequence of musically meaningful events in pieces, e.g., melodic, harmonic, and
rhythmic schemata.1 In Example 2.1, this trend is represented by the line studded
with dots.
A style’s early, pre-classic phase is marked by a preponderance of highly for-
mulaic content. This time period allows artists and audiences to gain familiarity
with the few conventions that do exist; these stock formulas repeat extensively,
which explains the presence in the example of the inverse curve showing “com-
positional redundancy.” Nearer toward the end of a style period, artists experi-
ment with new options, introducing a great deal of novel content. The common,
basic patterns from the decades before are hardly ever heard; more often, they
are alluded to or presented in distorted form. The development of rock and
Musical Motives. Brent Auerbach, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197526026.003.0002.
roll music adheres to Meyer’s style theory. Early rock from the 1940s and 1950s
(Rhythm and Blues), for example, is rife with twelve-bar blues patterns and
verse-refrain structures. Progressive rock, a much later style that prevailed in the
1970s, retains these structures but exhibits far fewer stock harmonic and formal
patterns that were standard in rock’s first period.
In order to apply Meyer’s model to our own view of history, some adjustments
are necessary. To streamline the appearance of his graph, we will strip out the
lines showing “Compositional redundancy” and “Perceived information,”
leaving only “Compositional information.” The next change is necessitated by
our survey’s scope, which causes it to span multiple style periods. Meyer’s model
for a single style must be extended beyond its present edges to account at left
for a style’s prehistory, when it is nascent, and at right for its final passing, when
it becomes obsolete. This change, illustrated in Example 2.2, recasts Meyer’s
arctangent-shaped line as a large, irregular arch.
A further adjustment involves dissecting the concept of “style.” Meyer’s graph
is monolithic and is meant to apply to style movements such as “Galant” or “post-
modern composition” in their entirety. Such an examination, however, could
Example 2.1 Diagram of style development in Meyer 1967 tracking the inverse
relation between information content and redundancy (118).
Time
Compositional
redundancy:
Perceived information
Compositional
information
Preclassic Classic Mannerist
Example 2.2 Extension of the style development curve given in Example 2.1.
(compositional information line only).
Time
Meyer’s Style Evolution
(center zone)
Nascent Preclassic Classic Mannerist Obsolete

A Brief History of Motives—Composition 27
focus in on the specific musical traits that contribute to style, such as major/
minor tonality, orchestral color effects, or “presence of a program.” This adjust-
ment allows for a finer view of style by charting the interplay and fluctuation of
these traits over time.
In case it is not clear, we will soon characterize each of the familiar Western
historical/style periods—Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, and so forth—in
terms of these constituent traits. But which ones should we rely on? We do not
want any major period to lack too many essential traits, nor would we want
it to appear as a caricature, reflecting the effects of a single trait. At the same
time that we seek balance, we should not fear to proceed boldly. It is natural to
worry that this approach will distort and oversimplify history. For those har-
boring such concerns, fear not, because it will. One consolation in this regard is
to accept that the ship, Simplification, set sail ages ago, when society grew com-
fortable branding wide swaths of artistic history with “isms.” Another is that,
by making a renewed effort to specify the content of each style, we are at least
striving to appreciate each historical period in greater detail than a single um-
brella term allows.
To be relevant for the time span under consideration, the style traits we se-
lect should exhibit longevity and a certain kind of universality. The catego-
ries to be listed may be thought of as an abridged set of essentially “timeless”
domains of Western music that have flourished for ages and are applicable for
describing most pieces. (The list is far from comprehensive, of course, as rhythm
is missing!) A quick generalization about one such domain may help illus-
trate: “Counterpoint is a consciously controlled element of composition for most
Western pieces.” Note well that this statement does not indicate that the rules of
counterpoint are stable over time. Such regulations have the tendency to shift
radically in each era. To accommodate such shifts, I allow for all of the style traits
to be technically modified—or even rejuvenated—over time. For example, the
idea of “Standard Form” is relevant for the years 1100–1400 and for 1730–1830,
even though it was ballade and rondeaux forms that were prevalent in the former
period and sonata and rondo forms in the latter.
The traits contributing to style in this account are as follows:
Standard Form: Abstract structural models that carry expectations about

the number, arrangement, and kinds of subsections in a work. Standard
formal schemes typically derive from song and dance traditions in both
simple forms such as call and response, folk song, ballad, and verse-refrain
as well as in highly stylized forms such as ternary and sonata form.
Harmony: A vocabulary that governs the content and ordering of simulta-
neous (“vertical”) pitch structures. Harmony is said to be “functional”
when a syntax is in place that controls the ordering of sonorities, roughly
akin to the way that a grammar functions in language to coordinate word

order and proper sentence construction.
Note: because harmony is built of more than one voice, this trait is interde-
pendent with counterpoint.
Counterpoint: Coordination of multiple voice lines in terms of (1) their ge-
neral interaction (relative distance and direction) in pitch space, and
(2) how they align at certain points to produce vertical sonorities.
Note: following from point (2), counterpoint is interdependent with func-
tional harmony.2
Program: Presence of a storyline or impression from “outside” the music that
is realized in the form and/or by local sonic events in the piece, often mi-
metic ones (e.g., a cymbal crash representing a lightning strike).
Motive: Recurring gestures of pitch and/or rhythm. This trait may coordinate
with harmony and tonality, but is not required to.
The diagram in Example 2.3 arranges these traits according to their relative
influence on successive styles. The arrangement of style periods along the top
line corresponds to the textbook version of music history. The vertical axis charts
the relative degree of prominence for the traits. Placement in the lowest group
indicates that a trait is present nascently, as a noticeable and localized phenom-
enon (e.g., motive in the medieval period); placement in the highest group means
that a trait generally presents as a primary organizing force or premise of works
(e.g., “song forms” for this same era.) Where multiple traits appear together in a
group, I have made an attempt to approximate their increasing relative impor-
tance by listing them from bottom to top.
Despite its appearance, Example 2.3 is not intended as a style chart, per se. It
has been developed to allow us to observe the staggered bell-curves of multiple
traits, rising and falling like the curling stripes on a barber pole. For decades, a
certain trait may be present as a minor element of music. At some point, it will
rise in prominence until it comes to dominate the structure of the music, helping
to define the aesthetic (artistic rules) of its age.
We may take harmony as an example, which is tracked by the dashed line. This
aspect of music was a concern for composers even in the Middle Ages; as such, it
appears as a surface trait in the column designating the years 1100–1400 C.E. It was
not until the Classical period that chord progression at the small and large levels
became a prime concern in the construction of musical works. In the first half of
the twentieth century, harmony’s structural influence waned as composers relaxed
rules of dissonance treatment and chordal syntax. Today, rules about chord order
continue to exist in the genres of pop and rock music, modern Classical music,
and film and TV music; however, they are far more irregular than in the Classical
period’s heyday.
Example 2.3 Historical styles viewed in terms of the relative prominence of five basic traits. The arch exhibited by each (three drawn) peaks
at a different time. A sixth trait, “process” is noted for two streams in the most recent time period.
In place of offering judgment on the quality of any period’s music, we prefer

the more neutral claim that harmony was once ascendant as a structural force
in music and now it is not. To reflect this, the harmony designation is placed
near the top of the columns spanning the years 1730–1830 and 1830–1910. In
the twentieth century, harmony’s influence diminishes to the point where, more
often than not, it serves more as an important, secondary element in music. Its
trend line seems to break off near 1945, but only because it cannot connect to the
three separate compositional streams posited for that time period.3
The arch showing the influence of program music (dotted line), is displaced
rightward (meaning: chronologically) behind harmony. After centuries of ges-
tation, where it only occasionally influenced the design of Renaissance and
Baroque pieces, the idea that a musical work should represent stories, characters,
and events gained prominence. The notion of program quickly rose to become a
hallmark of Romanticism both in symphonies and character pieces and, indeed,
remains a powerful force in many genres today.
A similar arch shape traces the influence of motive across style periods; see the
solid, bold line. Unlike program, however, motive retained much of its promi-
nence into the twentieth century. The discussion to follow will trace this history
in more detail through a series of brief analyses. These have a didactic purpose as
well, which is to begin framing motives in more technical terms. The formal in-
troduction of definitions and methods will not occur until chapter 4. By working
through these preliminary analyses, however, readers will begin gaining expo-
sure to the techniques of labeling, analysis, and interpretation that will occupy us
for the duration of this study.
Early Developments
The composition-based historical survey of motives will officially start in the

