Heinrich Schenker, John Rothgeb - Piano Sonata in Ab, Op. 110 - Beethoven's Last Piano Sonatas, An Edition With Elucidation, Volume 2-Oxford University Press (2015) PDF

Piano Sonata in A ♭ Major, Op.
110
Piano Sonata in A ♭ Major, Op. 110
Beethoven’s Last Pia no Sonatas
A n Edition w ith Elucidation, Volume 2
By Heinrich Schenker
Translated, Edited, and Annotated by John Rothgeb
1
1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Schenker, Heinrich, 1868–1935, author.
[Letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven. English]
Beethoven’s last piano sonatas : an edition with elucidation / by Heinrich Schenker ; translated, edited, and
annotated by John Rothgeb.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Translation of: Schenker, Heinrich. Die letzen fünf Sonaten von Beethoven: Kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und
Erläuterung. Wien: Universal Edition, 1913–1921. 4 vols.
ISBN 978–0–19–991420–3 (volume 1 : alk. paper) — ISBN 978–0–19–991422–7 (volume 2 : alk. paper) —
ISBN 978–0–19–991424–1 (volume 3 : alk. paper) — ISBN 978–0–19–991426–5 (volume 4 : alk. paper)
1. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827. Sonatas, no. 30, op. 109, piano, E major. 2. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827.
Sonatas, no. 31, op. 110, piano, Aflat major. 3. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827. Sonatas, no. 32, op. 111, piano, C minor.
4. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827. Sonatas, no. 28, op. 101, piano, A major. I. Rothgeb, John, editor, translator.
II. Title.
ML410.B42S27713 2015
786.2′183092—dc23
2015001173
Music engraving by Woytek Rynczak, W. R. Music Service
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
Contents
Editor’s Preface vii
About the Companion Website xiii
Foreword 1
Preliminary Remarks 3
COMMENTARY
First Movement 25
Second Movement 66
Third Movement 78
Appendix 149
Editions consulted, and Facsimiles 151
Bibliogr aphy of Cited Wor ks by Heinr ich Schenk er 153
Bibliogr aphy of Cited Wor ks by Other Authors 155
Index 157
v
Editor’s Preface
With the four books in this set, the translation into English of Heinrich
Schenker’s major works is complete. Publication of the original German of the
works translated here occurred in the following order: Op. 109 (1913),1 Op. 110
(1914), Op. 111 (1915), Op. 101 (1921). A second German edition, abridged, edited,
and annotated by Oswald Jonas, was published in Vienna by Universal Edition
in 1970–1971.2 Jonas provided in his annotations many insights and supplements
regarding both source appraisal and the music itself that are cited or quoted in the
present edition as space permits.
These commentary editions make available to English readers for the first
time some of Schenker’s best musical thinking. Among the features that may
have escaped the notice of many Anglophone musicians thus far, for example, is
Schenker’s fine sensitivity to the delicacies of Klaviersatz (piano writing or texture)
in the first movement of Op. 109, which fuels his withering critique of an earlier
editor’s “improvement” of Beethoven’s text. Another is Schenker’s revelation of the
spectacular link between the modulation and the second theme in the first move-
ment of Op. 111.
1
The Op. 109 edition was reprinted in 1922, with numerous corrections to the score. Schenker had marked a
copy of the first impression with hundreds of minor revisions to the text as well, but these were not incorpo-
rated into the reprint.
2
In addition to a large number of references to Schenker’s earlier publications, Jonas deleted most of Schenker’s
critiques of editions now long out of use as well as the Literature sections and the irrelevant political out-
bursts. The present edition is unabridged.
vii
viii Editor’s Preface
The unprecedented compression of sonata form in the first movement of

Op. 101 has often been noted, but from Schenker’s commentary we learn with
precision about Beethoven’s radically new way of integrating the form’s constit-
uent parts—especially the second theme—into this optimally compact struc-
ture. Beethoven’s composing of a far more expansive sonata-form piece in the
last movement of Op. 101 shows yet another innovation, again with respect to
the second theme.
Schenker’s detailed suggestions as to tempo, dynamics, rubato, fingering, and
pedaling—in short, much that is requisite for a finely nuanced performance—round
out the discussion of each formal section. These features need no further editorial
introduction.
A few words may, however, be in order regarding the relation of these editions to
the rest of Schenker’s output. The books were preceded by Harmonielehre (1906)
and Kontrapunkt I (1910), both of them components of the grand plan Neue musi-
kalische Theorien und Phantasien3 devoted to an investigation of the tonal system
and its language as they could be observed in and inferred from the masterworks.
But these treatises had been intermixed with still other publications whose pur-
pose was exclusively the elucidation of works of art. These two thrusts—theory and
application—were cultivated simultaneously during the first and second decades of
the twentieth century.4
Harmonielehre had been concerned most importantly and originally with
Schenker’s new vision of the Stufe, or scale degree, which at the time he regarded
as “far loftier and far more abstract than the conventional one . . . . The scale-step
[= scale degree] is a higher and more abstract unit” that “may even comprise sev-
eral harmonies… .”5 This insight alone led Schenker to a far more sophisticated
understanding of some complex music than earlier harmonic theories could have
done, as witnessed by his interpretations of passages from Wagner’s Tristan und
Isolde (Harmony, p. 149/193ff., 151/195f.) and especially Var. XV of Beethoven’s
Diabelli Variations (Harmony, p. 160f./206).6 Yet it would still be more than a
decade before Schenker would discern the primary instrument of the scale degree’s
concrete realization.
3
Harmonielehre, the first volume of the series, already bore this as its superior title. Authorship there was
attributed only to a Künstler (artist).
4
Works devoted to elucidation took the lead. The scrupulously edited and annotated selection of sonatas (and
one rondo) from the Kenner und Liebhaber collection in C .P. E. Bach’s Klavierwerke (1902) and Ein Beitrag
zur Ornamentik (1904) both belong to this category.
5
Harmony, §78. The formulation “may comprise several harmonies” suggests that Schenker’s vision of the
scale degree is not yet completely clear (see below).
6
Page-number citations are given first for English translations and then for German originals, the two sepa-
rated by a virgule, ‘/’.
Editor’s Preface ix
By 1913, the date of 109, Schenker had not progressed very far beyond the new
(but still incomplete) perception of the scale degree. His representation of harmony
in the sonata still relied on the Roman numeral—which was perfectly correct and
appropriate as far as it went—, but for the most part he still read more scale degrees
than he needed to.
A small and simple example will illustrate this. The Coda in the first movement
of Op. 109 begins in bar 65 (upbeat) with the triad of IV; Schenker read this and the
next three quarters as “IV—I—V—I.” Later, as he was revising the text for the 1922
reprint (see note 1), he crossed out the second Roman numeral. He did so in appre-
ciation of the meaning of the tones G # and B of bar 66 as passing tones.
The year 1922 also saw the appearance, hard on the heels of the publication of
101, of the second book of Kontrapunkt, with its richly suggestive “Bridges to Free
Composition.” 7 As early as Harmonielehre Schenker had formulated this analogy
between free composition and strict counterpoint: “That which, in free composi-
tion, would correspond to the tones consonant with the cantus firmus is the scale
degree; the entities that would correspond to the passing dissonance, however, are
the intermediate chords being unfolded in free voice leading.”8 It may well have
been as Schenker was working years later on Kontrapunkt II and was contemplat-
ing the phenomena of the “Bridges” (the combined species) that the insight came
to him: the “free” voice leading of free composition was not, after all, so completely
free; it constituted instead an elaboration, by diminution, of formations regulated
by the principles set forth in the “Bridges”; moreover, in free composition, the single
dissonant passing tone of strict counterpoint was generalized to stepwise progres-
sions through the triadic spaces of scale degrees. Any such progression he would
henceforth designate by the term Auskomponierungszug or, shorter, simply Zug
(linear progression),9 and this policy would take effect already in another work in
progress, namely 101.
The idea of the Zug, which becomes central to musical elucidation in the issues
of Der Tonwille and all subsequent works, makes its first appearance in the discus-
sion of the second movement of Op. 101. Schenker’s first observation about the
tonal structure of the movement is that “the voice leading in bars 1–4 is based on a
fourth-progression [Quartzug] F—C of the bass.” From that point on through the
remainder of 101, Schenker’s concentration on these progressions decisively influ-
enced the text.
7
Counterpoint II, p. 175ff./169ff.
8
Harmony, p. 159/204, although rendered more freely there.
9
In 101 and his analysis of the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Tonwille I), Schenker occasion-
ally used the term Knotenpunkt as interchangeable with Zug. As early as Counterpoint II, p. 58/59, however,
he defined the former term in an entirely different (and more useful) way.
x Editor’s Preface
The precision of Schenker’s understanding of the tonal system and the nature of
composition had thus made a great leap forward between 1915 and 1921. The analytic
yield in the period immediately following this breakthrough, however, was mixed.
Many years thereafter, looking back on his oeuvre, Schenker found the following
concession obligatory:
Since the task of revealing the world of the background in music fell to me,
I was not spared the difficulty of finding symbols for it. This required many
years. Furthermore, the engravers did not always demonstrate the necessary
degree of understanding. For these reasons the illustrations in Der Tonwille
and in the Jahrbücher do not always represent the definitive form.10
If this caveat applies to the two named serial publications, it certainly must hold
of the last of the commentary editions, which shows its author struggling, as it
were, to “tame” his new discovery. Let the reader be advised, then, not to take the
voice-leading graphs offered in the second through fourth movements of Op. 101 (as
well as the accompanying commentary) as representing “the definitive form.” But
even though they may lack the precision Schenker was to achieve in his later works,
the graphic representations he provides will still prove useful in apprehending and
organizing the musical content.
A note on footnotes: in the rest of the book they are by Schenker, except for those
enclosed in square brackets, which are by this editor.
Work on this English edition has proceeded at a leisurely pace for roughly ten
years. Several colleagues have contributed in one way or another to completion of
the project. Dr. Hellmut Federhofer deserves hearty thanks for sound advice on not
only this but other projects as well.
Hedi Siegel, my muse for translation and herself a marvelous practitioner of the
art, has my warmest thanks not only for her assistance with bibliographic matters,
but—more important—her unfailing support in moments of editorial despair.
Dr. William Drabkin graciously and helpfully responded to a query from me
regarding manuscript materials, for which he has my thanks.
Irene Schreier Scott deserves heartfelt thanks for supplying a number of refer-
ences to The Art of Performance.
Professor Wayne Petty performed the invaluable service of photographing the 1913
and 1922 scores of Op. 109 in the Oster Collection in the New York Public Library of
the Performing Arts for me. He did this on his own initiative; his understanding
of what I would need in producing this English edition was better than my own.
10
Free Composition, p. xxiiin/6n.
Editor’s Preface xi
Finally, my consultant in Germany, Heribert Esser, can scarcely be thanked

warmly enough for his generosity and expertise. His participation in the project
lasted more than two years, during which time we exchanged hundreds of e-mail
messages as he corrected my renderings of treacherous passages in the Literature
sections. His patience and devotion to the task were truly inexhaustible.
John Rothgeb
Caulfield, Missouri
October 5, 2013
About the Companion Website
www.oup.com/us/beethovenslastpianosonatas
Oxford has created a website to accompany Beethoven’s Last Piano Sonatas, which
presents, for each of the four sonatas, Schenker’s critique of Literature concerning
the work from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
xiii
Piano Sonata in A ♭ Major, Op. 110
Foreword
Despite numerous difficulties that had arisen in the course of the work, I am
pleased to have prepared successfully the second installment of this composite work
at the proper time, and I announce my hope to be able in the next year to present
Op. 111.
Heinrich Schenker
Vienna, August 30, 1914
1
Preliminary Remarks
In preparing the edition of the present sonata, Op. 110, as with Op. 109, it was,
above all, handwritten sources that came into consideration—in particular: two
Autographs, sketches, and a copy revised by the master himself.
Of the two Autographs, the first, which stems from the Artaria collection and
is now in possession of the Royal Library [now the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek] in
Berlin, is complete; it comprises not only all movements of the sonata, but many
subsequent corrections, sketches, and studies that belong to the individual move-
ments as well.
The second autograph, at present in the possession of Herr Louis Koch in
Frankfurt (who, as he informed me, acquired it from the estate of Mr. G. B. Davy in
Kingussie), contains only the last movement, thus the Adagio ma non troppo and the
Fugue.1 It was at the time already known to Herr Professor Julius Epstein in Vienna,
who had examined it also in his capacity as editor of the Vienna Conservatory
Edition.2 I have reason to assume that Beethoven made the fair copy of this second
autograph at the moment when, after completion of the last movement in the first
autograph, he could believe himself finally to have achieved the definitive version in
all respects. In the presentation itself I produce evidence of why Beethoven aban-
doned the version of the fair copy already taken to be definitive and set out anew
in pursuit of a truly definitive one. The corrections of the fair copy relevant to this
pursuit are then for the most part entered in the first autograph (see above).
1
[This second Autograph is now in the collection of the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn. See p. 151, Facsimiles.]
2
[See p. 151, Editions.]
3
4 Piano Sonata in A ♭ Major, Op. 110
For purposes of the presentation I have designated the first, complete, autograph
as Autograph A, the second, incomplete, one as Autograph B.
The sketches, which, as the presentation will show, offer a truly invaluable con-
tribution to artistic understanding of the master’s compositional technique, stem,
like Autograph A, from the Artaria Collection, Vienna, and likewise belong at
present to the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek in Berlin.3 (Nottebohm transcribed them
only in part in his Zweite Beethoveniana, p. 465, and his discussion, moreover, is
downright cursory.)
The revised copy made by Beethoven comes from the estate of Johannes Brahms
and is at present in possession of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna.
The early editions “Johann Cappi” (Wien No. 2500) and “Cappi et Diabelli”
(Vienne No. 1141) cited here along with the original edition appeared only shortly
after the latter, almost at the same time as the original edition; and if, as Nottebohm
reports in his Beethoveniana (1872), p. 6, it is indeed established first of all only
with regard to the sonata Op. 111 that Beethoven—despite his obligation to the
Berlin publisher Schlesinger—collaborated on its proof-correction for the named
Viennese publishers as well, the presumption nevertheless cannot be dismissed that
he may perhaps also have played a role already in the case of Op. 110 as well, given the
remarkable relationship of the Viennese editions to the manuscript.
Many queries and communications I have received prompt me at this point to
shed light on the relationship of the manuscript to the text. Of course it is easy to
assume as a matter of principle that in a certain sense an original edition, especially
if it has been prepared under the master’s supervision, always gives most correct con-
sideration to all manuscript material as well; or, in other words: that the original
edition accurately reproduces the text as the composer wanted it. One is all the more
inclined toward such an assumption, as it is known that most composers are wont
to introduce improvements or other corrections that go beyond their own manu-
script into the original edition, so that one might even say of the latter that it would
be in many ways the improved manuscript. Such an assumption, granted, is not in
principle to be challenged even by the fact that in our case, conversely, the original
edition—as our presentation establishes—has failed the manuscript in many ways,
which must have been of great concern to the composer. There is, specifically, no
doubt that in the case of Op. 110 (as with Op. 109) the original edition ranks below
the manuscript in precision of communication of what the composer wanted. This,
however, means—to generalize from the particular case—that one must say that it is
always a question of the particular instance in deciding whether an original edition
really provides the better version or not. And this is also the reason I prefer under
3
[Reference is to the sketchbook Artaria 197. See p. 151, Facsimiles.]
all circumstances—that is, in principle and out of precaution—to grant manuscript

material the advantage over an original edition.
But, of course, it does not suffice merely to stand before the manuscript: one must,
however unnecessary it may appear, also be able to read with the deepest understand-
ing, even if one’s aim is only to convert it into printed form. Because Beethoven’s
notation, especially in the pianistic idiom and in the later period, shows completely
innovative and profound subtleties that one can understand, and, consequently,
even read, only if one grasps their compositional reasons; without such understand-
ing one unfortunately tends only too readily to regard the authentic notation as
for one reason or the other an accidental or arbitrary one, which can equally well
or even better be replaced by a different one (naturally, that of the editor). We will
encounter precisely in Op.110 a mountain of such examples in which Beethoven’s
notations with their profound meaning have been misunderstood and therefore
straightaway replaced, bona fide, with others. All of this both signals the impera-
tive of greatest caution in dealing with a Beethoven autograph and at the same time
explains how it could come about that, despite the master’s notations—which (as
I have often emphasized) are no less inspired than the compositions themselves—,
editors were nevertheless able to proceed at once with the agenda of their so inferior
conceptions and notations.
But if such offenses against the original could be committed even by editors who
considered themselves not only musicians but, beyond that, real artists, one is all
the less entitled to raise an objection against the publishers, whose calling certainly
by no means demands that they be informed about such questions. Therefore, the
publishers have for decades always printed works only on the strength of the name
of the editors and were happy if it was precisely the latter who became their source of
lavish returns. Meanwhile, however, as a consequence of this lamentable practice of
the publishers, an altogether unclear and unnatural relationship arose between the
public and the ever newly edited works of Beethoven; for the performer purchased
this or that edition basically only out of confidence in the particular editor. In so
doing he automatically assumed that the original was doubtless accurately repro-
duced and, moreover, accurately interpreted, so that he could expect, through imita-
tion of the chosen editor’s manner of playing, to attain also the latter’s successes in
both material and ideal realms.
These, then, are the causes of that general complete confusion that we can observe
even today. The false opinion still prevails among publishers and the public that the
editor has under all circumstances reproduced the work in a manner true to the
original, and has added fingerings, commentary, etc. only from the abundance of his
store of understanding; or, worse yet: the publishers assume that while the original
could have sufficed for the time of the composer, it would no longer suffice for later
times, so that they feel it as a duty to come to the rescue of the original with, as they
naively assume, the subsequently increased insights of later editors. Thus recently,
for example, one of Chopin’s original publishers was able, on the occasion of the
initiation of work on a new edition, to use the following formulation in announc-
ing it: “If even the original edition of the Chopin works, which for the most part
Chopin himself had entrusted to them, had been replaced by new and complete
editions, the publishers did still believe that a timely edition meeting all modern
requirements would be welcomed by all Chopin performers. No better suited editor
could be found than. . . .” Far from holding publishers responsible for what it is not
their job to understand, I content myself simply with confirming by this example
the widespread point of view that an original by Chopin needs to be “replaced”
and that, if it is to retain its effectiveness in our times, it must first be brought into
line with all “modern requirements.” That the original of Chopin’s, however, by vir-
tue of its own perfection, from the outset already satisfies the “requirements” of all
times—this escapes the notice of the publishers, who have in the course of time
become accustomed to take pecuniary advantage of the names of so-called famous
contemporary virtuosi, without stopping to consider that exactly through this cus-
tom they promote so much more the devastation of the original, thus putting their
future Chopin-capital at risk.
And so it may finally be understood when I say that a thick layer of editorial
work has gradually been spread over precisely the much-performed originals of the
masters that hides the artistic and instructional value of the originals of a genius
from the eyes of mankind, and offers as a substitute for them a picture of deficient
art-instinct in the gaudiest colors of most toxic errors. In order to make such a dis-
tortion of valuable originals (which at the same time signifies a distortion of art)
still clearer to readers, I invite them to consider the first layer of dirt that has been
deposited, before their very eyes, over the art-work of Brahms. I have before me a
card of the house of Simrock of December 12, 1912, on which it is openly admitted
that the [Alfred] Reisenauer fingering for Brahms’s Op. 24 “was entered onto the
original plates, and earlier printings are no longer available.” Thus, in plain view, the
fingerings of a pianist whose intimate connection to Brahms is not even established
are already added to the plates themselves, and the performer receives an edition of
which he must assume that the fingerings themselves originate with Brahms. I do
not overlook the intent of the publisher to win new friends for the work also from
the ranks of those players who have been unable on their own to find an approach to
it and need for that purpose the assistance of fingerings by others; but the question
arises whether, even granting such intent, it would not have been advisable to cite
the name of the preparer of fingerings on the title page. The damage is extraordinary
when we consider that major contradictions arise between Reisenauer’s fingerings
and originals as they are known from Brahms’s other works—contradictions that
are all the more confusing to the performer because he believes himself to have,
in Reisenauer’s product, an original by Brahms. And when we moreover consider
that such a practice opens door and gate to most severe abuses, we grasp that in the
course of fifty years a layer of dirt will be spread in the form of addenda by more
or less unknown editors that surely cannot fail to cause damage to the work and,
as a consequence, also to the publishers. In view of such practices one could until
recently at least be happy that the orchestral scores of the master did not also require
fingerings; otherwise we would long since have received the orchestral works (like
the piano works) only in a corrupted form—by which I have no intention whatever
of asserting that the first editions of the orchestral works have at the same time
always been the best editions of the originals. But today the practice thus far applied
only to piano and violin works adversely penetrates also into the sphere of orches-
tral works, and editions of those works are now in circulation that in many respects
obscure the original in its first form.
All of these are reasons I make it my business to establish important originals
of the masterworks so as to protect musical mankind from the damage that would
have to attend their destruction. And I hope to be successful in awakening the gen-
eral conviction that only true originals—thus only (if the expression be permitted)
non-alcoholic, i.e., “non-editorial” editions—are worthy of consideration.
Concerning two editors I cite in the presentation of Op. 110, specifically Bülow
and Riemann, I have a few general comments to make here. Their considerable
length is justified by the fact that they will conclude the discussion of those editors.4
Readers of my works know full well that I have been constrained to condemn harshly
the activity of Bülow whenever it was manifested in his editions of classical master-
works; such condemnation, however, never occurred without specification of reasons.
The simple fact that I stated counterarguments proves that in the case of Bülow I never
assumed bad intent or whim but always only well-meaning reasons that I nevertheless
had cause, purely in the interest of art, to reject as born of ignorance. I am pleased
to be able today to affirm that my counterarguments have apparently been generally
convincing, for from no quarter has a substantive objection been heard; rather, I was
able to confirm by every indication that I have gradually succeeded in finally making
readers aware of the vast distance that separates a Bülow from the geniuses that he has
undertaken to interpret. Now at the cost of performing this service in the interest of
the genius or, to say the same thing, in the interest of a further evolution of musical
humanity, I abjure any recognition as the first to have performed the service, and I am
4
[Commentary is devoted to Bülow and his edition through 101, but Riemann is summarily dismissed in note
11 to the first movement of 111, and his edition is not cited again.]
prepared to call it mere coincidence if now other musical writers criticize the errors
committed by Bülow so long ago, and with my arguments. It is very telling, however,
that here and there one finds critics who, although they have learned only through
my revelation the true distance from Bülow to Beethoven, and who have themselves
repudiated him, wish on this occasion to instruct me regarding an alleged impropriety
of tone with respect to Bülow by deceiving readers (and perhaps themselves as well)
with the intimation that I had somehow disparaged Bülow for acting in bad faith. The
paths that naiveté and vanity are able to follow when it comes to being ungrateful!
Being familiar with the nature of those small spirits to whom, by virtue of their
inner kinship, it is only again the small of stature who represent a greater authority
than the true genius, I have, through the years, avoided more vigorously invoking
the authority of a Brahms against Bülow. Today, however, as I must in the edition
at hand again reject a multitude of offenses—naturally committed in good faith but
nonetheless to be described as primitive—against the work of the master, I consider
the time finally to have arrived to communicate the following.
As is well known, after the death of Bülow the first general grief in Germany led
to the idea of establishing a national monument for him in Hamburg. At that time
the editor of a widely circulated periodical asked me to approach Brahms and, in
his name, to request of him a written statement in this matter. I immediately acted
on the editor’s wish, but received from Brahms the following answer: “I have sent
my contribution to Hamburg for a cemetery commemoration and hope that will be
the end of it; Bülow was after all only a capellmeister, and not even Richard Wagner
yet has a national monument!”5 Anyone who is able to read Brahms’s works or who
knew him personally understands that he was by no means inclined in such a situa-
tion to denigrate the contributions of others; that rather a man of his rank has need,
5
A similar statement by Brahms concerning Bülow is reported, incidentally, by Kalbeck as well in his Johannes
Brahms, vol. IV2 , on pp. 371ff., from a communication by Ferdinand Schumann. There we read: “When the
matter came up in conversation, Brahms said that he felt it improper to place such a monument to a man who
had left nothing behind, who had initiated no new epoch in music. Bülow was no doubt an eminent conduc-
torial talent, but that did not justify such an enduring honor. His feelings of friendly gratitude toward the
soldier and ally should not entice him, as he said, into any injustice toward those of greater accomplishment.”
I shall supplement the above communication on this occasion by adding that I asked Brahms, also in the name
of the same editor, for letters from Bülow for the periodical in question. At first Brahms appeared inclined to accede
to this request, but a while later I received from him a small card with the following content: “Most esteemed sir!
You will have forgotten or overlooked the fact that Frau von Bülow herself plans to collect and edit the letters of
her husband! Naturally, incidental publishable letters are in her possession. Forgive the lateness of this note—your
most humble, but not authoring, Johannes Brahms.” Concerning the words “incidental publishable letters,” one
might consult the same passage in Kalbeck. The final locution, however, is priceless: “but not authoring,” which is to
be understood not only as declining the authorial service casually requested of him, but also as expressing his prin-
ciple of abjuring in relation to his artistic activity the secondary aid of essays written by himself. (Cf. Counterpoint
I, p. 29/45; how this ties in with the rather comprehensive notes by Brahms directed against theory in a certain mat-
ter, which he nevertheless did not expunge or did not want to expunge, is yet to be discussed on another occasion.)
in the interest of art, to acknowledge another’s lifework just as well as he wished his
own to be acknowledged.
“Only a capellmeister” was Brahms’s judgment concerning Bülow, then—a
standpoint that alone correctly illuminates the relationship of the two. Brahms at
all times acknowledged Bülow’s service, as one acknowledges gifts in general, with
most straightforward thanks and even with a dedication; but never may more be
read into such reception of provided service than simply that actual fact, and never
may the inference be drawn of a particularly high esteem. (Bülow himself knew
better than anybody how little he was esteemed by Brahms in precisely the sense in
which he wished that esteem.) But how little Brahms’s appraisal of Bülow has been
understood; and how should one expect that of persons who lack precisely Brahms’s
ability to understand the extent of Bülow’s shortfall in respect to the masters! To
everyone who understands tonal life only on the basis of superficial material effects,
such a pronouncement by Brahms must remain ever incomprehensible. But just in
my works one finds evidence of what Brahms meant by his dictum; and if I have
bothered at all to marshal such evidence, I did so, to repeat once again, not per-
chance to denigrate Bülow, but only—and this should be all that matters—to ren-
der the masterworks for the first time accessible to mankind by clearing the path of
all obstacles that have been put in their way in the form of errors committed by a few
“authorities” proclaimed, to the detriment of art, by unrenowned contemporaries as
“renowned” musicians.
My conviction goes so far as to say that exactly as in other areas, for example, eth-
ics, science, politics, and so forth, in art as well a true advance is possible if and only
if the genius in full magnitude is recognized and honored as the standard, I might
say as the nature of art, to which one must always return! What has thus far been
proffered under the title “music history” has been actually only a history of small
players. The problem of music history has on the one hand been misunderstood, but
on the other hand the geniuses have not been grasped in the deepest essence of their
technique. Consequently a faulty, if not bad, technique has often enough been ven-
erated and thereby confusion interjected into the concepts of good counterpoint,
good synthesis, and all the questions relating to technique.
I say to the contrary: in art as well, all good things come only from above, from
the genius, and beneath that zone there exists neither progress nor evolution nor
history, but mostly only imitation, and bad imitation at that, of invariably misun-
derstood geniuses! And thus my elucidation of the genius aims at least to depict as
vividly as possible the goal of the imitation as such, only in order to deter inadequate
artists or critics from characterizing that imitation as a classical accomplishment on
a par with the masterworks themselves or, worse, as “progress” above and beyond
the (still ungrasped!) masterworks, which would signify a transgression against the
genius and thus also against art itself. Let mankind, for its own salvation, liberate
the genius (and the sooner the better) from the dreadful fate of being able neither
to die out nor on the other hand really to live among men! Because only from the
genius, whose foremost characteristic is the ability to grasp the situation at hand
precisely in its particularity above and beyond general ideas and connections and
to apply its own ever new solution to the problem—only from the genius, I say, can
men learn what even they need most in life, namely to handle for their own benefit
each individual situation in the most appropriate way according to its individual
necessity. In this vein I hope that a music history may soon be written that would be
above all a history of the genius! Because just then, only then, would all artists and
writers, with a sense of the surest guidance, feel themselves happy and humble in the
joy of raised consciousness and true fairmindedness toward great and small even in
the smallest undertakings, and all finally understand that there are no “good old”
times or so-called “modern” times, but only times with and times without genius!
Professor Riemann is in for a yet far sterner rebuke. Among all editors, he is the
only one who had (and still has) the wretched presumption even to alter the notes
of the master in a consequential way, just to fit them to his own theories. He alone
is still unfamiliar with a notion that graced a Brahms, who wrote (compare my
Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue,6 p. 18): “I wish very much that Bargiel would agree
with us not to try to improve on Chopin’s orthography! From here it would be only
a small step to tamper with his texture as well.” 7 Presumably Riemann considers
Brahms’s reflection only a touching piety of the one master toward the other, but
certainly fails to understand it as the completely clear consciousness precisely wor-
thy of a genius of the distinction between two completely different concepts: that of
the right of the artist to his property. including possible flaws, and that of the duty
of the editor or theorist (to the extent merely that they properly understand their
assignment) to respect that property. including possible flaws.
The artist’s work is a rigidly circumscribed, permanently fixed entity. And if
Beethoven himself, in recognition of noticeable deficiencies in his Leonore Overture
No. 2, only subsequently improved it in the form of Leonore Overture No. 3 (Brahms
did likewise with his own Op. 8), the artist in this case has only made use of a right
granted him alone; and nobody else, be it artist, theorist, or editor, would have been
permitted to make that improvement, entirely apart from the fact that perhaps
6
[Heinrich Schenker, J. S. Bach: Chromatische Phantasie und Fuge (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1909).
Translated and edited by Hedi Siegel as J. S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue: Critical Edition with
Commentary (New York: Longman, 1984). Hereafter cited as Chromatic Fantasy.]
7
[Johannes Brahms, Briefwechsel, vol. 3: Johannes Brahms im Briefwechsel mit Karl Reinthaler, Max Bruch,
Hermann Deiters, Friedr. Heimsoeth, Karl Reinecke, Ernst Rudorff, Bernhard und Luise Scholz, edited by
Wilhelm Altmann (second edition: Berlin, Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1912), pp. 172–3.]
nobody would even have recognized the first version as needing correction or would
have understood the nature of the needed correction. Obviously the same applies by
analogy to a theorist as well—that is, the right to possible correction of a theoreti-
cal work is granted the author alone—and Riemann himself would probably be the
first to object if an editor had the temerity to do to his work what he himself has
done to Beethoven’s. So whatever involvement a composer might have with a work
of theory and, vice versa, the theorist or editor might have with the work of the com-
poser, in every case the other’s property must be respected in the already given form,
and any criticism, accordingly, be placed external to that property.
That composers expressed opinions in their own works about theorists—such a case
may scarcely ever have arisen. Thus a sense of justice alone would have had to set editors
and theorists the duty regarding placement of their critiques at least of avoiding intru-
sion into the property of the artist. And it would indeed be all the more incumbent on
editors and theorists to guard the integrity of the art-work considering that mankind,
thinking only of the protection of their material possessions by laws and government,
still has not learned to regard intellectual property as fully comparable to material
property, but rather, cynically, declares it outside the law and abuses it; and considering
moreover that, throwing out proud but false phrases like “the right to intellectual prop-
erty” for the gratification of their intellectual sweet tooth and appetite for pleasure, they
prefer most of all to usurp under the latter rubric the works of artists, but then confuse
them with victuals that are taken in only once. How dangerous and consequential it is,
then, when, exactly in the manner of the amateur, a theorist or editor, who should be
the last to want to appear before the genius as a know-it-all, suddenly finds the gall to
meddle with the property of the artist, and himself sets a contemptible example.
Whatever one thinks of the matter, this much is certain: a theorist, to the extent that
he actually is one in the artistic core, will always avoid giving theory exactly the assign-
ment that is the business only of the creative artist. Theorizing (GREEK = reflect, con-
sider!) is not composing. Now if a theorist judges works of the past, he must interpret
only according to the laws from which it arose in its time and that live on within it; but
if he wants, say, to establish theories pro futuro, I need not say that that is a completely
futile activity, for in such a case this could only mean that he would himself com-
pose! But just consider: if the tonal forms of Beethoven have already sufficed to elevate
so many generations to the skies and to inspire masters like Schubert, Mendelssohn,
Schumann, Richard Wagner, and Brahms, how could Riemann presume to be the
first to intrude his own corrections into the actually good and much desired artistic
seed? Have Beethoven’s tonal shapes not already harvested much of magnificence, and
would one truly need to await the seeds sown by Riemann?
Although I do not doubt that people remain continually aware of the difference
between Beethoven and Riemann, and although I have no doubt that Beethoven’s
tonal shapes will appear in the marketplace for all eternity exactly as he himself
wrote them and not as Riemann’s theory wants them, I must nevertheless express
all the more astonishment at the grotesque egotism with which Riemann proceeds
in relation to Beethoven’s masterworks, considering that Riemann is himself aware
of how little creative artists adhere to his theories (see, for example, Katechismus der
Kompositionslehre I, p. 54), and that he himself not infrequently admits in embar-
rassment to have “at that time [?!] not yet reached the pinnacle of full understand-
ing” (this, incidentally, a motif with which his students also like to operate when it
comes time to account for their master’s retreat).
But all of these seemingly so harsh words are far too mild considering the arro-
gance of Riemann, who quite recently expressed himself in a music journal all too
pretentiously and immodestly regarding our masters: “The accusation of insufficient
piety concerning the notation of the old masters does not bother me. I am con-
cerned not with the shell, but with the substance.”8 Have I not demonstrated already
in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony9 that Riemann, who has no interest in the shell,
understands nothing of the substance at crucial points? I would not, however, care
to interpret the mere circumstance that in a review of my 109 a follower (student?)
of Riemann at least “conditionally” acknowledges and thereby excuses his mistakes
with the affirmation that Riemann was “at that time not yet at the peak of his rhyth-
mic insights” (see above) as evidence that Riemann himself really understands those
mistakes; for had he himself finally become aware of them, he would under no cir-
cumstances have any longer spoken of the masterworks in such an arrogant manner.
But in case it still has not become clear that I here reject exclusively and only
the despicable presumptuousness of Riemann vis à vis the master—just that ego-
tism that lamentably motivated him to inflict so much damage on Beethoven’s
property—, I will, even before I refute Riemann’s theories more precisely in
Book II of my Counterpoint,10 and only to the extent necessary for elucidation
8
[The place of publication of this statement is not further identified by Schenker and is unknown to us at
this time.]
9
[Heinrich Schenker, Beethovens neunte Sinfonie. Eine Darstellung des musikalischen Inhaltes unter fort-
laufender Berücksichtigung auch des Vortrages und der Literatur. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1912; 2nd
edition as Wiener Urtext Ausgabe, ed. Karl Heinz Füssl and H. C. Robbins Landon. Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1969. Translated and edited by J. Rothgeb as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: A Portrayal of Its Musical
Content, with Running Commentary on Performance and Literature as Well. New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1992. Hereafter cited as Ninth Symphony.]
10
[Heinrich Schenker, Kontrapunkt. Zweiter Halbband: Drei- und Mehrstimmiger Satz. Übergänge zum
freien Satz, II (Vienna: Universal Edition A. G., 1922). Translated by J. Rothgeb and J. Thym, edited by
J. Rothgeb, as Counterpoint, Book II: Counterpoint in Three and More Voices. Bridges to Free Composition
(New York: Schirmer Books, 1978; second, revised edition Ann Arbor, MI: Musicalia Press, 2001. Hereafter
cited as Counterpoint II).
Schenker apparently later changed plans, however; he does not deal with Riemann or his theories in
Counterpoint II.]
of the foregoing remarks, still more clearly illustrate Riemann’s relationship to