High Baroque era. Situating it here will cause the “prehistory,” as it were, of mo-
tive to largely go untreated. What I will say about the roughly 1,000 years leading
up to the Baroque period is that motives are necessarily present in all major
styles and genres. They play a significant role even in the monophonic genre of
Gregorian chant, which dominates the compositional record from 600 to 1000.
Listeners familiar with that genre will readily recognize certain recurring melodic
patterns, among them linear third figures such as E-D-C and D-E-F, “neighbor”
gestures such as F-G-F that decorate a note, and the commonly-found stepwise
“dip” below the final tone that occurs at closing moments.
The stock pitch configurations of chant served to aid singers’ memories. They
served a structural role, as well: Robert Hatten notes that each mode’s “charac-
teristic motives” serve to “express the . . . distinctive features” of it (2015, 316).
A Brief History of Motives—Composition 31
For example, a signature gesture of chants written in Lydian mode is to initiate

phrases with the notes F-A-C.4 To modern ears that sounds like arpeggiation
of a major triad, where contemporary musicians would simply have heard it as
emblematic of Lydian-ness. That said, it is extremely difficult to speculate on the
presence of other kinds of meanings, poetic and/or emotional, encoded in chant
motives. While we cannot rule out the possibility that individual musicians asso-
ciated certain shapes with certain sentiments, history informs us that the idea of
a specific motive encoding a specific emotion or meaning generally lay outside
their conception of music.
The phenomenon of recurring pitch and/or rhythm shapes presents in all
major genres appearing in Western composition from 1000 to 1600 C.E. They
appear in organum pieces by Léonin and Pérotin (ca. 1160–1240) in the form of
two-, three-, and four-beat melodic cells that are repeated and rapidly exchanged
among the upper voices. Motives manifest in the song-form pieces and motets
that proliferated between 1200 and 1400 in the form both of “stock” cadences
and melodic/rhythmic patterns favored by individual composers. Motives figure
prominently in pieces written during the long period of the Renaissance, as well.
The composers of sacred music in this period, for instance, explored new ways
of tying together the separate sections of their masses by initiating each with the
same brief segment of music called the “motto.” A bit later, in the sixteenth cen-
tury, Renaissance composers increasingly experimented with “word painting,” a
technique of animating words by setting them to pitch shapes that match their
sentiment. Common examples of this procedure include writing scalar ascents
and descents to set texts about characters “climbing” or “falling” and deploying
strident chromatic tones where the words mention physical or emotional pain.
Identifying a few instances of motive within a six-century span cannot sup-
port any strong conclusions about its role in the music of those eras. Doing
so may nevertheless inform our broad view of how that role evolved. The way
that isolated motivic events manifest in early music, like tips of ice jutting out
from a broad span of ocean, suggests the presence of more massive structures
(icebergs) below. The motivic content that lurks in the music of the medieval
and Renaissance periods is worth exploring further. To do so properly, however,
would require us to engage the other domains of music that motives are geneti-
cally tied up with, such as rhythm, melody, harmony, and counterpoint. (Because
motives are literally composed of these elements, they cannot be understood
wholly separate from them.) Given that the pace of style evolution in music was
as rapid between 1000 and 1650 as it was in later centuries, that is not feasible
here. It would necessitate discussing motive in tandem with medieval counter-
point, scratching that relationship to consider motive in tandem with modal har-
mony and Renaissance counterpoint, and then scratching all of that to consider
it in tandem with the harmonic and contrapuntal practices of tonal composition.
Our survey will formally begin in the early Common Practice era, meaning
the time between 1600 and 1730. As the corresponding column in Example 2.3
indicates—and as those familiar with Baroque music will attest—this is an age
in which motives were very much present at the surface of music. This time
is marked also by the arrival of a new organizational force in music, known
as “functional harmony.”5 In contrast to previous periods, when harmonic
practice was concerned more with how the various voices of a texture are ar-
ranged vertically, seventeenth-century harmony was marked by a new concern
for how chords should succeed one another.6 The Baroque, in other words, is
the first period that accommodates Roman numeral analysis, although some
pieces and genres from the time period obviously fit this generalization better
than others.
Turning now to music, specifically pieces by Bach and Handel, we can ob-
serve two principles of motivic activity in the Baroque. Example 2.4. presents a
theme from the beginning of a gigue by Bach. The structure of this theme reveals
that, even at this time, motives are often designed to project a sense of harmony
through chordal leaps. The first melodic gesture in the piece communicates a
strong sense of F tonic harmony. Another remarkable feature of motives well es-
tablished by the Baroque is that their initial form often suggests their later devel-
opment. The strong sense of upward motion conveyed in m. 1, for instance, hints
that more upward-striving gestures will follow.7
To better engage those later developments, the motive in Example 2.4 will
be named descriptively as a “climbing” idea composed of paired two-note
“arpeggiations.”8 It is here labeled Climb4’: the “4” superscript indicates that the
motive is built of four tones. (If the C4 pickup were included, it would be Climb5,
spanning an octave and a fourth.)
The act of establishing parameters for a motive facilitates the search for other
instances of it. We shall carry that task out now to determine where and how the
music responds to the motive’s original impulse to climb. This occurs as more
and more Arp2 fragments (small brackets) are added in a self-chaining process.
In mm. 14–16, the alternating arpeggiations of F and C chords create a larger
Example 2.4 Upward Climb motive from Bach’s Fourth English Suite,
Gigue, m. 1.
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CAPITOLO II.
Storia.
PRIMO PERIODO
Divisione della storia — Origini di Pompei — Ercole e i

buoi di Gerione — Oschi e Pelasgi — I Sanniti —
Occupano la Campania — Dedizione di questa a Roma —
I Feriali Romani indicon guerra a’ Sanniti — Vittoria
dell’armi romane — Lega de’ Campani co’ Latini contro i
Romani — L. Aunio Setino e T. Manlio Torquato —
Disciplina militare — Battaglia al Vesuvio — Le Forche
Caudine — Rivincita de’ Romani — Cospirazioni campane
contro Roma — I Pompejani battono i soldati della flotta
romana — Ultima guerra de’ Sanniti contro i Romani.
Le ragioni stesse per le quali ebbi ad avvertire il lettore che alla