our masters with reference to the essay published by Riemann himself in the
program-book of the first German Brahms Festival in September, 1909, under
the title “Brahms and the Theory of Music.” The very title shows a thoroughly
conceited Riemann: “the Theory” here is naturally supposed to mean—Riemann.
What Riemann relates, however, proves just the opposite, namely that Brahms
wants absolutely nothing to do with the theory that means “Riemann,” and that
it is thus only Riemann himself who sees everywhere in the theory again only
Riemann. Listen to this:
I have also dedicated a booklet (my small Kompositionslehre) to Brahms. In this

case as well the correspondence and personal conversation relating to the dedica-
tion is of a certain general interest. . . . Brahms at first was rather averse to my plan
of dedication. With the words “you would not believe what I have had to suffer
from bad textbooks, all of which I was obliged to unlearn,” he sought to avoid the
projected “honor,” but, to be sure, nevertheless accepted it at the end of his letter.
Does that not say powerfully and only too clearly: your book is bad, I want noth-
ing to do with it!”? Such naïve robustness (or: robust naiveté?) on the contrary from
Riemann, who, despite the decisive opposition of a genius like Brahms, has the
impertinence nevertheless to foist the little scribbling on him! And even if Brahms
did finally accept the dedication, that does not signify the slightest trace of any sort
of agreement with the intruded booklet by the theorist, because in these matters
Brahms’s position (as he repeatedly affirmed) is well known to have been never to
reject presents, for the simple reason that they were presents. It says much—very much
indeed—that, despite this position, in Riemann’s case he at first expressly sought to
distance himself from the dedication! And that my interpretation alone is the correct
one certainly follows from Riemann’s own account, which he continues as follows:
Then, when I saw him in Hamburg, after the unpleasantness had occurred and
after the booklet proudly bearing his name was in his hands, he was notice-
ably cross, almost angry, for the reason (as soon became clear) that both in the
book and in journal-articles around the same time I had made the attempt to
explain and justify certain “unusual notes in Brahms’s music” in regard to their
nature and effect. It was really unpleasant to him that I had set out plain and
simple what he had done in such cases. “But mind you, it does after all affect
me,”11 he practically blurted out in the end. . . .
11
[“Aber i bitt’ Sie, i bin doch dabei int’ressiert.”]
Doesn’t this anger on the master’s part say everything? Just show me one man other
than Riemann to whom these words of Brahms’s would not have meant what they do
indeed mean! Did Brahms not intend with the last-cited locution to express clearly: you
do me harm when you publish your wrongheaded interpretation of me, especially as
I cannot speak out about the opinions of a book dedicated to me! (Incidentally, any-
body is welcome to generalize these thoughts of the master.) But Riemann goes still
further and completes the preceding extract as follows: “. . . thus acknowledging my
account as correct, and nevertheless at the same time accusing me of a kind of indiscre-
tion. No doubt, he did not appreciate having his secrets uncovered.”
What Riemann means by this is the following: I, Riemann, was able even at
that time to “uncover” a Brahms, but he, unfortunately, on the contrary was not
able to understand me. If, however, as we see, Riemann today already supposes
himself so superior to Brahms in the matter that he dares straightaway to saddle
himself, even in public, with that refusal from the master, does that not offer
compelling proof that Riemann assumes that the refusal would now recoil onto
the master himself? And is that not in turn a completely unjustified vanity,
which is all the more unpleasant in effect given that Riemann, for purposes of
his own success, used the name of precisely that master above whom he has the
temerity, as is his wont, so foolishly to elevate himself? A genuinely Riemannian
contradiction: to take advantage, and at the same time to denigrate! And how
businesslike Riemann shows himself, as he writes further:
Bülow was of a completely different opinion on the matter, understanding

very well that Brahms’s output could stand up to quite detailed analytical scru-
tiny, without lending itself to facile imitation by everybody. In his well-known
enthusiasm, Bülow made at the time a thoroughly lively and influential pro-
paganda for my little book, carried it around in his pocket, and recommended
it—certainly not to set up competition for Brahms.
Yes, I can easily believe that a Bülow could go along with Riemann, but exactly
only a Bülow, never a Brahms!—No less telling are the two Brahms anecdotes
put forward for discussion again by Riemann himself in the same essay; here
the first:
My plan, of which I had told him, to subject his symphonies to a detailed anal-
ysis he received kindly. But then in the evening when I tried to draw him out
a bit on what he might have had in mind when composing one of the sympho-
nies, he abruptly said altogether laconically: “I thought, you would want to
write something about it?”
I think the master’s answer was probably the most apropos for Riemann precisely
as theorist, who, out of the fullness of his self-image, had the gall to pin a bit of a
work to the master even against his wish, but nevertheless tried behind his back to
“draw him out” about purely musical questions.12 Now the other anecdote:
Like all great artists, Brahms was slightly hurt when he suspected that anybody
had any criticism of his works. I experienced an amusing example of this sort at
the first performance of the Deutsche Fest- und Gedenksprüche. The contrasts
among the three parts, initially very nicely crafted, disappeared more and more
in the course of the numerous rehearsals, and finally vanished completely in
a single rather colorless tempo, so that even the “und ein Haus fällt über das
andere” played out in philistine languidity. I could not resist remarking to
Brahms, next to whom I sat (in the full rehearsal): “I would have envisioned
that differently!” “Then,” he countered, “you must once compose it yourself!”
In regard to Riemann’s relationship to Beethoven, I conclude the correction of

Riemann in a free paraphrase of Brahms: anybody who is not satisfied by the tonal
structure of a Beethoven, let him compose a model sonata of his own!
But after all of this would it be desired in addition that I at least credit Riemann,
despite such heroic deeds of immodesty, with “good intentions”? While it would not
be fair to grant Riemann the right both to immodesty and at the same time to the pro-
tection of his whininess (since such exaggerated sentimentality would amount finally
only to one-sided emphasis of the right of the small in comparison to the great, or, to
say the same thing, the right to commit penalty-free spiritual murder of the genius),
nevertheless, I say: very well! For however little argument there can be about the
purely economic law that could provide even Riemann’s enormous enterprise access
to publishers—a certain prominence of Riemann’s, drawn not least of all from his
Musik-Lexikon, may at the given moment have made the publishers curious about the
potential pecuniary success of a Riemannization of Beethoven—, it is equally certain,
I have no doubt, that the economic law of a still stronger figure, namely of Beethoven,
will cause that apparent superiority again to shrink, will put the theorist in his place
relative to the genius, and will make manifest to Riemann, as a deterrent, the avenging
power of the truth manifested in the genius.
Several reviews and letters impel me here once again to return to the Literature
rubric.
12
In the Kleine Bibliothek [= Der Tonwille: see below, p. 153, the Bibliography of Cited Works by Schenker]
I shall, incidentally, have occasion to demonstrate that Riemann was able to say exactly as little of a positive
and decisive character about Brahms as about Beethoven.
Despite Riemann’s opinion (see above), one is justified in considering it resolved

that a Beethoven too will prefer to be understood rather than to be misunder-
stood. If the master wrote joyously to Ferdinand Ries (20 December, 1822): “For
Beethoven can write, thank God; but for that, certainly nothing in the world,”
it was definitely not joy that made him take pen in hand as he wrote on another
occasion (cf. 109, p. 7): “And now go and criticize as long as you like, I wish you
much gratification;… cri- cri- cri- cri- cri- ti- ti- ti- ti- cize- cize- cize—not until
the end of time, that you cannot—. . .” But even he who has taken up the modest
assignment of defending Beethoven against severe errors feels no joy whatever
that such have been committed against the master. The business of correction
of the errors of others provides, I assure you, no gratification that would be in
any way worth desiring or striving for, especially as it wastes much time that
could be used for still more important tasks; and now the question arises all the
more: why, then, does it annoy the others if errors that have been committed are
to be set right? If certain critics wish to instruct me in personal invectives that
I should have only “stayed on the subject,” I believe I may say that they would doff
their hats if they only knew under which difficult circumstances I render service
to “the subject.” If the one or the other offended critic tries to defend his errors
by an appeal to “collegiality,” however, I would not know how that could be rec-
onciled with logic—I won’t say with character—when they imagine themselves
more important than Beethoven, whom they deny such defense. Is Beethoven,
then, not the proudest “colleague” of all musicians, and must precisely he be con-
sidered fair game only so that the errors of other “colleagues” can be spared?
Thus I repeat here what I said already in 109: in the Literature rubric my only
concern is in so far as possible to purge the material at hand of the film of error
that has been applied to it by writers. From this perspective I would regard the
Literature chapter as well virtually as an organic part of my analysis, which
recently a reviewer (as I believe) has quite accurately described as “applied
composition-theory.”
The above orientation, however, is explained by my general endeavor to bring
lower instincts into proximity with the superior ones of our masters in order—even
if an equalization in the upward direction, toward the genius, is certainly not
achievable—at least from the outset to block such an adjustment in the downward
direction, toward the amateur. For I believe it possible to motivate the majority of
people to a more intensive enjoyment of works of genius, if only men of prominence
would first learn to harness people’s innate quest for enjoyment and to show them
that in respect to intensity and quality, it is far more enjoyable to assimilate the
spiritual quality of the genius than always to return, in boring errors and phrases,
only to themselves.
Concerning the ultimate reasons behind my procedure I contemplate providing

a still more precise account in an epilogue.13 Thus let only the following preview of
it suffice for the present: today it is a more urgent mandate just in the interest of a
well-founded artistic practice to show genius in its full, unsurpassable stature, since
a world leveled by Americanism and journalism, a world of shopkeepers, threatens to
conjure up a second and far more dangerous Middle Ages, and since the wantonness
of the shopkeeper mentality, which indeed never can become truly productive—a
eunuch could more easily become a father!—, destroys the arts to an extent surely
never witnessed before now by intruding even into art that commodity-character
which it derives from its own commodity-nature-turned-human!
In the realization of my plan I will not permit myself to be distracted by any-
thing in the world, and it is my conviction that the truth, however anybody may
try to assault, ignore, or otherwise abuse it, will nevertheless prevail. Now if the
individuals—because respect for false authorities is still more deeply ingrained in
them than respect for proofs—publicly manifest this fault with greatest imperti-
nence; if the all too many cooks who, in their newspapers, put out charity soup for
the musical rabble, and of whom I know for certain that if they were in a position
to raise objections, they would overcome even the cowardice of silence and scream
their objections from the rooftops, perforce continue to express their opposition
only through silence; if others try to inflict damage by acting according to either the
principle “if I have understood something, it is mine,” or even the principle “that is
by me”—in short, I care nothing about all of these adversaries, since I am prepared
to acknowledge as opponents only those who write about the material itself and
decide to refute objections, to whom alone the honor of being named is due. By
this I mean to say that a polemic against virtually nameless, i.e., authorless, errors is
repugnant to me, and that naming of the authors in quotations is simply my obli-
gation. Beyond that, however, the names to be mentioned are to me certainly less
names of definite persons than representatives of definite types, so that for this rea-
son alone any personal pique against the authors is nonexistent.
Thus let the following be said here in reference to the hermeneutics category in par-
ticular: as the “hermeneutic” approach to art has actually existed as long as human
thought, it will probably last through all eternity as well, and however the names of
the individual representatives may change, they will all manifest only the cheap trick
of believing themselves, despite their inherent lack of differentiation, always auto-
matically to encompass at once all marvels of the Creator and of the geniuses, and
to represent their own impressions, their own phrases, as the very alpha and omega
of the artistic sensibilities of artists as well. And even the most recent hermeneutists
13
[This contemplated plan was not realized.]
will not be persuaded—out of genuine hermeneutic self-adulation also don’t want to be

persuaded—that their subjective impression unfortunately resembles a mirror image
only in that actual mirror which reflects only the outer surface of objects; that the prod-
ucts of art on the contrary have, besides the dimension of the plane, also one of depth,
so that art demands more than surface pictures mirrored only in subjective ponderings!
But just for that reason it will remain ever the destiny of the hermeneutists to have
recourse, in constant poverty of convincing arguments, only to personal attacks.
Just look at the battles among the hermeneutists and observe how petulantly and
mercilessly they go after one another, only because in the same piece the one has seen
the “Rhine,” the other the “Danube,” the one “green,” the other “red.” How irre-
sponsibly the hermeneutists—when they ignore them—rage even against creative
and performing artists, where in the strictest sense of the word they have no right to
make judgments in musical matters, unless we are prepared to accept turn of phrase
and error (which are unfortunately the only output from the less able!) themselves
as judgment (which they are represented to be)! And the same hotheads suddenly
become whiney when someone exposes their own errors for the sake of which they
need to be held to a clearer grasp of art, and moreover have the gall to slander objec-
tive elucidations by calling them personal attacks?!14
14
I begin to suspect that several critics have so aggressively characterized my objective presentation as person-
ally injurious only because they themselves, caught up in their errors and lacking any competence, need
such an excuse in order to be able to turn on me personally. Thus let the reader himself decide which is more
personal: my own practice of openly quoting the author and his opinion, or that practice of some critics not
even to concern themselves with the content of my opposing view, but to represent its very expression as a
personal affront. I leave it to the reader to decide also which is more to be condemned: my practice, for exam-
ple, of citing Professor Riemann by name and concept, or rather the practice of Herr Professor Riemann
(who otherwise always enjoys and invites controversy) to leave me unmentioned even where, as I believe, he
would have had an obligation to mention my name and my achievement. In particular it is not credible that
Riemann up to about a year ago would have known nothing of me, as would be suggested by the fact that
in the last volume of his Handbuch der Musikgeschichte (1919) he explicitly discusses (p. 251ff.) a most recent
Harmonielehre whose author repeatedly concerns himself in the book also with my own Harmonielehre
[= Harmony] (Neue musik. Theorien und Phantasien I, 1906) and its terminology. From the position the
author there discussed has taken regarding my own works, indeed even from the stipulations repeatedly
invoked by him—for example, the claim that he had only “leafed through” my works (a genuine sign of
present-day decadence, which, incidentally, is basically all the more revelatory the less the author wanted to
acknowledge the true state of affairs as it can be learned even from neutral parties)—, Riemann was obliged
to infer a certain effectiveness of my Harmonielehre, for whose sake he would have had the duty to men-
tion my name as well, among the names of all of those to whose works my own are perhaps not completely
inferior. Or can Riemann finally have believed my theory simply to be entirely contained within his and
therefore have eschewed any mention of my name? This would remind me of a letter written me in 1905 by
the publisher Breitkopf & Härtel, in which my Harmonielehre was rejected with the words: “but we believe
that the similar works published by Riemann hold greater promise of success.” Even then I had to marvel
that a publishing house, whose business certainly is not to form judgments about such works and which
therefore may not (because it is incompetent to) indulge in a polemic concerning theoretical works, knew
so little of the Riemann it cites that it imagined itself to see Riemann even in a place where he certainly is
But all protests from hermeneutists, the silent and the vocal ones, the direct
and the circumspect, will by no means prevent me from continuing the musi-
cal force-feeding, just because, as I have said, I also believe in a better human-
ity than the hermeneutic, and because I dare not withhold from youth the right
to the genius and his truths. Thus the epigram of our leading poets applies to
hermeneutists:
To complainers and scribblers.
“Go ahead and ply your trade, admittedly we cannot stop you,

but believe this: in the future you will ply in peace it no more.”15
To all other opponents, I will let Schopenhauer speak:
And as comfort to those who devote strength and life to the noble and so dif-
ficult battle against error, in any way and situation, I cannot neglect to write
here that, indeed, so long as truth is not present, error can play its game, like
owls and bats in the night; but one could sooner expect owls and bats to scare
the sun back into the East than that the recognized and clearly and completely
affirmed truth could once again be suppressed so that the old error would be
able with impunity to reoccupy its former position. That is the power of truth,
whose victory is difficult and arduous, but on the other hand, once accom-
plished, can never more be stolen.16
Finally, in continuation of the remarks included in 109, a few words may be added
here about the freedom of rhythm in performance:
If today even artists themselves resist the idea of freedom of performance, I think
it important that this not be interpreted as in any way artistically motivated. It is
clear, rather, that the virtuosos—who, infected by the general commerciality of the
world, driven by the need for more abundant incomes, at present find it necessary
to play here today and there tomorrow—cannot participate in lengthy rehearsals
and therefore must accept into the bargain the metronomically bound, unpoetic
not present. However, I don’t wish to dispute further any possible notion on Riemann’s part that my ideas
are comprised completely by his; but I certainly must protest that Riemann believes even a Beethoven or
Brahms to be comprised within himself to the extent that he finds it appropriate to present them in—an
improved notation!
15
[From the Xenien (Epigrams), a collaboration by Goethe and Schiller, published in the latter’s
Musenalmanach (1796). The Xenien were caustic rejoinders to contemporaneous criticism. Ours is a prose
translation.]
16
[Arthur Schopenhauer, Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, in P. Deussen, ed., Arthur Schopenhauers sämtli-
che Werke I, vol. 1 (Munich: Piper, 1911), p. 42.]
manner of performance as the only possible expedient. Add to this that in musically
active amateur circles as well it is the custom to assemble here today, there tomor-
row, for performance of a piece without further rehearsals. In such cases, naturally
again the only possibility left for ensemble playing is the metronomic manner of
performance, to which all that is sublime in the art-work must fall victim.
The cult of metronome and bar line that arises in all these cases unfortunately,
however, also encroaches under such circumstances on the pianist as solo performer,
who, however much his performance may be exposed as superficial relative to the
content and therefore also to the instrument, contests this not without frivolity,
and insists that such a manner of performance be called indeed purely “pianistic.”
Thus the pianist then consigns piano playing, only for the sake of the bar line and in
order to spare himself the effort of understanding the content to be performed, to
a completely special province of musical reproduction, which allegedly is exempted
from all laws that bind singer and violinist. But need I demonstrate that music,
despite the diversity of medium of expression, which is surely already taken into
consideration in the composition, is nevertheless fundamentally an indivisible mat-
ter and remains the same everywhere, whether it is set for voice, piano, or what-
ever other instruments? So let the pianist just listen to the violinists or singers, who
handle their assignment relatively far better, and attempt at least an imitation of his
colleagues—although it must be admitted that his own assignment is an incompa-
rably more difficult one than that of the other instrumentalists!
I am, of course, fully aware that with the principle of freedom perils of an
improper use of that principle are also bound, since not everybody is capable of
applying only as much freedom as is necessary: notwithstanding, in spite of such
perils the principle must be proclaimed precisely as principle. In the final analysis,
nature herself—to marshal an argument by analogy—has granted the human full
use of her forces, without insisting on the guarantee that the most rational use will
always be made of them.
Also organically connected with freedom of rhythm, finally, is the nature of
my fingering, with the result that it would not be appropriate to judge the latter
from any kind of abstract perspectives. As surely as each individual situation in the
art-work manifests its own freedom, which can issue not from general principles but
only from the particular reasons connected to the situation, just as surely finger-
ing as well, without invoking general laws, has to express the individuality of the
situation. For this reason, then, may the performer, as said, regard my fingering as
another organic key to each situation that may arise; and if he has once overcome
prejudices of whatever kind from the perspective of the practicable fingerings, he
will, with attentive and well-thought-through execution, convince himself of how
practical, indeed necessary, mine proves itself to be even in cases in which it initially
makes the impression of being only idiosyncratic.
Concerning the nature and provenance of the sources, I have already provided
an account in the foregoing, and all that remains here is to express my thanks
to those who have helped me gain access to them. I need here to express above
all my most heartfelt gratitude for the incomparably kind and knowledgeable
cooperation of the—unfortunately—recently deceased Prof. Dr. A. Kopfermann,
Director of the Royal Library in Berlin, and of Herr Louis Koch (Frankfurt),
who rendered invaluable service to the project. And I convey my warmest thanks
also to Prof. Dr. E. Mandyczewski (Vienna) for kindly providing access to the
Revised Copy.
Commentary
For Beethoven can write, thank God—but for that, certainly nothing in the world.
beethoven, letter to Ferdinand Ries of December 20, 1822
First Movement
Moder ato ca nta bile molto espr essivo
The sonata form of the first movement exhibits the following parts:
Thus in this piece, as in Op. 109, the underlying principles of sonata form are ful-
filled, and not merely because the composer wanted to apply rules taken from text-
books or from whatever verbal directions, but because, as will be seen here as well, an
immanent necessity had to project the form exactly in this and in no other way. The
special individuality of the formal physiognomy within the world of sonata forms is
provided by (apart from the content itself) the nature of the linkage to the second
theme at bar 20; the internal articulation of the latter; the tenor of the Development;
within the Reprise, the path from first to second theme, bars 60–77; and so forth.
25
Bar 1 ff. By providing in respect to tempo and expression a very detailed specifica-
tion: Moderato cantabile molto espressivo and con amabilità, the composer obvi-
ously shows his concern that the performance of the piece could, in the absence
of such specification, easily go wrong. But it is just the same with the more exten-
sive instructions as with the less: taken alone, they by no means lead to the goal;
for only the most accurate understanding of the content makes even such explicit
instructions entirely understandable.
In bars 3 and 4 one must observe the articulation of the melody, as well as the
dynamic signs. Particularly in bar 4 at the fermata, the marking
applies only to the trill with its specifically fermata-like character—see Autograph
A, Revised Copy, Original Edition, Cappi and Cappi-Diabelli. (The later editions
either are completely wrong on this point, in that they include the first quarter too
in the crescendo, or at least mislead through imprecision.) In bar 4 at the second
eighth of the second quarter, the first three thirty-seconds have their origin in the
trill suffix, which here accordingly appears in written-out form. (See Ornamentation,
p. 74ff./35.)
Bar 5 ff The brevity of the first thematic component and the half cadence in bar 4
inevitably demand incorporation of a second thematic component, which then
also follows in bar 5 and extends to bar 11. In its melodic line the rhythm of the
melodic content that preceded in the first thematic component covertly remains
in force; compare the melody of bars 5–6 and bars 7–8 with that of bars 1–2 and
bars 3–4 respectively. This very continuation of rhythmic profile alone threatens to
stamp the second thematic component almost with the character of a consequent
phrase—a danger exacerbated by the fact that the content of bar 10 clearly corre-
sponds to that of bar 3. These peculiar effects, now, are the plain and simple result
of their causes, and it is therefore inevitable that the second thematic component
at first appears, by virtue of its consequent character, to be in a sense disguised—at
least at the moment that the two thematic components pass by for the first time.
We later learn from the Reprise, of course, that the second thematic component is
to be perceived only as a thematic component and not as a consequent.1 More on
this topic later.
1
[Here Jonas (1102, p. 18n.) adds a footnote: “nevertheless, bars 5–11 are to be understood as consequent, in that they
represent varied repetition combined with ascending register-transfer of bars 1–4 . . . ,” and provides an interpretive
illustration. The characteristics that Jonas ascribes to bars 5–11 are certainly present, and obviously they had been
pondered by Schenker as well—hence his comment that the identity of these bars as a second thematic component
is “somewhat disguised.” But Schenker had made up his mind: he had decided that the characteristics observed by
Jonas (and himself) were not sufficient to stamp bars 5–11 as a consequent, and, as confirmation, he points ahead to
the Reprise, where the passage immediately following the first four bars of the theme does indeed sound like a real
consequent. For Schenker’s definitive 1925 graphic representation of bars 1–12, see, in the Appendix, Fig. 177.]
First Movement 27
The sketches2 (see p. 65) show that Beethoven at first conceived bars 10–11 as follows:
Fig. 1
From this we infer that originally in bar 10 a continuation of the rhythm used
thus far (in bars 6 and 8) was intended. The improvement of the cadential idiom (a
banal idiom, incidentally, as could have been written by any bad composer of the
time!) is found on the same page of the sketch in the system directly below, while
the preceding bar—precisely our bar 10—does not there arrive at its final form. But
it was certainly a brilliant instinct of the master’s finally to improve bar 10 as well by
having it refer back to the content of bar 3.
Our text presents the articulation in bar 11 according to Autograph A.
Unfortunately, we find this reading missing already in the Original Edition and
in Cappi and Cappi-Diabelli, which show the slur extended across the complete
bar. Several of the later editors as well fell victim to this error, such as Klindworth,
Peters, etc.; the error is infinitely magnified by Bülow and Riemann, who extend
the slur even as far as the first thirty-second of the next bar. But if we merely
attempt to set any arbitrarily selected text3 to the cantilena we will quickly be con-
vinced that the subsumption of the complete content under a single slur is com-
pletely unnatural.
In performing the first group, bars 1–11, one should avoid in particular a dragging of
tempo in bars 5–10. The pressure inevitably exerted in such lyrical passages to perform
the content not as a whole but picked apart into groups of only two bars, lingering
longer than necessary on each, must be resisted by expanding one’s inner vision across
the totality of the conception. Such an explicit reference to the whole, incidentally, is
provided by the composer himself through the crescendo instruction in bar 9.
As to the accompaniment in bars 5–11, one should note that it is impermissible
to intrude a connection between each first and second sixteenth note, as is unfor-
tunately recommended by Bülow and (obviously under his influence) other edi-
tors. One should, rather, clearly demarcate each first sixteenth, and this in order
to suggest that those notes belong here to a completely independent bass-supplying
2
[Sketchbook Artaria 197.]
3
[Compare 109, p. 75.]
instrument (formerly in such a case one spoke of a “young bass”), which has nothing
to do with the subsequent sixteenths; thus:
Fig. 2
This, admittedly, in turn poses the difficulty of molding the bass notes that have
been made independent to both the melodic line and the form in an appropriate
way; for this reason, as incidentally goes without saying, one must make only the
first sixteenth of the first quarter appearing on each strong beat count as leading,
and, for the rest, strive for the following effect:
Fig. 3
Let the cantilena treble be given access to this nuancing, and the surprising
enhancement of its expression will be convincing.
In a certain sense both Bülow (in a footnote) and Klindworth (with )
do draw attention to this. Nevertheless, despite the undeniable correctness of
this manner of performance, in no case may one specify it by inserting mark-
ings into text as well, as Klindworth has done. For if only the original text is
so constituted that it can, indeed must, elicit the depicted performance (and
this we may infer simply from the recommendations of the editors), then let
it be confidently left to the original text to maintain for the performer as well
the suggestive power that it evinced for the editors. Otherwise the performer,
having been made reliant by similar intrusions, could hit upon the unhappy
idea to forego the appropriate manner of performance in those places where
it is not explicitly educed from him by the means Klindworth has employed
(compare 109, p. 14, the comment to bar 1ff.). The remaining sixteenths of
the accompaniment, however, should, despite all staccato character, be played
loosely and be freely fitted to the rhythmic profile in which the cantilena is
negotiated.
The player is cautioned to avoid lingering on the quarters that precede the halves
in bars 6 and 8, as precisely here the enticement is most irresistible toward that error
whose bad consequences I have depicted above (see p. 27). The desired good effect
First Movement 29
will be achieved most reliably once one has learned to proceed to the half notes
strictly in tempo. The psychological explanation of this seemingly paradoxical actu-
ality is the following: just the circumstance that here everybody (each according to
his own nature) expects only a broadening causes the strict tempo, measured in rela-
tion to the broadening, to create on its own the illusion of an acceleration. And it is
again connected to the expected broadening that the apparent acceleration precisely
for that reason has the effect of a weary, weakly drooping—an effect that substi-
tutes, in an incomparably more beautiful fashion, for the one that could be achieved
through an actual broadening.
In this bar we enter the modulation. To master its true content, it is above all Bar
12ff.
necessary to denude it of the thirty-seconds, which, as experience teaches, absorb
into themselves the attentiveness and presence of mind of the unpracticed to the
extent that the latter are simply unable to reproduce the true content in unadorned
form. And in fact the sketches, leaf 72, confirm that even Beethoven himself at first
drafted this tonal complex (as, incidentally, could not be otherwise) only in terms of
the principal tones, as follows:
Fig. 4
The following picture represents the content of the modulating section:

Fig. 5
We learn from it that in bars 12–16 the scale degrees change from bar to bar: ,
but that the rhythm in bar 17ff. intensifies—see here as well the cresc. indication!—in that
the scale degrees now appear in the rhythm of . Not to be overlooked in bars 13 and 15
is the manner in which there as well (left hand!) the rhythm of the bass of bar 5ff. appears
clearly stamped and as though in process of continuation. At the same time we gather from
this outline that the modulation to E♭ takes place already in bar 16. And if the fact that the
key of A♭ is at first retained also for the entrance of the new motif gives the impression that
we are dealing with nothing but a third thematic component of the first group, that effect
precisely is the reason the composer uses this modulatory technique here. For the more
organically the modulating section itself is integrated into the course of a content thus far
traversed, the more clearly it creates the impression, at least initially, of an integral part of
that content (in other cases also, for example, the illusion of a consequent phrase).
The modulation carried out in bar 16 thus clarifies in addition that in bar 18 the
new tonic already manifests a tonicizing chromaticization of its seventh (in order to
lead ahead to the IV) and that in bar 19 the turn IV—I is a plagal one, which here
makes all the better an effect for the fact that in the preceding bars 17–18 the succes-
sion V—I has sounded twice (see Harmony, §122).
Now to the definitive enrobing of the content [revealed in Fig. 5] in the physiog-
nomy of the thirty-second-note figure, as the text presents it to us. Measured against
the content of the modulating section itself, it first appears admittedly as a figure
conceived only purely pianistically, that is, with the purpose merely of filler. And
yet, how incomparably Beethoven succeeds in subsequently lending this very figure
a higher justification (in the most exalted compositional sense)! But even from the
purely pianistic standpoint it was not easy to contain the mischievous character of the
figure. Even if one did not know of it already through Schindler’s communication4
(which at best, however, is to be somewhat valued only for its reporting of the facts),
authentic evidence in the matter would be provided by the sketches: we see on leaf 87
how at each first and fifth thirty-second Beethoven applies strokes5—NB: strokes,
4
w
We read in Lenz:
“Communication to us from Professor Schindler.
“ ‘Beethoven did not play the sonatas Opp. 106, 109, 110, and 111, could no longer have played them however much
he might have wished to [this Schindler does not understand], but in writing down these works, at which times I was
always near him (as he wrote Opp. 110 and 111 we lived together), he tried out several passages innumerable times. The
passage with thirty-seconds in the first movement of Op. 110, practiced on a mostly dreadfully out-of-tune piano,
as a pupil would, fifteen to twenty times [here Lenz inserts: “Masters do them a hundred times”; I say though, that
neither of them, Schindler nor Lenz, has understood anything of this!] before he continued writing, drove me to dis-
traction, since I was working on proofs in the same room . . . I permitted myself at one point the question of whether
this Op. 111 were to have no finale, for without having heard more of the work up to that point than Beethoven’s
fingering-experiments, sometimes ninety-nine times in succession, for example, on the passage in the first movement
of Op. 110 with thirty-seconds [but Schindler spoke straightaway of a different work than Op. 111—such confusion in
his head!] even these experiments or attempts might have had a still higher purpose [even Lenz interjects here “higher
indeed!”; I myself preferred actually to elucidate the purpose!] and I was eager to find out . . . .’ ”
5
[Represented in the score as wedges.]
First Movement 31
not dots!—, which he then clearly repeats in Autograph A. This very use of strokes
reveals an eminently compositional wisdom and pianistic brilliance on the master’s
part that will be immediately convincing to anybody who would perform the exper-
iment of ignoring the strokes: in that case the want of any subdivision within the
bar would at once have the consequence that the three times eight thirty-seconds of
the bar would appear simply characterless, as a hodgepodge. The strokes, then, serve
as a compensation for the lack of any other rhythmic subdivision, and if Beethoven
does indeed write them only in bars 12 and 16 (and even there not consistently), it
can be assumed with confidence that they are also to be applied up to bar 18.6
Finally it is of greatest importance to observe that in bar 19 the eighth notes of the
second and third quarters are connected by a common beam, a notation shown by
Autograph A, Revised Copy, Original Edition, Cappi and Cappi-Diabelli. When
we consider that in this descending tone-succession:
Fig. 6
the impetus is given for the second theme:

Fig. 7
we must marvel at Beethoven’s notation, which now expresses optically as well an entity
of four tones that is meant soon to be projected as such within a still more differentiated
formation. Incorrect, therefore, is the notation of the newer editions (see, for example, the
Gesamtausgabe, the Urtext, d’Albert, Peters, etc.), where the tones, which already strive
to cohere on intrinsic grounds, are cheated of the fruit of their effort—cheated, that is, of
unification—to the extent that they instead become separated from one another:
Fig. 8
Correct performance of the modulating section is founded above all on an extraordi-

narily intensive emphasis on the melodic flow: however spare this advice may appear in
6
[An inexplicable declaration. Autograph A, on the contrary, shows strokes consistently on the first, fifth,
ninth, thirteenth, seventeenth, and twenty-first thirty-seconds of bars 12 and 14, on the first thirty-second of
each beat in bars 13 and 15, and none thereafter. Schenker’s score scrupulously follows the Autograph.]
the light of the foregoing discussion, it is nonetheless sufficient to provide the soul with
exactly the amount of nourishment that is at all necessary in this passage for reasons of
form. It is thus extremely important that the performer, even before he takes up perfor-
mance of the modulating section, attain securest mastery of the overall design. With the
instruction leggiermente Beethoven means to deter any tendency to feel and perform
the figure as a goal in itself; he understands that it can effectively serve that melodic flow
which advances at first hesitatingly, in slower steps, and then in quicker ones, only if it be
kept continually unburdened by even the slightest sentimentality.7 (It goes without say-
ing, however, that at the first a ♭2 in bar 12 the last residue of the songlike quality of bars
1–11 must die away.) The following marking by Bülow, therefore, is wrong:
Fig. 9
Concerning the crescendo, despite such an enticing invitation as the present

situation offers, it must not be driven all the way to f if the true purpose of the
modulating section is not to be subverted. Which, to be sure, does not negate the
requirement that the final eighth notes in bar 19 be performed expressively in keep-
ing with their significance as already moving toward the motivically individual. Let
the crescendo abate at the last eighth, in order both to compensate for the accel-
eration built up somewhat by the crescendo and also to cause the ensuing piano to
make its appearance as clearly and penetratingly as necessary (more about this later).
In every respect, therefore, Bülow contradicts our master when he gives expressly
in bar 19 the instruction for a forte with ensuing diminuendo. (Unfortunately,
Klindworth follows his lead.)
Bar
20ff. The second theme-group consists of two thematic components. The first
component begins in bar 20 on scale degree II, 8 which is followed by I in bar 21.
7
One sees clearly how even the purely pianistic aspect of the content is better integrated in the case of a master
like Beethoven than with virtuosos, who, however, are no more willing themselves to believe that than they
are to have others believe it. It is only the vanity of the virtuosos that refuses to grant that the masters can not
only compose with mastery but play with precisely equal mastery (compare Chromatic Fantasy, p. 70/46).
How well Brahms put it on one occasion when the discussion turned to a famous virtuoso (Kalbeck, III2 ,
p. 493): “I play piano as well as anybody else . . .”! He meant to say politely that he would, indeed, be able to
play better.
8
[The scale degree at bar 20 must on the contrary certainly be IV, with the bass A ♭ implicitly bearing a fifth
(a carryover from the preceding reiterated inner-voice E ♭’s) rather than a sixth. The F that appears at the end
of the bar results from voice leading in parallel tenths. Regarding various issues in the identification of scale
degrees, see Free Composition, §280.]
First Movement 33
Bars 22–23 present a varied repetition of the same content, after which the
path to the cadence is sought only in the succeeding bars. Here as before
it is necessary to make the broader organization clear by reducing it to the
simplest possible form, after which, to our surprise, the following picture
emerges:
Fig. 10
From this we infer that this motif too:

Fig. 11
stems directly from the second-steps that precede in quarter-note values and at this
point, as though in deference to the initially intended half cadence I—V, basically
forms a syncope, regardless of the fact that the internal detailing of the sixteenths is
in another respect once again to be traced back to the appoggiatura formations in the
variant presented by bars 22–23:
Fig. 12
From here on the descending lines find their continuation in the bass, and indeed
at first the previously cited syncope of Fig. 11 is taken up once more:
Fig. 13
Only after this do the falling second-steps, endowed with trills, ensue:

Fig. 14
With this turn of events, however, the half cadence of the first syncope is
dropped and an all the more emphatic authentic cadence pursued from the
moment at which the second-steps migrate into the bass; then, a complete
♮
cadence occurs: I—II 3 —V—I. The falling line of the bass is counterpointed by
a rising tone-succession in the soprano. Engulfed in genuine cadential ether, we
fail completely to observe that, as the continuation shows, this cadence also com-
prises a good part of the immediate future. In particular the following should
be noted:
The appoggiatura at the first quarter of bar 22 reads D! The powerful effect of this
tone stems from the succession of two major thirds: , thus from what is called
the tritone (Counterpoint I, pp. 146–7/202–3), an effect that obviously would be
absent if the tone E ♭ had sounded previously. Here, however, it was expressly sought
by the master, and both the sketches (leaf 73) and Autograph A give splendid expres-
sion to this intention beyond any doubt.
Among the editors it was left to Riemann to “correct” Beethoven’s tritone. Is it not
a very great pity when the author of so many textbooks on composition has under-
stood the nature of the tritone so poorly that he finds in its piquancy only something
like a welcome opportunity for proclamation of a rule, but not also a means occasion-
ally very suitable to the purpose of a completely individual expressive stroke!9
At the third quarter of bar 23 the harmonies of the second and fourth
sixteenths represent, despite their precise content of the tones of a V, merely
neighboring-tone harmonies. And equally, in bar 24 the harmonies of the
second and fourth sixteenths of the third quarter, notwithstanding that they
♮
simulate a II 3 of the key, are again to be understood only as neighboring
9
How characteristically indeed the tritone A—B—C # —D # in the cantata “O Ewigkeit, du Donnerwort” by
J. S. Bach expresses the text “Es ist genug”!
First Movement 35
notes. The differing form of the neighboring-tone harmonies (the former

having the usual form of a V, the latter the unusual form of nothing less than
a II) stem from the mysterious purpose that presented them to the master
along the way. That is, the neighboring tones in both cases are intended to
fulfill not only the simple task of neighboring tones per se, but, beyond that,
in a sense to proclaim in advance the V and II degrees, which then actually
make their appearance at the second quarters of the respective bars 25 and
26. How marvelous the paths Beethoven’s technique explores when it comes
time to produce synthesis; and how insufficiently we can praise the force of
organic signposts he is able to draw from puny neighboring tones!
The arpeggios in bars 25 and 26 do stem from chordal conceptions, so that in the
small notation of the arpeggios the voices of the chord that appears at the first quar-
ter of bar 25 are clearly continued:
Fig. 15
But Beethoven deliberately deviated from such a notation for reasons of a piano style
that is to be kept pure; compare, for example, in the Piano Trio Op. 97, Adagio, bars 5–6:
Fig. 16
and in Op. 109, first movement, bar 53.

And how uniquely correct the exact Beethovenian notation is may emerge most
clearly from a comparison of it to the notation of Klindworth:
Fig. 17
How unnecessary the chordal notation appears here, given that, despite its opti-
cal suggestion, the performer in the end surely can arrive at no other execution than
the very one already elicited by Beethoven’s notation. Klindworth’s version therefore
falsifies, just by an un-pianistic image, the concept of true piano writing, and adds to
this great detriment also the further one that it no longer leaves to the performer’s
power of imagination even that certain modest leeway to consolidate on his own the
arpeggio into the unity of a chord.
The cadential turn in bar 27 may have cost the master much effort, as we can learn
from the fact that at various points in the sketch-pages, in pencil on leaf 67 and in
ink on leaf 65, he keeps to the following draft:
Fig. 18
I can see young composers smile at how such a trifle could be so dear to the mas-
ter’s heart; but I hope that as soon as possible the insight will dawn on them, along
the master’s lines, that the organic in musical content courses in such trifles just as
surely as in the principal themes themselves.
Bar 28ff. The lines of the bass and soprano in bars 25–27 yield the suggestion for the second
thematic component: the original bass is shifted lower and the original soprano line
higher by a step:
Fig. 19
At the second repetition of the newly gleaned melodic motif in bar 30 the ear is
struck for the first time, in the eighths of the first quarter, by the interval of the fifth:
Fig. 20
First Movement 37
while thus far, in bars 28 and 29, at the analogous position only a third and a
fourth were heard. It is now this same fifth-interval which also in bar 31, though
here of course in a different rhythmic version and with infinitely intensified
expression—how momentous the effect under such circumstances of a mere rest!—,
at last introduces the eloquent cadence of bars 31–32: II—V—I:
Fig. 21
In this way the cadence of the second thematic component would be reached
already at the third quarter of bar 32. But the perfect cadence is shaped here at first
as a merely imperfect one (with the third in the soprano), and this to enable expan-
sion of the idea somewhat through cadential confirmation. How regrettable, though,
that up to now no performer and no reader has been able to apperceive this caden-
tial confirmation as such, for all that Beethoven has introduced and constructed it
in a way that is in itself quite customary. Here the solution of the riddle: one need
only mentally delete the descending chromatic run from above that begins in bar 32
at the second sixteenth of the third quarter to recognize at once that what occurs
here is merely a repetition of the cadence (see above, Fig. 21) for purposes of cadential
confirmation:
Fig. 22
To be sure, Beethoven here veils the extremely simple construction through

certain technical features in such a way that despite its simplicity, it has not
until this day been clearly recognized. The first of these features is that he
omits the first two of the sixteenth notes of bar 30 that would be involved in
the repetition so as to have the latter begin with the third sixteenth, thus at
the second sixteenth of the third quarter (which, incidentally, is in turn con-
nected with the fact that the cadence was able to provide any space at all for
the repetition only at the first sixteenth of the third quarter, where it reaches
its own end). The second feature is the chromatic run,10 which not only draws
10
[The descent e ♭3—d3 —d ♭3—c3.]
attention away from the motif of the left hand but even beyond that could
itself present the illusion that the repetition might represent a variant of the
following sort:
Fig. 23
But there we see what fine nuances a master of Beethoven’s rank can reap
from a very ordinary technique—nuances that operate in such a novel way that
they are not recognized even by those who themselves do also employ them!11
One thus understands too that, if Beethoven was able to infuse such a well-worn
(but nevertheless absolutely indispensable!) technique with new life, just for
that reason he felt no need to force “newness” in the sense in which, by contrast,
today’s musicians are constrained to do—musicians who, for want of imagi-
nation, will never succeed in advancing an indispensable technique beyond its
most hackneyed incarnations. From this it goes without saying that anybody
who is not even able to understand Beethoven’s innovation within a vernacular
formal technique is the last who would himself be capable of introducing truly
new techniques. Or, to put it differently: how impoverished the “new” must
be when it comes from those who are not able even to hear the simplest of all
things!
Shall I say still more here about the specifically pianistic fantasy of the master,
who entrusts a chromatic run with such a mission? Just show me a use of such a run
by any of the later piano composers, even by Chopin or Schumann, that begins to
approach this one in inspiration!12
It remains to point out the (otherwise unnecessary) ascending register transfer
of the motif at the end of bar 30, by which Beethoven answers the high register in
which the last eighths of bar 27 were heard.13
11
Pity that one could not see Mr. Dalcroze, who allegedly also helps to represent the musical “Zeitgeist” of the
present day, dance bars 28ff.! Perhaps this man, to whom all secrets of music are so transparent that all he
could do was shift over to the ordering of the dance, would have revealed their secret by dancing?
12
Yet a similar intensivity of pianistic fantasy in the service of synthesis (not merely of adornment) is to be
found also, for example, in Brahms’s Rhapsody in G Minor, Op. 79, bars 83–85, shortly before the return
of the First Part. [The reference is perhaps to the dovetailing lines B ♭—A—G that compose out the vertical
third B ♭ above G of bar 83.]
13
Here a few analogous examples:
a) from Chopin’s Etude in C # Minor, the lowest tones in bars 46, 51, and 53, which, as the following Fig. 24
shows, are expressly brought into relation with one another through the common octave position:
First Movement 39
It is touching to see how in Autograph A Beethoven expressly thickens with ink

and makes still larger the note-heads14 of the tenth sixteenth of the left hand in
bar 30 just to eliminate any uncertainty on the part of copyists and engravers as to
whether it might not be merely through oversight that he failed to write the same
at the analogous places in bars 28 and 29. (What care the master had to take to pro-
tect himself from his copyists!) The reason for the change regarding the tenth and
eleventh sixteenths in bar 30 is that through it not only is a potent contrary motion
set against the soprano line, but scale degree I is in addition more distinctly forged
before giving way to the II in bar 31.
Fig. 24
b) from Mozart’s Symphony in G Minor, first movement, a passage from the Reprise:
Fig. 25
Here the more motivically faithful sixth-leap:
Fig. 26
is deliberately avoided, because the motif with which the modulation theme opens immediately
thereafter:
Fig. 27
cannot, for thematic reasons, tolerate inversion as a fourth e ♭3—b ♭2 , and thus the preceding motif as
well—see Fig. 26—had from the outset to be adapted to the unalterable register of the tone e ♭2 .
14
[Plural in the German, but only one note-head—that of the bass B ♭—is so enhanced.]
To perform the second theme in a way fully in keeping with the master’s inten-
tions, understanding of the content as I have just presented it must be supple-
mented by comprehension of the dynamic markings as Beethoven conceived
them. In bar 20, as point of departure for all dynamic movement of the theme,
a p is specified. The cresc. at the third quarter of bar 23 has the following mean-
ing: because the construction here seems to lead to a half cadence, we would all
by nature tend to apply only a diminuendo at the quarter in question, as though
to produce the effect of a comma; but with the cresc. we receive a warning to
make an exception and depart from the norm (which is otherwise observed by
Beethoven as well), since the task before us is to surmount the impending half
cadence in favor of further developments that are to be awaited. At the third
quarter of bar 24 the situation is from the outset more propitious, since here the
♮
neighboring-tone harmony, which points toward a II 3 , by nature fails to awaken
in us any sense of half cadence. The cresc. instruction does not in the least go
against the grain at this point, as it acts rather in concert with the harmonic
causality that resides in the neighboring-tone harmony. But when Beethoven all
the same writes p at the second quarter of bar 25 so as to strike out from there
with a further cresc., this p is not to be attributed to the suspension resolution
that occurs at that point15 but only to the newly demarcated bass motif, which
is to serve as model for the bass line of the ensuing bars 28–30. The p here serves
a motivic purpose, and in that capacity certainly also a purpose with respect to
form. I note, however, that in Autograph A the master has placed the p unequivo-
cally at the second quarter, which notation is found also in the Original Edition,
Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli. The “corrections” by Bülow, Klindworth, Riemann,
Peters, etc., whose editions place the p already at the first quarter, are thus to be
considered wrong.
The crescendo that begins to take effect in bar 25 now attains an f in bar 28, the
first forte of the movement. For expressive purposes this f is further strengthened by
sf accents in bars 29, 30, and 31, and yields only in bar 31 again to a p, which graphi-
cally highlights the cadence as though with the effect of a shadow. The energy at the
encroachment of the cadence repetition is analogously highlighted at the second
sixteenth of the third quarter of bar 32 by a cresc., after which, following a dim.,
again a p cloaks the final tones of the cadence.
Once the connection between Beethoven’s instructions and the form have
been understood, there remain further performance nuances to be observed,
15
[See the discussion of Fig. 10. Here suspension and resolution comprise the tones B ♭ and A; the C that over-
tops the tone of resolution is a product of what Schenker later termed Übergreifen (reaching over).]
First Movement 41
for whose execution, however, one could expect no detailed indication from the
composer. Thus the p in bar 20ff. should be played in quite a resonant manner,
without fear of contradicting Beethoven’s own instruction: for if the p were to
be played merely in a mechanical and absolute sense (compare Ornamentation,
p. 44/20) without regard to the special situation at hand, it would, because of
the high register of the motif (especially after the preceding crescendo), nec-
essarily sound simply colorless and dry. I would tend to call such a passage an
“innately” piano passage in consideration that however resonant the perfor-
mance, it will not be able to do harm or turn the innate p into a f-character.
(Compare, for example, in Beethoven’s Piano Trio Op. 97, Adagio, the variation
with thirty-second notes.16) The appoggiaturas in bars 22–23 should be played
intensively; one should not shy away from expressing the frictions that arise at
each second sixteenth as well.
Through application of all imaginable arts of attack one should seek to prevent
the closed cantilena of bars 20–21 or 22ff. from being broken down into individual
quarter notes, and should strive rather for unification, and also to express as such
the parallelism of bars 22–23 to bars 20–21.
At the third quarter of bar 23 one must avoid simply droning out the sixteenths
metronomically; bear in mind, rather, that here they are enhancement of only a
single tone (g2), which reverberates, so to speak, in sixteenths; and introduce into
the sixteenth-note figure a slight acceleration. The same applies to the third quarter
of bar 24.
In bar 25 it may be permissible to connect the second quarter of the left hand to
the first quarter in a legato, less for the purpose of expressing a suspension resolution
than by reason of a purely pianistic subtlety.
In the arpeggiations of the right hand it is advisable—both for pianistic-technical
and for compositional-sonorous reasons—to sustain not only the principal note but
also the second thirty-second in each case:
Fig. 28
To be able to conceive the passionate energy that the composer exuded (and
thus must also be demanded of the player) in bars 26–27, one must oneself only
16
[Variation IV, bar 113ff.]
have contemplated the energetic strokes Beethoven applied in Autograph A to the
eighths of the right hand in bar 27: they are truly less like strokes than like hurled
stones!
For performance of the left hand in bar 28 I recommend application of a steadily
increasing pressure on the four sixteenths of the first quarter, which finds its culmi-
nation point at the fifth sixteenth; relax the hand at this point so as to perform the
expressive articulation of the principal motif (in the right hand) all the more freely.
The performance accordingly shapes itself thus:
Fig. 29
The same procedure should be followed in bar 29 too; but in bar 30 one should,
in keeping with the composer’s inclination, play also the last three sixteenths in an
expressive way, thus more forcefully and more underscored than in the preceding
bars 28 and 29. In bars 28, 29, and 30 let the right hand play each respective sec-
ond eighth with an altogether merely dissembling p,17 and in such a way as to give
the impression that a portamento was to be expressed from the first to the second
eighth.
In bar 31 the intimate connection between the quarter note c4 and the sixteenth
f1 will be expressed all the more beautifully—the separating rest notwithstand-
ing!—the more one in a sense buries the sf outburst at the c4 and produces, through
such a burying attack, an effect that (because the next tone is to be taken an octave
lower rather than in closest proximity) makes the hand seem to depart this key only
with reluctance! Let the sound of the first tone, then, waft also through the ensuing
rest—indeed, just as much of that sound as is necessary in order to express the long-
ing of two tones that belong together.
The quarter notes of the cadence in bar 32 should be played somewhat more
urgently; but in a feeling not, for example, of increased activity, but rather of a grow-
ing weariness (see the preceding comments on bars 6 and 8), so that just here the
emotional tension of the first quarter of bar 31 finds its natural reaction. Now at
the repetition of the cadence the left hand comes to the fore: it should expressively
intensify first the sixteenths up to the first eighth of bar 33, c2 , and then give this very
eighth a reverberation that secures the relationship across the rests to the melody
17
See Chromatic Fantasy, p. 65f./44.
First Movement 43
tone f1 at the last thirty-second of the right hand (compare the preceding comments
to bar 31). Most reliable for this purpose is application of the pedal up to the third
thirty-second of the second quarter (c2); then release the pedal and play finally the
four last thirty-seconds in a regular and transparent way, so that precisely at the
penultimate thirty-second of the right hand the left hand’s chord can enter more
flexibly and with less constriction.
Bar
In bar 34 the actual closing theme begins, to the extent that one wants to acknowl- 34ff.
edge this theme as such and not consider it still a thematic component of the second
group. Based on the alternation of I and V, the theme consists of merely a single bar,
bar 34; it is repeated in bar 35, after which, in bars 36–37, a broadening is appended.
Of great importance in bar 35 is the articulation: in most editions, for example,
Cappi, Gesamtausgabe, Urtext, the slur is incorrectly drawn over the whole bar, so
that a new slur begins only in bar 36; but such an articulation contradicts the con-
tent, since here, clearly in contrast to bar 34, the motif of the third quarter becomes
the point of departure for the figure that ensues in bars 36 and 37, which demands
that the connection be given expression by means of a slur that starts exactly from
the third quarter of bar 35. This circumstance is confirmed unequivocally by the
sketches, leaf 73, and in an equally indisputable form also by Autograph A, which is
followed by the Original Edition and Cappi-Diabelli.
Bülow’s interpretation of this passage is tinged by an odd irony; for although on
the one hand the articulation in his text is correct—is that not surprising enough?—,
on the other hand it is clear from a footnote that unfortunately he leaned more
toward error than toward truth. He writes, to wit: “Whether the real intention of
the composer might not have been the following, we cannot state with certainty,
but only propose the possibility” (p. 99, note c):
Fig. 30
Had he but had the most modest understanding of the master’s synthesis, it would
have been clear to him that in bar 35, just for reasons of contrast and of advance-
ment of content the exact opposite of the version of bar 34 had to commend itself.
And who knows whether Beethoven, by including the first sixteenth of bar 35 under
a single beam with the remaining sixteenths, did not mean to say in another way
the same thing regarding synthesis that he had already expressed with articulation?
Such a notation could not possibly have flowed from the master’s pen had he even
remotely intended to create a syncope effect18 here. And if, incidentally, he neverthe-
less writes—also in Autograph A—the first sixteenth separately at the analogous
place in the Reprise (bar 94), this notation still remains closer to the one in bar 35
than to that other one, which in Bülow’s opinion was intended to express a syncope.
Bars
38–39 The two bars 38–39 represent the transition to the Development. Their essential
significance is of a purely harmonic nature, unless one chooses to interpret the fall-
ing second-progression E ♭—D ♭ as already an elicitation of the descending line that
is characteristic of the Development. And, to be precise, the harmonic construction
here is to be understood in such a way that D ♭ in bar 39 forms a passing tone between
E ♭ of bar 38 and C of bar 40:
Fig. 31
It is thus a question of a third-motion E ♭—C, where the latter root functions not
already as tonic, but only as dominant (of the F-minor key). (Compare a similar
phenomenon in Op. 109, Variation II, bar 9.)
For performance of the closing theme and the transitory bars, the following may be
recommended: in bar 34, let the upper voice come to the fore through pointed expres-
sion, and play the sixteenth-note figure of the inner voice at the third quarter rather
more softly. The explanation for this instruction is obvious: since the motif of the third
quarter awaits its further development only in bars 36–37, in bars 34–35, where it still
represents a seed, it should be played more softly than the one that subsequently plays
the role of principal motif. This relationship should be given expression in a particu-
larly marked way at the third quarter of bar 35, where, above a ♭ of the principal motif,
e ♭1 of the counterpointing figure enters unprepared: one should strive all the more at
this point to attack a ♭ more strongly than e ♭1 and to support the tendency of this attack
by pausing slightly on the a ♭ to let the tone fittingly subside.
In performing the principal motif, one should not neglect to add somewhat to its
expression by tarrying a little at the third sixteenth of the first quarter, the neighbor-
ing tone C.
In bars 36–37 play the figure with progressive acceleration, and combine with
that, from the third quarter of bar 36 on, as though involuntarily, a crescendo as
well, so as to be able in bars 38–39 to execute the dim. together with a concomitant
slowing. Finally, bars 36–37 do after all signify only the perpetuation of a sonor-
ity, wherein only the perpetuation as such, rather than anything motivic, is pri-
mary. Just experiment and play at this point—and in general this applies to every
18
[That is, a tie.]
First Movement 45
analogous situation—the rhythm altogether strictly and you will immediately be

surprised by an expression of the figure that was by no means intended. But don’t
forget too to involve the left hand in both the production of the richer sonority in
bars 36–37 and the execution of the dimenuendo in bar 38.
In bar 39 the cresc. is introduced, according to Autograph A, only at the third quarter.
Seemingly a pianistic utopia, the crescendo here conceals the most inspired application
of psychology: as the sense of the crescendo here consists chiefly in indicating the con-
nection of the two octaves at the turn of bars 39–40, this indication can be effected only
by giving the second octave an attack that somehow not only permits but necessitates
a backward glance toward the first octave. The player can achieve such an attack, how-
ever, only by causing the second octave as though to hover in the wings of the imagi-
nation already as the first octave is played. This hovering-in-the-wings of the coming
attack is what Beethoven meant by the cresc. here. One need but imagine the cresc. at
the end of bar 39 as absent and as introduced only in bar 40 to see how forcefully the
master, with this apparently unrealistic but in reality altogether astute instruction, has
seen to the organic connection of the First Part to the Development. Try placing the
crescendo elsewhere and at every attempt you will be convinced that it can best stand
only where it was put by Beethoven. But what pianistic wisdom is expressed by such a
crescendo, and what resolve in pursuit of the organic!19
Bar
The Development, which enters in bar 40 and lasts merely 16 bars (up to bar 55), con- 40ff.
centrates exclusively on bars 1 and 2 of the first theme. However simple the plan of the
Development may appear, it nevertheless remains in equal measure unclear if one neglects
to recognize those factors which alone have brought order to the sixteen bars. The sketch,
p. 66, shows that a single stroke of inspiration secured for the master the whole complex of
bars 38–79 but for only a few minor details—thus the transitional bars, the Development
itself, and finally the Reprise (with all of its daring, as can be seen in bar 60ff.) as far as the
second theme! As though from the parapet of the tone e ♭3 in bar 38, Beethoven saw before
himself an uninterrupted descending line leading to the Reprise (c2):
Fig. 32
19
Especially in Chopin’s Etudes one encounters an analogous cresc., which, far from demanding a true grad-
ual crescendo from tone to tone, seeks rather to imbue only a single tone of the continuation with special
emphasis, of a kind that could not be so well elicited by a marcato sign >.
Granted, the definitive polishing of the line involved various deviances, such as
had to arise through the application of the motif in its various positions. But the mas-
ter found it markedly easier to arrive at the disposition of the Development in detail
once he had seen ahead as far as c2 in bar 56. The problem above all was to counter the
danger that—given the long path from c3 to c2 that had to be negotiated—lay pre-
cisely in the two-bar scope of the motif; for under all circumstances an eightfold rep-
etition of the same two bars (all possible modifications notwithstanding) would have
to have an effect decidedly monotonous and sequential. But was it possible in this
case, I ask, to avoid such a large number of repetitions in any other way than through
a compensatory broadening of the respective thematic entities? In fact, Beethoven
adapts the originally two-bar motif to a four-bar group, by which means he achieves
the inestimable advantage of being able to traverse the path with a merely fourfold
repetition. He proceeds in particular as follows: the first of the groups, bars 40–43, he
distinguishes not only by differentiating accompaniment but further, in the answer-
ing bars 42–43, by adhering strictly to the fourth so characteristic of the motif:
Fig. 33
In the ensuing groups, however, he observes, for the sake of variety, a different
procedure in that he assigns—more or less according to the following schema—the
initial bar-pairs 44-45, 48–49, 52–53 the task of demarcating the given key-area
through tonic and dominant, and the answering pairs 46–47, 50–51, 54–55 the
complementary task of modulation:
Fig. 34
Group
bar 1 2 3 4
Scale Degrees I - V - Modulation
of the Key to a Different Key
In this sense, then, bars 44–45 establish the key of F minor, after which bars
46–47 bring the modulation to D ♭ . This same key is then first of all retained by
means of tonic and dominant in the initial bars of the following group, bars 48–49,
upon which bars 50–51 modulate toward B ♭ minor; the same procedure is shown
finally by the last group, in which bars 52–53 continue the key just reached by
means of tonic and dominant, until the modulating bars 54–55 introduce the A ♭
major key. This construction shows clearly that it is really the modulating bars that
have provided the four-bar realization of the groups. That the fourth-interval of the
motif also had to be sacrificed for the sake of the threefold modulation—see, at the
First Movement 47
turn of bars 46–47 and 50–51, the second-steps f 2—g ♭2 and d ♭2—e ♭2 respectively—is
immediately comprehensible. But how beautiful and characteristic the effects that
we get in return: for it is precisely through the tones g ♭2 (bar 47), e ♭2 (bar 51) and
d ♭2 (bar 55) that the descending line moves (compare above, Fig. 32) which is the
soul of the Development! And what further indescribable magic issues from the
newly won passing tones through the fact that in each case, two bars later (bars
49, 53, and 57) exactly the same tones (g ♭2 , e ♭2 , and d ♭2) reoccur, introduced by the
ancestral fourth and in a harmonically different light! How differently the falling
third g ♭2—e ♭2 sounds in bar 47 than in bar 49, and only because in the first case,
bar 47, the restless light of modulation falls on it, while in the second, bar 49,
it is illuminated by the peaceful beam of a key now being reconfirmed! Exactly
the same applies to the falling thirds e ♭2—c2 and d ♭2—b ♭2 in bars 51–53 and 55–57
respectively.
The accompaniment in the left hand in bars 44–55 shows an opposition, as
though of two instruments: the first sixteenth in each case, as root (in the manner
of a pizzicato), belongs to a different instrument than the ensuing sixteenths, which
are played legato. This notation is an authentic one and is consistently retained by
the master in Autograph A except for oversights that creep in in bars 48, 51, and
55; in these bars Beethoven forgets to separate the first sixteenth from the follow-
ing ones. But no further inference may be drawn from this against the otherwise
consistent version, since in these bars he at least extends the slur only up to the last
sixteenth. In the earliest editions, the Original Edition, Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli,
which in respect to the separation of the first sixteenth from the others and to the
slurring serviceably adhere quite accurately to Autograph A, even this oversight on
the part of the master is faithfully reproduced. Only the Gesamtausgabe and the
Urtext finally, and rightly, eradicate it. But what should one say about Bülow, who
commits the ultimate act of barbarity and tastelessness by extending the slur all the
way to the first sixteenth of the following bar, so that not only is the contrast of the
two alternating voices (virtual instruments) obliterated, but the root moreover is
deprived of its piquancy. In this error he has been followed by Klindworth and, if
I understand correctly, by Riemann as well.
That Beethoven (as Autograph A shows), in bars 40, 44, etc., sometimes inte-
grates the fourth eighth note of the right hand with the following eighths but
sometimes writes it as a separate eighth, and further that he failed to proceed
altogether consistently in this manner in the corrections to the Revised Copy,
permits the immediate inference that the notation of this eighth was even for
him an unimportant matter.
In bar 51 my text reproduces the authentic notation of Autograph A, from
which it follows that the master took care to notate the tone of resolution of
the suspension, A, in the right hand as only an eighth, and specifically for the
purpose of avoiding, at the last sixteenth, a doubling of the leading tone, the
third of the dominant (a concern, incidentally, which later, in bar 53, because
of the changed situation, becomes unnecessary). Revised Copy and Original
Edition, Cappi, Cappi-Diabelli, etc., present on the other hand the following
notation:
Fig. 35
Seemingly identical to the original notation, this unnecessarily suggests a com-

pletely unnatural conception of the duration of a tone of resolution in general, since
in comparison to a half note of the suspension-tone (here b ♭1) a quarter note cer-
tainly seems more appropriate than an eighth for the tone of resolution (a1). Now
while the notation of Fig. 35 places the eighth note all too drastically before the
eye, Beethoven’s authentic notation, despite the fact that it too uses an eighth note,
nevertheless at least permits as a surrogate the conception of a full quarter-note
value, as is produced by the addition of the two eighth notes A in the right and left
hands.20 On a completely wrong track therefore is Klindworth too, who, with his
notation
Fig. 36
evokes a different sense altogether from the one Beethoven had in mind. For
while Beethoven leads b ♭1 to a1 and sets the tone f1, even still at the last eighth, as a
continuity-tone, Klindworth blurs the two voices together by having a1 end up at
the continuity-tone f1, and thus brings together two tones that are completely alien
to one another.
In performing the Development the player should above all follow the construc-
tion; he should accordingly avoid playing only in two times two bars instead of in
four-bar groups. All modulations should moreover be given appropriate expres-
sion, and, finally, the highest art in mode of attack should be used in particular to
20
[The last two sixteenths of the left hand count as an eighth note a, since the first of them is an accented pass-
ing tone. See Free Composition, §261, especially Fig. 125 and comment, and Counterpoint I, p. 194/295f.]
First Movement 49
color bars 47 and 49, 51 and 53, 55 and 57 differently—a demand that truly presup-
poses a manner of performance completely different from the one usual among the
virtuosos.
The crescendo of bar 40ff. should be played with an increasing fervor up to
the end of bar 43, so that the p of bar 44 is set off all the more wrenchingly as
though from a dark crescendo-cloud. The indication p in bar 44 must not be
misused for the purpose of letting the principal motif of the right hand recede
in relation to the accompanimental figures of the left; rather, one should on
the contrary strive only to play the principal motif of the right hand as inci-
sively as possible, just for the sake of the technical advantage of being able
to let the figures of the left hand oscillate deep in the shadow. The slightest
attenuation in the right hand here would have as an inevitable consequence
that, without express intention on the player’s part, the figures of the left hand
would automatically speak all the more loudly. But have no fear that letting the
right hand predominate could in any way impair the expression of the motif,
for even within the here recommended manner of playing, enough latitude will
be found to associate the most varied nuances of deep melancholia and tortur-
ous passion.
Greatest care should be devoted further to the separation, so difficult of execu-
tion from the piano-technical standpoint, of the first sixteenth from the ensuing
beamed groups. The fingering I have given may well lead the player most reliably to
the desired goal. As soon as the bass notes themselves (the respective first sixteenths)
have once been mastered, the task remaining is to see that they receive the shadings
they are due in consideration of the part they play in the action of the Development.
This, incidentally, is again a requirement that by far exceeds the limits of the usual
podium technique!
Particularly in bar 50 let the player scrupulously observe that the harmony in this
bar is as follows:
Fig. 37
From this it follows that the second sixteenth (A) of the left hand represents
a suspension of the augmented fifth, whose resolution strives for the sixth (B ♭);
but here the immediately following third sixteenth B ♭ is not the tone of resolution
itself, since this tone represents only a neighboring tone between the two sixteenths
a, and the actual resolution thus happens only at the fifth sixteenth. It is thus a mis-
take here to assume instead of two suspensions: でĺĺҷ, merely one suspension: 7—6.
The fingerings I have recommended emanate from correct interpretation of the
harmony.
Bülow comments on the performance of the Development as follows:
The nuancing specified by the composer, according to which each first bar is in
motionless piano, the second always somewhat fluctuating, is to be observed in
both hands. This by no means excludes a certain variation in tonal color in the
performance of the principal melody. The player should take as inspiration the
variety among the orchestral winds [p. 100, note a].
This comment, however, actually leads astray, for it arouses in the player the mis-
taken image of a construction according to which the content would allegedly be
organized into groups of two plus two bars. Bülow simply knew nothing of the
four-bar organization, nor that the second and fourth bars of any given group,
although both analogously manifest the marking , nevertheless
have basically different meanings. It would have been far more correct had Bülow
recommended to the player to take as inspiration not “the variety among the orches-
tral winds” but rather the construction—but, to be sure, the actual one. He is on
the mark, however, in his comment about the trills in bar 55—specifically, that both
must begin with the principal note.
Bar
56ff. In bar 56 the Reprise begins. The first thematic component lasts from bar 56
to bar 59. But we here encounter, with a new and extremely original effect, the
thirty-second-note figure from the modulating section (compare bar 12ff.) as
accompaniment in the service of the first theme. (In the sketches this ingenious
idea is captured in pencil on leaf 73.) This stroke signifies, then, nothing more
and nothing less than the rehabilitation of a figure seemingly suitable only to an
ephemeral purpose—thus, so to speak, a promotion in rank, from which then,
however, a far more significant light falls not only on the modulating section that
lies behind, but also on all of the ensuing sections in which, as we will see, the
figure is put to further use. Such compensatory fairness toward his motif, such
depth of the Beethovenian genius! Never does the master forsake even the least
of his motifs, and therein he truly resembles the Creator himself, who stands
by even the smallest of his creatures, and thus, by saving it from ostracism, even
elevates it!
Bar 60ff. At this point the path abruptly becomes different from what it had been in the
First Part, for here the second thematic component no longer appears immediately
First Movement 51
appended, but instead the first thematic component acquires a true consequent.21
The goal of this consequent, however, is to achieve, in a normal way along a modula-
tory path, a new key, so that from that vantage point, for the further purposes of
the Reprise, the principal key can again be gained. The master employs to this end a
modulation that, as widely customary, departs directly from the consequent of the
first theme itself and leads to the subdominant. Decisive for the move to the sub-
dominant is above all the fact that a more or less exact transposition of the modu-
lating section presented in the First Part has to lead the composer most simply and
securely back to the principal key.
In the sketch (leaf 66), the consequent phrase did first appear as follows:
Fig. 38
The definitive final version, however, proved able to form the connection to the sec-
ond thematic component with only one bar, namely bar 60.
The second thematic component, which begins in bar 63, stands, as a result of the Bar 63ff.
modulation just mentioned, in D-flat major. And precisely the independence of this
component, here so especially strongly underscored by the weight of a new key, con-
firms how correct it was even back in the First Part, at bar 5, to speak of not merely a
consequent, but already a second independent thematic component b.
Had the master now, from bar 63 on, simply transposed the analogous content from
the First Part, he would thereby, as noted earlier, have arrived at the second theme
in A ♭. But in this passage he was confronted, precisely because of the nature of the
thirty-second-note figure, with an altogether special difficulty, one whose cause lies in
the fact that by using it, if he wished to remain in D ♭, he would have had to end up
in absurdly high ranges. Beethoven resolves this conflict between motif and key, which
truly counts as a severe emergency, with the most brilliant psychological stroke as follows:
21
[See above, the discussion of bars 5–11 and note 2. Here in the Reprise, the d ♭2 of the theme’s fourth
bar—basically an upper neighbor to the initial c2 of the theme—resolves to c1 in the left hand of bar 60. The
latter tone becomes the beginning of a literal restatement of the first phrase that lasts up to the beginning of
its third bar. This is sufficient to show that these bars count as the authentic consequent, which was bypassed
in the exposition by means of a segue to what is now confirmed to have been (rather than a consequent in the
usual sense) a second thematic component. At the same time, however, several acts of palpable compression
occur that give the music a quality of impatience to move ahead: most obviously, the thirty-second-note
figure that belongs to the modulation is already superimposed. More important still, the melodic line in
the left hand is accompanied by upper thirds: it is as though the vertical third e ♭1 above c1 of bar 60 already
stood for the third c2—e ♭2 unfolded horizontally in theme’s first three bars. Finally, this coupling of melodic
strands a third apart brings about a surprisingly quick entry upon the scene of the tone G ♭ with its turn to
the subdominant, which occurred not until bar 9 of the exposition.]
No sooner has the second thematic component reached bar 66, that is, its own
fourth bar, than Beethoven first applies to D ♭ the technique of mixture, so as to
move by means of the D ♭-minor key, which at bar 67 he respells as C # minor, to E
major. (How beautifully in bars 66–69 the master has been “taught by need to pray
so well”!)22 This now is the key that finally enables him to use the thirty-second-note
figure in a more acceptable register.
Bar
70ff. Accordingly, at bar 70 the modulating section appears in E major. Regarding
the key-area as such, it could here (despite enharmonic revaluation) be taken as
III of the D ♭ -minor key. For when we consider that Beethoven ultimately finds
the way from E major back to A ♭ major, it is entirely natural to regard E major
(= F ♭ major) as the III of D ♭ minor, which then finally, by virtue of a reinter-
pretation, points to the VI of A ♭ and from there leads directly to the V of
♭
A major.
However much sheer technical necessity would alone have reliably enough
imbued the construction just depicted with verity and depth, the master goes a step
further to express and intensify that necessity in (if such be possible) a still far higher
and nobler manner (here we marvel once again at the unutterable miracle of the
Beethovenian genius!): with a pricelessly dissembling gesture he pretends, as though
theatrically, to be ignorant (as is, strictly speaking, completely impossible!) of the
real reasons that got him into the E-major key, and continues on in this very key
even where—and in just this stroke lies the nub of his dissembling gesture—the
second theme enters. He thus lets on, to express the matter in generally under-
standable terms, that he had intended the E-major key for purposes of the Reprise
from the outset; and by cloaking an unwanted key in the trappings of a desired
one—precisely by feigning, and moreover at a point so decisive as the second theme
in the Reprise—, he succeeds in imbuing it all the more with the character of an
organically magnified necessity!23 All the more compelling, then, the reemergence
at bar 77 from the dissimulation and the ultimate attainment of the A ♭-major key,
which alone, as is demonstrated just here, represents the key really sought in the
first place.
In bar 75 at the third quarter (right and left hands), the coming register of the
second theme is preempted in that the right hand falls by an octave while at the
22
[According to a German saying, Not lehrt beten— “Need teaches us to pray”—Schenker means to say that
Beethoven got into “difficulty” when he made his way into the key of D ♭ , but then extricated himself (with
the aid of a bit of prayer)—through the inflection to minor and the easy move from there to E (= F ♭) major.]
23
A similar example is found in the master’s violin sonata Op. 47 (Kreutzer Sonata), first movement, at the
beginning of the Reprise, where at first, in place of the principal key, A minor, the key of the subdominant,
D minor, appears, in fact to give the impression that it was itself the intended one; but as early as the conse-
quent of the first theme D minor gives way to the principal key.
First Movement 53
same time the left hand rises by an octave. In a free adaptation of the familiar
harmonic concept of anticipation, let us apply the term “registral anticipa-
tion” to such a preemption, and compare Op. 109, Variation IV, bar 6, and
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, p. 114/106. The reason for the anticipation in
the present passage is clear: the circumstance that in bar 76 the second theme
should and must begin would have cast on the abrupt fall and rise of the right
and left hands commencing with the first quarter of this very bar the harsh
light of a coercion that would appear all too blatant and that, as such, would
have been disconcerting.
It is all the more saddening to see how even the allegedly leading editors ignore
and disfigure the master’s astute and beautiful anticipation, only because they
lack the musical aptitude merely to be able to hear the poor effect of the version
Beethoven has expressly avoided.
Thus Bülow, for example, writes:
The odd descent at the fifth eighth note of the energetically rising figure as
shown by the original edition can—like a few analogous incongruities in
Op. 111—be explained by a purely extraneous circumstance. At the time
of composition of these last piano sonatas the master owned an instrument
A still more drastic example of feigning for purposes of synthesis occurs in Brahms’s String Quartet
Op. 67 at the connection of the second and third themes:
Fig. 39
The perfect authentic cadence as used at this point to conclude the second theme—see above, the
bars before the first 2/4 indication—fundamentally contradicts an organic connection of the second
theme to the third. Now Brahms suddenly, in the pretense of a whim, throws a completely new motif
on top of the cadence, so conducive to insularity, of the second theme. And in fact the whim of dis-
simulation is all the more credibly confirmed as such in that he then immediately, at the 6/8, again cites
the concluding formula of the second theme. But in the continuation, Brahms refers back, as it were, to
the initial occurrence of the new motif, and by granting it the parallelism that is due, simply proceeds
with it alone in the capacity of second theme.
provided him by the London factory of Broadwood, whose range extended