migliore intelligenza delle Rovine di Pompei mi occorresse d’aprire
una parentesi, per dire alquanto di questo monstrum horrendum,
informe, ingens che le aveva cagionate, non solo militano per questa
nuova che intraprendo col presente capitolo, ma sono ben anche
maggiori. D’altra parte, messomi all’opera con intenti più modesti,
l’amore all’argomento me ne suggerisce ora di maggiori, e la materia
sento crescermi sotto mano; il lettore non ha a concedermi che una
maggiore benevolenza.
La storia civile di Pompei non è guari complicata di fatti, non di molto
diversa da quella delle altre minori città italiane e massime
meridionali, che o furono confederate a Roma o ne divennero
colonie. La storia generale di queste città si lega in una parte a
quella delle altre undici città principali della Campania, e nell’altra
per lo più alla storia del mondo romano; la speciale non ricorda che
determinati avvenimenti, i quali hanno per lo più attinenza alla vita
municipale di essa. Io, nel raccoglierla dalle diverse fonti, l’ho divisa
in due distinti periodi, concedendo poi un singolare capitolo a ciò che
chiamerei storia morale ed un altro al miserando cataclisma che ne
chiuse l’interessante volume.
Pompeii, o Pompeja, come trovasi promiscuamente detto dai latini
scrittori, all’epoca della sua distruzione per opera del Vesuvio, cioè,
come già sa il lettore, nell’anno di Roma 932 e 79 di Cristo, era,
malgrado che Seneca punto non si peritasse a dichiararla celebrem
Campaniæ urbem, città di terzo ordine. Una città tuttavia, che per la
felice postura su d’una eminenza vulcanica e in riva al mare, —
poichè tutto ne scorga a ritenere che le acque del Tirreno
giugnessero a quel tempo fin presso le mura di essa, nè vi si
ritraessero che in conseguenza del cataclisma che le apportò la
morte, — e per la dolcezza del clima e la lussureggiante natura,
costituiva altra fra le località di questa magnifica parte d’Italia, che a
ragione fu detta — credo da Milton, il cantore immortale del Paradiso
Perduto — un pezzo di paradiso caduto in terra; epperò eletta da’
facoltosi Romani a sito di villeggiatura. Così ricordai già la casa che
vi aveva Marco Tullio Cicerone, per antonomasia detto l’Oratore
Romano, e quella che vi teneva lo storico Cajo Crispo Sallustio,
entrambe scoperte, e la visita delle Rovine altre pure ne additerà
celebri per i loro famosi proprietari; onde Stazio potesse lasciarci
memoria degli ozj pompejani in quel verso:
Nec Pompeiani placeant magis otia Sarni [27].
Imperocchè Pompei fosse bagnata dalle acque del fiume Sarno —

ora ridotto alle povere proporzioni di un ruscello — per cagione anzi
del quale, come avverrà di dire più avanti, si avessero i primi sentori
che ebbero a condurre alla scoperta della sepolta città. Il Sarno
scendendo, dal lato ove si vede ancora sorgere l’anfiteatro, al mare,
che qui faceva una curva la quale si estendeva insino a Stabia,
formava alla sua imboccatura un bacino, che costituiva il porto della
città, comune anche a Nola, ad Acerra ed a Nocera, così frequentato
ed operoso da rendere Pompei l’emporio delle più floride città
campane. Nè forse fu estraneo a siffatta circostanza il nome stesso
di essa, se nel greco idioma Πομπηίον suoni eziandio siccome a dire
emporio. Strabone non obliò di ricordare questo porto, e i libri, come
vedremo, ne registrarono eziandio qualche glorioso avvenimento.
La storia adunque di questa città e, più che essa, la scoperta e la
illustrazione de’ suoi edificj e de’ suoi monumenti, importantissima
riesce a rivelarci la vera storia intima di quei tempi, che le storie
generali non ci hanno lasciata che imperfetta, sì che sia d’uopo
racimolarla fra gli storici avvenimenti di altri popoli e da’ concetti dei
poeti, o da qualche altra scrittura, mescolata spesso a cose men
vere od incerte, per modo che, dopo tutto, sia mestieri di molto
discernimento e di induzioni e di congetture logiche non poche per
istabilire colle migliori probabilità i fatti.
Ma se malagevole è il còmpito di chi voglia esattamente ragionare
della vita intima di allora, che si dirà di chi presuma indagare le
origini delle città nostre e i confini territoriali, se intorno ad esse non
vennero che tardi gli scrittori che se ne occuparono, e questi pure,
dovendo appoggiarsi su tradizioni e favole, si ebbero a buttare
spesso alla fantasia, siccome puossi giudicare dalla lettura di Dionigi
d’Alicarnasso, di Catone, di Varrone e d’Eliano? Orazio medesimo,
comunque venuto in tempi più colti, non sapeva determinare se
all’Apulia o alla Lucania appartenesse la sua Venosa, siccome
appare da una Satira, nel seguente passo:
Lucanus an Appulus, anceps,

Nam Venusinus arat finem sub utrumque colonus
Missus ad hoc, pulsis (vetus est ut fama) Sabellis [28].
Gli è ad un tale riguardo che pur di Pompei non si possa precisare

quali fossero i fondatori e i primi abitatori. La favola, accarezzando
anche qui il popolare orgoglio, le assegna illustre origine, e Giulio
Solino, che ne tenne memoria, narra che Pompei avesse avuto
Ercole per fondatore, allorchè passò egli in Italia co’ buoi di Gerione.
Già nel capitolo antecedente toccai di sua venuta in queste parti e di
eroiche imprese compiutevi e della città di Ercolano che attestò di
lui: Pompei egualmente avrebbe il suo nome conseguito dalla
pompa colla quale dall’Eroe sarebbero ivi portate le tre teste del suo
nemico, il succitato Gerione, la cui uccisione fu delle dodici che gli
vengono attribuite, la decima di lui fatica [29]. Lasciando nondimeno
in disparte la mitologia e gli arcani suoi ascondimenti, stando
all’autorità di Strabone, i primi a mettersi attorno al golfo che curvasi
da Sorrento a Miseno, sarebbero stati gli Oschi od Opici, gli Ausoni,
gli Etruschi, i Tirreni e i Pelasgi, che sono anche i popoli più antichi di
cui si abbia memoria in Italia; se pure tutti questi popoli non sono
della sola razza pelasgica.
I Pelasgi contuttociò non attecchirono mai la loro padronanza nel
nostro paese; odiati sempre come stranieri e conquistatori, dovettero
mantenervisi armati. A quest’opposizione surta negli animi degli
aborigeni, s’aggiunsero naturali calamità, e Dionigi d’Alicarnasso
ricorda la sterilità e siccità dei campi e più ancora l’imperversar de’
vulcani e delle malattie; onde interrogato l’oracolo di Dodona, ne
avessero a responso: «Causa di tutti codesti mali essere lo sdegno
degli Dei, perchè frodati i Dioscuri, o Cabiri [30], della promessa
decima di tutto quanto nascerebbe, non avendola i Pelasgi attenuta
in quanto riguardasse i figliuoli.» Indegnò la spietata risposta, e
tumultuarono contro i capi e a tale venne la stanchezza de’ più che
questi in massa migrarono, e i pochi rimasti, spodestati degli averi,
vennero agevolmente ridotti in servitù.
Dall’Appennino centrale, dietro al corso del Volturno e dell’Ofanto,
scesero i Sanniti, gente mista di Sabini ed Ausonj, gentem opibus
armisque validam, come li giudica Tito Livio [31], conquistando. Erano
essi in quel tempo, cioè circa l’anno 420 avanti la venuta di Cristo,
arrivati omai all’apogeo della loro potenza, e superando Roma
stessa nel numero della popolazione e nella estensione del territorio,
ne erano divenuti i più formidabili avversarj. S’allargavano essi dal
mar Inferiore al Superiore, dal Liri alle montagne lucane e ai piani
dell’Apulia, e dominavano ne’ paesi che oggidì designiamo coi nomi
di Principato Ulteriore e di Abruzzo Citeriore. Sobrii ed indomiti,
difesi da valloni e torrenti, potevano a buon diritto codesti montanari
riuscire terribili a quei della pianura.
Superando gli ostacoli tutti, irruppero nella Volturnia, che essendo
piana cominciarono a chiamar Campania (da καμπος, pianura),
occuparono Vulturnio che denominarono Capua e successivamente
la Campania tutta, alla quale era capitale, e che si distendeva sul
mare dal Liri al Silaro, ubertosissima e popolata di dodici belle e
ricche città, tra le quali primeggiavano Pompei ed Ercolano.
Come dell’etrusca dominazione si rinvennero tracce negli scavi di
quest’ultima città in una medaglia e nella mensa Giunonale; così se
ne ebbero e in maggior copia e in essa città e in Pompei della
sannitica nelle diverse iscrizioni dettate in questa lingua, e il Giornale
degli Scavi, già da me ricordato, reca dotte dichiarazioni di taluna, a
migliore schiarimento di importanti questioni.
Allora i Sanniti divenuti Campani, sotto il nome di Mamertini, forse a
dire soldati di Marte, si posero al soldo di chi bisognava di
combattenti, ed estesero fino a Pesto la propria lingua, la quale, se
vuolsi attribuir fede al succitato Strabone, fu pur la stessa parlata da
Umbri, Osci, Dauni, Peucezj, Messapi, abitanti della Japigia, cioè nel
sud-est della penisola. Contuttociò essi, come già prima i Pelasgi,
non giunsero a naturarvi la loro dominazione: perocchè i costumi
campani e il carattere differenziassero di troppo, nè le lotte fra essi
dovessero tardare a scoppiare.
I libri settimo, ottavo e nono delle istorie di Tito Livio ci apprendono le
ulteriori vicissitudini della Campania, le cui sorti è a credersi fossero
pure comuni a Pompei, come identiche e comuni ne fossero le
politiche condizioni.
È per questo che a sopperire al difetto di peculiari notizie di questa
città che impresi col lettore a studiare, mi sia d’uopo colmare le
lacune, riassumendo da quelle dotte ed accurate pagine le più
saglienti che vi hanno maggiore attinenza.
Sappiam per esse come i Sanniti assaltassero ingiustamente i
Sidicini e come questi, inferiori di forze, ricorressero ai Campani. Se
non che, narra lo storico padovano, come, avendo i Campani
apportato piuttosto un nome che una giunta di forza a soccorso degli
alleati, snervati dal lusso e da una tal quale rilassatezza, propria del
resto delle condizioni del clima, fossero battuti nel paese dei Sidicini
da gente indurata nel mestiere dell’armi, e che però rivolgessero
sopra di sè tutta la mole della guerra. Perciocchè i Sanniti, messi da
parte i Sidicini ed assaliti i Campani, ch’erano antemurale de’
confinanti, fra Capua e Tifata, diedero loro una terribile rotta, nella
quale venne tagliato a pezzi il nerbo della loro gioventù.
A salvarsi allora da più fiere vendette, s’affrettarono i Campani a
ricorrere a Roma, e poichè invano ne ebbero sollecitata l’alleanza,
essendo già con vincoli d’amicizia legata essa ai Sanniti, non
trovarono spediente migliore di quello di una piena dedizione e fu
accolta.
Furono da Roma spacciati allora ai Sanniti i Feciali [32] per richiederli
delle cose tolte ai Campani, e poichè venne opposto il rifiuto, si
intimò loro solennemente la guerra, due eserciti mettendo in campo,
l’uno nella Campania, capitanato da Valerio, e l’altro nel Sannio, da
Aulo Cornelio comandato. Furon dubbie dapprima le sorti della
guerra; perocchè mai non si fosse combattuto per entrambe le parti
con maggior valore ed accanimento; ma da ultimo la vittoria si
dichiarò per l’armi romane con somma lode dei due suddetti consoli
e di Publio Decio tribuno.
Implorarono allora pace i Sanniti da’ Romani e l’ebbero colla
invocata facoltà di muover l’armi contro a’ Sidicini, che neppure dal
popolo romano eransi mai tenuti per amici. I Sidicini, vedutisi
seriamente minacciati, seguitando l’esempio de’ Campani,
avrebbero voluto alla lor volta concedersi a’ Romani; ma stavolta
essi ne vennero dispettati, perchè solo sospinti dalla necessità a
tanto stremo. Così stando le cose, non trovarono altro spediente che
volgersi ad altra parte ed offerirsi a’ Latini, che li accettarono
prontamente, e i Campani che meglio della fede a’ loro nuovi
Signori, anteponevano la vendetta dell’insulto patito da’ Sanniti,
entrarono pure nella lega. Reclamarono di ciò i Sanniti a Roma,
come di violata fede, ma n’ebbero ambigua risposta, perocchè in tal
modo si cercasse di non confessare apertamente la poca autorità sui
Latini; onde e questi e quelli della Campania, immemori del ricevuto
beneficio, così montarono in orgoglio — già superbi per natura, sì
che l’alterigia campana fosse passata in proverbio, — e tanta
accolsero ferocia, da macchinare ai danni de’ Romani stessi, sotto
colore di apparecchiarsi alla guerra contro i Sanniti.
Benchè tutto ciò si celasse con industria e si volesse, prima che i
Romani si movessero, battere i Sanniti, pur della trama se n’ebbe
sentore in Roma che tosto avvisò a prepararsi alla lotta.
Dissimulando tuttavia la cognizione di tanta ribellione, chiamarono i
Quiriti a sè dieci de’ maggiorenti latini, per impor loro ciò che fosse
per piacer meglio al Senato. Fra i trascelti vi fu un Lucio Annio
Setine pretore, cui furono largheggiate da’ Latini le più ampie facoltà.
Costui, mal ponderando con chi si avesse a fare, ebbe tanta albagia
che, tenuta altiera ed insolente concione avanti i Padri Coscritti, osò
farsi a proporre condizioni di pace eguali pei due popoli, pei Romani
cioè, e pei Latini; poichè, affermava egli, fosse piaciuto agli dei
immortali che eguali pur anche ne fossero le forze. Tito Manlio
Torquato, console, d’impeto non minore, udita cotale spavalderia,
rispose adeguatamente, e poichè Annio nell’uscir dal Senato,
inciampando fosse caduto e giacesse tramortito, Manlio veggendolo,
narra Tito Livio, che sclamasse: Ben gli sta, e voltosi poscia agli
astanti, proseguisse: Io vi darò, o Quiriti, le legioni dei Latini a terra,
come a terra vedete questo legato. — La voce del romano Console
talmente accese gli animi di tutti, che nel partirsi i legati, più gli
scampò dall’ira della plebe la cura de’ magistrati, che per ordine del
Console gli accompagnavano, che non il diritto delle genti.
Furono levati allora in Roma due eserciti per tale guerra, i quali,
attraversando Marsi e Peligni, s’ingrossarono di quello dei Sanniti e
presso Capua, dove già i Latini e i loro confederati erano convenuti,
posero gli accampamenti. Fu raccomandata la più severa disciplina
militare, reclamata ora più dal trovarsi a fronte gente di lingua,
costumi ed ordini di guerra non dissimili; e Tito Manlio così la volle
osservata che al figliuolo, che mosso dall’ardor giovanile aveva
disobbedito spingendosi ai posti nemici, e quivi era stato provocato
da Gemino Mezio che comandava la cavalleria toscana, e s’era seco
lui azzuffato e trapassato avealo di sua lancia e morto, comechè
vincitore, diè condanna di morte, e questa volle immediatamente dal
littore eseguita.
Fu terribile il cozzo dei due eserciti avversi, ma la battaglia, come già
sa il lettore per quanto fu detto nel capitolo precedente, combattuta
alle falde del Vesuvio, fu vinta dalle armi romane; comunque non
fossero durante la pugna stati punto giovati dai Sanniti, solo entrati
questi nella lizza quando le sorti non erano state più dubbie. Preso il
campo latino, assai de’ Campani in esso vi vennero fatti prigionieri.
Latini e Campani s’arresero a discrezione: al Lazio ed a Capua
venne tolto in castigo parte del loro territorio e l’autonomia, e divise
le terre; solo esente dalla pena andò la cavalleria dei Laurenti e dei
Campani perchè non ribellati; accordata a costoro inoltre la romana
cittadinanza, ed altri beneficj e privilegi concessi.
Questa grande battaglia seguiva negli anni 416 di Roma e 336
avanti Cristo. Di queste genti vinte Roma si valse pochi anni dopo
per venire a nuove guerre contro i Sanniti, i Lucani, i Vestini, gli Equi,
i Marsi, i Peligni, che pur le avevano dato un dì giovamento a
conquistar la pianura. Lunga e ostinata è la guerra, alternate le sorti,
finchè Papirio Cursore sbaraglia i Sanniti. Volendo questi venire a
patti e ricusati, e astretti pertanto a pugna disperata, ricorsero a
sottili accorgimenti e tratte infatti le legioni romane entro una valle
detta del Caudio, vi trovan interdetta l’uscita e il ritorno. Celebre è la
vergogna patita da’ Romani sotto il nome delle Forche Caudine [33],
e per la quale Ponzio, capitano dei Sanniti, spregiando l’avviso del
proprio vecchio padre Erennio, che avverso ai temperamenti
mediani, le truppe romane avrebbe voluto o rimandate senza infamia
per ottenere poi l’amicizia di Roma, o tutte trucidate ad impedirne
per tanto tempo i guerreschi conati, ottenute violentemente invece
larghe condizioni di pace, volle passassero sotto il giogo, primi
obbligandovi i consoli Postumio e Veturio, che vi si sobbarcarono
quasi ignudi; sottoponendo poi gli altri, come ciascuno era più vicino
di grado; indi per ultimo una ad una le legioni fra gli scherni e gli
insulti nemici.
Il Senato e il Popolo Romano, all’udir tanta abjezione, non vollero
ratificare l’ontosa pace, ed anzi pieni di sdegno e furore trassero dal
sofferto scorno divisamenti di allegra vendetta, e ripigliarono
incontanente la guerra. In essa, risultati vittoriosi i Romani, sotto il
comando di Papirio Cursore, furono così ingenerosi nella vittoria,
che caduto Ponzio nelle loro mani, sottopostolo alla sua volta al
giogo in Luceria [34], e tradottolo a Roma, lui che per seguir
clemenza li aveva poco innanzi della vita risparmiati a Caudio,
trucidarono vilmente, tardi ed indarno pentito di non aver ascoltato i
consigli della saviezza paterna.
Non fu lunga tra’ Romani e Sanniti l’alleanza: presto vennero
nuovamente alle armi; e quando la lotta sì spostò dal Sannio per
muovere contro gli Ausonj, che poi vennero interamente distrutti,
varie cospirazioni si ordirono contro Roma nelle città Campane, fra
le quali era, come sappiamo, Pompei. Fu allora che a reprimerle ed
a punirle si intrapresero in Roma inquisizioni contro taluni dei
principali cittadini di esse; ed anzi quando Luceria cadde in potere
de’ Sanniti e il presidio romano che vi era venne fatto per tradimento
prigione, presi in maggiore sospetto i Campani, le inquisizioni si
estesero più severe a loro carico, venendo eletto Cajo Menio a
dittatore per eseguirle.
Siffatte cose e rigori non eran proprj tuttavia a diradicare la ribellione
campana: da essa poi i Sanniti traevan partito a rinfocolar gli odj a
nuove imprese contro i Romani, ai quali agognarono ritorre Capua.
Ma Petelio e Sulpizio consoli li batterono completamente a
Malevento; onde poi dai Romani si chiamò la città Benevento, e
fama suonò che de’ Sanniti, presi o morti, vi rimanessero in quella
fazione all’incirca trentamila.
Eran gli anni 441 di Roma e 331 avanti Cristo, quando riportavasi
dall’aquile romane sì luminosa vittoria, la quale poi, consoli essendo
Lucio Papirio Cursore per la quinta volta e Cajo Giunto Bubulco per
la seconda e Cajo Petelio dittatore, venne susseguita dalla presa di
Nola.
Tre anni dopo, essendo a que’ consoli succeduti Quinto Fabio e
Cajo Marcio Rutilo, mentre il primo trovavasi impegnato in guerra co’
Toscani ed il secondo coi Sanniti, a’ quali toglieva per forza Alifa,
Publio Cornelio a capo della flotta romana nel mar tirreno, pensando
non rimanersene alla sua volta colle mani in mano nell’ufficio che
aveva di vigilare la spiaggia marittima, si spinse fin entro il golfo che
si comprende fra Sorrento e Miseno, e si accostando alle sponde del
lido campano, lasciò che le navi entrassero nel porto di Pompei e vi
sbarcassero affamati di rapina i suoi classiarii, come si appellavano
allora i soldati della marina.
Descrivere la licenza è più presto fatto che immaginarla: era già
essa nelle ordinarie abitudini militari e il soldato vi faceva più che nel
resto speciale assegnamento. Posero a saccomanno singolarmente
il territorio Nocerino, portando il guasto anche per ogni casale che
transitavano, speranzosi che obbligando i contadini a fuggire dinanzi
a loro, si avessero assicurata meglio di poi la via del ritorno alle navi.
Ma l’evento non rispose questa volta alle ribalde speranze.
I marinai, fatti ebbri dall’amor del bottino, si inoltrarono spensierati
troppo oltre, onde gli uomini del paese che, a poco a poco ripreso
animo, rivenivano ai disertati tetti, mentre prima non ne avevano
avuto pensiero — e sarebbe stato più agevole quando que’ ladri
erano sparpagliati per la campagna a rapinare il far loro resistenza e
toglierli di mezzo — allora solo avvisarono di attenderli al ritorno. E
come infatti venivano i classiarii a frotte e carichi di preda inverso le
navi, giunti sotto Pompei, si trovarono d’un tratto d’avere a fare co’
Pompejani medesimi fieramente irritati, i quali cogliendoli alla
sprovvista, così li malmenarono da salvarsene pochi dalla strage,
tutti rigurgitando quanto avevano involato, e salvandosi a mala pena
i superstiti sulle navi [35].
Ma se tale era l’animo dei Pompejani e dei consorti loro della
Campania verso i Romani dominatori, non si può dire che migliori
sentimenti nodrissero verso i Sanniti; perocchè quando in quel torno
di tempo vennero costoro dall’armi romane e da quelle dei
confederati campani congiunti insieme nuovamente e più
aspramente battuti, lasciando nelle mani de’ vincitori le ricchissime
loro armi, i Romani se ne servirono ad ornamento del foro; i
Campani fregiandone invece i gladiatori, a sollazzo ne’ loro
banchetti, presero da quel tempo ad appellare Sanniti i gladiatori
stessi; lo che se è testimonio di molto orgoglio, lo è ben anche di
grandissimo ed inestinguibil odio verso di essi.
Gli è tuttavia a’ 293 anni avanti Cristo che i Sanniti quasi affatto
cessarono ogni lotta con Roma; perocchè in questo tempo, dopo che
videro anche l’armi d’Etruria vinte e aggiunte quelle provincie come
serve al carro della romana grandezza, — quantunque siffatta umile
condizione venisse palliata col titolo di alleanza latina, — ebbe ad
andare a vuoto il supremo loro sforzo per la propria indipendenza.
Un esercito di trentamila e trecentoquaranta uomini raccolsero essi
in questo ultimo cimento, e sull’altare dapprima giurato fra orribili
imprecazioni: o difendere l’ultimo resto dell’italica libertà o morire, il
giuramento tennero imperterriti, perchè ad Aquilonia perirono tutti, e i
poveri avanzi di tanto coraggio e di tanta fede, riparati in una
caverna dell’Appennino, scoperti l’anno dopo, in numero di duemila
vennero col fuoco miseramente asfissiati e spenti.
Io, come ha già visto il lettore, ho divisa la storia di Pompei in due
parti: nella prima compresi il tempo in cui sta quell’êra che nella
storia di Roma si appella eroica, sebbene non sussistan ragioni di
designarla così per Pompei. Da’ fatti medesimi qui memorati e i quali
accusano i costanti propositi de’ Quiriti di conquista e d’estinzione di
libertà, è manifesto che anche a riguardo di Roma assai e assai
sarebbesi a dire e contrastare all’epoca il glorioso appellativo,
malgrado potesse pur l’Allighieri professarsi devoto alle gesta
Onde Torquato e Quinzio che dal cirro