from C1 to c4, and thus compensated the extension of the low register in com-
parison to the Viennese instruments by a considerable encumbrance of the
high. Now it is certainly not to be denied that in the hands of this match-
lessly creative master any attenuation of the resources at his disposal became a
source of new characteristic beauties and delicacies; but sometimes we encoun-
ter cases in which such an obstacle—recently removed thanks to mechanical
improvements—exerted a disruptive and deflective influence on the poetic
intent. Correct discernment in such cases is precisely the task of critical piety.
[P. 102, note b.]
This time, however, it is not at all a question of “critical piety,” but first and
foremost of true understanding as the first precondition of genuine piety. So the
only heartening thing about Bülow’s remarks is that, in contrast to the usual
dubious custom, they do not make the master’s “deafness” the scapegoat that has
to stand as “proof ” against the anticipation. (Klindworth uncritically accepts
the revision proposed by Bülow on the basis of such inadequate hearing.)
Riemann too follows Bülow in his score, but comments in a footnote:
In the original, the last two eighths stand an octave lower, because—compare
Bülow’s comment on this passage—Beethoven’s keyboard extended only
to c4 . Even if it appears doubtless that Beethoven would have written as above
had c #4 been available to him, it cannot be denied that here—through the
simultaneous convergence of the hands into the middle register—Beethoven
had in mind an effect whose negation is perhaps not unproblematical.
Such a comedy of errors and doubts: Beethoven’s anticipation is for Riemann only

an “effect”—fine, except that he understands nothing of the anticipation and is
therefore unskeptical of the “effect.” But since he says in the same sentence that
the “negation” of the “effect” is “perhaps not unproblematical,” he does seem pos-
sibly to have some notion of the anticipation, and therefore questions the valid-
ity of Bülow’s revision. But observe: although the “negation” is, as Riemann says,
“perhaps not unproblematical,” in the end he nevertheless gullibly falsifies—and
that is a deed, no longer a footnote!—the Beethoven text by Bülow’s revision. Such
a grotesque picture: he distrusts the indisputable Beethoven, because he doesn’t
distrust the disputable Bülow! But the joke goes still further, because it appears
“doubtless” to him “that Beethoven would have written as above had c #4 been
available to him.” Thus the plucky editor arrives at the coy result that he doubts
First Movement 55
precisely what he doesn’t question, and vice versa doesn’t question what he doubts!
Sooner or later everybody will have to believe that such a conclusion could be
reached only by one who lacks precisely the quality that alone makes the artist,
and who as a result can never be a proper theorist, writer of history, or editor. For
only because Riemann is no artist, he failed to recognize that Beethoven would
never have written c #4 in this passage, because in the art of composition there are
still other, stronger reasons under certain circumstances not to take something
even though one can take it. And, again, only because what is truly artistic escapes
him could he so disfigure bar 75, as shown in the following picture:
Fig. 40
Thus in such a simple situation Riemann fails to recognize the same content that
he himself reproduced correctly in bar 19. Was it only an accident in that case? Is it
accidental here as well? Just let an actor so disfigure a word in public and I predict
for him: rotten eggs! But what all isn’t possible in music given the enormous stupid-
ity of musicians and of the public!
The performance of the Reprise should be shaped as follows in the sections
depicted above. The playing of the principal motif in bars 56–57 should be some-
what more calm than that of the Development that precedes, and this by no
means as any kind of craven concession to the accompanying thirty-second-note
figure, but for reasons of the inherent difference between the situations: how
differently the motif was illuminated in the Development, and how different
its situation has become here at the beginning of the Reprise! Thus, in order
to express this difference, one should use pacing too as a medium of contrast,
and accordingly conceive the tempo at bar 56ff. as more relaxed than that of the
Development.
This particular instruction, incidentally, can also be elevated to the rank of a
general principle: when faced with the task in similar situations of expressing just
their intrinsic differentiations, one should by no means leave it up to compositional
factors alone (for example, the differing keys) to bring out the difference of effect;
one should rather strive to help out with the manner of performance as well, in
particular by also treating pacing differently, indeed as commensurate to the inner
differentiations.
In bar 60ff. take care above all that the crescendo be projected only by means of
the first quarters of the bars as carriers of the rising line:
Fig. 41
and moderate somewhat, by comparison, all other content of the left hand in order
to avoid being shunted onto a sidetrack. To counter the danger that the crescendo
might during its course tend to pale in effect, one should try to provide it new nour-
ishment by having the right hand begin a real crescendo only in bar 61, and this only
after the second quarter.
In bar 62 the figure of the right hand basically stands for the following one:
Fig. 42
Accordingly, place stronger pressure only on the tones of the first quarter; then
moderate it on the following quarters, and, finally, hold back a little at the last four
thirty-seconds. In bar 65 we find the cresc. indication in a position where, according
to common sensibilities, a diminuendo would more probably be expected; that this
indication nevertheless stands at the correct point is attested not only by the authen-
tic marking in Autograph A, but also by the master’s insertion, which he entered by
hand—in most precise agreement with Autograph A—in the Revised Copy (where
it was completely missing).
The figures of bar 69 are derived from the following ornaments:
Fig. 43a
Bülow misses this, however, as he writes: “The first half of this figure:

Fig. 43b
First Movement 57
must not be taken literally, mathematically; it should be played like a triplet, or

the whole figure like a quintuplet” (p. 101, note b). In reply it should be said that
the “liberty” desired and recommended by Bülow has here indeed been precisely
composed out in an indisputable manner by the master himself, so that one should
play it exactly as set down by him personally (compare bar 69 with Fig. 43a), and
not in any other way. But this is not to say that Beethoven’s written-out liberty
excludes and enjoins any additional one (within the scope of which, for example,
a retardation of the last three sixteenths is not only possible but urgently to be
recommended); only that such a liberty must never deteriorate into that “liberty”
suggested by Bülow, since all components of the right hand must rather be aligned
exactly with those of the left.
In performing bar 70, follow the same guidelines as in bar 12, and in bar
75, as in bar 19, pay special attention to the motif of the left hand. Execute the
registral anticipation in bar 75 as such in full artistic consciousness, and then
play bars 76–77 in the spirit of the above depicted compositional feigning as a
content intended only for appearances. The recapture of the A ♭ key demands
an extremely open tone and most affirmative expression, and how very appar-
ently even the master himself sensed the exit from the feigning E-major key as
an independent and special step in the action is shown best by the sketches, in
which he entered (p. 67, system 4) as a happy inspiration merely the following
little note-clump:
Fig. 44
Now the second theme can begin in A ♭ and the Reprise continue its journey by
Bar
79ff.
analogy with the First Part. Bars 81–82 bring once again a new variant in compari-
son to bars 22–23 (sketch-leaf 71).
In bar 89 at the first sixteenth of the left hand Beethoven’s own notation presents
a difficult, unsolvable puzzle, as he writes in Autograph A the following:
Fig. 45
It is hardly to be assumed, however, that the master would have wanted, just for
reasons of variety, to compromise so severely the effect of the bass tone C. I therefore
consider Beethoven’s notation to be an oversight, which, incidentally, is only too

understandable when one considers that here he had to write the tones in question
so many times in the course of bars 87–89. Beethoven’s notation is found also in
the Revised Copy, Original Edition, Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli. Among the more
recent editions only the Gesamtausgabe and Conservatory Edition have used it,
while the Urtext and all others write merely:
Fig. 46
Bar
97ff. Bar 97 strikes out on the path to the Coda that is joined to the Reprise as com-
pleted in bar 96. The scale-degree succession II&һ—V, twice presented, gives an
opportunity for unfolding of a very expressive locution dominated by the motif of
bars 95–96. Here too one must, for the sake of better understanding, apprehend the
melodic flow first of all in its basic form:24
Fig. 47
Meanwhile the rhythmic pattern25 finds its continuation in bars 97–99 as well,
and at last intensifies in the cadence of bars 100–104 to a syncopated rhythm, in
which the syncope resolutions provide occasion for most eloquent anticipations.
The scale-degree progression of the cadence is as follows:
bars: 100 ——101 —— 102 —— 103 —— 104 —— 105

♮
scale degrees: V —— I —— III 3 —— VI —— V —— I
The slur articulation of bars 97–100 as it appears in Autograph A leaves no

room for uncertainty. (Strangely, here even the Original Edition, Cappi, and
Cappi-Diabelli are badly mistaken.)
A glance at the original form of bars 100–104, which turns up in the sketches on
p. 73, is of great interest: neither the cadential formula nor the soprano voice is in any
way definitely expressed, but one does see already emerging from the master’s vision
24
[For Schenker’s 1925 representation of bars 92 to the end (which may be taken as subsuming and refining the
present discussion), see the appendix, Fig. 178.]
25
[The quarter-note/half-note pattern.]
First Movement 59
a first, inexpressibly touching, syncopation-stammer. . . . Incidentally, Beethoven

writes in Autograph A at first as follows:
Fig. 48
But, as he continues writing, he immediately finds the shortened, definitive

version.
As to the performance of this part, let the following be noted. After an accelera-
tion is begun at the second quarter of bar 95 (similarly to bar 36, and for the same
reasons), the melodic thread of bar 97ff. should be played with exceeding warmth,
even passion. The chords of the left hand should by all means be called upon to par-
ticipate in the crescendo, and exactly enough passion should be built up so that the
subtraction brought about by the diminuendo in bar 100ff. will be effective.
In bar 101 metric strictness should be sacrificed and the second eighth delayed
slightly; this is in fact all the more necessary here, as only through such recourse to
deception can the first syncope be clearly demarcated as a syncope. Just try to keep
that second eighth metrically strict as well and the impression will inevitably take
root that the second eighth had appeared earlier, thus in the stronger position as the
first eighth; or, put differently: as though no syncope at all had been played. This
hesitation, to be sure, then needs the reciprocation of an immediate acceleration from
the second eighth to the half note of the same bar. In the course of the ensuing bars
102, 103, and 104, gradually increase the distance between each second eighth- and
the following half note, and let this distance be greatest (as is obvious) in bar 104;
this produces the effect of a ritenuto, which, however, actually provides only the final
compensation for the acceleration that has been accumulating. In performing the
anticipation, daring players who are advanced enough to be able to listen carefully
to their playing, and able also to evaluate and differentiate from one another the
instruments on which they perform, may try the audacious expedient of treating the
pedaling as follows:
Fig. 49
Only with such a pedaling, which runs completely counter to the normal manner,
will it be possible to render the anticipation as well in a highly poetic fashion.
Bar
105ff. At the head of the Coda, which begins in this bar, the thirty-second-note figure
reoccurs; it thus renders its service for the fourth time in the course of the move-
ment. Its assignment here in the Coda is to provide cadential confirmations in the
principal key.
Concerning the figuration in bars 109 and 110—certainly one of the most diffi-
cult issues in the text—Autograph A leaves no room for doubt, and in perfect agree-
ment with it are the Revised Copy, the Original Edition, Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli.
Bülow thus appears to have been the first not only to doubt the authentic version
but also, arbitrarily, to put the following version into print:
Fig. 50
He comments in a footnote: “In this as in the following bar the earlier editions

have variant figurations for which no comprehensible reason can be found” (p. 104,
note c). The unspeakable crudity of this “correction” can best and most quickly be
First Movement 61
understood by considering the reason for the authentic version. As the following
précis of the two harmonies at the turn of bars 108–109 shows:
Fig. 51
the third (B ♭) and diminished fifth (D ♭) of the first ұ–chord find, in keeping with
the principle of proper voice leading, their common resolution to c2 of the following
triad. But this voice leading is expressed still more clearly by the figuration than by
the précis; for while the précis allows the two C’s to be perceived only as a unison,
the figuration as such makes it possible for us to relate the first thirty-second c2
[of bar 109] exclusively to the first thirty-second b ♭1 [of bar 108, last quarter], but
the third thirty-second c2 to the third thirty-second d ♭2 , so that the first and third
thirty-seconds of the first quarter in bar 109 have, despite the same pitch-level,
demonstrably different origins. According to Bülow’s version the voices proceed in
a completely different way, indeed as follows:
Fig. 52
From this it follows that the second thirty-second of the triad, a ♭2 , brought about
in this way, does on the one hand actually come from the second thirty-second e ♭
of the ұ–chord, but must on the other hand nevertheless create the delusion that
it came from the fifth thirty-second b ♭2—a delusion unfortunately of the worst
kind, as in bar 109 basically only the fifth thirty-second c3 alone (and not a ♭2) is
to be considered the true successor of the thirty-second b ♭2 . What inexcusably
slovenly offenses against a naturally good voice leading! And if all of these bad,
contradictory effects failed, because of bad hearing, to come to Bülow’s attention,
one can understand why, as he himself admits, he could find no “comprehensible
reason” in Beethoven’s voice leading and went so far as expressly to substitute for it
a ridiculous simplification—who would deny that his version is simpler and more
“comprehensible”?
Concerning the further course of the harmonies in bar 109ff., Beethoven’s figura-
tion expresses the following layout:
Fig. 53
From this, again, it follows that here the thirty-second-note figuration now
unleashes a polyphony in the narrower sense of the word—as happens particu-
larly in acknowledgment of the cadence—in that it manifests in comparison to
the earlier arpeggiations already an increase in truly individual voice leading.
And again, as we see clearly, it is postulates of proper voice leading that neces-
sitate the third c3 —e ♭3 at the third quarter of bar 110. Thus I repeat only that
Autograph A explicitly notates the thirds at this point as well, and observe
also that Beethoven goes a step further by writing in the margin of Autograph
A expressly in letters:
c c
e e.
(N.B.: It should be explained that here e stands for e ♭ , as Beethoven, when designat-
ing the tones with letters, did not usually include the accidentals.) But how Bülow
dealt with Beethoven’s authentic version of this passage has already been shown
above, and thus it is now left to the reader himself to ascertain, in consideration of
the reasons I have just cited for the authentic version, the poor effects of Bülow’s
“improvements.”
Our epoch would not have become the decadent one that it is had not pre-
cisely that which was impossible for the masters, but all the more “compre-
hensible” for Bülow, come into vogue. Thus in fact we find in Klindworth,
Riemann, Peters, Reinecke, etc., one or another sign of discipleship, which
here, however, is finally discredited once and for all by the master’s authentic
ruling.
But all of the criticism here directed against Bülow will not be fully pro-
ductive for the reader unless he has the unflinching courage himself to draw
First Movement 63
from it the necessary conclusions. Let him therefore ponder the following
questions:
How could Bülow’s very modest musical aptitude ever have lent him so much
authority and eminence? And further:
Since Bülow could not be “greater” than he actually was, how much smaller even
than he must those contemporaries have been who revered him as an authority?
And finally, the reader should ask:
What should we think of all those who—to use Brahms’s words—are not even “a
capellmeister” like Bülow? What of all the so-called musical amateurs, critics, and
so forth?
If the reader loves truth, he will find the most depressing answers to all these
questions, nevertheless to arrive finally at the understanding that nothing in the
world is so depressing that no comfort can be drawn from understanding of the
truth, and a comfort all the greater the more unflinching the knowledge. Thus
I have no doubt that the reader will finally open his eyes and in the end acknowl-
edge the following.
If the distance from a Bülow to a Beethoven is really so great, it is clear that of the
musicians who try honorably to earn their living as musicians, only the very fewest
deserve even to be called “musicians” in the true sense of the word. And it is still
clearer that many so-called critics feign a relationship to art, with which they have
no common ground, only through the arts of deception. All must behave as though
they knew everything, and laid claim to the confidence of the public only on the
basis of allegedly solid knowledge and ability. But once a genuine knowledge threat-
ens to expose their pseudo-knowledge, they have to counter by discrediting and
mocking true knowledge in its own right, in order then, finally, despite their dis-
crediting of “knowledge,” once again to masquerade their own pseudo-knowledge
with all the more deceitful means as—a true knowledge. What a tangled web of
fraudulence!
If the reader will unflinchingly acknowledge all of this, he will finally also find the
reason that critics threatened by a truth must further become guilty of a cowardly
misdeed, one no longer recognized or permitted by anybody outside the journalistic
profession—I mean the cowardice of silence, which is all the more pitiful as the crit-
ics know only too well that not even silence can be of use and avail to them. For in
the end truth will stride triumphant over them and finally bury them, the eternally
warping, eternally nameless ones, in a shame all the greater and more nameless!
The final stage of the Coda, in which end and beginning of the movement
appear as though in competition with each other, is formed in an extremely
poetic manner. Thus, by dint of an immanent formal law, which as such needs no
extensive justification, in bar 111 first the cadential motif of bars 31–32 appears in
the right hand:
Fig. 54
It yields, however, in the next bar, bar 112, to the motif from the first bar (in the
left hand, and in the position of the fifth!). But once more, in bar 113, the caden-
tial motif takes over, until finally in bar 114 the primary motif has the last word,
although in a version that involves not only bar 1 but rather, in a striking way, the
sum of bars 1–2 compressed within the space of a single bar:
Fig. 55
Granted, there is no longer any trace of that driving force that formerly pushed
past d ♭2 to e ♭2 (in bar 3), and thus from d ♭2 the line then immediately falls back again
to the tone c2—precisely the tone that stood at the beginning of the content!
Concerning bar 111ff. the sketches (p. 71) include the following entry:
Fig. 56
This version does betray its origin more clearly than the definitive one, which
already presents a variation; in both versions, however, the tones that were formerly
sundered by a rest at last find long-sought fulfillment of their desire for union. What
a caring father Beethoven was to his motifs!
But the sketches (leaf 71) provide still more information concerning the
final bars:
Fig. 57
The concatenation of the two f igures 56 and 57 provides the first formulation
of the cadential gesture. As we see, the cadence is here too tersely conceived;
First Movement 65
and in fact the master concerns himself still even in Autograph A with the task
of expanding it. Here the two attempts that preceded the definitive version:
Fig. 58
Concerning performance of the Coda, one should attend first to the mas-
ter’s leggiermente marking, then give eloquent expression with all the greater
conviction to the newly nascent polyphony in bars 109–110. The p in bar 111 is
to be treated according to the principle that I have repeatedly stated in relation
to similar p-passages: the motif of the right hand here is not to be played in a
tonally impoverished way, but rather with ardor of tone and expression. Do not
fail also to bring out the inner voice in a sonorous way, in the course of which
one must be mindful at this point especially of the circumstance that precisely
in the inner voice the rising line of the right hand is continued! It is obvious
that in bar 112 the principal motif in the left hand must predominate. In bar
115 the fingering I have provided may aid in achieving the effect sought by the
composer.
Second Movement
Molto Allegro
The second movement is a three-part piece of the form scherzo with trio. The first
part up to bar 40 stands in F minor, and the trio from bar 41 to bar 95 in D ♭ major, after
which the first part returns and closes with a Coda.1
Bar 1ff. The first part is of binary internal organization, with the two parts repeated, which
Beethoven specifies merely with repeat signs. Departing from the tonic, the harmonies
reach the dominant at bar 4; then, in the next four bars, a new motif is constructed upon
this dominant. It is not appropriate to speak already in the aforementioned bars 5–8 of
a C-major key, as one surely can never modulate in such a manner from F minor to C
major. For even if we were to speak here of an independent key, we could, in consideration
of the F-minor key, think first of all exclusively of C minor, in which we would then have
to assume—as very often happens—simply a chromaticization of the third, which then
brings us again to F minor; or, in rarer cases, a modal mixture.2 The only other possible
choice would be to consider the content of bars 5–8 a composing out of the V ♮3.
1
[For Schenker’s comprehensive 1925 reading of this movement, see, in the Appendix, Fig. 179. The
voice-leading sketch provided there is authoritative by the standard of Schenker’s mature analytic practice.]
2
A case that is almost completely identical is found in Chopin’s altogether brilliant Mazurka in B ♭ minor,
Op. 24, No. 4:
66
Second Movement 67
That the rhythmic relationships here, despite their special and noteworthy
appearance, are in fact by no means unusual can be confirmed by anybody on
the basis of personal experience; for how often do we not encounter even a con-
cluding tonic on a weak beat. In bars 9ff. the eight-bar construction is con-
tinued: bars 9–16, 17–24, 25–32, until finally, in conclusion, a seven-bar group
appears, bars 33–39, which arrives at its sevenfold organization by appending to
the less normal threefold grouping of bars (bars 33–35) the normal one of four
bars. Thus bar 40 is a strong first bar, to which again a strong first bar, serving
almost as a compensatory eighth bar, is immediately adjoined at the repetition,
or the secunda volta.
Fig. 59
Here too it is not at all correct to speak of a succession B ♭ minor—F major, but only of a chromatic
alteration of the third of the minor triad on F (A instead of A ♭ , which effects the re-modulation from
F minor to B b minor (V ♮3—I), if not still more simply just of a composed-out V. (Compare further, for
example, Chopin: Etude in A Minor, Op. 10, No. 2, or Op. 25, No. 11, etc.)
The distinction in question here is most reliably to be understood from the technique of fugue,
which now as ever is fundamental for decisions on such a matter of key. When J. S. Bach, for exam-
ple, constructs the comes in the E-minor fugue of the first volume of his Well-Tempered Clavier as
follows:
Fig. 60
the chromatic tone A # in bar 3 of this example is to be understood only thus: the comes modulates,
simply by virtue of the construction of the dux, from B minor to F # minor, except that through
abbreviation of two originally independent acts into a single one, here the (implicit) minor third
of the tonic, A in F # —A—C # , is immediately chromaticized to A # , by which means a V 3 is gained
#
for the purpose of the re-modulation to B minor. But when Riemann in his Katechismus der
Fugenkomposition writes explicitly on p. 75: “comes (B minor moving to F # major),” I immediately
call this the most blatant ignorance in the matter of tonality. With such a deficiency of true artis-
tic theory Riemann presumes to analyze the Bach masterwork and moreover “Riemannizes” even
Bach’s text, of which, as I will show more exactly, he understands neither “shell” nor “substance.”
[See p. 12.]
In bars 9–16 a modulation to A ♭ major is carried out by the following scale

degrees:3
Fig. 61
The ensuing group of bars at first remains in this key, until in bar 24 a
re-modulation to F minor occurs. The scale-degree progression of bars 21–24 is
the following:
Fig. 62
And of bars 29–32, this:

Fig. 63
The sketch pages (leaf 74) show that Beethoven snatched the scherzo in a single
sweep. One can still see the first storm of inspiration rage through the staves. . . .
Immediately clear to him was the innovative construction of the Coda, by virtue of
which the final bar of the main body, bar 143, itself appears only as a strong bar, and
the chords in half notes thus each occur only in weak bars. This very interconnec-
tion then retrospectively confirms as well the interpretation of bar 40 as a strong
bar (see above) and the inference of the grouping of bars 33–39 as a sum of three
plus four bars.
The composer had some trouble with bar 12, where originally, as Autograph
A shows, he wrote f 2 as a half note; but he corrected this version already in
Autograph A, and both the Revised Copy and the earliest editions concur with
the revision. Autograph A, however, affords a surprising spectacle at the bar-triplet,
bars 33–35: one sees how Beethoven, beneath his own indication of ritardando
and the bar-triplet, now writes the note-heads as well in what might be called an
3
[Here especially the supplementary consultation recommended in note 1 is imperative. It reveals, in addition
to much else, that the “scale degrees” shown in Fig. 61 are not all equal: some of them—most conspicuously
the first of the I’s—are by-products of voice leading.]
Second Movement 69
optical ritardando, thus lengthening on paper the space in which the bar-triplet is
to repose—such overpowering witness for the intensity of the master’s feeling! Just
as the autographs are altogether so very instructive precisely because they reproduce
even purely optically, in a matchlessly convincing way, the master’s conception and
virtually even his piano playing as well.
The story of the prima volta, bar 40, as I shall relate it with reference to Autograph
A, is downright amusing (but in another respect, it must be granted, too tragic for
a scherzo product):
Specifically, at the prima volta the master had written in Autograph A only
one bar, just the one which in my numbering is bar 40; but since at the repetition
the first chord of bar 9 was not to be re-attacked, Beethoven simply added the
necessary ties in bar 40. Already at that time, however, engravers and proofread-
ers may have indicated that such a notation carried with it the danger that in the
repetition the player, despite ties in bar 40, could nevertheless re-attack the first
chord of bar 9. (Thus—how laughable!—the engravers and proofreaders then
became, precisely where it was unnecessary, more cautious than the master him-
self, whose precaution otherwise, in more urgent circumstances, they were not
able even to grasp.) Apparently Beethoven was asked repeatedly how the prima
volta was to be handled in print, and, as several pages of Autograph A (pages 18,
22, and 27) demonstrate—one sees there no fewer than four forms of the prima
volta alongside amplifications in the margin using notes and letters—, obviously
the master again and again held fast to the position he had taken from the begin-
ning. In the dilemma of whether he could rely on the player to understand the
meaning of the ligature or whether he should assume only a lower degree of intel-
ligence and thus, as a precaution, include bar 9 as well in the prima volta, in this
dilemma, I say, Beethoven decided time and again only for reliance on the player.
There was in addition the still more important consideration that purely musical
reasons were sufficient to rule out any other version of the optical representa-
tion of the prima volta. In fact, the Revised Copy, Original Edition, Cappi, and
Cappi-Diabelli preserve the authentic version. Unfortunately, however, later this
was to change. For the later editors and engravers simply would not be dissuaded
from presenting explicitly in the text as well (compare Gesamtausgabe, Urtext,
and all remaining editions) that which they, for once, understood perfectly. And
as they unfortunately did not understand so perfectly how much damage they
inflicted on this very content with their “improvement,” they let their own “pre-
caution” carry the day.
But then the harmful consequences began to intrude all the more; for it was not
merely that this new picture had a disorienting effect in the purely external sense.
Unfortunately, all too often it led performers or editors—who assumed that this
was the master’s authentic version—to arrive at the horrible idea of interpreting bar
1 and bar 9 as—say—only “upbeats”! Isn’t the story really hilarious? And isn’t it all a
result of the fact that the editors, in their infinite vanity, couldn’t keep to themselves
what they knew about a “tie”. . . ?
On the performance of the first part, the following comments: in order to
bring out the sf in bar 8, one must keep bar 7, for all that it is certainly a strong
bar, still somewhat in the shadow; proceed exactly the same way in the next
bar-group, where the pressure again accrues only to bars 10, 12, and 14. But what-
ever degree of pressure and shadow you may apply, never forget to give expression
also to the norm of bar-rhythm, according to which bars 1, 5, 9, 17, 21, 25, 29, 33,
36, and 40 absolutely function only as strong bars. In the bar-group 17–32 one
must allow only those quarter notes to emerge which present the spelling out of
the A ♭-major and the F-minor triads respectively, and provide them with the fol-
lowing shadings:
Fig. 64
Only in this way will the intervening beats be relieved of all weightiness,
and at the same time an all the more momentous import be conferred on
the bar-group; in particular at bars 29–32 one gains the further advantage,
through the diminuendo at bar 27, of obviating the need for a ritenuto at
bars 31–32.
Bars
41ff. The octave leap of the right hand in bar 40 provides the impetus for the motif
of the left in bar 41. With this bar begins an eight-bar group that is so constructed
that its eighth (final) bar, bar 48, in an unusual fashion repeats bar 40 and
assumes the latter’s evocative role. This first bar-group is now succeeded by six
additional groups that, with the exception of the single bar-triplet of bars 73–75,
and leaving aside the obligatory transposition, show in all essential respects the
same construction as the first: each successive group comprises eight bars, and
precisely in each respective eighth bar (bars 48, 56, 64, 72, 83) the motoric force
is renewed of that leap which in turn immediately provokes the imitation by
the bass in the next bar, the latter now becoming in each case the first bar of the
ensuing eight-bar group.
No less innovative than the construction of the whole, however, is the con-
struction of the eighth-note figure in its detail, which rests on enormously artistic
Second Movement 71
intertwinings of neighboring and passing tones. As Autograph A demonstrates,

even the master himself was not immediately equal to the difficulty of his own fig-
ure, so that it cost him an altogether special output of effort just to come to terms
at all with bars 69–72. If this alone were not surely reason enough to spark general
interest in the difficult figure, there is the further, still more decisive, fact that only
understanding of the construction points the way at the same time to the correct
fingering, without which performance of the difficult figure remains, if not alto-
gether impossible, at least hostage to all perils of accident. Permit me, therefore, to
elucidate the figure in more detail here.
The most cursory glance at the model of bars 41–48 reveals a falling line that is
composed out in bars 41–44 in the sense of the major triad on D ♭ , and in bars 45–47
in the sense of a dominant-seventh chord, which latter is in turn followed again by
the triad:
Fig. 65
While it is easy enough to recognize that from the perspective of the harmonies
composed out in each case the tones e ♭3 in bar 41, c3 and b ♭2 in bar 42, g ♭2 in bar 44,
and similarly f 2 in bar 45, d ♭2 in bar 46, and b ♭2 in bar 47 present themselves simply
as passing tones, the effort their procurement cost the composer himself was all the
greater.
In bar 41 the last eighth d ♭3, as the harmonic tone next coming due, is supplied
with two neighboring tones
Fig. 66
of which the second, e ♭2 , as we see, simultaneously takes on the character of a genu-

ine passing tone. In this way, then, a neighboring-tone construction, seemingly the
main intention, helps to realize the passing tone that proves later to be the only
thing actually sought.
It was still more difficult, however, to achieve the passing tones in the next
fourth-space, d ♭3—a ♭2 , where the two possible passing tones (see Counterpoint I,
p. 239/312) were all the more necessary as the falling line did need to be presented
without hiatus. In this uncommonly difficult situation Beethoven has recourse to
the following expedient: he turns the last eighth note of bar 41, d ♭3, as though into
the first of a new tone-group similarly comprising four tones, so as now to be able to
continue the line by applying the earlier constructional principle to produce analo-
gous results. Thus again with a cloaking of two neighboring tones (see Fig. 67), the
stretch from d ♭3 to b ♭2 is negotiated:
Fig. 67
where the third eighth, b ♭2 , appears as the last of the group, but c3, despite its
neighboring-tone character, simultaneously appears as a passing tone.
At this point all would be in good order but for the fact that the said b ♭2 , from
the perspective of the fourth-space—or, to say the same thing differently, from the
perspective of the triad D ♭—F—A ♭—, has unfortunately taken on the character of
a mere passing tone, of precisely the second of the two passing tones possible within
the space of the fourth. Through continuation of the technique just described of
interlinking, it would indeed be possible, as the following illustration shows:
Fig. 68
to lead the passing tone b ♭2 as well immediately to the next harmonic tone a ♭2 .
But just this illustration shows too that the line, as a result of the fourth-leaps,
would have reached d ♭2 within the space of only four bars—a result that for
other reasons would again have been unwanted by the master. When one con-
siders the fact that Beethoven’s principal task was to interpose between f 3 of the
first eighth of bar 41 and f 1 of the first quarter in bar 48 the neighboring G ♭ at
the first eighth of bar 45—a plan that, as we will shortly see, is to be applied
(with modifications) in all subsequent groups—one is able to understand why
before the arrival of the g ♭2 he could not let the line descend any lower than f 2 .
Second Movement 73
In order now to impede the headlong plunge of the line, he hit upon the idea of
letting only bars 43–44 provide the answer to bars 41–42 in a narrower sense,
and of establishing the parallelism of bars 41 and 43. Thus, in a stroke of genius,
he introduces the tone G as the last eighth of bar 42, so that the quality of point-
ing to A ♭ intrinsic to it by virtue of its character as a lower neighboring tone will
first of all delineate the sphere of the tone a ♭2 and make perfectly clear under
all circumstances that it is a ♭2 alone whose arrival is to be anticipated. And in
fact g 2 at this point functions all the more surely in the desired way as a ♭2 has
already sounded at the first eighth of bar 42. Thus in bar 42 everything points
to a ♭2 , for all that this tone itself does not actually occur as the final goal of the
tone-group:
Fig. 69
But by resuming in bar 43 the construction of bar 41 and beginning that con-
struction with the passing tone b ♭2 , the master finally reaches a ♭2 only at the third
eighth, although a ♭2 fundamentally would, according to the foregoing, already have
dominated bar 42 completely:
Fig. 70
Granted, this solution then left little tonal material to work with in moving from
♭
a to f 2 . Beethoven therefore is obliged here to abandon the fourth-leaps so typical
2
of the construction, and uses instead a different formation, which could best be
understood as a succession of three thirds arpeggiated in alternating directions.
It is immediately clear that through the repetition of the tone b ♭2 in bar 43 at the
same time a suspension effect arises—the suspension is prepared by a passing tone.
This is now the structure of the figure that in the ensuing groups is simply
transposed to the other scale degrees of the key. Thus in bars 41–48 the tonic
degree is composed out, or—if the neighboring-tone harmony in bar 45 be taken
into consideration—I—V—I is presented; in bars 49–56 the harmonic progres-
♭
sion moves from I by way of I 7 (bar 54) to IV (bar 56); in bars 57–64 the model of
bars 41–48 is exactly replicated on the IV (with the neighboring-tone harmony
of its own dominant), while bars 65–72, like bars 49–56, present the following
scale degrees: IV—VI ♮һ (bar 69)—II (bar 72). Next, in the bar-triplet, bars 73–75,
a cadence takes place, after which the content of bars 41–48 is repeated (almost
with the effect of a consequent4) once in bars 76–83 and a second time in the
succeeding bar-group 84–91. The following digest, then, may finally expose the
ultimate nucleus, and thus the secret, that guided the master’s inspiration:
Fig. 71
It can be inferred from this digest that bar 45 on the one hand corresponds to
bar 61, and bar 53 on the other hand, by analogy, to bar 69; and in fact the feature
4
[Or rather, as the a 2 section of a ternary form comprising a1 (bars 41–56), b (bars 57–75), a 2 (bars 76–95).]
Second Movement 75
common to the first-named pair of bars is that they place above the main line f 3—f1
(or b ♭3—b ♭1) the neighboring tone g ♭2 (or c ♭3), while the latter pair, despite similar
nodal-point character, nevertheless keep to the pitch level established at the outset.
To state it briefly: in the first and third bar-groups the line expands in a leisurely
manner to the neighboring tone, while in the second and third it hovers steadily.
I have noted above, however, that the execution of this plan—here of course
displayed before us in its perfect consistency—caused the master unutterable dif-
ficulty. Thus Autograph A shows that Beethoven originally neglected at bar 61 to
have the third group fully replicate the first, and that rather, in order to present the
content of bars 69ff., he immediately veered off toward scale degree VI. He later
noticed the deleterious effect of this course, to be sure, and then, in a pencil sketch
(p. 21[20]5), he addressed the task of introducing the replication to be presented by
the third group.
As to bars 69–72 in particular, the first version (p. 20[24]) was as follows:
Fig. 72
This shows that the line here is still missing the passing tone between a ♭2 and f2 ,
which suddenly manifests an unpleasant lack of consistency. Thus Beethoven cor-
rects as follows (p. 21[20]):
Fig. 73
But this second version also exhibits faults, for in the first place the passing tone e ♭2
was lacking, and secondly the first eighth c♭3 disrupts the symmetry of the succession,
since this tone surely had to be reserved expressly for bar 61, where it functions as a
5
[Two additional leaves, comprising pp. 20–23 according to Beethoven’s numbering, are affixed to leaf 10
(p. 19) of Autograph A. In this page-number citation and the next two, Schenker’s page numbers are at odds
with these presumably definitive ones, which here are enclosed in square brackets.]
neighboring tone. At last Beethoven finds the solution (p. 23), however, which, to be
sure, comes at the price of an interpolation (if only passing) in bar 70 of the triad on scale
degree II. And precisely in connection with this definitive discovery he notates as well
the fingering for bar 71, which, in its unprecedented daring, at the same time sheds light
on the fingering he obviously meant to have applied to the figure throughout the Trio.
Performance of the Trio needs above all to emphasize, in the spirit of the construc-
tion, the parallelism of the first and second eight-bar groups to the third and fourth.
The performer should then give the bar-triplet (bars 73–75) the appropriate cadential
weight, and this by means of particular emphasis precisely in bar 75, which should
appear to offer a substitute for the lacking fourth bar; finally, he should not overlook
the fact that in bar 76 the dynamic marking is no longer ff, but merely f, which then, in
the course of the following bars, even recedes to pp. The possibility of such a representa-
tion will be more attainable the more energetically the scale-degree progression governs
the performer’s feeling. Greatest care should be taken to bring out that compositional
feature which stamps the Trio with the character of special originality; to this end,
the jarring collision of the adjacent leaps in bars 48–49, 56–57, 64–65, 72–73, 75–76,
and 83–84 should be emphasized in a particularly dramatic and passionate way. It is
precisely in these bars that, apart from the originality of construction, at the same time
what might be called the story of the scale degrees is told! The performer will thus do
well to work first on the named bars in isolation and to cultivate directly on them alone
the mental alertness necessary to the task. He should thus play only as follows:
Fig. 74a
In no case, however, the following:

Fig. 74b
Second Movement 77
In keeping with the digest given above, Fig. 72, it is indispensable to play the
neighboring tones g ♭2 and c ♭3 in bars 45 and 61 respectively with light emphasis as
such; and if further the performer does not neglect in bars 53 and 69 to underscore
the other two corresponding points f 2 and b ♭2 in a similar way, he will achieve the
marvelously beautiful effect that may be compared to two rhyming couplets.
I mentioned earlier that the rhythm of the Coda derives its organization from the
secunda volta; therefore, the half notes of bars 144, 146, 148, and 150 are only weak
bars and thus syncope formations. At the final eighth note in bar 158 one should
pause somewhat and be prepared to enter at once upon the ensuing Adagio. The mas-
ter has, after all, expressly supplied the tonic of the principal key with a chromatic
alteration (of its third), only to have it immediately point ahead, with the effect of a
dominant, to B ♭ minor, in which key the Adagio ma non troppo now begins.
Third Movement
A dagio m a non troppo (Ar ioso dolente); Fuga
(Allegro m a non troppo); L’istesso tempo di Ar ioso;
L’istesso tempo dell a Fuga
Adagio ma non troppo
Despite the four-part organization, the last movement presents essentially an amalgama-
tion of only two independent parts: a section with adagio character, and a Finale that
appears in fugal form. The conceptual binary organization is to be seen, at least, as the ulti-
mate origin of the unique structure. With this insight alone, however, the master’s intent
is by no means fully grasped. For in the present case he was at pains not only to acknowl-
edge his artistic commitment to the (incidentally inevitable) elements of an Adagio and
Finale in a merely formal way; nor to vary, out of pure nonconformism, the usual realiza-
tion of such a commitment in such a way that the two characters would merely be purely
external—that is, be so jumbled together that instead of two parts, four would instead
appear. Rather, his demonic constructive power struggled with a still far higher aim: he
wanted to vanquish even the immanent duality (Adagio and Finale), which fundamen-
tally remains invincible, and elevate it all the more convincingly to a mighty unity the
more it betrayed itself, through being split into four parts, rather as duality. Two-ness was
to be turned into one-ness—such a compulsion to the organic, to wholeness!
This so unprecedented problem is solved by the master in the most sensational way.
He treats the Fugue as the truly dominating piece, and causes the unified whole that he
sought to be incarnate within it. But this effect, logically, he could achieve in no other
way than by on the contrary subjugating the two Arioso parts (as the adagio elements) in
their formal significance. This, then, explains why—and here is the ultimate solution of
the individual physiognomy, far surpassing any kind of schema, of our movement—the
78
Third Movement 79
two Arioso sections were entirely adapted only to the tonal needs of the Fugue, while the
Fugue proclaims its key (A ♭ major) from beginning to end as the principal key!
The decisive evidence for this lies in the key signature of the first Arioso. Strangely,
nobody has asked to this day how it happens that Beethoven specifies for the first Arioso
only six ♭, although he unmistakably writes it in A ♭ minor. The editions, at least, show
instead of the seven ♭ required for A ♭ minor merely six; only Riemann makes an excep-
tion in giving seven ♭ and simply commenting in a footnote: “in the original, the seventh
♭ for F has been forgotten” (vol. 3, p. 194 note b). However harsh my judgments may
sound concerning the activity of the editors, who cannot do enough toward misunder-
standing and corrupting the masterworks, still, I would not wish to claim that they were
unaware of the key of the Arioso; for nothing was easier here than to recognize precisely
A ♭ minor. Must we not then marvel still more that those editors, who changed forth-
with so much that was unknown and puzzling to them, just in this case failed to make
any change? And can we fail to notice that even a Bülow—how great his vexation must
have been!—hasn’t a word to say about the matter? In fact, though—since ignorance
on Beethoven’s part of the actual key is certainly out of the question—, only the follow-
ing possibilities can be considered: either he avoided the seventh ♭ only for convenience
(because it appeared to him an unnecessarily heavy burden for the key signature), or he
simply forgot it, or he associated the omission with a purely artistic intent.
So far as the first of the possibilities is concerned, I need only cite among the man-
uscripts the funeral march in the sonata Op. 26 (edited by Erich Prieger),1 which
shows in several places the key signature of seven ♭ in the master’s own hand. Thus
in our case as well it is not plausible that Beethoven perhaps wished to express a
principled aversion to seven ♭ .
The second assumption, that Beethoven had skipped the seventh ♭ only through
oversight, is no less implausible. He did write the six ♭ in both Autographs A and
B, if not in each individual system (as is usual in print), at least several times—in
any case often enough to have made an oversight noticeable. And how often he was
obliged in the course of the Arioso, simply because he had written only six rather
than seven ♭ , painstakingly to place a ♭ before the F; moreover, in this connection, to
note in the margin the ♭ before F and to ask specifically: “present in Berlin?” (that is,
whether the adjustment in question had been seen to also in the Original Edition)!
And are we to believe that after all of these repeated insertions he still had not been
sufficiently reminded that, especially in agreement with the key, it would be far sim-
pler to give the piece from the outset a signature of seven ♭?
There thus remains, as we see clearly, only the last consideration, precisely the inference
of an artistic intent. In fact, the withholding of the seventh ♭ stands here exclusively in the
1
[Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A-flat Op. 26 (Facsimile edition, edited with commentary by Erich
Prieger. Bonn, Germany: Friedrich Cohen, 1895).]
service of the master’s primary intention, which is specifically to deprive the Arioso of the
character of an independent adagio piece. For exactly by not even providing the A ♭ minor
key with the signature appropriate to it he was best able to buttress that intention in an
optical way. Admittedly, in the present case the invocation of such a subtle, apparently
purely visual means was possible, and thus also justified, only by virtue of a particular
circumstance. By this I mean specifically the Recitative that precedes the Arioso. It was
precisely the inherent quality of the Recitative, which in place of constant changing of
key signature permits and requires neutral signatures, that Beethoven here exploited in an
exceedingly brilliant manner by assigning the Arioso as well (as though it were a final off-
shoot of the Recitative) a neutral signature of six ♭ (rather than seven). Or, to put it differ-
ently: Beethoven, as follows from his writing of the A ♭ minor key with one too few ♭-signs,
intentionally causes the Recitative character still to hover above the Arioso,2 admittedly
in disregard of the fact that the Arioso nevertheless shows a more stable form than the
Recitative. And just this connection of the Arioso to the Recitative explains in addition
why the key of the second Arioso has no relation to that of the first, but rather is fitted to
the modulatory section of the Fugue, which is to begin once more with G major. With
this I believe I have shown sufficiently that in the form of the last movement as set forth
by Beethoven the two Arioso sections—although showing rudiments of an autonomous
Adagio—nevertheless appear subjugated, and that above and beyond it the Fugue alone,
although seemingly only the second and fourth parts of the piece, forms the truly princi-
pal component. So much for the plan of the last movement in general.
Bar 1ff. I stated earlier that the Arioso is preceded by a true Recitative, and that precisely this
association puts the Arioso in a light that prevents its being viewed as an independent
adagio piece. But since the composer, working in a tonal universe otherwise based only
on its own absolute laws, could not well abruptly begin a new piece that would evoke the
spoken word and would thus point to a vocal foundation, the Recitative itself in turn
required its own introduction. Here a sense of propriety takes control that is analogous
to the one Beethoven had to observe later in the Ninth Symphony, as he takes up the
spoken word only through the mediation of what might be called an instrumental ante-
cedent strain. Here in our case bars 1–3 form the required introduction of the ensuing
Recitative; accordingly, they have as their content, just as is usual in a recitative, prepara-
tory cadences or modulations. Specifically, the course of the cadences is the following:
In bar 1, first through third quarters, a cadence in B ♭ minor:
B ♭ minor: I——IV—— ♮ VII(V)——I
I
2
Compare, for example, in Beethoven’s Fantasie in G Minor, Op. 77, the notation of the D ♭ major passage
with four instead of five ♭ (quoted by Riemann in his Katechismus der Kompositionslehre II, p. 108, unfortu-
nately with the gratuitous change of four ♭ to five), etc.
Third Movement 81
after which follows, at the second eighth of the third quarter, a chromatic modula-
tion to C ♭ major:
B ♭ minor: I 3——IV
♮
C ♭ major: III——I.
In bar 2: cadence in C ♭ major (I—IV—V).

In bar 3 at the first eighth: a chromatic modulation to A ♭ minor, to which another
cadence in the same key immediately connects (I—II—V). Observe, then, that A ♭
minor thus arrives already at bar 3, which, however, does not deter the composer
from using a key signature of only five ♭ , a signature that presents itself as a natural
progression in relation to the four ♭ of the Scherzo. And only after three cadences
have thus been used up in three different keys in the space of three bars does the
Recitative enter, in the fourth bar.
The recitative itself remains in A ♭ minor throughout, which, however, still Bar 4
produces no decisive influence on the key signature (five ♭). The written E major
of bar 5 is to be considered merely an enharmonic translation—as is inciden-
tally shown most emphatically by the notations at the last eighth of bar 4 and
at the second quarter of bar 6—that Beethoven chooses here only for reasons of
convenience. Yet the Recitative is interconnected with the preceding cadences
(especially with bar 3) not only through the key alone, but still more through the
following covert line, which expresses what might be called the ultimate sense of
the content:
Fig. 75
How delicate the thread on which the master’s inspiration glides here, and nev-
ertheless, what marvelous security of the path! Is he under the guidance of the
Creator’s grace as he somnambulently follows such a path perhaps hidden even from
him? Or does he know this path?
Bar 4 has seven quarters; the reason for this irrational number is the follow-
ing: the actual core of the content fundamentally rests on quarters 2–5, which also
show the normal physiognomy of a 44 bar; but a written-out arpeggio is prefixed
to the first quarter, so that only through it does a sum of five quarters arise. Two
further quarters are added to this sum, the sixth and seventh; in those quarters,
however—conformant with recitative practice (thus here andante and cresc. as
well)—, again only what might be called a harmonic backdrop for the following
content is laid: I—VI— 𝄫 II—(III). (The last eighth of bar 4 thus represents an
anticipation of the III, C ♭ , or B, in bar 5.) Beethoven writes the chords at the sixth
and seventh quarters of bar 4 in the lower staff because he means immediately
to instruct the player’s eye as well that one is dealing here not with actual recita-
tive content but only with a preparatory harmonic succession. And such a nota-
tion was all the more necessary here because it is the notation alone that makes
apparent that at the second eighth of the sixth quarter, the right hand appends its
harmonies in exactly the same position in which the left hand has just played its
chords, and because only through this sundering of accompaniment from melody
does the line of the latter (here the succession C ♭ [= B]—A) emerge the more
clearly.
Bar 5 is expanded to an 84 bar, which breaks down into two 44 bars and which falls
short of the full sum of eight quarters by only a single sixteenth—an inaccuracy
intentionally introduced by the master, which, of course, is to be chalked up only to
the idiosyncrasy of recitative.
This very bar has always represented what might be called the riddle par excel-
lence of the sonata, whose solution in the master’s terms no editor thus far has been
able to find, so that even the presentation of the text in all editions (without excep-
tion!) is to be called completely wrong.
Even the earliest editions (Original Edition, Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli) have cor-
rupted the original notation with the following error: first, they set the grace note
thirty-second in large print as a bona fide thirty-second:
Fig. 76
And secondly, they added a tie to the dotted sixteenth:
For reasons that will be discussed directly below, however, the second error cited
may be excusable; the first error, on the contrary, given the fidelity to the original
otherwise maintained, is all the more puzzling, since neither Autograph A nor
Autograph B provides even the most negligent and frivolous copyist so much as
the slightest reason to question the grace-note thirty-second. Here I should men-
tion moreover that Beethoven corrects this very mistake, committed by a copyist,
Third Movement 83
already in the Revised Copy by expressly eradicating the thirty-second and entering
a short grace note in its place. I must therefore assume that obviously, already among
the proofreaders of even the earliest editions, something was afoot that I would here
tend to call the specifically Bülovian [see below], and that they believed they could
solve the puzzle as it confronted them in bar 5 simply by restoring on their own at
least a thirty-second note to the bar that was short by a sixteenth. Unfortunately,
the version given in the early editions was propagated even into the Gesamtausgabe
and the Urtext.
The later editors proceeded still more arbitrarily and irresponsibly with our text.
Thus Bülow writes:
It is downright inconceivable how the corrupt text-presentation found in all previ-

ous editions has been able to endure unchallenged for such a long time. The nervous
expressive device of Bebung—compare on this point our comment to the analogous
passage in the coda of the Adagio of Op. 106—has a practical import only if the
note to be newly attacked enters on the weak beat, as a syncope. This is clear to the
extent that we need not call attention to the example mentioned or to the Scherzo
in the Sonata with Violoncello Op. 69. The source of confusion in the manuscript
can be explained very simply: it is the excessive space taken by the change of key sig-
nature. Incidentally: Andante signifies molto meno Adagio. [P. 108, note b]
In line with this interpretation, Bülow alters the master’s version and offers in its
place his own, as one allegedly intended by the master himself:
Fig. 77
This realization reinserts the allegedly forgotten sixteenth, through which the
bar is rounded off exactly to two 44 bars, and at the same time, inasmuch as the six-
teenth is inserted directly at the beginning of the third quarter, an uninterrupted
syncopation becomes possible. I need not mention that Bülow’s interpretation has
gained a following: with explicit invocation of Bülow and the argument put for-
ward by him of Bebung, Klindworth too writes the realization of this passage as
follows:
Fig. 78
And Riemann as in the following picture:

Fig. 79
while the other, more recent, editions reproduce Bülow’s version as it stands,
without further explanation of the source. Thus the reader or performer has
until now not even had an opportunity to consult Beethoven’s original nota-
tion itself and possibly form better ideas about it than proofreaders, engravers,
and editors before him have done. Now that I present faithfully in my text for
the first time the original notation and provide the rationale for it in my eluci-
dation, I believe I have once more shown—as time and time again—that under
all circumstances it is more incumbent on the editor to reproduce the original
Third Movement 85
text than to substitute what somebody thinks about it! The elucidation will
show the master on a plateau to which, as will be seen, Bülow and the other
editors can by no means rise; it will indeed show him on a plane of psycho-
logically refined rhythmic organizational power that would put to shame even
those accustomed to negotiating “arithmetic” operations of the most subtle
nature! And yet all of this rhythmic sublimity is in Beethoven’s case only pur-
est gold of inspiration, pure vision of a syncope effect never before achieved
with such unusual means!
If we disregard the short grace note, Beethoven writes first an eighth note
with a dot, then two sixteenth-note pairs, next a single sixteenth note with a dot
and further a single thirty-second, after which finally ten thirty-second-note
pairs follow. To state it at once: all errors have come exclusively from misun-
derstanding of the single dotted sixteenth, to which, without justification
and against the intention of the master, the syncopating tie unfortunately
was added in exactly the same way that it was applied to the preceding
sixteenth-note and ensuing thirty-second-note pairs. For although the master
himself in Autograph A, having had to tie pairs of A’s so many times at that
point, committed the error of tying the decisive dotted sixteenth to the next
thirty-second:
Fig. 80
he nevertheless specified, already in the same Autograph A, a correction, in fact

through syncopation of the first single thirty-second to the following a2 . But since
Beethoven, despite this situation, nevertheless neglected to strike the fateful tie
above the dotted sixteenth, there arose finally in Autograph A no fewer than three
ties in direct succession:
Fig. 81
Only Autograph B brings complete clarity by showing the dotted sixteenth

without syncopation to the following A! And thereby it becomes finally clear what
Beethoven intended in Autograph A by the revision—unfortunately not completely
finished—of the same passage. The text I have presented thus agrees exactly with
Autograph B, which on this point at the same time signifies the ultimate clarifica-
tion of Autograph A.
But now to the meaning of what Beethoven intended with his notation: we learn
first from the authentic version that the tone A is attacked at ever decreasing inter-
vals, since its duration, as shown here:
Fig. 82
comprises first three sixteenths, then twice two sixteenths, and likewise twice
one and one half sixteenths, and finally nine times a single sixteenth. This tele-
scoping now represents the basis for that effect which Beethoven sought and
also achieved! And already from this perspective the mistake of Bülow and his
followers can clearly be recognized and defined with the observation that in
their version, after twice two sixteenths, suddenly a larger value (two and a half
sixteenths) enters, whereby, in complete contradiction of Beethoven’s inten-
tion, within the rhythmic process that is supposed to show a tightening, on
the contrary an absolute stasis arises! To which I add in advance that now the
performer too, in light of the basis just depicted of the authentic version, will
automatically show the superiority to Bülow’s reading, since, in following the
authentic version, he is obliged to attack the tone A in ever decreasing time
intervals; in the process he will need to be observant only that he play it in the
duration of two sixteenths and in that of one and one half sixteenths just twice
each (see above).
Third Movement 87
One is obliged to credit the master with having produced the desired effect in
a very novel manner. But just the notation of the single dotted sixteenth signi-
fies in this connection the highest triumph of his art, that of striving for a certain
effect with visual impressions as well. For in fact, in the context of the preceding
sixteenth-note pairs, only the dotted sixteenth places the abrupt value reduction
exactly before the eyes, and if the master in the continuation illuminates precisely
the same value (of one and one half sixteenths) a second time in a different way—in
fact by three thirty-seconds with two ties—, he again clarifies by the so-altered nota-
tion the new tendency to make palpable the transition to the thirty-second-note
pairs that ultimately are to carry the day. But how much logic is hidden in this
notation!
The overwhelming brilliance of this notation, however, consists not only in that
it expresses a constant increase in the rapidity with which the tone is attacked, but
still more in that only this ordering of the tone repetitions at the same time leads to
a series of syncopes, whose flight alone, as though swelling to a crescendo peak and
sinking back to an “una corda”-valley, conjures up exactly the impression intended by
Beethoven of a tone throbbing according to the natural laws of a genuinely human
passion, but at the same time swelling and decreasing according to the laws of most
highly stylized song-art.3
The astonished reader may here ask: where might these syncopes of which I have
just spoken be found? In fact, the circumstance that the syncopes arise here in a
completely new way poses an obstacle to their immediate recognition as such. In
order to demonstrate the innovation, I shall go through the individual syncopes in
3
Compare, in the master’s Piano Trio Op. 97, Andante cantabile, the passage in the coda:
Fig. 83
How subtle here too the dissipation of the tones only through definite organization of the repetitions,
and through the equally definite placement of the markings ( )! Just try relocating the culmina-
tion of the tone repetitions from the fifth eighth to, say, the fourth or sixth eighth and the sought-after
effect is immediately distorted.
order here, for which purpose I amplify in the following illustration the division of
the bar by quarters:
Fig. 84
From this we see that the fourth sixteenth of the first quarter is tied to the
first of the second quarter, which thus, as a tie from a weak to a strong beat,
signifies by definition a genuine syncope; in the same way, the weak second six-
teenth of the second quarter is tied across to the strong third sixteenth of the
same quarter, which thus also represents a syncope. But observe that, similarly,
the dotted sixteenth also contains a syncopation, since it expresses on its own a
tie of the weak fourth sixteenth of the second quarter to the first thirty-second
of the third, which represents a relatively strong time point! It follows immedi-
ately that another syncope effect is present as well in the following tie from the
second thirty-second (as a weak time point) to the third (as a strong).
Only at the third thirty-second of the third quarter does a tie for the first time
appear—observe the sudden deviation—which, because it connects the third to the
fourth thirty-second (thus a strong to a weak point), no longer represents a syncope.
And just in keeping with this first break, neither do any of the ensuing ties—a total
of nine counting from the middle of the third quarter—represent syncopes. Thus the
ties in all of these nine thirty-second-note pairs signify a complete contrast to the pre-
ceding genuine syncope technique. But does this not in itself introduce a contradic-
tion into my explanation? And wouldn’t Bülow accordingly actually have been right
in his belief (see above) that only his revision had consistently realized Beethoven’s
intention of an uninterrupted procession of syncopes? Far from it; for the master’s
sublime technique, as I am about to show, reaches its peak exactly at the moment of
Third Movement 89
the apparent contrast; and precisely at that point, in the way our master nevertheless
achieves the syncope effect in a completely new and incomparably more profound
manner—just there, I say—, the distance between a genius and a non-genius finds
clearest expression. Consider the following:
Specifically by forming the fourth and the fifth quarter out of thirty-second-note
pairs consistently tied from strong to weak time point, he achieves, as the following
figure shows:
Fig. 85
a conceptual tying of the two quarters (N.B.: not sixteenths or thirty-seconds), which,

because it involves a succession from a weak to a strong quarter, again produces pre-
cisely a genuine syncope as though of a higher order—one in which now the preceding
syncopes, created in the normal way, automatically continue! Such demonic capability
of the ear to be at all able to identify a true syncope effect just in a commonality of
technique, and to find the definite means to which alone, as well-founded causes, such
an effect could be entrusted! There are, as we see, syncopes still different from just the
kinds of which composers, editors, or “theorists” have thus far let themselves dream!
And if I add further that similar sensations, which have occurred to nobody up to
now, are manifested in abundance by almost every work of our classical masters, it will
perforce finally become clear why I wrote, on p. 389 of Harmonielehre,4 that that not a
single atom of Beethoven the master, of whom I speak, is yet known!
The more securely Beethoven has established the syncope effect up to the
sixth quarter (it goes without saying that in the continuation a tying of the
fifth and sixth quarters occurs as well), the more easily possible it is for him
then also to preserve the recitative character, as I mentioned above, through
the additional means of not allowing the full number of sixteenths to come
into play, but instead deliberately subtracting a thirty-second-note pair (thus
a sixteenth) in order to bring about the necessary state of suspense precisely
at the succession from the fourth quarter to the fifth. The composer goes so
far here with this well-founded liberty as expressly to present to the eye the
illusion of two groups of five thirty-second-note pairs each, which, however,
does not prevent him from placing in Autograph A the second chord of the left
hand precisely at the very spot where it belongs, namely after the end of the
fourth quarter, and thus at the beginning of the fifth. More still: in Autograph
4
[The passage was excised for the English edition.]
A there is even the trace of a bar line; Beethoven, having just drawn it, obvi-
ously erased it forthwith!
Finally, one further marvel of voice leading: the seventh of the first chord in
the left hand expressly vacates its position to move straight to the octave—an
extremely sensitive response of the ear to the imminent resolution, at the first
quarter of bar 6, of the melody tone A to G # ! The premonition of just this resolu-
tion obliges the master to discontinue the “reinforcement” in the bass (the dou-
bling of A) and to have only the seventh in the melodic line remain active as
such. (Compare here the Fugue, bar 193, and in Op. 109, the third movement,
Variation II.5)
Bar 6 Beethoven returns most fittingly here to the A ♭-minor notation already at the
second quarter and not, as several unperceptive editors (Riemann) unfortunately
“correct,” only at the third. At the third quarter finally the cadential formula usual
in recitatives occurs, while at the same time the signature is increased from five to
six ♭ (N.B.: not to seven ♭—see above!).
The sketches show in bar 3 a superfluous expansion, and instead of bar 5 we read
there (leaf 88) only the simple version shown here:
Fig. 86
The foregoing presentation of the content itself gives in essence the necessary
stipulations for performance. Several points may, given their importance, never-
theless be further clarified here. Above all one should not overlook the fact that
the basic tempo of the introduction is Adagio ma non troppo, which then remains
the basic tempo for the Arioso as well, and the reduction of this tempo—see in bar
4 più Adagio and Adagio—thus pertains specifically only to the actual Recitative
itself.
The concise cadences of bars 1–3 must be played with a certain definiteness,
yet one should mix into their performance just as much of indefiniteness as is
needed to give expression to the somewhat exploratory and probing sense of
the modulations fluctuating from bar to bar. In the Recitative itself, observe
with precision the tempo specified by Beethoven, and take no liberties beyond
those written out by the composer. In such and similar situations, bear in
mind always that Beethoven, as I have already repeated and demonstrated,
was the master who was able to achieve the subtlest effects exclusively through
5
[See 109, p. 66.]
Third Movement 91
the fact that he himself organized their causes in the text down to the minut-
est detail. 6
In bar 5 the tone A (see above) is to be attacked in ever decreasing time intervals.
The finger alternation 4-3 expressly indicated by Beethoven aims not for anything
like a succession of two attacks of the tone A, but only that type of mute alternation
which stands in the service of expression (compare Chromatic Fantasy, pp. 68f./45f.).
It is the same finger alternation that I too, taking the modern instruments into
account, so often here and elsewhere commend to performers, in order to give their
playing access to an effect similar to that sought by singers and instrumentalists.
Two examples have been cited by several editors as comparable to our passage. The
following, from Op. 106:
Fig. 89a
and this from the Violoncello Sonata Op. 69, Scherzo:

Fig. 89b
6
To the many examples along these lines already presented in the Ninth Symphony and 109, I should like to
add here one more example, from the master’s Sixth Symphony, to wit, the organization of the figures in the
double bass and ’cello in the storm scene:
Fig. 87
are unfortunately in equal measure a product of misunderstanding, since there

too, despite alternation of finger, the twofold attack is inappropriate. This
follows in Op. 106 from the performance of the bar that precedes the one in
question:
Fig. 90
and in Op. 69 merely from the fact that the only way the ’cello can realize the mas-
ter’s orthography:
Fig. 91
is by means of single bow-strokes.
to which one must conceptually add, in addition to first violins (which play the primary motif) and
the other strings, also a kettledrum trill and the wind choir playing ff. Just place side by side with
Beethoven’s construction, for purposes of comparison, one from Berlioz’s Symphonie phantistique,
Adagio (“Szene auf dem Lande”) that aims at a similar effect:
Fig. 88
One will immediately have to grant the former a superiority over the latter, although the kettle-
drums in the Berlioz actually strive, by way of an inorganic route, so to speak, to approach the
model of nature more closely. For the more the kettledrums seek as though to record the thunder
phonographically, the more their effect falls short of the natural phenomenon itself; while in the
Beethoven, the circumstance that he places the painting with correct artistic tact above all in the
service of a purely musical motif—see the strings—also intensifies all the more naturally the real-
istic effect.
Third Movement 93
From the middle of the third quarter one perhaps does best to group the
thirty-second-note pairs in progression, that is: 2: 3: 4, within which precisely the rite-
nuto prescribed by the master helps the last four pairs to achieve equilibrium in rela-
tion to the preceding five (2 + 3) pairs. The chord of the left hand should be introduced
either at the point where by accurate count the first 44 bar comes to an end—that is,
where the fifth quarter begins—, or earlier by one thirty-second pair; but in no case
any sooner or any later. For only by this means will the beat, which on the one hand
has probably been blurred to some extent (in perfect accord, incidentally, with the
intention of the master), on the other hand still be maintained strictly enough.
These two bars present the unfurling of the accompaniment necessary for the Bars
7–8
ensuing Arioso.7
Arioso dolente. Both Autographs expressly give the German designation klagen- Bars
9ff.
der Gesang as well. The Recitative-mists begin to solidify, and every lament now,
instead of continuing to express itself only in exclamations, already takes on more
definite form, without, however, causing those limits to be overstepped which are
set for a bodily weakness on purely physical grounds. For if we grasp that the impe-
tus toward annexation of ever new ideas in the associative sense presupposes, so to
speak, the activity of health and thus signifies the expansion of a healthy drive that
strives toward ever more distant goals, then we will at once understand too that
a life-flame that on the contrary is only small cannot so well stoke up the flame
of ever new thoughts. Thus in our case the (programmatically posited) unhappy
bodily constitution of the composer naturally sets only narrow boundaries to the
form, and whatever in it could at all be interpreted as will to modulation (from A ♭
minor to C ♭ major) and thus, at the same time, as symptom of the first conquering
of the weakness, the image of a real weakness is on the contrary nurtured by the fact
that the tones of the melody drift as though broken and worn out, mostly only in
displacements from the rhythmically strong positions. Precisely this state of suspen-
sion between a physical splintering of the tones and their quest for a form, however
modest and accessible: exactly this suspended quality constitutes the character of
the Arioso—this admittedly apart from the fact that also the (in principle) binary
division (explained and programmatically justified in the foregoing) of the Adagio
element as well is likewise to be viewed as one of the preconditions of the given
Arioso form. (One need only imagine the two Arioso sections as a continuous piece
to gain the insight that in such enlarged dimensions they would no longer be able to
serve effectively as an Arioso.)
7
[The descending triad-arpeggiation E ♭—C ♭—A in these bars prefigures the melody of bar 9. See in Harmony
Example A2, by editor Oswald Jonas, in the first Appendix, p. 343.]
Thus in the Arioso we enjoy Beethoven’s sorrows. What a god, who offers up his
own sorrows to others just for their enjoyment! Since nobody was able actually to
partake of his sorrows (because, as I have already said elsewhere, reading from the
great book of his hero’s life was still more difficult than reading from his works), he
lamented them in tones; and only then, in their tonal manifestation, did they entice
mankind as objects of enjoyment! Because only for enjoyment, and be it only of the
sorrows of others, is humankind always enthusiastically prepared. But sadly, how
ill-suited the bridge of enjoyment is to connect the genius with the enjoying masses!
The masses, by their very incapacity and vanity, form the conceit that the mere act of
enjoyment qualifies them to participate in the life of the hero, and moreover to show
true artistic mentality; while they are in fact incapable of either a genuine participa-
tion or an adequate enjoyment of art. Genius and mankind, then, unfortunately never
meet! Such a vicious circle, such a pitiable tragedy for mankind! Too disagreeable to
want to help, and too stupid to be able to help, man is unfortunately too disagreeable
and too stupid even to want or to be able to let his own life’s need be provided for by a
genius who is willing to afford such provision! True, he always longs for the company
of the genius; but he scarcely comes face to face with him, and manages in the long run
to draw from the genius nothing of value for his own need and benefit.
Just ask this: which Beethoven has to this day really even been welcomed by
mankind?
Certainly not the one who appeals for help in his hour of need; not the one who
defends himself as valiantly as possible against his publishers; not the one either
who, still tormented on his deathbed by anxiety over his nephew, thus turns to
London for help in keeping intact to the end the hard-won bequest designated for
him. No, not this Beethoven; but only the one who suffers admonition from upstart
scribes and critics; the one obtuse fellow men have the presumptuous vanity to pro-
mote and usurious publishers to exploit; the one who brings livelihood and profit
to countless musicians; who supports societies, organizations, and offices; the one
who, because his tones have never yet become truly alive among us, is now just good
enough to be merely “surpassed”; and that one who, now present among us only
marmoreally, is no longer able to show the scoundrels the door . . . !
So let the genius struggle on with life and tones however he likes;
humankind—bull-headed, incapable, ruined and wasted, truly a thousand times
worse than Shylock—remains ever present: has all of that to do with them? They
seek in the genius only an object of pleasure (as though they were properly able to
take pleasure!).
But how much less likely, then, would a humankind of such miserable nature
be to let itself be moved even to partake of the master’s struggles with motifs!
And yet I truly know no more affecting or touching scene than the struggle of a
Third Movement 95
Beethoven with his motifs. In the Arioso, to return to that topic, one need hardly
glance at what a chaos of versions, forms, accompanimental types originally lay
beneath its simple line and modest harmonies. As the sketches show, every tone,
literally every individual tone, had first to be born and redeemed from the chaos,
and nothing that had preceded could compel what followed, nor what followed
compel what preceded. And yet, how surely all of the fearsome ebb and flow was
governed by primordial creative force! As though the contour had been only tem-
porarily still shrouded by darkness and fog, but actually had long been finished,
it drew the master to it with irresistible force; and what finally emerged as his
creation can be recognized only as in the highest sense a reuniting with some-
thing of ancient origin. (Unfortunately, it was not granted the master to redeem
from the chaos and shape into a worthy form also the humans—in a sense, the
motifs of destiny—whom he encountered in life: they remained in the chaos from
which they came, and perished in it, driven by forces in which no kind of plan was
discernible!)
After four bars (in bar 12) a half cadence is reached, after which, in bar 13, the tonic
takes over again, in order to introduce the modulation to C ♭ major:
A ♭ minor : I
C ♭ major VI—— V—— I etc.
But as early as bar 17, by chromaticization (of C ♭ to C), the path of return toward the
I of A ♭ minor is taken, which proceeds by way of the IV in bar 18 to the dominant in bar
20. The simple melodic idiom in bar 20, which consists of merely the unadorned com-
bination of the suspension of a fourth with its resolution ( ͡4—3), is slated to become
nothing less than the motif of the next bars:
Fig. 92
Both autographs leave no doubt about the notation: they agree down to the minut-
est detail in respect to articulation, dynamic markings, inclusion or omission of rests,
and so forth. Thus I restrict my discussion to only two points, which do seem worth
mentioning. In bar 16 Beethoven writes the first three sixteenths of the left hand as g
rather than a 𝄫. But one need not suspect any sort of profundity in this; the incorrect
notation rather represents some minor consideration, perhaps only convenience of the
reader or the like.8
More important in my view is the authentic notation, so often ignored, of bars
24–25; here Autograph A and Autograph B, as well as the Revised Copy, the Original
Edition, Cappi, and Cappi-Diabelli, present the final unisono of the two hands in
the lower staff. This notation at its appearance makes a dramatic visual impression
that not only reflects the descent of the tones by an octave, but moreover—and this
was clearly more important to the master—places the last tone a ♭ played by the right
hand exactly at the point from which, after the fermata, the Fugue-theme takes
its departure. A proof, again, that to our master, in his creative fervor as here, just
the thing that is often a quite secondary matter to other composers, engravers, and
proofreaders became for him a fount of new and independent expressive resources
based on visual impressions.
Both Autographs notate the penultimate tone (at the end of bar 25), in conformity
with the preceding tone, as an eighth with a following sixteenth rest. It is unfathom-
able that in not a single one of the editions, in neither the earlier nor the later ones,
is this uniquely admissible notation encountered, and that instead, unfortunately,
only the following version is found:
Fig. 94
(Perhaps the writing error in the Revised Copy contributed to this incorrect ver-
sion; in that source the reading is as follows:
Fig. 95
The oversight was assumed to lie only in the sixteenth-note rest, while the six-
teenth note itself was considered correct.) The thought is scarcely bearable that
8
Compare in Beethoven’s Piano Concerto in E ♭ Major, Adagio, bar 7, the notation in violin I:
Fig. 93
Third Movement 97
among so many musicians who have dealt with this, there was not a single one
who—despite millions of identical cases that must have come to his attention!—
had gained the most primitive understanding of the notation of rests in a bar of
triple meter. Because in performance they projected the effect of a sixteenth, such
musicians committed the error of inserting a sixteenth into the text as well; they
failed to grasp that in triple meter the effect they themselves produced can be elic-
ited only by the notation Beethoven used. I cite here, for purposes of clarification,
still another example from Beethoven’s Op. 97:
Fig. 96
There is no doubt that in this case as well, d1 is to be cut short; but it would not
do to write:
Fig. 97
or
Fig. 98
For both of these notations would have to arouse in us the expectation of a con-
tinuation that would put to some use the space left over precisely as a result of the
way the bar is subdivided; for example:
Fig. 99
or
Fig. 100
From this it follows that where such an expectation is to be nipped in the bud, a
neutral orthography that excludes further motif formation along the lines of Figs.
98 and 99 is exactly what is appropriate. And thus the editors, to return to the pres-
ent case, had no need to alter Beethoven’s notation in order to elicit the effect that
they themselves have notated; not only did Beethoven’s notation entail the effect of
a sixteenth note: a motivic propriety was observed as well. I think it unnecessary to
cite still more examples.
It would far exceed the scope of this volume to present in full all of the master’s
work on the Arioso as it is contained in the sketches; but I cannot resist the impulse
to show at least a few things here.
Even before Beethoven arrived at the melody, he already sensed—if at first
admittedly in a kind of tremolo texture (leaf 71)—that trembling, quaking atmo-
sphere in which the lament was to become the focal experience. Briefly (leaf
87) he considered—one would scarcely believe it short of seeing it with one’s own
eyes—even an accompaniment like the following:
Fig. 101
which was to be introduced with this:

Fig. 102
We see the melody, too, suffer still under the weight of superfluous melismas, as
though from a childhood illness—melismas that, as the following examples show,
stand in nearly complete contradiction to the intended expression:
Fig. 103
Fig. 104
Third Movement 99
All the more exquisite, then, the moment when Beethoven, in the furthest corner
of the last page (leaf 88), alongside the following:
Fig. 105
finally notates the correct version:

Fig. 106
—surely the most important conquest, for only as if by shedding the last
residue of vanity were the tones finally able to win the paradise of beatified
lamentation.
The master applies himself to the cadential turn of bars 15 to 16 with several drafts
such as the following:
Fig. 107
Bars 21ff. still have on leaf 88 only the following shape:

Fig. 108
But on leaf 87 the version subsequently written in pencil:

Fig. 109
is already no longer far removed from the definitive one.

For performance of the Arioso, first of all the following tips of a general nature:
Anybody who truly understands the content of a Beethoven work must, as I have
often emphasized (e.g., Ninth Symphony, p. 9/XIII), marvel at the master’s art of
orthography and performance markings that he marshaled to bring out the content.
Yet his performance indications, to speak here of them alone, offer not only the key
to comprehension of the content in general, but beyond that, an array of almost
histrionic gestures and accents, which one is in a position to use as such, of course,
only when their meaning is understood. That which is unfortunately denied the
poet as he sends his work out into the world (since neither for the reader nor for the
actor can he specify intonation, dynamic, crescendo, diminuendo, sf, portamento,
etc.) happily is at once available to the musician to register and invoke as a substitute
for the association with the environment that the tonal world lacks. It is doubly gro-
tesque, then, when performers, even before they have grasped the master’s authentic
instructions, nevertheless ignore them for reasons of “personal interpretation” so
as to come even more into conflict with the content. In this spirit the performer is
urgently admonished to regard and respect Beethoven’s performance markings as a
completely organic part of the content itself.9
As a preliminary study to the performance of the Arioso I recommend first learn-
ing it in its basic outlines, thus with omission of the rhythmic displacements. The
melody is shaped as follows:
Fig. 110
Experience has shown, however, that it is the performance of the left hand that poses
the greatest difficulty (and this, I assume, is part of the reason that Beethoven in the end
happened upon this type of accompaniment). How often, unfortunately, novice per-
formers are led by the very simple accompaniment to execute it only mechanically—just
as mechanically as they understand it! Which in turn has the consequence that the left
hand, just plodding along its path, always turns out to be surprised by the right when
the latter now suddenly wants to hesitate, now to accelerate. But how ugly the effects
thus produced! So let the player always take care that the left hand keep the intentions
of the right hand as though continuously in mind. Thus the left hand must know ahead
of time at which point and to what degree the right hand plans to hesitate or accelerate,
9
But how beautifully it has been stated by Brahms (Kalbeck, IV, vol. 1, p. 89): “When I play something by
Beethoven, I have no individuality at all in relation to it, but try to perform the piece as Beethoven indicated;
that gives me quite enough to do.”
Third Movement 101
so that in keeping with this foreknowledge, the left hand too can project its shadings
in the performance—that is, can make its appropriate contribution. It is certainly no
easy task to educate the left hand to such a technique; nevertheless, a fine sensitivity to
effects will sooner or later enable the performer to liberate the left hand from the sorry
role of a mere inarticulate spectator and elevate it rather to that of a fully informed and
prescient accompanist of the right hand.
Now a few more very special instructions, which I will give here even though I am
aware that without my personal supervision they may perhaps not lead completely
to that goal which I have in mind:
In bar 9, the first bar of the Arioso, d ♭2 of the right hand could never function
as a rhythmic displacement if it were played in strict meter. For if metric strictness
expresses the norm of rhythmic organization, it cannot—and there surely can be
no objection to this reasoning—at the same time be the expression of an abnormal
rhythmic happening. (Compare 109, p. 8f.) As a rule the more polished performer has
(admittedly unconscious) recourse in such a case to a broadening of tempo as a way
of expressing the displacement, whereby d ♭2 occurs later than it should according to
metric strictness. Here (in an apparent paradox) I recommend to the contrary, as a still
more vivid token of displacement, that the tone instead be made to speak in advance.
Anyone who has ever observed how tiredness and tendency toward bodily drooping
are sometimes expressed in an involuntary collapse whose effect is exactly to bring
about ahead of time the necessary position of repose will agree with my suggestion
that the cantilena10 in bar 9 likewise, instead of slowing, must instead “fall forward”
into the d ♭2 (at the sixth sixteenth), and then recover a bit only after d ♭2. Now I hope it
will not be misunderstood if I here designate such a falling also with the word “accel-
eration,” for, in keeping with what has just been said, I understand that to mean not an
active but only an involuntary, passive acceleration. After the displacement itself has
thus been projected, continue with the ensuing sixteenths only wearily up to the end
of the bar. The f ♭2 in bar 10 is to be treated the same as d ♭2 in bar 9.
In bar 11 the crescendo must be expressed as continuous; avoid, therefore, forming
groups of three sixteenths each in the left hand through any kind of underscoring of
the respective strong sixteenths (the first, fourth, seventh, and tenth), and rather—to
form a kind of parallel association with the uniformity of the crescendo process—play
all sixteenths as though they were bound together under an actual large legato slur.
To play the melisma at the sixth sixteenth in bar 12 with the least possible con-
straint, one should pause exactly there as though hesitating, as though faced with
more than one sixteenth-note value; but take care in the process that the left hand
withdraw from the keys after attacking the chord, since it would surely be of
10
[Begleitung (accompaniment), apparently an error.]
disastrous effect if the left hand were to hold the keys for the duration of the ad
libitum performance of the melisma.
The fingering I have selected for the right hand in bar 13 shows through associa-
tion that here the melody at first seems only to inch forward without consciousness
of the goal, until finally—only in the second half of bar 14—the intent of forming
a cadence emerges more decisively. Therefore, let the accompaniment in bars 13–14,
like that in bar 11, again drift along as though under a great legato slur, without any
rupture of this indivisibility through accentuation of the strong sixteenths.
In bar 15 at the seventh sixteenth of the left hand, the climax of the crescendo that
is reached just at that point should be marked by full, rich pressure, after which, how-
ever, the pressure—along with application of a legato (see above)—is to be diminished.
In bar 16 give emphasis at the first sixteenth to the neighboring tone g (a 𝄫), but
without distorting the tempo for that purpose; only thereupon should one accel-
erate slightly the following sixteenths 2 through 5, until a recompensation of the
tempo occurs through broadening between the sixth and seventh sixteenths.
In bars 17 and 18, where a ♭1 is to glide first from the right to the left hand and
then from the left back into the right, these trade-offs must happen completely
unnoticeably.
With the cresc. that begins already in bar 18, continue as far as the last three sixteenths
of bar 19 (compare above, bar 11 and bar 13), and give back only at these three notes (but
not before!) all the accumulated intensification and acceleration; here one must also
perform, in the left hand, the reinforcement of the melody as well. In the continuation,
one thereby gains the advantage of avoiding, in the second half of bar 20, a ritenuto, and
in connection with it also the inappropriate impression of a half cadence.
In bar 21, strive for a fluent transition to the next bar rather than for any tarrying.
One must scrupulously respect the diminuendo prescribed by the master in bar
22, however much one might tend precisely here, in contradiction to it, to introduce
a brief crescendo. For only in the diminuendo itself does the key lie to the execution
of all following performance instructions, while a crescendo would simply chuck
them all onto the scrapheap.
At the fifth and sixth sixteenths of bar 23 both the portato in the melody and the
chromatic tone C in the harmony require a broadening; one should likewise tarry at
the sixteenths 7–9 (because of the onset of the Ĺ–chord position), so as to make only
at the ensuing sixteenths an acceleration that must last clear through the sixteenths
1–3 of bar 24 (regardless even of the emphasis at the first sixteenth). Let the final
compensatory broadening (see above) follow in the last sixteenths.
Now a word finally about the fingering for the Arioso. While many editors rec-
ommend frequent changes of finger also for the chords of the left hand, I thought it
more correct to restrict such changes in the left hand to the bare minimum necessary,
Third Movement 103
so as to be able to make a still more extensive use (in the service of the displacements
and syncopes, etc.) of the silent change of finger in the right hand described above.
Fugue
General Remarks
As I have already commented earlier, in keeping with the overall design the Fugue,
like the Adagio, now too had to submit to a binary division. The situation into
which Beethoven thereby entered was, to my knowledge, the first of its kind, and
thus he had also to be the first to deal with it.
No sooner was the new problem addressed—to present its solution in a completely
systematic way—than the question arose, as a special difficulty, of how the binary divi-
sion was to be applied at all to what is fundamentally a form in three parts. When we
consider, specifically, that a fugue (at least in the majority of cases) brings in the first part
what is called the exposition of the voices together with the establishment of a principal
key, and in the second, middle, part the contrast of various other keys, to return finally
in the third part (as the exterior counterpart of the first) to the principal key—if we
consider all of that, the question of how here the Fugue could, for the sake of the special
program, be formed in a binary way, was certainly a difficult one. In fact this very dif-
ficulty alone was so great that it could surely have been conquered only by a master of the
rank of Beethoven, who grasped the inner nature of the fugue less from textbooks than
from the depths of its most intrinsic and hidden necessities. For only because Beethoven
sensed very accurately what he owed to the fugue in the large and to each individual
part in particular—only because of this accurate perception, I say, was he able finally to
accomplish that marvelous and unique feat of having the Fugue really remain a genuine
fugue despite the fact that he also subjected it to the operation of bisection.
In surveying his brilliant solution we inevitably recall what he wrote to Breitkopf
& Härtel (Kalischer: Beethovens sämtliche Briefe I, p. 105):
[Vienna, 18 December, 1802]
. . . instead of all the uproar about a new method of variations, as our neighbors
the gallo-Franconians would raise, as for example a certain French composer
presented me fugues “d’après une nouvelle Methode,” which means that the
fugue is no longer a fugue, etc.
Does this pronouncement itself not say clearly enough that no kind of program, even the
most seductive one, could ever bring Beethoven to write a fugue “d’après une nouvelle
Methode” and differently in such a way that it would “no longer be” a fugue? But his
words, because they are only words, could signify for the reader at best only a purely theo-
retical affirmation; what undoubtedly speaks here even more clearly is his artistic deed
itself, which as such will awaken and fortify the conviction that the performer should feel.
The fundamental question of the binary division—which, as I said earlier, first
confronted the master and came down to whether the middle section should be
joined to the exposition or to the last section—he answered by setting forth the
exposition alone as the first part of the Fugue, while he affiliated the modulatory
and concluding sections with one another to form its second and last part.
And now it remains to be shown in particular that while a construction of this
kind did not come off without concessions, the latter here all find their justification
in both the intrinsic necessity and also in the corresponding elasticity, so brilliantly
sensed by Beethoven, of the formal laws:
The first part of the Fugue, according to the foregoing, was to contain only the expo-
sition. But then the second question immediately arose: where to find the material for
the latter, if a single negotiation of the three entrances (and in my opinion also a redun-
dant fourth), which otherwise as a rule extends over the whole of the exposition, falls
far short of being able to yield the weight of an independent part (which was above all
the task!)? It is clear that the solution of this question too posed great difficulties when
one considers that to the same extent that both the relatively small fugal theme and
the three-voice format itself certainly were already propitious by nature to the cardinal
purpose of broadening the exposition, just these same ingredients were nevertheless
in turn the sources, specifically in the practical realization of the broadening, of great
technical difficulties. In other words: how many entrances should be brought? Would
there not be on the one hand a threat of monotony in the case of too many, but on the
other hand the peril of excessive brevity in the case of too few? Further: in which keys
should the proliferation of entrances proceed? And finally: how was the primary goal
to be achieved of having the first part alone give the impression both of an independent
whole and also (despite this independence) at the same time of only an exposition?
All the questions are answered by Beethoven in a fascinatingly brilliant manner
as follows:
1. He writes what could be considered three voice-cycles of three entrances

each, for a total of nine entrances, by which the exposition in a sense appears
triplicated; and by inserting between the entrances more or less long inter-
ludes, he achieves, as can easily be understood, the requisite quantity of con-
tent. (One grasps that in the case of a broader theme a ninefold repetition
throughout the exposition would have made the worst imaginable effect.)
2. As to the key-area setting of the nine entrances, he adheres completely to
what he understood as the only true sense of the exposition, and since he
Third Movement 105
recognized the latter’s only assignment as being to circumscribe the Fugue’s

principal key (appearing first of all in the dux) through the opposition of
only one key, namely that of the comes, it was thus simultaneously decided
for him that in the whole first part, all entrances—with a single exception,
to be discussed just below—, in spite of their large number (8!), would have
to appear only in A ♭ major or E ♭ major. Such implacability in the consis-
tency of commitment to a valid insight!
3. Inasmuch as Beethoven by exception places the comes that opens the third
cycle of voices (bar 87ff.) in D ♭ major, he prepares in the most secure manner
that cadential effect which he had to seek in order to delimit the exposition
as an independent part. And again it is to be defined and recognized only
as a demand of the cadential effect to be achieved that even in the first part,
thus in the exposition, he goes so far as to introduce stretti (at bars 93ff. and
103), and even an organ point (bar 98ff.). Just these last features clearly pres-
ent those concessions of which I spoke above.
So much for now on the first part of the Fugue in general.11 Let us proceed here to
the special presentation of content. To the latter I must prefix the observation that
here, in regard to the nomenclature of the individual voices, I again draw upon that
convention which I have already used on one occasion, in the Chromatic Fantasy,
according to which the voices are to be distinguished as follows: an upper (or first),
a middle (or second), and a lower (or third) voice.
Dux, in the lower voice, departing from the tonic tone and remaining in the key. Bar 26ff.
Comes, in the middle voice, in the key of the upper fifth. Obviously, the latter is Bar 30ff.
mediated by a modulation through reinterpretation.12 The scale-degree progression

in bar 30ff. may be most suitably interpreted as follows:
Fig. 111
11
I find Riemann’s interpretation downright monstrous (Katechismus der Kompositionslehre I, Allgemeine
Formenlehre, p. 185): “Thus the fugue in Beethoven’s Op. 110, for example, is the contrasting second theme of
a movement organized in a rondo-like fashion (this theme, to be sure, is spun out very long the first time—it
is indeed a real fugue, which even returns, as Inversione della fuga, i.e., with inversion of the theme, after the
repetition of the infinitely melancholy first theme). . . .”
12
More detail will be provided about the horizontal interpretation of keys in fugal entrances in my Entwurf
einer neuen Formenlehre; therefore, I here make preliminary reference only to my edition of the Chromatic
Fantasy, in which at least in large part both the necessary requirements and the liberties of the fugue are
discussed. [The Formenlehre was never completed.]
The (first) interlude13 is brought about in a completely natural way in that the last
tones of the fugal theme are repeated a step lower, and since the original rhythm was
to be maintained, the necessity of a syncopation automatically arose:
Fig. 112
Through the reinterpretation:
♭
I7
A ♭ major: V
A ♭ major is regained, and with the seventh of I (see G ♭ , the final eighth in bar 35)
Bar
the tonicization of IV is achieved.
36ff. Dux in the upper voice. (This is the third entrance, thus the last of the first
voice-cycle.)
Except for a few tones in bar 39, the first countersubject is replaced by a new one;
nevertheless, the harmonic progression of the setting, now expanded (through
incorporation of a second counterpoint) to three voices, shows a picture similar to
that of the two-voice setting that preceded:
Fig. 113
The roots that had to be supplied behind the attenuated14 harmonies in

the earlier case, bars 30ff., here already project clearly in the bass. The synco-
pes, thus far absent from the counterpoint, must be considered a particular
hallmark here. Several among them are actually of the “strict” variety, that is,
constructed in the way that is still required by “strict counterpoint” in its exer-
cises; thus in bar 36, ͡ 2—3 and Ļ ĺ ĸ, in bar 37 again ͡ 2—3, while others show
a construction that would restrict them to free composition, such as in bar 37
the syncope ͡ 4—3, which, however, derives from a passing tone.15 (Compare
Counterpoint I, p. 258/331 [Example 387].)
13
[Sometimes called codetta.]
14
[Incomplete, because of the two-voice format.]
15
[The preparation of this suspension, a ♭1 at the third eighth of bar 38, represents a passing seventh above
the b ♭ bass at the second eighth.]
Third Movement 107
In bar 40 the (second) interlude is annexed, and in fact on a basis analogous to the
first interlude, except that here the motif16 is employed two times, after which a cadence
in E ♭ major finally brings the conclusion of the first voice-cycle (and thus of the exposi-
tion in the narrowest sense of the word). As the following harmonic digest shows:
Fig. 114
in this now more extended interlude the path to E ♭ major is taken by way of F minor.
Bar
The second voice-cycle begins. First the comes (fourth entrance, or the first of the sec- 45ff.
ond voice-cycle), in the lower voice with octave reinforcements (similar to octave registra-
tion [on an organ]). The first counterpoint (in the upper voice) again emerges more clearly,
exactly the same in bars 46–47 as earlier, but with a small variation in bar 48.17 The all too
close proximity into which the two counterpoints have moved in relation to the theme
compelled the master to set the second counterpoint higher than the first (through bar 47),
and in fact the upper shift of the second counterpoint (in bar 46) is brought about by
inversion of a descending second (c1—b♭) into a rising seventh (c1—b♭1). Even though the
comes according to the fugal interpretation from the outset signifies E ♭ at least in the hori-
zontal direction, here the harmonization is nevertheless worked out in A ♭.
In bar 49 the (third) interlude begins; here the situation at first remains analo-
gous to the one in bars 34–35, and takes a new turn only in bars 51–53. From the
upbeat in bar 51 the harmonies are read as follows:
B ♭—E ♭—A ♭—D ♭ .
Thus at the close of the interlude, again the subdominant of the A ♭ key appears,
and again toward the end of the interlude a richer use of syncopes is notable, among
which is found (in bar 52) the syncope ͡ 7 8 in the lower counterpoint, which remains
forbidden in strict counterpoint.
At the downbeat of bar 53: dux (fifth entrance, or second of the second voice-cycle) Bar 53ff.
in the middle voice. The integrity of the first counterpoint is maintained almost
completely; the second counterpoint joins in parallel sixths.
16
[The last four notes of the subject.]
17
[Subject and counterpoint are positionally inverted at the twelfth here; under this inversion the initially
metrically strong tenths yield thirds. The modification in bar 48 of the first counterpoint was imperative
because of the unusable intervals (7—9 across the bar line of bars 48–49) that would have resulted from a
strict continuation of the inversion.]
At the upbeat of bar 57 the (fourth) interlude follows, which, however, is short-
ened this time, and thus is already able to dispense with the syncopes:
Fig. 115
In bars 61–62 a cadence is now added, into which the succeeding entrance at the
upbeat of bar 62 is integrated. It is noteworthy that Beethoven uses the eighth-note
counterpoint in the lower voice in bars 56–58, but in the upper voice in the follow-
ing bars. This occurs in order to give preference to variety in the detailing of the
individual voices, especially as the upper voice has the assignment of introducing
dotted quarters (indeed, the next entrance) immediately afterward.
Bar
62ff. Comes (sixth entrance, or the third of the second voice-cycle) in the upper voice.
This entrance, as Autograph A shows, took a lot of work on the master’s part, to wit:
Since the upper voice in the preceding bars had descended as far as b ♭, in order to begin
the comes with e ♭1, it had to make a fourth-leap upwards. At first Beethoven accepted this
situation and expressed it as it is clearly given in the following version of Autograph A:
Fig. 116
Only a subsequent correction presents that version given in my text. The question
thus arises of which effect in the original version Beethoven sensed as poor and thus
discarded. I believe I can provide an adequate answer.
The first through third eighths of the upper voice in bar 62 (see Fig. 116) move
by falling second-steps, and, beginning with the second eighth, the lower voice joins
in thirds; just this voice leading necessarily produces the impression that, because
of the parallel thirds themselves, the third eighth b ♭ could again only have moved
downward by step to a ♭ . But in no case could the original voice leading have made
credible the thing that Beethoven wanted to express by it, namely that b ♭ should
make the fourth-leap to e ♭1 as initial tone of the entrance. Given, then, that in the
face of the evidence of the voice leading, e ♭1 does not come from b ♭ , this tone unfor-
tunately has to sound ex abrupto. Or in other words: since the tone e ♭1 lacks any kind
of preparation by the voice leading, it would undoubtedly have to appear—especially
as it begins the thematic entrance—to have come from a fourth, still higher voice, an
Third Movement 109
effect that had under all circumstances to be suppressed! The revision that Beethoven
made reveals clearly that his purpose was to make credible the appearance of that
tone as a tone of the upper (first) voice and not of some new voice. Lacking any other
option, and since moreover the upper voice would admit of no revision, he employs
here an audible preparation of the entrance that thus is supplied by the third eighth
of the middle voice! In this way the primary difficulty in relation to the origin of the
tone e ♭1 was circumvented, since the tone entered through preparation by the middle
voice; on the other hand, even after the revision there remained the collateral effect
that the upper voice would find its continuation at the point where, according to
Beethoven’s notation, the inner voice in fact takes over:
Fig. 117
From this it follows in turn that the master has not avoided the final (obviously
insurmountable) difficulty, but rather asks of us that at the last moment we ourselves
in a way perform a conceptual exchange of the upper and middle voices, which we
are indeed empowered to do in free composition by virtue of the presence in our
imagination of scale degrees and the immanence of their harmonic constituents
(compare Counterpoint I, p. 241/314). Thus the strict construction of voice nota-
tion here suffers a violation, but this could not be circumvented if the far greater
evil was to be avoided of having the upper voice suddenly create the delusion of a
fourth voice.
At the upbeat of bar 66 the (fifth) interlude follows, which the master expands to
a far broader scope than the preceding ones. Here for the first time the repetitions of
the motif are presented ever higher rather than lower, while the harmonic progres-
sion first takes the following shape:
Fig. 118
The chromaticizations of the thirds in bars 68 and 70 are thus explained as

ellipses that come about in the succession of chromatic modulations: here of course,
in keeping with the scale of E ♭ major that preceded in bar 66, we would expect first
of all the minor third A ♭ (in F—A ♭—C, not F—A—C) or B ♭ (in G—B ♭—D, not
G—B—D).18
In bar 70, the dominant of C minor is to be assumed, by virtue of the chromatic
alteration; in fact, in the next bars a cadence in C minor is worked out.
The eighth-note rest in the upper voice in bar 70 is of great eloquence; it separates
the second motif repetition from the third, and, as a “space” that permits the voice
to “breathe,” enables it all the more easily to accomplish the third motif repetition,
which indeed is enlarged for the sake of the cadence in C minor.
In bar 73 the content of the interlude is deceptive in that one imagines oneself to have
recognized a new thematic entrance at this point, an assumption that at first seems all
the more justified as the time, to go by previous experience, for a new entrance appears
to have arrived. That we are not dealing here with a true entrance, however, is confirmed
at bar 76 by even the most superficial hearing. Still more decisive, though, is the reason
inherent in the key; for if this were a regular entrance, the horizontally expressed key of
the motif, G minor, would in itself necessarily signify a contradiction to the law of the
exposition, according to which—as was already shown above—all entrances must begin
with the tonic tone of either the A ♭ or the E ♭ major key. In fact, Beethoven combines with
this deception a far higher purpose, for he seems here as though to say: don’t suppose that
it will continue according to the usual type of fugal form; don’t always expect only what
you have learned to expect; I will surprise you. Thus the apparent entrance of the theme
signifies only a first challenge to our nerve for assimilation, and exactly by thus showing
our expectations new goals, the master also succeeds in preparing us—and this is just the
point—for coming liberties of all kinds, in particular for the actual appearance of the
imminent first entrance of the third voice-cycle, in D ♭ major.
After removal of everything nonessential, the true content of bars 73ff. is to be
heard as follows:
Fig. 119
18
[The ellipses, then, are of the diatonic tones, which are elided in favor of the chromatic.]
Third Movement 111
What may be designated the most important event of this picture is that in bars
80–81 the advancements by second, which have thus far taken place only in whole
bars, now happen beat by beat. The tonal series that thus arises from the more rapid
succession of second-steps is then elevated to the status of an interlude motif:
Fig. 120
which is now presented twice—indeed, in alternation between the lower and upper voices.
At the upbeat of bar 87 there begins the third, final voice-cycle of the first section Bar 87ff.
of the Fugue. It too, like the second cycle, is opened by the comes (seventh entrance,
or the first of the third voice-cycle), except that the latter, for reasons already pre-
sented above, stands by exception in D ♭ major. The counterpoints are new, and here
one should observe in particular the thoroughgoing downward octave transposition
of the upper voice, which, through a bold octave leap, regains the high position only
in bar 91, so as to take over the dux. No interlude appears at this point.
The upper voice leads with the dux (eighth entrance, or second of the third Bar 91ff.
voice-cycle). This entrance, however, is—for the first time—combined with a stretto
(see above), which begins at the upbeat of bar 93.
In bar 95 the (sixth) interlude is adjoined, in which the last four tones of the theme,
although again occurring in the descending direction, are used this time with reduc-
tion of the first dotted quarter to merely an eighth (compare the first, second, and third
interludes). Observe that this same motif is continued also in bars 98–99 in the middle
voice (on the basis of [positional] inversion), while the eighth-note counterpoint of
the upper voice moves in bars 100–101 into the lower voice (but now from upbeat to
upbeat). Noteworthy in addition is the organ point in bars 98–100 (see above), which
here is confined within narrower limits in recognition that the final entrance, after all,
still lies ahead. Incidentally, procurement of the content just of bars 83–100 cost the
master the greatest efforts, a difficulty that appeared at first even to be insurmountable.
Comes (ninth and final entrance, or third of the third voice-cycle) in the low voice. Bar 101ff.
Tellingly it is the comes that concludes the first section of the Fugue, so that a definite
expectation of a continuation is aroused in us all the more. The final entrance too, like
the penultimate, involves a stretto (see bar 103). In bars 105ff. the upper voice represents
not what could be called an actual entrance, but a parallelism, departing from the tonic
tone, to bars 73ff. from the interlude, which, to be sure, is codetermined by the preced-
ing stretto. At the upbeat in bar 108, incidentally, the motif achieves for the first time
the scope of an octave, which, in comparison to the sixth (measured from the departure
point of the tonic: A ♭—F) as the widest interval of regular entrances, is a contrast that
is drastic in the extreme, and exactly for that reason at the same time most effectively
signals the approaching close! At this point the final cadence is formed; in keeping with
the task of the first fugal section, however, it is only a half cadence.
As I have already suggested, the first part of the Fugue caused the master great dif-
ficulty. Because of the plethora of material, I must forgo a complete presentation of the
story of the Fugue’s origin—a constraint that I can only regret deeply, as just such a
presentation would surely be of infinite value for composition students and true lovers
of music—, and restrict myself to only the following brief selection from the materials.
Thus the sketches, leaf 69, show bar 30 at first in the following shape:
Fig. 121
The poor effect here consists in the self-contained series of eighth notes of the counter-
point, whose quantity alone contrasts too abruptly with the preceding dotted quarters.19
One of the revisions in bar 62, which relates to the third eighth of the middle
voice, has already been reported above. Here, then, we discuss only a second revi-
sion, which concerns the same bar:
The syncopation of f in the middle voice is beyond doubt in both Autograph
A and Autograph B. Surprisingly, however, the Revised Copy shows instead of the
syncope the following picture:
Fig. 122
19
[The eighths of the draft obscure the incipience of the comes, which by contrast is clearly revealed by the
transparency of the final version.]
Third Movement 113
In this version, as we see, the syncope is absent, as is the (now superfluous) tie.
Since there is an erasure here in the Revised Copy, it can probably be assumed that
Beethoven himself made this correction. The Original Edition, as well as Cappi
and Cappi-Diabelli, follow the Revised Copy; only the more recent editions, chief
among them the Gesamtausgabe and the Urtext, get into trouble by trying on the
one hand to keep the revision of the Revised Copy but on the other hand to remain
true to the Autograph, where they found the tie. Unfortunately, they try to get
out of the dilemma by eliminating the syncope but retaining the ligature. 20 This
however is clearly a contradiction in terms, because the ligature in bar 62 simply
becomes nonsense once the first eighth is no longer syncopated; the matter is sim-
ple: one or the other! I personally tend, despite the alteration in the Revised Copy,
to favor the original version in Autographs A and B; my reasons are as follows:
Contrary to the course of the middle voice up to now, which has shown no syncopes
for some time, the syncope in bar 62 contrasts all the better as it prevents the unsyn-
copated rhythm of the preceding to continue unsyncopated all the way to bar 65 or 66
and thus to produce a ponderously monotonous effect. It also prevents the tone e ♭ from
making its presence too heavily felt on the downbeat even before the comes enters on
the upbeat. But be that as it may, it is in no case permissible—as I must expressly repeat
here—to present the version given almost without exception in the later editions.
Autograph A shows (p. 36) the first deadlock at bar 79 as a foreboding of the com-
ing difficult battles:
Fig. 123
Because Beethoven here has the content of bars 80ff. (although in a different key)
follow directly on bar 78, bad effects of various kinds arise:
1. the parallelism lacks fulfillment (compare bars 74–75, 76–77, 78–79);