Negletto fu nomato, e i Deci e i Fabi
Ebber la fama che volentier mirro [36];
io ne adottai ad ogni modo la durata e a divisione di lavoro, e perchè

gli avvenimenti che seguono entrano in una fase più certa e più
confortata dall’autorità di monumenti e scrittori degni di fede migliore.
Qui termina pertanto la mia prima parte, o periodo; come a questo
punto finisce la suddetta età eroica romana.
CAPITOLO III.
Storia.
PERIODO SECONDO
La legione Campana a Reggio — È vinta e giustiziata a

Roma — Annibale e la Campania — Potenza di Roma —
Guerra Sociale — Beneficj di essa — Lucio Silla assedia
Stabia e la smantella — Battaglia di Silla e Cluenzio sotto
Pompei — Minazio Magio — Cluenzio è sconfitto a Nola
— Silla e Mario — Vendette Sillane — Pompei eretto in
municipio — Silla manda una colonia a Pompei — Che e
quante fossero le colonie Romane — Pompei si noma
Colonia Veneris Cornelia — Resistenza di Pompei ai
Coloni — Seconda guerra servile — Morte di Spartaco —
Congiura di Catilina — P. Silla patrono di Pompei accusato
a Roma — Difeso da Cicerone e assolto — Ninnio Mulo —
I patroni di Pompei — Le ville a’ tempi di Roma — La villa
di Cicerone a Pompei — Augusto vi aggiunge il Pagus
Augustus Felix — Druso muore in Pompei — Contesa di
Pompejani e Nocerini — Nerone e Agrippina — Tremuoto
nel 65 che distrugge parte di Pompei.
L’autonomia della Campania non era, dopo questo tempo, che di