2. the new motif rising by step still lacks sufficient contrast in the rhythmic
aspect, since thus far no fewer than ten dotted quarters (bars 74–78) have
preceded in the same rhythm;
3. key-area issues arise that are difficult to surmount.
20
[The ligature thus becomes instead of a tie an articulation slur from f to e ♭ (bars 61–62).]
All of these effects are now removed by the master on p. 37 of Autograph A by the
insertion of bar 79. It must be granted that the inserted bar represents essentially only
the composing out of one more third-space (a—f) with the aid of passing tones (see
above, Fig. 120):
Fig. 124
Nevertheless, this composing out alone suffices both to keep the old and new
motifs distinctly separate and also—and this factor weighs still more heavily—to
prepare the ascending direction of the second-steps that become motivic in bars
80–81 as such through the ascending eighths (f—g—a of bar 79).
Scarcely have six bars of fluent progress ensued beyond the solution of this first
difficulty, however, before in bar 87 a far greater calamity breaks out. Specifically,
since Beethoven does not immediately find the remedy of the comes entrance in D ♭
major, he first tries the dux (in A ♭) and therefore, in the continuation, arrives far too
early at the organ point:
Fig. 125
Perhaps the lack of suitable preconditions for the organ point in bar 4ff. of the
above figure may have brought to the master’s attention the insupportability of
the immediately preceding bars (bars 1–3), and he thus—obviously in order to delay the
organ point and for that reason alone to be better able to justify it—tries to expand
Third Movement 115
the content that precedes. He does approach the solution more closely by writing, instead
of the organ point, an obbligato bass part, and has the organ point begin only later:
Fig. 126
But let it be noted here that all of the difficulties just mentioned by no means
prevented him from writing down the continuation of the fugue after the organ
point and up as far as the cadential bars for the most part exactly as it appears in the
definitive version.
Only after completion of the entire work does Beethoven return anew to bars 87ff:
An extensive pencil sketch in Autograph A, which there (p. 52) follows
directly upon the close of the last movement, shows the first trace of recognition
that the desired expansion of the content that precedes the organ point could be
achieved more effectively if, after conclusion of the interlude, not immediately
the dux itself would appear but first an additional comes entrance in D ♭ major.
I presume, now, given the close correspondence of the aforementioned (and inci-
dentally not very legible) pencil sketch with Autograph B, that Beethoven, after
incorporating the entrance in D ♭ major (which however does not even appear in
complete form here), considered this stage to be the final one and went to work
on the fair copy of Autograph B. Here in Autograph B, then, we read:
Fig. 127
I surely need not point out the awkwardness of this voice leading. But how
deadly, to single out only one point, the encounter, in the third bar of the
above example, of the two quarter notes a ♭1, which moreover belong to the same
harmony.
Finally we see the master on p. 55 of Autograph A advance to the definitive ver-
sion, which differs from that of Autograph B in that the D ♭ major entrance is now
Third Movement 117
led to an end, so that as a completed comes it not only brings with it a further
considerable increase of content, but also, by means of its key, at the same time
gives the subsequent dux the organic causality of a cadence succession IV—I. From
that alone it now follows—additional factors will reinforce it still more—that
Autograph B, despite the fact that during a certain time it may have counted for
the master himself as a fair copy in relation to Autograph A, was superseded by the
latter to the extent that Beethoven entered still later revisions once again only in
Autograph A!
Only now, after the most difficult problem has been solved—that of the
transition from the fifth interlude to the third voice-cycle on the basis of the
newly inserted comes in D ♭ major—, can the master finally turn his attention
to the honing of the perilous area surrounding the organ point. But what haz-
ards lurked there! Despite his having earlier found the definitive version of both
bars 87–94 and bars 100ff. (see above), in the intervening bars 96–100 he falls
again—see leaves 55–56 of Autograph A—into the previous error of a premature
deployment of the organ point. From this it can be inferred that he had hoped,
from the expansion of content achieved at bar 87 alone, to gain at the same time
an improvement of the effect of the organ point as well. Beethoven thus writes
as follows:
Fig. 128
But having noticed the mistake, he eradicates the organ point in bars 96–97, to
replace it, as he had already done before, with exclusively obbligato voices (see the
last page of the book):
Fig. 129
But in this version the voice leading of bars 98ff. (bars 4–5 of Fig. 129). still
suffers from the poor effect of monotonous successions of thirds, which here are
all the more noticeable than in the preceding two bars, bars 96–97, a completely
successful mixture of thirds and sixths—see in the upper and middle voices the
ordering of intervals: 3—6—6—3 | 3—6—6—3, etc.—has already shown its ben-
eficial effect in an exemplary manner. Thus Beethoven then finally improves, in an
immediately following passage, the voice leading above the organ point itself, and
in fact, as the definitive version shows, by means of an inversion from this point
onward of the foregoing interval succession: 6—3—3—6 | 6—3—3—6, etc.
Now a few more points regarding the last bars of the first part, bars 106–110:
The latter bars appear still in the first version, Autograph A, p. 39, as follows:
Fig. 130
Third Movement 119
Fig. 130 (Continued.)
Unfortunately, however, the completeness of the thematic entrance brings with it

the result that the highest point in the line, a ♭2 , appears to be introduced as though
ex machina. But in the margin of the same system on p. 39, a very hasty pencil sketch
shows the discovery of the right solution at last. Autograph B then reproduces only
the latter version, except that the counterpointing voices are still imperfectly formed:
Fig. 131
They are at last put into correct form on p. 56 of Autograph A.

Concerning the dynamic shading of the Fugue, Autograph A leaves no room
for doubt, and if Autograph B, which is otherwise in agreement over the dynamic
indications, nevertheless deviates in bars 105ff., that is of course bound up with
the earlier version of the last bars depicted above, which was corrected only sub-
sequently in Autograph A, at which time the dynamic shadings too were at last
definitively organized.
The Original Edition deviates from Autograph A at only two points, to wit, in
bar 73, where instead of ff it shows an sf, and in bar 110, where instead of sf—ff it sets
the opposite, ff—sf.
The first discrepancy, in bar 73, however, I regard as merely an oversight in the
Original Edition, and while this error is taken over by the remaining earlier printings as
well, the more recent editions, showing ff, very gratifyingly follow the two autographs.
The second divergence, on the other hand, that in bar 110, must certainly be called
a result of “cogitation” on the part of the proofreader. When we proceed from the
recognition that an sf always relates only to a certain prevailing dynamic level, and
that its precise meaning is a strengthening in comparison to the norm of that level, 21
the question arises of which is more correct: should the sf in bar 110 be executed
already on the downbeat, so as to relate it back to the f of the preceding bars? Or
should the ff be set on the downbeat and the sf not until the upbeat, so that the
latter would have to relate to the ff of the downbeat? I think there can be no doubt
here that the dominant harmony appearing on the downbeat of bar 110 demands an
ff already in consideration of its half-cadential character, and that in keeping with
the freshly devised transitory situation, the chord of the upbeat must in addition
be given the psychological emphasis of an sf within the ff. The faulty notation may
possibly be attributed to the Revised Copy, where the master may have overlooked
it, perhaps because the original version availed itself only of an ff on the upbeat (thus
without any sf at all). In any case, Autograph A, as end result of the revisions, pro-
vides the only psychologically admissible ordering: ff—sf.
The dynamic shading makes known clearly what sort of performance the master
desired not only for this fugue in particular but for the fugue in general. Had the
Fugue as such appeared to him only as a more or less loose and mechanical combina-
tion of so and so many entrances, he would have emphasized through performance
markings only the respective entrances themselves, while allowing the interludes, as a
matter of logic, simply to recede into unimportance. On the contrary, just the instruc-
tion to keep large sections of the Fugue in sempre p alone emphatically indicates that
Beethoven, rather, strove often enough, above and beyond single entrances, to have
several entrances share a common dynamic state, with the result that the fugal treat-
ment was to appear all the more unified, more of the character of a novella, so to speak.
Here a special discussion of the dynamic markings and their meaning:
The first voice-cycle remains (with all three entrances) in p throughout, and only in
the approach to the beginning of the second voice-cycle does the first cresc. appear at
bar 44 in the service of the cadence. The first entrance of the second voice-cycle (bar
45) is set in f, but as early as bars 49ff. a dimin. leads back to p (bar 53), so that the sec-
ond and third entrances of the second voice-cycle likewise remain in p; and the second
cresc., which appears in bar 66, again serves only a cadence. Now for the first time the
21
Unfortunately, performing musicians consider sf even within p- and pp-passages, without further differen-
tiation of context, purely as a nuance of f. It is hardly to be believed that a world of musicians so mindlessly
falls for the visual suggestion of an f within sf!
Third Movement 121
shading becomes more varied: observe f in bar 70; in bar 71; p in bar 72; and
immediately after it the harsh, abrupt contrast of the ff in bar 73, whose effect exactly
at this point is all the more surprising, given that the first expectation would have been
a regular entrance in p. But the abrupt contrast at the same time serves—and this alone
constitutes its justification as well—as a primer for the coming contrast effects of the
interlude: see, after the ff of bar 73, the p of bar 81, and after the f of bar 83, the p of bar
85. We gather from this that the interlude, to the same extent that it has relinquished
the organic material that all interludes have used thus far, henceforth takes refuge in
dynamic effects, which then serve in their way as a kind of substitute for the loss of
organic material. In the third voice-cycle (bar 87ff.), at first p again prevails, until the
appearance—only after the onset of the organ point, bar 98ff.—of the cresc. that leads
to the f of the final entrance in bar 101. This f persists finally up to the conclusion of the
fugal part, if we regard the p that enters in bar 105 only as a shading expressly notated
by the composer of the overall f—one that now aims to prepare and underscore all the
more forcefully the final f (bar 108) or ff (bar 110).
The general result thus produced is that the first fugal section requires an
f or ff in only few places. However, even these still exhibit no genuine f: thus
the very first f in bar 45 is to be taken cum grano salis, since not only does a
dimin. lead back to the p very soon afterward, but the octave reinforcement
alone lends the entrance a tonal richness such as was previously unattainable.
Similarly, the f in bar 70 is to be understood less in the absolutely physical
sense than in that of a merely involuntarily intensified psychic stimulation
with which the motif of the interlude is sounded at ever higher levels. And the
intensification toward the end of the section is so obviously bound up with the
stretti, and also with other indispensable elements of a conclusion in general,
that no contradiction can be seen in it of the general p-character of the fugal
section. If finally we understand the function of the dynamic f—p contrasts of
the interlude in bar 73ff. in the sense portrayed above, we easily grasp that they
too are far removed from stamping the section with a forte-character. We can
thus say with justification, as follows from the foregoing, that the exposition,
by dint of its p-character, expresses a typically quiet, indeed reserved serious-
ness, which tends strongly toward the ceremonious, without ever completely
attaining it. Add to this that the first section of the Fugue lies between both
Arioso sections, which naturally cast reflections of a dynamic nature as well
on the intervening fugal section and thus do not permit here, instead of the
basic feeling of a p, the all too life-affirming display of anything like that of an
f. It must not be forgotten, too, that the true intensification had to be reserved
only for the second section of the Fugue as the conclusion of the whole. With
this in mind, then, one should let prevail in the first part of the Fugue, despite
the several occurrences of cresc. and f, the expression of a soul that is prepared
to emerge from a depression, but that is not yet fully able to conquer it! Only
then will it also be possible to project convincingly through the performance
the coming retreat into the lament of the Arioso, as well as the final triumph,
the last victory and upsurge in the second section of the Fugue.
Bar
110ff. The Fugue’s half cadence is at once harnessed also for the transition to the second
Arioso. The basis is an enharmonic modulation:
Fig. 132
to which, incidentally, Beethoven commits himself in one of the earliest drafts,

Autograph A, p. 41, as well. In the definitive version the master restricts himself to
a simple arpeggiation of the harmony in the fantasy- and prelude-manner. Earlier
versions went as follows:
Fig. 133
Third Movement 123
Fig. 134
L’ istesso tempo di Arioso. 22 “Ermattet klagend” (“wearily lamenting”) is how Bar 116ff.
the German heading reads, which is meant to indicate a still more profound
weakness and depression than were expressed already in the first Arioso. And in
fact, although the harmonic progression, modulatory plan, and melodic line of
the first Arioso are kept intact, the second one shows, already in the notational
figures themselves, the melody far more shattered—from a purely visual stand-
point, as though only bits and shards of a melody instead of a continuity. When
we consider that the first Arioso itself signified from the outset only a variant
of a more normal and “healthy” melody that would have been possible, and that
already there it was bodily misery that carved the first traces of suffering into the
image, how must we marvel from a purely technical standpoint that the master
now causes this first variant to be followed by a second one still more sensitive
by far! But what intensity of total feeling for a melodic line is unveiled by such
an incomparable art of variation (compare Op. 109, first movement, bar 11ff. and
bar 58ff.)!
Anybody would miss the point of the Arioso, however, who would prize
above all, from the purely musical perspective, only the master’s art of varia-
tion. To approach more closely here the deepest considerations, it is far more
important to grasp that an art of variation like that represented by the second
Arioso can be mastered only by one who has been destined by fate to suffer
much, and who therefore knows from personal experience how physical tor-
ment and suffering are truly expressed in gestures and declamation. We do
see, in the second Arioso, suffering manifest itself as though physically; we
see clearly how the sufferer stammers, tries to speak and breaks off, struggles
to recover and then sinks back—in short, the tones virtually become lines
and the piece an actual picture of misery. To make at all manifest this effect,
which is almost to be called onomatopoeic, Beethoven uses primarily a form of
22
[At the upbeat in bar 114.]
abbreviation, which I want to explain more closely first with reference to two
simple examples.
In the Andante un poco adagio from the Piano Sonata in C Major, K.V. 309 by
Mozart, the motif of bar 1ff. is the following:
Fig. 135
Later, however, the falling broken thirds undergo the following rhythmic
modification:
Fig. 136
Just this modification I call a rhythmic abbreviation in comparison to the

original form, specifically in the sense that the leading melodic tones a1, b ♭1,
then d1, e ♭1, etc. lose part of their original value of a dotted sixteenth each and
shrink down to merely a smaller duration (a thirty-second). The unfortunate
custom in performance is to skim indifferently over such a traumatic experi-
ence on the part of melodically primary tones and give no thought to the
fact that even in the shrunken melodic tone (in the thirty-second note) the
original expressive content (of the dotted sixteenth) wants still to live on, and
live on with all the more intensity the more it has been forced into the smaller
time value as though by a cruel stroke of fate. Precisely this expressive content,
however, must be done justice in the performance. With most delicate arts of
attack, one must therefore in such a case endeavor to illuminate and compen-
sate the difference between the originally larger and the (later) unfortunately
reduced, as though squatted-down, physical manifestation of the tone. The
longing of the tone for its original greater duration must in some way be given
expression in the very performance as well, if one is to render not only unto
the engraver that which is the engraver’s, but also unto the tone that which is
the tone’s.
Or compare in Beethoven’s Piano Trio Op. 97 the motif of the first bar:
Fig. 137
Third Movement 125
and the following modification of the same in the Reprise:

Fig. 138
With perfect accuracy Beethoven writes here an sf at the second quarter, as though to
say: in this tone alone you are to reproduce the sum of the expressive content originally
held by both tones, when they were still together. Anybody not terrified by the dras-
tic comparison may perhaps also think of an amputation from the human body: does
that not also have the result that intensity of life extends all the more acutely into the
remaining organs, so that the sum total of life-energy remains essentially the same after
excision of the amputated part?
We encounter a similar art in the use of abbreviations now in the Arioso as well.
Here too we observe that in the shortened and merely stammered tone the origi-
nal abundance is preserved exactly the same as previously in the longer and unbro-
ken tone, and there is no end to our amazement as we study, stroke by stroke, that
portraiture in miniature of physical misery which the master commits to paper.
Consider, to cite only a few points by way of clarification, for example, bars 116,
118, 119: where previously (in the first Arioso) the breath at least lasted long enough,
starting here (in the second Arioso) it is presented only foreshortened; but precisely
because it lacks sustaining power, it breaks off abruptly, and therefore must begin
over and repeat the tone it was unable to sustain, struggling once again for clarity:
Fig. 139
Quite incomparable in terms of pictorial gestures are the abbreviations in bars

120–121 as well: the breath, which seems to draw strength from a mysterious source,
is now able to sustain the tone longer; now—we hear it clearly—it is even quite close
to the tone that it wants to reach. Then, at the very last moment, it suddenly breaks
off and finds itself short of the goal that seemed so attainable. Thus in bar 120 the
tone b ♭1 strains toward the tone c2 , in bar 121 the c2 for the d2 , and so forth. May
these hints concerning the abbreviations now provide performers an incentive for
further studies, on the basis of similar comparisons of the two Arioso parts.
A word in addition about the articulation of bar 122. Here the left hand’s accompa-
niment remains by design in the lower register—to express, in fact, a kind of premo-
nition that after the strenuous exertion of the longer breath-draughts and of striving
upward, the painful reaction of a collapse back to the depths is all the more inevitable.
Thus the accompaniment waits patiently from the outset to catch the hurtling tone in its
motherly skirt. From this, however, we learn at once that here only the perfectly unam-
biguous articulation of Autograph A—as it is presented in my text—is apropos (obvi-
ously through oversight, no articulation whatever appears at this point in Autograph
B), and that by comparison to it, the markings of all later editors (including the earliest),
which show either:
Fig. 140
or even:
Fig. 141
are in error. From a psychological perspective, how could anybody want to express
a rash and altogether unpremeditated plunge into the depths by means of a legato
slur, which on the contrary implicitly includes an intent to reach the other tone?
Concerning the performance of the second Arioso, all the pianistic experiences gar-
nered in the first Arioso should be applied, to the extent that they are justified here by
similarity of situation; but one should also be prepared to make a change to the extent
that the situation has itself changed. Such variations are shown by bar 117 (as compared
to bar 10); bar 119 (as compared to bar 12), where the cresc. coming from bar 118 contin-
ues through the first three sixteenths; bar 122 (as compared to bar 15), where we see a
sudden pp instead of a decresc.; bar 124 (as compared to bar 17), which contains in itself
poco cresc. and the sign ; etc., etc. It is noteworthy besides that in keeping with
the progressive fragmentation of the melody, the accompaniment too, analogously,
shows a fragmentation in the form of appoggiaturas and anticipations—see, for exam-
ple, bar 123; bar 124, fifth and sixth sixteenths; bar 125, fourth and fifth sixteenths; bar
127, eighth and ninth sixteenths; bar 129, seventh and eighth sixteenths and tenth and
eleventh sixteenths; bar 130, first and second, seventh and eighth, tenth and eleventh,
eleventh and twelfth sixteenths. Naturally all of these flutterings of anticipations and
suspensions must be given suitable expression, and in particular it must not be forgot-
ten to express appoggiaturas in a strict legato, as, for example, in bar 130:
Fig. 142
Third Movement 127
The second Arioso, like the first, concludes with a variation on the final step of Bar
132ff.
a second, except that abruptly in bar 132, at the upbeat—as though signaling in
advance the coming convalescence—, instead of the tonic tone G alone, its third
appears as well, and moreover the major third. The crisis has passed and the vital
fluids obviously tend toward an inner sun, which may be the reflection of the great,
beautiful sun out in space! The gradually swelling harmony (G major) already
expresses a vision of that future harmony of health, which will actively step out and
make its presence felt.
L’ istesso tempo della Fuga. Now we arrive at the continuation of the Fugue, in Bars
136ff.
fact, at the middle, modulatory section and the concluding part. If the inviolable
laws of fugal form were to be followed here, the modulatory section as well would
obviously have to be resumed and continued in three voices, and in no case be
initiated (like the beginning of a fugue) with a merely unaccompanied entrance.
The program of subdivision on a binary principle, however, demands that the
second part begin as though the Fugue had not been interrupted earlier—that
is, as though it were to begin only just here. This demand of binary organiza-
tion is now met by Beethoven in the most brilliant way on the psychological basis
of the program itself, specifically by associatively imitating the programmatic
element of the poi a poi di nuovo vivente—the now ever increasing recovery of
strengths—precisely in the entrance of the voices one after the other (thus in the
manner of an exposition)!
It is, of course, well suited to the modulatory section that use is made
here of various keys, and of the techniques of inversion, augmentation, and
diminution.
The dux (bar 136) enters in inversion in G major and begins with the tone of the
dominant.
In bar 140, the comes in the key of the dominant. It would actually have had to Bars
140ff.
go as follows:
Fig. 143
but, bound by the law according to which the tone of the fifth is to be answered by
the tonic tone, and assuming that the characteristic fourths of the theme were not
to be sacrificed, Beethoven could not shape the comes in any way other than the way
he did.
The comes proceeds segue at bar 144 to the dux, as what may be termed the final Bars
144ff.
entrance of the new exposition. Observe that in bar 147, instead of following the ini-
tial presentation through to the end, a new path is followed instead, which yields the
modulation from G major to C minor, but that the new turning nevertheless takes
only the same amount of time as the normal conclusion of the theme would have
required. From this it follows that at this point, on the one hand, the newness of the
formation just as effectively creates the deceptive appearance of an episode as, on the
other hand, the strict preservation of the length of the theme at the same time main-
tains the character of the theme itself. And this justifies the assertion that connection
of the ensuing fourth entrance to the third is altogether only a segue connection, and
indeed fully as much so as that of the third entrance to the second and of the second
to the first—a fact whose significance will be completely clear to the reader only later.
Bars
148ff. In bar 148 there appears—likewise by segue connection—a fourth, redundant,
entrance (in C minor), which exhibits still freer traits than the third: see, in bar 150,
the filling-in of the third-space by means of a passing tone; in bars 151–152 the free
cadence; and so forth. And again, as with the third entrance, it is to be noted that
here too the free cadential formation of the entrance creates the illusion of an epi-
sode, while the entrance in truth preserves the original length of the theme, so that
one must again speak of a segue connection to the subsequent entrance.
Bars
152ff. In bar 152, as fifth entrance, the augmentation of the theme (in G minor) follows,
in the upper voice. As counterpoint to this augmentation, the diminution of the
theme is used, which appears for the first time in bar 152 (in G minor!23) in the lower
voice, and in which the original dotted quarters of the theme become eighths, so
that in order to express the end of the theme analogously in diminution, it is neces-
sary even to invoke sixteenth-note values. That in the diminution the first eighth—in
contrast to the first tone of the theme, which occurs on a weak beat—is placed on a
strong beat, belongs to the domain of fugal style. More important to know, however,
is that it is precisely the diminution which for the first time again presents the fugal
theme in the original (uninverted) orientation; for only thereby can the cadential
formula of the fourth (C-minor) entrance be correctly understood and interpreted as
resuming once again, thick in the atmosphere of the inversions, the last tones of the
theme in the original direction, and thus as prefiguring the diminution:
Fig. 144
23
[The B ♮ s do not signify a major mode, as they might appear to do, but instead effect the transient toniciza-
tion of the IV, C minor.]
Third Movement 129
In this relationship alone, then, lies also the key to the natural and unforced effect
of the first diminution. Finally, if one takes into account that the first diminution
begins at the moment when the fourth entrance ends, one realizes in astonishment
that the technique of segue succession of the entrances used thus far extends even
to the succession from the fourth entrance to the diminution, although the latter
is called upon (in the continuation, of course) only to function as counterpoint to
the fifth entrance. The latter entrance as such, however, in turn follows immediately
upon the fourth entrance (see above). The reader already becomes aware that there
is a deeper meaning in this method. But what else could it be except that Beethoven
intends to give the programmatic element poi a poi di nuovo vivente a drastic associa-
tion in the form of many entrances following incessantly upon and interconnecting
with one another?
Clearly, the diminutions are adapted in different ways to the changing circum-
stances: thus the second diminution, in the middle voice, is already shaped in a
freer way (for harmonic reasons) as regards the intervals; freer still is the third
diminution, in the bass in bars 154–155, which even shows a syncope, and so forth.
But however free the diminutions pretend to be and appear to represent them-
selves just as nothing more than counterpoints to the augmented entrances, there
is a still far more significant purpose prevailing over the whole series of diminu-
tions. It is precisely in the sixteenths, which sound first in bar 153, that we find
the origin of that driving force which generates the dithyrambic energy of the
concluding section of the Fugue! For the agility of the sixteenths, having once
seen the light of day, automatically leads with ever increasing abandon to the final
intensification of the Fugue. Observe: in each of bars 153, 154, 155 [and 156] there
is still only one sixteenth-note pair to be found (on the downbeat), but already
in bar 157 the sixteenth-note pairs appear twice, and in fact on both down- and
upbeats; in bar 158, two pairs just within the downbeat alone; until finally, in the
C-minor cadence of bars 159–160, the sixteenths penetrate into all eighths, an
intensification which, however, not only signifies in itself the unfolding of ever
growing life (poi a poi di nuovo vivente), but rather only foretells the coming of
greater intensifications.
In bar 160 an additional (sixth) entrance (C minor), likewise in augmentation, Bar
160ff.
connects in segue fashion (thus without episode) to the first augmentation. This
entrance too is counterpointed by the diminution; but the first one, which begins
in the upbeat of bar 160, already brings the modification of a syncope, which is still
foreign to the original (compare the diminution in bars 152–153). 24 The reshaping
24
[But the diminution in bars 154–155 does already show the syncope.]
that the counterpoint undergoes in the continuation brings out as central element
of the content the interval of the third, which is set twice in succession:
Fig. 145
This third-instance now counts for the time being, up to bar 168, as the destiny of
the counterpoint altogether, since it becomes, despite its origin in the diminution,
virtually a motif in itself, which is subjected to chromatic alteration and other mod-
ifications according to the situation at hand. Thus in bar 162 the chromatics above
the bass d are accounted for by the tonicization of the following minor triad on
g (V—I). Here, above g—as, incidentally, Beethoven’s first attempts in Autograph
A [on p. 53] clearly show—, an analogous procedure (VII—I) would logically have
had to bring about the chromaticization of the fifth to D ♭:
Fig. 146
But Beethoven deliberately avoided this chromatic tone for reasons of voice lead-
ing, since the diminished fifth did not appear to him suitable to make the connec-
tion to E ♭ as the fifth of the coming major triad on A ♭ . And in fact the master opted,
after several attempts, to use in bar 164 a chromaticization of the third (B instead of
B ♭) and thus to promote the effect of III—I.25 But be that as it may, the motif of the
25
[Despite the intervention of B ♭ at the anticipatory upbeat to bar 165, the preceding replacement mentioned
here of B ♭ by B ♮ above G is analogous to the earlier replacement (bar 162) of A ♭ by A ♮ above F; it represents
one constituent of a chromatic ascent G—A ♭—A—B ♭—B—C (distributed into three different registers)
Third Movement 131
third (with syncopation) remains a driving motif until, at the turn of bars 165–166,
the second-step by the bass strictly necessitates (because of the Ҵ) an alteration of the
first of the affiliated thirds (compare Fig. 146 into the shape of a descending fourth)):
Fig. 147
The second third is naturally also altered to a fourth, which strikes out in the
opposite, ascending, direction. Just this rising fourth announces at last the double
diminution in bar 168:26
Fig. 148
The occurrence of the double diminution above the end of the sixth entrance shows
that, although it is no more entitled to count as an actual entrance than the simple
diminution in bar 152, it too is again subjected to the technique of segue connection.
The effect of this technique, however, is to be all the more highly rated here as in this
case the connection of the ensuing (bar 170) seventh entrance to the sixth is no longer
so truly direct as it was in the succession of all earlier entrances. From this it now fol-
lows that however much the sum total of the uninterrupted series of double diminu-
tions is reduced to the level of a mere episode at the moment the seventh entrance (bar
170) appears, at least the segue connection of the diminutions to the sixth entrance
does its service by appearing to elevate them almost to the rank of entrances!
Observe further that the double diminution lacks the second fourth-leap of
the theme:
Fig. 149
in bars 161–165. The aforementioned intervening B ♭ is required for the parallel thirds of the reaching-over
entrance (see Free Composition, §§129–134 and 231–232) d ♭2—c2 in bar 165, which matches the analogous
entrance c2—b ♭1 in bar 163; the parallel sixths of this first entrance are inverted to become the thirds of the
subsequent one.]
26
[Concerning the beginning of the passage with double diminutions, see the Appendix, Figure 180.]
Since, however, the diminution preserves the remaining important characteris-

tics of the theme—the opening with the tonic tone and the ending formula—it
easily conceals the absence of the missing fourth-leap.
But finally the most important matter: it is the double diminution that,
because it consists exclusively of sixteenths and thirty-seconds, by its very
nature introduces an uninterrupted sixteenth-note motion! And for exactly
that reason, all the master needed to do to generate the rush of sixteenths so
characteristic of the closing section of the Fugue, was to provide an uninter-
rupted succession of the diminutions, as well as the figures derived from them.
Beethoven now takes care of this by counterpointing the seventh entrance as
well with diminutions.
Bar In bar 170ff. the seventh entrance appears in A ♭ major in the middle voice,
170ff.
and in fact, suddenly again as an inversion. This is meant here to offer a wel-
come contrast to the dux that follows immediately in the original version (com-
pare in Op. 109 the comment to the second movement, bars 83ff.!). Moreover,
the entrance steps out in diminished fifths instead of in fourths, and goes as
follows:
Fig. 150
instead of:
Fig. 151
—a change by means of which Beethoven gains, at the downbeat of bar 174, the
dominant of the key, so that in a way analogous to that of all preceding entrances,
now the dux that opens the concluding part, with its tonic beginning, can also ensue
by means of a segue connection.
Regarding the counterpoints for the thematic entrance, as I have said, they
are provided by the diminutions, except that the latter had first to be rhythmi-
cally adjusted to that purpose. Thus the double diminution, which in bar 168
still begins on the third eighth and thus in a weak beat (which thereby in a sense
acquires an upbeat character), is transferred in the ensuing bars to the strong
beat (in bar 169 to the fourth eighth of the right hand, and in bar 170 to the first
eighth of the left hand), so that from bar 170 on—where, incidentally, it is also
freely varied motivically—it can always begin on the strong eighth.
Third Movement 133
In Autograph A on pp. 53–54 an earlier version of bars 168ff. can be seen, which
goes as follows:
Fig. 152
But interspersed pencil sketches show revisions already along the lines of the defini-
tive version. A particularly interesting aspect of the version just cited is that in it,
Beethoven altogether too drastically underscores the intention to lead into the closing
section only with a succession of complete diminution forms. Probably it was just the
difficulty attendant on reproducing the entire theme in the sixteenth-note diminution
that brought to the master’s attention the impracticability of such a procedure, and
along with the shortening of the theme, the idea of the new (seventh) entrance may
well have occurred to him, in which the diminutions thenceforth were to serve merely
as counterpoints.
For the rest, the two autographs are in agreement down to the last detail concern-
ing the middle section of the Fugue (and most editions concur with them as well),
so that no doubt can exist about any passage. The following two points may in any
case be worth mentioning:
1. Through pure oversight the Original Edition writes the third eighth of the
middle voice in bar 159 as a ♭1 (instead of g1), a misprint, which incidentally does not
occur in Cappi and Cappi-Diabelli, but which nevertheless elicited the following
comment from Bülow: “the third eighth of the second voice may possibly be a ♭1
(followed by g1); this would be more symmetric, and would also support the con-
firmation of the tonality (C minor)” (p. 115, note a). In response I need only remark
that if a ♭1 were to appear here instead of g1, then exactly at the transition to the
upbeat, all three voices would have had to enter27 at once, a particularly bad effect
that was to be countered only by syncopation of one voice (here the middle one).
2. Bülow writes as follows at the seventh entrance:
Fig. 153
and comments in a footnote: “This new presentation of the text is clearer

for recognition of the thematic significance (inversion with augmented
[sic] intervals) and more convenient for technical reading” (p. 115, note c).
Obviously it was only the wish to help the player in sight-reading that led
the editor’s pen here. But when Bülow allows that his “new presentation of
the text” is also “clearer for recognition of the thematic significance” (p. 115
note c), that is absurd and ridiculous in equal measure; for even if it is true
that the fingers, to attain security, have to traverse the same path on the
keys several times, this fortunately will be accomplished differently and bet-
ter through the insight that experience of the existing situation need be
provided only once, only a single time, without fear of any relapse. From
this it follows first of all that Beethoven’s notation can by no means impede
understanding for long. But also, in case it were only a matter of making
the text “clearer and more convenient” for technical reading, it is again only
Beethoven and not his editor who found the only correct way: for how radi-
cally the master clarifies the fact that here, oddly, the theme has its counter-
point sometimes above and sometimes below, although this counterpoint is
executed always by the same hand (the right); while in Bülow’s notation—at
the expense of the visual impression besides—, unfortunately, this very
27
[Eintreten, but probably a more correct word would have been fortschreiten, “move.”]
Third Movement 135
clarification of the position of the contrapuntal setting above or below the

entrance disappears!
For performance of the modulatory section, the primary consideration is that
Beethoven organizes the whole middle part as a single, regularly progressive
intensification:
at bar 136, sempre una corda,