nome. Se più le sue città non subivano la Sannitica prepotenza,
doma oramai dalla forza preponderante dei Romani, all’autorità di
questi dovevano sempre nondimeno deferire. Era un’alleanza
onerosissima certo, e molto più che sembrasse non poter Roma
sussistere che guerreggiando, sitibonda e non saziata giammai di
conquista e di saccheggio, e fosse però necessità ne’ territorj
confederati di concorrere a rafforzarne gli eserciti.
Sbarazzatasi la via in quasi tutto il continente meridionale, le vittrici
aquile spiegavano il volo verso la Magna Grecia, ove la republica di
Taranto primeggiava d’industria e di marina, e verso la Sicilia. Noi
non ne seguiremo il corso, che non fa al mio còmpito, e più che di
Pompei e delle città sorelle m’avverrebbe di ritessere la romana
istoria, facile del resto, per tanto che ne fu scritto, a consultarsi;
noterò tuttavia che moltissimi delle città campane, insofferenti della
pressura quiritica, preferissero esulare dalla patria contrada e
bramosi di nuova stanza e di quel dominio che avevano perduto,
capitanati da un Decio Giubellio, occupassero Messina, invadessero
Reggio, e si piantassero formidabili prima agli abitanti di quelle terre,
poscia a’ Romani che ambivano recarle alla loro dominazione, e
finalmente a’ Cartaginesi che tentavano assalirne le coste, essi
medesimi fatti assalitori.
La legione campana, ingagliardita dai successi contro questi ultimi e
contro Pirro venuto dall’Epiro per cupidigia di nuovo impero, che
avevano costretto a levar da Reggio l’assedio, spinto avevano così
l’audacia da sorprendere Cortona e scannarvi il presidio romano,
diroccandovi la città. Ma quando i Romani presero possesso di
Taranto, che aveva in Italia chiamato Pirro a’ loro danni, puniti che
n’ebbero severamente i cittadini, non s’ebbero altro più a cuore,
quanto far sì che castigata pur fosse la perfidia della detta legione.
Fu commessa pertanto, nell’anno 482 di Roma (270 a. C.), la
punizione a Lucio Genucio, ch’era console con Cajo Quinzio;
ond’egli costrettala entro le mura di Reggio, vi pose intorno l’assedio,
e comunque ajutati dai Mamertini, egli alla sua volta soccorso da
Jerone, che teneva il principato di Siracusa, ebbe alla fine a
discrezione la città. Fatti allora giustiziare disertori e ladroni, che colà
s’erano rifugiati, i legionarj trasse a Roma, onde il Senato
deliberasse di loro sorte. E il Senato, contro l’avviso di Marco Fulvio
Flacco, tribuno della plebe, li dannò all’estremo supplizio: solo a
scemare l’odioso terrore di fatto così acerbo e la mestizia della plebe
dove fosse stato messo a morte in uno stesso tempo tanto numero
di gente, se ne trassero di prigione cinquanta al giorno, che battuti
prima colle verghe caddero poscia sotto la scure.
«Seguendo parecchi autori, — scrive il Freinsemio nel quinto libro
de’ supplementi liviani, al quale ho spiccato un tal fatto, — ho messo
che tutta la legione, cioè quattromila uomini, siano stati colpiti colla
scure in sulle piazze di Roma; stimo però più vero ciò che Polibio
riferisce, non esser caduti vivi nelle mani che trecento legionarj; il
rimanente aver preferito, combattendo disperatamente nella presa
della città, d’esser tagliati a pezzi, nessun di loro ignorando, che
dopo sì enormi delitti, non altro potessero, arrendendosi, aspettarsi
che maggiori crucci ed una morte a più grave ignominia congiunta.»
Non ricordan le storie che i Campani per lo innanzi avessero pugne
per conto proprio, e pur tacesi quindi di Pompei che anche nella
sunnarrata vicenda poco specialmente abbiam trovato nominata:
silenzio codesto ben avventuroso, poichè ogni città che allora si
meritasse dagli storici menzione, non l’ottenesse che da’ disastri ne’
quali fosse ravvolta. Solo si sa come dugento quindici anni prima di
Cristo, Annibale, il formidabile condottiero dell’armata cartaginese,
nella seconda Guerra Punica, che Livio chiama bellum maxime
memorabile omnium, e che fu difatto sanguinosissima ed ostinata, si
presentasse a’ confini della Campania e di qui tenesse in grande
sgomento la superba Roma. Il feroce Cartaginese desolò quelle città
della Terra di Lavoro che si tennero in fede de’ Romani, ma non
consta che nel novero di esse fosse Pompei; onde possa cavarsene
argomento ch’essa pure, non altrimenti che Capua, spalleggiasse
l’invasore straniero. Cessato da ultimo ogni rumore di questa guerra
colla vittoria di Roma, e ritornata pure la Campania nella sua
soggezione, le braccia de’ suoi abitanti vennero quindinnanzi
disposte dai Romani, nel cui dominio eran venuti, e dai quali del
resto vedeansi in ricambio accordato protezione contro assalti
nemici, provvedimenti di strade, canali e ponti ed utili parentadi.
Roma tra breve, cioè nell’anno 624 di sua fondazione e 130 avanti
Cristo, possedeva così quasi tutta l’Italia, oltre la Spagna e la Grecia,
e de’ quattro questori provinciali, fra cui venne dal Senato divisa,
quello residente a Cales comprendeva la giurisdizione sulla
Campania in un col Sannio, la Lucania ed i Bruzi: tal che Scipione
Emiliano, censore, quando al chiudersi del lustro, sacrificando,
doveva, secondo il costume, supplicare agli Dei l’ampliamento
dell’impero, narra Valerio Massimo, che a quella formula sostituisse
di suo capo queste parole: Grande e potente è abbastanza: supplico
i Numi di conservarlo eternamente.
Quanta ragione questo savio avesse in ciò chiedere ai Numi, la
chiarirono le cruentissime guerre intestine che successero di poi e i
danni che a Roma n’ebbero a conseguitare. Celebre è quella che
ebbe il nome di Guerra Sociale, e nella quale i Romani s’ebbero a
fronte Picentini e Marsi, Marrucini e Ferentani, Peligni e Campani,
Irpini, Apuli e Lucani e, più che tutti, gli irreconciliabili Sanniti, non
fiaccati da venti sconfitte e bramosi di vendicare il lungo servaggio.
Cajo Mario in questa lotta fraterna, altro de’ capitani che tanta gloria
in Africa e più ancora contro i Cimbri aveva conseguita, venne
accusato di lentezza, e non era per avventura che il cruccio di un
egregio di combattere contro Italiani, i quali avevano a scopo di
ottenere colla forza quello ch’egli voleva concesso di grazia; onde
alla fine si ritrasse spontaneo dal comando. Durò la guerra tre anni,
e si sommarono a meglio di trecentomila i periti in essa. Roma,
come sempre, la vinse; ma restò di beneficio almeno che venisse
proclamata l’eguaglianza di tutti gli Italiani, nè più vi fosse ostacolo
da’ federati ad essere cittadini, e venissero come tali ripartiti fra tutte
le trentacinque tribù di cui costituivasi la romana cittadinanza.
Questa legge, promossa da Mario e che gli procacciava il generale
favore, indarno venne dal suo grande antagonista Lucio Cornelio
Silla osteggiata.
Era stato questo Silla che in codesta Guerra Sociale combatteva per
Roma contro i Campani e i Sanniti, risvegliatisi ancora agli odj
antichi. Pompei fu pure tra le città ribellate, le quali a’ primordj della
generale conflagrazione ebbero favorevoli le sorti dell’armi. Ma la
discordia de’ capi e l’inesperienza le mutarono ben presto, e le
resero ad essi contrarie. Silla cinse Stabia di assedio — Stabia di
poco tratto discosta da Pompei ed oppido a que’ dì ragguardevole —
la prese e smantellò per guisa, che anche ai tempi di Plinio il
Vecchio, poco presso, cioè, alla sua totale rovina, più non offerisse
che l’aspetto di un villaggio.
Dall’alto delle sue mura riguardava Pompei la desolazione della
vicina città sorella e con qual cuore, pensi il lettore; perocchè ella
pure dovesse allora aspettarsi non dissimile fato, conscia dell’indole
efferata e crudele del suo vincitore. Disperando scongiurare il
pericolo, s’apprestarono animosi alla difesa i Pompejani.
E Lucio Silla non attese infatti di molto a volgere ad essi il pensiero;
perocchè toltosi a Stabia, venne a porsi sotto la loro città, che strinse
egualmente d’assedio, e ne attendeva agli approcci, allorchè
Cluenzio, generale de’ Sanniti, inavvertitamente giunto, s’accampa a
quattrocento passi da’ romani alloggiamenti con poderose forze.
Silla fa impeto contro di lui; è terribile il cozzo fra le avverse legioni,
ma ne è Silla respinto. Riordina allora le truppe e ritorna all’assalto
con maggiore accanimento e ne ottiene piena rivincita. Lo imita
Cluenzio ingrossando di nuovi ajuti le proprie fila, ed una terza volta
vengono alle mani i due eserciti, rompendo Silla le ostilità: ma
questa volta la sorte decide a pro’ dell’armi romane e Cluenzio
stesso, nella generale sconfitta del suo campo, rimane estinto
presso Nola, dove la foga della pugna aveva ambo gli eserciti
sospinti.
Vellejo Patercolo ci fa sapere a questo punto come Minazio Magio di
Ascoli, avolo suo, nipote di Decio Magio, ch’egli punto non esita a
chiamare il primo de’ Campani e celeberrimo e fedelissimo,
segnalasse fortemente la sua devozione a’ Romani, levando a sua
spesa una legione tra gli Irpini e combattendo a fianco prima di Tito
Didio, congiuntamente al quale ebbe a prender Ercolano, e quindi di
Lucio Silla in questo assedio di Pompei, impadronendosi poscia di
Cosa [37].
Non si trova nella storia del come i Pompejani allora si sottraessero
alla vendetta di Silla; forse questi rinunziò ad essi nella ambizione
del Consolato, la cui elezione si agitava nell’Urbe: da Nola, ove
trovavasi coll’esercito, egli allora accorse a Roma, prima a brigarsi
quell’onore e poscia a vendicare il torto che egli credeva a lui fatto
nell’affidarsi a Mario il supremo comando nella guerra, che aveasi ad
intraprendere contro Mitridate re del Ponto; onde ebbero a correre
rivi di sangue cittadino. Superfluo il narrare di Mario, profugo per
Italia e miserissimo, il suo ritorno nuovamente potente e la settima
sua elezione al consolato, le sue crudeli vendette e la morte: non lo
sarà forse il mentovare siccome il suo antagonista, veduto di qual
modo gli Italiani tutti si mostrassero propensi a Mario, migrasse
proscritto in Asia, dove conciliatesi le legioni, ne ottenne poscia il
comando, e in tre anni menata a buon fine una pericolosissima
guerra, non lasciando a quel barbaro re, com’ei disse, che la destra
mano, colla quale aveva firmato il macello di centomila Romani,
espilate quelle provincie con enormissime contribuzioni, ritornasse in
Italia.
Approdato a Brindisi, scrive al Senato enumerando le proprie
imprese e di rincontro i torti dalla patria ricevuti, e conchiude il
messaggio annunziando come tra breve ei comparirebbe alle porte
di Roma con un esercito vincitore a vendicare gli oltraggi, punire i
tiranni ed i satelliti loro.
Nè valsero pacifiche ambascerie a scongiurare la nuova sciagura e
neppure i centomila soldati oppostigli contro dai consoli Giunio
Norbano e Cornelio Scipione; perocchè le prime egli spregiasse e
l’esercito non reggessegli contro, in una parte sconfitto e nell’altra
scomposto dalla diserzione. Non farò qui il tristissimo quadro delle
vendette e proscrizioni sillane: la storia tenne conto di novemila
persone uccise, fra cui novanta senatori, quindici consolari e duemila
seicento cavalieri; lasciò onorata la memoria della condotta di que’ di
Norba in Campania, i quali piuttosto che arrendersi, ben conoscendo
l’animo spietato di Silla, per testimonio di Appiano, appiccarono il
fuoco alle case, e da uomini di cuore preferirono uccidersi gli uni gli
altri [38].
Le furie delle sue vendette caddero quindi in buona parte sulle città
italiane, le quali nel conflitto fra lui e Cajo Mario avevano per
quest’ultimo parteggiato, e se a Preneste erano morti dodicimila, se
Norba, comechè ancora fumanti i ruderi, vennero da lui spenti affatto
col sangue, se Populonia fu distrutta, se a Fiesole tolse ogni
speranza di risorgere fondando sulle rive dell’Arno una nuova città,
Fiorenza, se il Sannio seminò di ruine e di squallore, non poteva
certamente andare immune dalle ultrici sue folgori Pompei.
Allorquando erasi posto fine alla Guerra Sociale, come ad altre città,
così anche a Pompei ed Ercolano era stato accordato d’erigersi in
municipii, di reggersi, cioè, colle proprie leggi e proprii comizii,
conseguenza del diritto alla romana cittadinanza, comunque e leggi
e comizii dovessero essere sul modello di Roma; onde Cicerone
potesse affermare due patrie competere a’ municipii, l’una della
natura, l’altra della città; l’una di luogo, l’altra di diritto [39].
Abbiam veduto come a Silla, capo del partito nobilesco, fossero
spiaciute tutte queste concessioni, fatte ad iniziativa di Publio
Sulpicio tribuno e ad istigazione di Cajo Mario, come non ignoravasi
universalmente: facile è poi argomentare come più ancora spiacer
dovessero accordate a Pompei, dove al tempo che teneva il
comando militare, giusta quanto ho già detto, aveva trovato
gagliarda resistenza, ed era a lui riuscito malagevole il superarla.
Non appena pertanto il Senato, sulla proposta di Valerio Flacco, ligia
persona di Silla e da lui fatto eleggere ad interrè, acclamò, nello
spavento de’ sanguinosi spettacoli a cui aveva assistito, Cornelio
Silla medesimo dittatore, ciò che da ben cento venti anni non s’era
più visto accadere, esso, in odio del morto suo antagonista, ritogliere
a’ latini e a moltissime città italiche la romana cittadinanza,
conferendo invece cittadinanza e libertà a diecimila schiavi, che
assunsero il cognome suo di Cornelii, al nome proprio inoltre
aggiungendo quello di Felice, quasi i torrenti di sangue versato lo
avessero veramente reso tale, come poco dopo a’ due gemelli che
gli nacquero da Metella, volle imposti i nomi di Fausto e di Fausta.
Fra le città da lui disgraziate fu Pompei. Tre coorti di veterani vi
mandò come corpo di osservazione, impose un tributo d’uomini e di
pecunia e quasi ne confuse ed estinse il nome, tramutando il
municipio in colonia militare, questa volendo appellata Veneria,
desunto da Venere Fisica, che era la divinità protettrice della città, ed
anche Cornelia dalla illustre famiglia alla quale egli apparteneva.
Questo seguiva nell’anno ottantesimo avanti l’era volgare. Siffatto
nuovo reggimento politico di Pompei reclama che delle condizioni di
esso venga il lettore informato.
Vuolsi che Romolo inventasse il sistema delle colonie militari,
quando vinte le città o genti finitime, parte di queste volesse seco
condurre nell’Urbe e parte lasciasse pure in luogo, importandovi
uomini proprii, i quali per darsi alla coltura de’ campi che lor venivan
concessi, si dissero coloni. Le sedi, i campi e l’oppido stesso, se vi
fosse ragione a costituire i diritti, le forme assumevano quasi di
nuova repubblica, in guisa tuttavia che ogni cosa a Roma ed alla
città madre avesse riferimento.
Varia si volle l’utilità che dalle colonie ritraesse Roma.
Primieramente, dicevasi, venivano giovamento alla stessa città
principe ed alla troppa e superflua moltitudine; quindi agli stessi
nemici e sudditi, per quella civiltà che eravi necessariamente
importata; da ultimo la istituzione serviva a tenere in soggezione i
vinti e quelli che meglio ispiravano timore. Cresciuto l’impero, furono
le colonie di sfogo a plebe povera e gravosa, di premio a’ soldati
emeriti, o vecchi. Solevasi per lo più distinguere le colonie in altre di
Romano, altre di Latino ed altre di Italico diritto; dette talune patrizie
e tali altre equestri, a seconda costoro della maggiore dignità de’
cittadini e militi che le componevano.
Nondimeno anche gli scrittori più favorevoli a siffatto sistema
riconobbero come tiranni e violenti cittadini avessero ad abusare di
esso, mescolandovi l’ingiuria e l’inganno [40], e Cornelio Silla
medesimo citarono appunto, come quegli che non solo, non
altrimenti che s’era usato per lo addietro, i campi conquistati
all’inimico ebbe a distribuire, ma a concedere nella stessa Italia sedi
a que’ soldati che le avessero desiderate.
Or come fra questi scellerati abusi del sanguinario dittatore non
deesi annoverare quello praticato in odio de’ Pompejani, se la

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4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes  165

8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

I would like to first to acknowledge my dear friends and colleagues at the

Motives Play a Central Role in Music

does so by grace of a grand illusion that transforms streams of particulate sen-

Example 1.1 A single note, E4.

Example 1.2 The one-​note piece is extended to three notes.

Example 1.4 Opening of Haydn’s Piano Sonata in E, Hob.XVI: 31 (I).

•​ be short enough to fit in memory

There is a further advantage in acknowledging the role of memory. Doing so

Concurrently, the overabundance of motives in music causes problems, analyt-

How Motives Move and Move Us

The arrow is double-​headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

motive motion emotion

is better demonstrated in a musical context. The setting will be an early passage

Example 1.8 The opening four-​measure idea of movement I consists of a single

Example 1.9 Continued

Proposition 2: At the same time that motives are capable of communicating

I am claiming here that an inalienable purpose of motives is to communi-

Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-​shorts-​and-​a-​long so often in his

“motive” is familiar to most from criminal court proceedings, where it refers to

Motive as a Style Element of Music

Chapter 1 established motives as a primary concern of music analysis on the

Proposition 3: Motives constitute one of the several generative forces in music.

Preclassic Classic Mannerist

Nascent Preclassic Classic Mannerist Obsolete

Standard Form: Abstract structural models that carry expectations about

akin to the way that a grammar functions in language to coordinate word

In place of offering judgment on the quality of any period’s music, we prefer

The composition-​based historical survey of motives will officially start in the

For example, a signature gesture of chants written in Lydian mode is to initiate

Divisione della storia — Origini di Pompei — Ercole e i

Le ragioni stesse per le quali ebbi ad avvertire il lettore che alla

Nec Pompeiani placeant magis otia Sarni [27].

Imperocchè Pompei fosse bagnata dalle acque del fiume Sarno —

Lucanus an Appulus, anceps,

Gli è ad un tale riguardo che pur di Pompei non si possa precisare

Onde Torquato e Quinzio che dal cirro

io ne adottai ad ogni modo la durata e a divisione di lavoro, e perchè

La legione Campana a Reggio — È vinta e giustiziata a

L’autonomia della Campania non era, dopo questo tempo, che di

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4. A Universal Nomenclature for Pitch and Rhythm Motives  105

Interlude 1: BMA Narrative Archetypes   165

8. Analysis of Three Works in Contrasting Styles  267

Example 1.2 The one-note piece is extended to three notes.

• be short enough to fit in memory

The arrow is double-headed, allowing for implication to flow in both directions.

Example 1.8 The opening four-measure idea of movement I consists of a single

Beethoven repeats the same rhythm of three-shorts-and-a-long so often in his

The composition-based historical survey of motives will officially start in the