at bar 160, crescendo,
at bar 168, piano,
at bar 172, crescendo,
at bar 174, forte.
This was obviously so important to the master that he withheld the f for
the beginning of the closing section itself, so as to be able later, of course, to
move even beyond it to additional intensifications only near the end of the
Fugue.
The indication meno allegro at the entrance of the sixteenths of the dou-
ble diminution in bar 168 makes it possible for the performer to moderate
the preceding tempo somewhat in consideration of the thematic significance
of these sixteenths. To this extent, Beethoven’s marking could, for all that,
reflect only the general perception; but this marking unfortunately stands as
a puzzle in comparison to the master’s next marking in bar 172, which reads
nach und nach wieder geschwinder [gradually again becoming faster], and one
asks in vain (see below) why the sixteenths require a tempo in the one place
different from that required in the other. The solution of this puzzle is con-
nected to the fact that the sixteenths of the closing section, as I shall show in
more detail in discussing bars 174ff., no longer themselves have any thematic
significance, and therefore are no genuine sixteenths, but in their capacity
of composing out again represent only eighth-note and quarter-note coun-
terpoints; at that point, then, any cause for reduction of the tempo vanishes,
and therefore the original one should and must return. (Autograph A more-
over even includes clearly at the beginning of the closing section the direction
tempo primo.)
Bülow’s comment on this meno allegro is not without interest: “This is to be
understood as follows: the sixteenths that appear here are really only acceler-
ated eighths. For the hearer to receive the impression of this acceleration, the
beat must be expanded, and the rate of motion accordingly diminished. Were
the tempo to be maintained, that could not be the case. One would then cer-
tainly hear the acceleration as a doubling of speed, but as a mechanical one,
without weight and thus without expression” (p. 115, note a). From this one
infers clearly that Bülow has altogether misunderstood the primary purpose
of the double diminution in respect to the preparation of the sixteenths of
the closing section; for otherwise he would have cited clearly only the differ-
ence between the true sixteenths with thematic significance (bars 168ff.) and
those counterfeit ones with merely composing-out significance (bars 174ff.)
as the sole reason the first type may not be treated in a way that is appropri-
ate only to the second. But let nobody protest that Bülow’s comment says
exactly the same thing by pointing expressly to the thematic significance of
the double diminution; for the solution of our problem is not served just by
recognition of that significance until recognition of the contrary character of
the sixteenths in the closing section is added as supplementary and definitive
clarification. This recognition, however, is certainly absent from the footnote
cited above, and that it is altogether missing from Bülow’s consciousness will
be shown directly below.
A far worse mistake, though, is committed by Bülow when he supplies a dynamic
marking at the double diminution like the following:
Fig. 154
and comments in conclusion as follows: “One should, incidentally, at first

play 2 × 3 sixteenths, not 3 × 2.” The instruction in markings and words only
betrays that he himself wanted the original rhythm of the theme together
with all consequences intruded into this situation of the double diminu-
tion, regardless of the fact that the theme enters on a relatively weak beat,
the diminution by contrast on a relatively strong one. That in a fugue,
however—especially in the individual cycles of thematic presentation—,
such distinctions between strong and weak beats are often completely inten-
tionally left out of consideration, he obviously appears not to have known;
for otherwise he would hardly have viewed a deliberate rhythmic modifica-
tion, which is part of the style of the fugue in general, as an accidental and
contradictory one, and have recommended such a rhythmic treatment even
“at first.”
Bars
174ff. The closing section of the Fugue opens with the dux (eighth entrance) in the
lower voice, which, like all previous entrances, is directly connected to what
precedes.
Third Movement 137
Two voices provide counterpoints to it, which, despite sixteenth-note figuration,

fundamentally represent only eighth-note and quarter-note values (see above), as the
following digest shows:
Fig. 155
Accordingly, the writing in the closing section remains only three-voiced, and
this to exactly the same extent as in the first and middle sections.
Particularly worthy of interest here is the exceedingly brilliant use of the
neighboring notes:
Just observe in bar 174 how much more precisely the duration, virtually a sustain-
ing quarter note, of the tone e ♭1 in the middle voice is secured exactly by the neigh-
boring tone g1 than it would have been by the e ♭1 that would have been possible at
the first sixteenth of the fifth eighth:
Fig. 156
A still more interesting situation arises in bar 177 with the neighboring tone g1 in
the second eighth: the resolution of this neighboring tone takes place only at the sec-
ond sixteenth, a ♭2 , of the third eighth, so that b ♭1 of the second eighth is itself again
only a neighboring tone. Thus two neighboring tones follow in succession, of which
the first, g1, counts neither for the middle nor for the melodically leading upper
voice, while the second, b ♭1, at least claims validity for the upper voice, as a neighbor-
ing tone (a ♭1—b ♭1—a ♭1).28 But it is precisely through the use of the neighboring tone
28
[Compare Fig. 155.]
g1 (instead of again only the tone d1) that the quarter-note value of d1 in the inner
voice (compare Fig. 155) is made all the clearer.
The same applies to the sixteenth note f1 at the sixth eighth of the same bar 177; this
tone too counts neither for the upper nor for the middle voice, and rather serves only
to secure the quarter-note value of the b ♭. But what a tonal imagination it took on the
master’s part to bring about such effects securely through the use of neighboring tones!
Let nobody say that this would be easy for him as a genius just as surely as it is not easy
in the case of a non-genius; for we read in Autograph A, p. 54ff., an earlier version of the
same passage from which it can be inferred that Beethoven at first attempted to achieve
an eighth-note counterpoint through arpeggiation in the middle voice as well:
Fig. 157
But just a comparison of the two versions shows most clearly how much more
fully in the definitive one the quarter-note values, whether dotted or undotted, are
illuminated as such by the fact that at the decisive points, neighboring tones were
inserted or the arpeggiations of the middle voice avoided. How easily these neigh-
boring tones, and thus also the content of this passage in general, could be misun-
derstood, though, is shown best by the difficulty in which Bülow found himself as
he set about to explain in the text itself the content of bars 174ff.:
Fig. 158
Third Movement 139
He adds the following explanation in a footnote: “from here on to the end, play

with continually growing force and most brilliant fire, with greatest possible high-
lighting of all melismas, both in the principal voice and in the figuration” (p. 116,
note a). Does this not show unambiguously that he has no notion of the situa-
tion? Just consider: where Beethoven writes a genuine three-voice counterpoint,
which aside from the theme shows two additional voices as genuine counterpoints
of equal status in eighths or quarters (in a dispersion that is, incidentally, otherwise
normal from a pianistic standpoint), Bülow differentiates in relation to the theme
a “principal voice” and—horribile dictu!—a “figuration.” And when we see how
he interprets the “principal voice” and how, against all musical logic, he confuses
it (see especially bar 177) with the inner voice, simply because he completely mis-
understands the so brilliantly deployed neighboring notes and their function as
discussed above, it is finally understood also why in the foregoing discussion of bar
168ff., I nevertheless disputed his understanding of the passage despite his words
to the contrary. Is it not clear from his footnote to bar 174 that he has by no means
recognized in the sixteenths of the eighth and ninth entrances the eighth- and
quarter-note counterpoints? Why, one would have to ask, would what Bülow rec-
ommended for the sixteenths in the meno allegro not apply also to the sixteenths in
the closing section? Doesn’t Bülow speak of the apparent sixteenths in bars 174ff.
as “melismas”? And wouldn’t consistency then oblige him to specify at bar 174 for
these melismas too the tempo as still only moderated, as he specified for the earlier
sixteenths?
Bar
Upon the dux there follows in bar 178, in the same order as in the exposition, 178ff.
and also without the mediation of an interlude, the comes (ninth entrance) in the
middle voice. The sixteenth-note figuration in this passage expresses the following
two counterpoints:
Fig. 159
From this it follows that in bar 178, c2 in the sixth eighth is a neighboring tone,
which appears here in place of a b ♭1 that might have been possible, because the tone
b ♭1 had to be given a quarter-note value, and a threefold occurrence of the succession
b ♭1—d ♭2 had moreover to be avoided.
It should also be noted that at the moment the comes enters—but only at that
moment—the sixteenth-note figuration signifies a setting that is apparently
three-voiced but is actually four-voiced:
Fig. 160
This, to be sure, immediately gives way again to a genuine three-voiced setting.

In Bülow’s edition it can be seen what great difficulties he was caused by the pas-
sage in bars 178–184 as well!
Bar
184ff. Finally, in bar 184, the comes appears in the upper voice as the final entrance,
and along with it the onset of liberties that, to enable the Fugue to serve also in the
capacity of a final movement for the sonata, point far beyond the strict confines of
fugal form. Thus the sixteenth-note figuration gives up the character maintained
thus far of merely two contrapuntal voices in the strict sense in order instead to be
able to present figures and arpeggiations that belong only to homophonic writing.
The following example represents the bass of bars 184ff.:
Fig. 161
Third Movement 141
Since we do not so readily find in a real fugue such homophony29 as can be seen
here, and also, conversely, not so much of a fugal character in a homophonic piece,
we may take this opportunity as an altogether propitious one to make clear the dis-
tinction between homophony and polyphony:
Accurate observation of the setting from bar 184 on shows that actually even
the homophony is in turn only polyphony, in the sense that the voices of the
former just as much as those of the latter relate to one another only in the
manner of obbligato counterpoints. What lends homophony the character of
merely a species of polyphony—it would be wrong to relegate homophony to
the status of a complete opposite to polyphony—, however, is the circumstance
that in homophony the vertical dimension of the harmony stands decisively in
the foreground. Thus in a three- or four-voice homophonic setting, the voices
of each individual simultaneity produce, for the most part immediately, every-
thing proper to the harmony, so that all further motion of the voices, which
may as necessary go beyond the simultaneity, in a certain sense merely tau-
tologizes, in that it only confirms in retrospect, by arpeggiations or the like,
the harmonic event already imprinted by the simultaneity. Observe how, in
bars 184ff., just the three-voice setting alone provides the necessary complete
harmony:
Fig. 162
But where this is not the case, as, for example, in bar 187, the necessary fourth
voice is subsequently supplied by composing out:
Fig. 163
29
Compare in Chromatic Fantasy the remarks to bars 41ff., 60ff., 90ff., etc.
It is precisely this composing out which, although it provides any necessary tones of
the harmony only after the fact, often enough generates the impression of a voice in the
sense of polyphony. For assessment of the status of such a voice, however, only the reason
for its origin is decisive, and therefore, as was said earlier, we may attribute to that merely
composing-out motion only so much of obbligato character as all voices must maintain
throughout in any contrapuntal setting whatever (thus even in homophonic two-, three-,
or four-voice writing) if they are to avoid deteriorating into merely reinforcing relation-
ships (which are, incidentally, appropriate to free composition) or even into an unisono.
Now the incomparable art alone with which Beethoven powers up a homophonic
texture in the closing part of a fugue would have to command our complete interest.
It is the duty of the musician, however, to become fully aware of that art, and espe-
cially to attend to the function of each individual sixteenth, when one considers that
only by that method can all misunderstandings regarding interpretation of the indi-
vidual harmonies be avoided and also any doubt be eliminated as to the notation,
which doubt arises more strongly in this sixteenth-note section than previously.
In this connection, just observe the role to which the neighboring tone here often
lends itself so well: for example, at the sixth eighth of bar 184, the sixteenth note g,
which, with the character of an accented neighbor, prepares for a third member of
the harmonic arpeggiation;30 similarly in bar 186 for the sixteenths g at the third
and sixth eighths respectively, and in bar 188 the sixteenth b at the third eighth, etc.
Finally it should be mentioned that here the homophony—as, incidentally, goes
without saying—also introduces reinforcements and complementary voices, which
any player will himself recognize at once.
The dux is immediately succeeded, as in the first part of the Fugue, by a fourfold
repetition of the last tones of the theme (up to bar 196), whose setting, of course,
logically retains the homophonic character just established by the last entrance. In
bar 196ff. the path to the organ point is then entered upon, by use of the following
scale-degree progression involving several nodal points:31
Fig. 164
30
[The left-hand arpeggiation occurs in eighth notes c, e ♭1, a ♭1; it is the third of these members for which the g1
sixteenth prepares.]
31
[Nodal points in the present sense are locations where a conclusion is due but is instead suppressed. The
nodal points here are bars 198, where the bass A ♭ of an expected I is replaced by the passing tone F; 199, where
I incorporates a ♭7 that immediately points the way into another bass cycle; and 200, where the parenthetical
II—V superimposes a new beginning of the cadential formula.]
Third Movement 143
Now at the upbeat of bar 200 the organ point on the tonic draws all of the accu- Bar 200ff.
mulated energy into itself, and again, as at the conclusion of the first fugal section,
the theme is sounded above it one more time—indeed, for the last time—, striving
for a final expansion. Thus in bar 204 the tone F, which in the theme itself rep-
resented the highest peak, is first overtopped and the higher summit of g ♭3 is sur-
mounted. Now from the latter tone g ♭3 the drive to the cadence is first attempted,
but there the motif must press still higher, since the harmonic progression reaches at
bar 205 only as far as the IV. A second attempt to reach the cadence, and again with-
out success, is then made from the tone a ♭3 in bar 206. Only on the third try, in bar
208, where b ♭3 appears at the summit and already coincides with scale degree VII (=
V), does the motif of the final tones achieve the satisfaction of true cadential signifi-
cance, which was fundamentally predestined for it by dint of its birth in the theme
and the experiences that it survived on its life’s journey in the exposition and in the
closing section. But observe: the enormous passion that the final tones develop just
in order at all to play the role they have taken on intensifies, as though feeding itself,
to such rapture that these tones at first overshoot their actual goal, the tone a ♭3; and
thus, as though at least unable to rein in their intensified passion so abruptly as
necessary, they produce in bar 209, instead of the expected tone a ♭3, rather its upper
third c4! Under the mark of such an unchecked and hyper-intense passion, the har-
mony remains in ff for four full bars, as though self-intoxicated with its own roar.
Since, however, in the final bar the overshot goal is nevertheless finally brought back
to the correct one—c4 yields to the true concluding tone a ♭3—, anybody who wishes
may find therein a passionately affirmative answer to the basic question the first bars
of the first movement seemed to be asking.
It was already suggested earlier that the accompaniment of the left hand from bar
184 on has given rise to various incorrect versions in several editions. To characterize
the high degree of difficulty of this passage it may well suffice to divulge that it cost
the master himself a great effort to arrive immediately at what is uniquely necessary
for the passage in question.
Thus at the upbeat of bar 187, for example, Beethoven first had the following
version:
Fig. 165
But after he saw that the second sixteenth, a ♭ , at this point entailed a suspension
effect for the sake of which the third sixteenth, g, attracted attention to itself as
resolution of the suspension to the extent that interest in the subsequent fourth
sixteenth, b ♭ , was diminished, he decided to set g itself as the second sixteenth.
For only in this way could it be achieved that, first, just as the second sixteenth
of the second eighth in the downbeat, a ♭ , set itself against the bass as a voice with
quarter-note value (compare Fig. 163), exactly so again the second sixteenth of the
second eighth in the upbeat, b ♭ , would assert itself in relation to the bass as a voice
with a quarter-note value; and, second, only thereby would the bass line with its
chromatics (d ♭—d—e ♭—e) move into the foreground of interest. In his first ver-
sion (Fig. 165), then, Beethoven, as we see, unnecessarily complicated the interests
associated from the outset with the b ♭ to be placed already at the fifth eighth in
the middle voice, as well as those of the chromatic tone e at the sixth eighth of
the bass, with an unpleasant suspension (a ♭—g), and since the latter’s execution
seriously compromised the more important interests previously mentioned, the
master in the end simply got rid of the suspension. Therefore, he corrects this
passage already in Autograph A in notes and letters as our text shows it, and con-
firms the correction unequivocally also by the fair copy, Autograph B. Whether
he succeeded here in avoiding the effect of parallel fifths is, granted, another
matter:
Fig. 166
If one hears the passage in the way that the tones appear in keeping with the rea-
sons behind them, however, one must certainly hear the resolution of the tone a ♭ to
g, as seen in the summary of Fig. 161, in such a way that there can be no question of
a succession of fifths from d—a ♭ to e ♭—b ♭ . The relation of the tones e ♭—b ♭ to f—c1
similarly escapes the ear when one considers that according to a well-understood
voice leading, c1 in reality does not represent the successor of b ♭ .
Unfortunately, at this point the Original Edition already presented the following:
Fig. 167
—a version that has since been superseded in all editions without exception. Let
Beethoven’s authentic version, then, be restored in the light of the above explanation.
As to the identity of the first sixteenth in bar 189, there really should be no doubt;
it can be only d ♭ , and not another f as in the preceding bar. The circumstance that
the harmony here lasts three beats suggested to the master in a completely natural
way the excursion to d ♭ , just as elsewhere (in the simplest dances and so forth) one
Third Movement 145
gives the basses a content that composes out the harmony to avoid merely repeating
the same tone:32
Fig. 168
The erroneous correction of several editors (f rather than d ♭) may, however, stem
from the fact that in Autograph B Beethoven, through oversight, writes simili
(instead of notes), so that one felt obliged simply to repeat the formation at the
upbeat of the preceding bar with f as the lowest tone.
Concerning the sixth eighth a ♭ in bar 190, both Autograph A and Autograph B
first give b instead of a ♭; in Autograph B Beethoven then corrects b to a ♭ and confirms
this correction with the letter “a,” and moreover with the marginal annotation: ob
in Berlin a? (a in the Berlin copy?). I need not say that b certainly did not represent
an error, but that the tone a ♭ , by refreshing and strengthening the fifth-leap a ♭—d ♭ ,
is more effective for the continuation; I say “refreshing” because the fifth-leap would
of course fundamentally be guaranteed by the first sixteenth of the fourth eighth
anyway, and only because the refreshment value could be attained here so easily
and without imperiling any important concern does Beethoven’s authentic correc-
tion seem justified. Unfortunately, it failed to appear in the Original Edition, and
therefore we encounter b frequently in other editions, such as Bülow, the Vienna
Conservatory Edition, etc.
32
Thus it is inappropriate to regard apparent inversions that arise in the course of the composing out of bass
lines as real ones, as unfortunately is taught by Louis and Thuille in their Harmonielehre, p. 39: “The six-four
chord is a completely pure inversion almost exclusively in that frequent usage, especially in dances and
marches and generally in plain folk-like harmonization, where the bass touches on several or all of the triad
tones of an unchanging harmony.”
At the downbeat of bar 191, as Autograph A shows:

Fig. 169
Beethoven temporarily considers an accented passing tone a (compare the anal-

ogous passage in the first movement, bar 50); however, he recognizes the danger,
threatening all too strongly here, of attracting interest to the accented note itself,
and thus corrects the hazardous a to the non-hazardous b ♭ .
It is also interesting to see how Beethoven initially writes as follows at the down-
beat of bar 192:
Fig. 170
without stopping to think that such a bass treatment here is ruled out from the
start by reason of an analogous one on the two surrounding upbeats in bars 191 and
192, all the more so as it could only detract from the weight of necessities that are
actually present and expressed; he thus corrects already in Autograph A as our text
shows, which then is also confirmed by Autograph B.
Most interesting of all, however, is the question of the last sixteenth in bar
193: Autograph A clearly shows d ♭1 at this point, but also found there are the
following:
1. next to the tone itself, the sign + and the letter e (for e ♭1), and
2. in the margin a written next to the question: ob in Berlin? (in the Berlin
copy?).
In fact this revision in Autograph A is also subsequently confirmed in Autograph

B, which presents e ♭1 without any further correction. Accordingly, the authentic
will of the composer admits no doubt that at this point only e ♭1 can stand, and not
d ♭1. (Even the Original Edition eschews the tone e ♭1, and among all other editions
only the Vienna Conservatory edition gives e ♭1.) Clearly, with e ♭1 Beethoven meant
to take into consideration the passing seventh of the upper voice (compare bar 5
of this movement, and in Op. 109, third movement, Variation 2, bar [14]33). But
unfortunately he could not avoid the effect that just here the tone e ♭1 suppresses
too abruptly the succession of eight upward-arpeggiated thirds. For if the voice
33
[Bar 30 of the whole.]
Third Movement 147
leading of the latter is to be interpreted and heard more in the contrapuntal than
in the harmonic sense, in the midst of all this purely contrapuntally driven voice
leading the sudden leap of the tone e ♭1 into the purely harmonic realm must make
an effect all the more arbitrary and harsh. Incidentally, I believe I may take the lib-
erty of adding that at this point the concession to the purely harmonic principle
was all the more unnecessary as the contrapuntal voice leading itself (with d ♭1)
would anyway have expressed the same thing, and moreover without harshness.
However, the composer’s direction this time is aimed exclusively at e ♭1, and since
it is so irrefutably witnessed by both autographs, it must under all circumstances
be respected. Let us not quibble any further with Beethoven’s ear—for in the end,
in comparison to him, we may all turn out to be wrong on this point!34
In performance of the closing section one should always keep in mind that fun-
damentally one has to play only eighths and quarters—a conception that better
than any other helps the tempo to accelerate effortlessly. And even at the point
where the last dux entrance is finished and the motif of the last four tones sounds
four times (bars 188–195), again let only the sf accents become the signposts. In
keeping with the multiple nodal points in the scale-degree progression, the cadence
in bars 196ff. is to be energetically molded, and take care in particular not to rush
over the third eighth in the downbeat of bar 200. From bar 201 on, again give a
34
To illustrate this point through a comparably difficult case, allow me here to communicate what I have
found in a copy of the Original Edition of the Piano Sonata Op. 31, No. 2 that passed through Beethoven’s
own hand and now rests in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna. To my knowl-
edge there has been no edition thus far that has given the recitative of the first movement any other way
than thus:
Fig. 171
Yet Beethoven’s revision (one of the few, incidentally, that he made in this copy) shows, using notes and
letters, that at this point he wanted only the following:
Fig. 172
Editors and players may find this authentic correction just as hard to swallow as the one under consideration
in this sonata; nevertheless, the master, who had the pleasure of being surrounded by the highest culture of
singing, had the right and the duty to demand the anticipation of the tone c, and it is possible that the version
given in the Original Edition may have sounded to him like outright barbarism. So let this correction—since
I myself probably will never again have occasion to edit Op. 31—be most emphatically recommended to editors
for adoption!
character of predominance to the sf accents, the more so as they in particular point

to the essential features of the content. Let the power build continually, so as to
pave the way ever higher in bars 204–208 to the final triadic harmony, and within
it to be able to demonstrate that eruption of passion which has here, in a way, over-
shot the goal.
Appendix
The following illustrations were first published in Schenker's “Noch einmal zu Beethovens
op. 110,” in Das Meisterwerk in der Musik I, 175–184/99–103.
Fig. 177
Fig. 178
149
Fig. 179
Fig. 180
Editions consulted, and Facsimiles
Original Edition: Berlin & Paris: Schlesinger, 1822.

Gesamtausgabe: Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1862–1888.
Other Editions
d’Albert, Eugen. Leipzig: Forberg, n.d.

Bülow, Hans von. Stuttgart: Cotta, ca. 1875.
“Cappi” (“Early Edition Johann Cappi”). Vienna: Cappi & Co., n.d.
“Cappi-Diabelli” (“Early Edition Cappi et Diabelli”). Vienna: Cappi & Diabelli, n.d.
Klindworth, Karl. Berlin: Bote & Bock, n.d.
“Peters.” Leipzig: C. F. Peters, n.d.
Reinecke, Carl. Volks-Ausgabe. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d.
Riemann, Hugo. Berlin: Simrock, 1885.
“Urtext” (edited by Carl Krebs). Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1898.
“Vienna Conservatory-Edition” (edited by Julius Epstein). Leipzig: Cranz, n.d.
Facsimiles
Ludwig van Beethoven. Klaviersonate As-Dur opus 110. Facsimile nach dem Autograph.
Edited by Karl Michael Komma. Stuttgart: Ichthys Verlag, 1967.
Ludwig van Beethoven. Klaviersonate Nr. 31 As-Dur op. 110. Das Facsimile. Facsimile of the
Autograph in the Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin. With a commentary by Siegfried
Mauser. Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 2011.
151
Bibliogr aphy of Cited Wor ks
by Heinr ich Schenker
Citation Form Title

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Edition, 1913.
1092 2nd, abridged, ed. Edited by O. Jonas. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1971.
110 Erläuterungs-Ausgabe der Sonate As Dur, Op. 110. Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1914.
1102 2 , abridged, ed. Edited by O. Jonas. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1972.
nd
111 Erläuterungs-Ausgabe der Sonate C Moll, Op. 111. Vienna: Universal

Edition, 1915.
101 Erläuterungs-Ausgabe der Sonate A Dur, Op. 101. Vienna: Universal
Edition, 1921.
Ninth Symphony Beethovens neunte Sinfonie. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1912. 2nd ed.
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Haven: Yale University Press, 1992.
153
Octaves and Fifths Johannes Brahms: Oktaven u. Quinten. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1933.

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Chromatic Fantasy J. S. Bach: Chromatische Phantasie und Fuge. Vienna: Universal
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Stuttgart: Cotta, 1906. Edited by O. Jonas, translated by E. M.
Borgese, as Harmony. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954.
Counterpoint Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien II: Kontrapunkt. 2 books.
Vienna: Universal-Edition, 1910, 1922. Edited by J. Rothgeb,
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New York: Shirmer Books, 1987. 2nd, corrected, ed. Ann Arbor,
MI: Musicalia Press, 2001.
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Masken Verlag, 1925, 1926, 1930. Edited by W. Drabkin, translated
by I. Bent et. al. as The Masterwork in Music. Cambridge,
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Ernst Oster as Free Composition. New York: Longman, 1979.
Ornamentation Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1904.
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the Study of Ornamentation,” in The Music Forum, vol. IV.
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Lady [Grace] Wallace. 2 vols. New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1867.
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an afterword and an index by Sieghard Brandenburg. Munich: Verlag Emil Katzbichler, 1976.
——. Piano Sonata in A-flat, Op. 26. Facsimile ed., with commentary by Erich Prieger. Bonn,
Germany: Friedrich Cohen, 1895.
——. Beethovens sämtliche Briefe. Edited by Alfred Kalischer. 5 vols. Berlin: Schuster and
Loeffler, 1906–08.
——. Beethovens sämtliche Briefe: Kritische Ausgabe mit Erläuterungen von Alf. Chr. Kalischer.
Second impression, revised by Theodor von Frimmel. Berlin: Schuster & Löffler, 1911.
Bekker, Paul. Beethoven. Berlin: Schuster & Löffler, 1911.
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Max Bruch, Hermann Deiters, Friedr. Heimsoeth, Karl Reinecke, Ernst Rudorff, Bernhard
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Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1912.
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höchsten Ausbildung fortschreitend. 4 vols. Vienna: Diabelli, [1839–1847].
von Elterlein, Ernst. Beethoven’s Clavier-Sonaten. Leipzig: Heinrich Matthes, 1856.
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——. Hermann und Dorothea. Euterpe. Mutter und Sohn. Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1965.
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Index
abbreviation, 125 bar-group, 27, 30, 46, 48, 50, 67, 68, 70,
accompaniment, 46, 50, 95, 126 74, 75, 76
bass as independent component of, 27, 28, 47 Beethoven-Haus, 3
performance of, 49, 82, 100, 102, 125 binary organization, 66, 78, 93, 103–104, 127
prefiguring melody, 93 Brahms, Johannes, 4, 6–7, 8–10, 11, 13–15, 19,
sketches for, 98, 143 32n7, 38n12, 53n23, 63, 100n9
amputation, 125 Bülow, Hans von, 14, 40, 43, 44, 54–55
anticipation, registral, 53 as editor, 7–9, 27–28, 32, 40, 43, 47, 53,
Arioso, 78–80, 90, 93–94, 95, 98, 100–102, 60–63, 79, 83–86, 88, 133–134, 140, 145
121–123, 125–127 on performance, 50, 56–57, 135–136,
Artaria Collection, 3, 4 138–139
Autograph A, 4, 57, 59, 71, 75n5, 79, 85, 120,
126, 130 cadence, 26, 33, 34, 37, 40, 42, 53, 58, 62, 64, 74,
and authentic text, 26, 27, 31, 34, 40, 43, 44, 80, 81, 90, 95, 102, 107, 108 112, 117, 120,
45, 47, 56, 58, 60, 62, 82, 96, 122 122, 128, 129, 143
graphic enhancement in, 39 Chopin, Frédéric, 6, 10, 38, 38n12, 45n19,
handwriting in, 39, 42, 89 66, 67n2
oversight in, 47 Coda, 58, 60, 63, 65, 66, 68, 77, 83
revision in, 65, 68, 69, 75, 108, 112, 113, 114, comes, 67n2, 105, 107, 108, 111, 112n19, 113, 114,
115, 117, 118–119, 133, 138, 144, 145, 146 115, 117, 127, 139, 140
Autograph B, 4, 82, 112, 113, 115, 116, 117, 119, 126, consequent, 26, 30, 47, 51, 52
144, 146 corrections, 3, 4, 11, 47, 85, 108, 113, 144, 145
and authentic text, 85, 145 counterpoint, 9, 34, 44, 106, 107n17, 108, 111,
visual impression in, 96 112, 119, 128–130, 132–135, 137, 138, 139
157
158 Index
Dalcroze, Jacques, 38n11 passing tone, 44, 47, 48n20, 71–72, 73, 75, 106,
Davy, G.B., 3 114, 128, 146
Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, 3, 4 pedal, 43, 60
Development, 25, 44, 45–50 per forma nce , 19–20, 26, 28–28, 31–36,
dux, 67n2, 105, 106, 107, 111, 114, 115, 117, 127, 37–44 , 48–50, 55–57, 59–60, 65,
132, 136, 139, 142, 147 70, 71, 76–77, 86, 90–91, 97,
dynamics, 26, 40, 76, 95, 100, 119–121, 136 100–102 , 104 , 120–122 , 124–126,
135, 147–148
early editions, 4, 83 piano sonata Op. 109, 90, 123, 132, 146
enharmonic modulation, 122 piano sonata Op. 111, 4, 7n4, 30n4
enharmonic revaluation, 52, 81 piano style, 35, 49
prima volta, 69
first theme, 45, 50–51
four-bar grouping, 46, 48, 50 reduction, 33–34, 56
register, 26, 38, 41, 52, 54, 125
Gesamtausgabe, 31, 43, 47, 58, 69, 83, 113 Reisenauer, Alfred, fingerings for Brahms’s Op.
Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde 4, 147n34 24, 6–7
Revised Copy, 4, 26, 31, 48, 56, 58, 60, 68, 69, 83,
hermeneutics, 17–19 96, 112, 113, 120
rhythm, 19–21, 26–28, 30–31, 37, 45, 58, 67,
Jonas, Oswald, vii, 26n1, 93n7 70, 77, 85, 86, 93, 100, 101, 106, 113, 124,
Epstein, Julius, 3 132, 136
Riemann, Hugo, 7, 7n4, 15–16, 18–19n14, 27, 34,
Koch, Louis, 3 40, 47, 54–55, 62, 66–67n2, 79, 80n2, 84,
90, 105n11
linkage, 31
scale degree, viii, ix, 30, 32, 39, 46, 58, 68, 73, 75,
manuscript, see Autograph A, Autograph B 76, 105, 109, 142, 143, 147
meter, 28, 59, 67, 68, 70, 88, 89, 93, 97, 101, 102, Schopenhauer, Arthur, 19
107n17, 128, 132, 136 Schumann, Ferdinand, 8n
metronome, 20 Schumann, Robert, 11, 38
motif, 30, 33, 36, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 46, 49, second theme, viii, 25, 31–44, 45, 51,
51, 58, 64, 65, 66, 70, 92n6, 95, 98, 107, 52–53, 57
109–114, 121, 124, 130–131, 143, 147 secunda volta, 67, 77
music, history of, 9–10 Simrock, house of, 6
Sketches, 3, 4
neighboring tone, 34, 35, 40, 44, 50, 71 for the First Movement, 27, 29, 30, 34, 36, 43,
Nottebohm, Gustav, 3–4 45, 50, 51, 57, 58, 64
for the Second Movement, 68, 75
Original Edition, 4, 5, 6, 79, 113, 144, 145 for the Third Movement, 90, 95, 98, 112, 115,
and authentic text, 26, 31, 40, 43, 58, 60, 69, 96 119, 133
oversight in, 47, 133
deviation from Autograph A, 27, 48, 58, 82, tempo, 26, 27, 29, 55, 90, 101, 102, 135, 139, 147
119, 133, 146 tritone, 34

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Piano Sonata in A ♭ Major, Op.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Music engraving by Woytek Rynczak, W. R. Music Service

The unprecedented compression of sonata form in the first movement of

Finally, my consultant in Germany, Heribert Esser, can scarcely be thanked

all circumstances—that is, in principle and out of precaution—to grant manuscript

of the foregoing remarks, still more clearly illustrate Riemann’s relationship to

I have also dedicated a booklet (my small Kompositionslehre) to Brahms. In this

Bülow was of a completely different opinion on the matter, understanding

In regard to Riemann’s relationship to Beethoven, I conclude the correction of

Despite Riemann’s opinion (see above), one is justified in considering it resolved

Concerning the ultimate reasons behind my procedure I contemplate providing

will not be persuaded—out of genuine hermeneutic self-adulation also don’t want to be

“Go ahead and ply your trade, admittedly we cannot stop you,

To all other opponents, I will let Schopenhauer speak:

The sonata form of the first movement exhibits the following parts:

The following picture represents the content of the modulating section:

the impetus is given for the second theme:

Correct performance of the modulating section is founded above all on an extraordi-

Concerning the crescendo, despite such an enticing invitation as the present

From this we infer that this motif too:

Only after this do the falling second-steps, endowed with trills, ensue:

notes. The differing form of the neighboring-tone harmonies (the former

and in Op. 109, first movement, bar 53.

To be sure, Beethoven here veils the extremely simple construction through

It is touching to see how in Autograph A Beethoven expressly thickens with ink

Here the more motivically faithful sixth-leap:

analogous situation—the rhythm altogether strictly and you will immediately be

Seemingly identical to the original notation, this unnecessarily suggests a com-

provided him by the London factory of Broadwood, whose range extended

Such a comedy of errors and doubts: Beethoven’s anticipation is for Riemann only

Bülow misses this, however, as he writes: “The first half of this figure:

must not be taken literally, mathematically; it should be played like a triplet, or

consider Beethoven’s notation to be an oversight, which, incidentally, is only too

bars: 100 ——101 —— 102 —— 103 —— 104 —— 105

The slur articulation of bars 97–100 as it appears in Autograph A leaves no

a first, inexpressibly touching, syncopation-stammer. . . . Incidentally, Beethoven

But, as he continues writing, he immediately finds the shortened, definitive

He comments in a footnote: “In this as in the following bar the earlier editions

In bars 9–16 a modulation to A ♭ major is carried out by the following scale

And of bars 29–32, this:

intertwinings of neighboring and passing tones. As Autograph A demonstrates,

of which the second, e ♭2 , as we see, simultaneously takes on the character of a genu-

In no case, however, the following:

In bar 2: cadence in C ♭ major (I—IV—V).

And secondly, they added a tie to the dotted sixteenth:

It is downright inconceivable how the corrupt text-presentation found in all previ-

And Riemann as in the following picture:

he nevertheless specified, already in the same Autograph A, a correction, in fact

Only Autograph B brings complete clarity by showing the dotted sixteenth

a conceptual tying of the two quarters (N.B.: not sixteenths or thirty-seconds), which,

and this from the Violoncello Sonata Op. 69, Scherzo:

are unfortunately in equal measure a product of misunderstanding, since there

is by means of single bow-strokes.

which was to be introduced with this:

finally notates the correct version:

Bars 21ff. still have on leaf 88 only the following shape:

But on leaf 87 the version subsequently written in pencil: