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Page iii
Violin and Keyboard: The Duo Repertoire:

Volume I:
From the Seventeenth Century to Mozart
Abram Loft
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Page iv
© 1973 by Abram Loft
All rights reserved.
Reprinted 1991 by Amadeus Press (an imprint of Timber Press, Inc.)
ISBN 0-931340-36-5 (Volume I)
ISBN 0-931340-37-3 (Volume II)
ISBN 0-931340-38-1 (Two-volume set)
Printed in the United States of America
AMADEUS PRESS
9999 S.W. Wilshire
Portland, Oregon 97225
Pages 347349 constitute an extension of this copyright page
Library of Congress CataloginginPublication Data
Loft, Abram, 1922-
Violin and keyboard : the duo repertoire / [by Abram Loft].
p. cm.
Reprint. Originally published: New York: Grossman, 1973.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Contents: v. 1. From the seventeenth century to Mozart v.
2. From Beethoven to the present.
ISBN 0-931340-36-5 (v. 1). ISBN 0-931340-37-3 (v. 2). ISBN
0-931340-38-1 (set)
1. Violin and continuo musicHistory and criticism. 2. Violin
and harpsichord musicHistory and criticism. 3. Violin and piano
musicHistory and criticism. 4. Sonata. I. Title.
ML894.L63 1991
787.2'09dc20 90-20922
CIP
MN

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Page v
To Jill

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Page vii
Contents
Preface ix
1
Of Time and Temper 1
2
Sonatas by Three Italian Composers of the Early Seventeenth Century: Cima, Marini,
Fontana 11
3
Violin-Virtuoso/Composers in Germany in the Later Seventeenth Century:
Schmelzer, Biber, Walther 20
4
Italian Violinist/Composers of the Bologna School in the Later Seventeenth Century:
Cazzati, the Vitalis, degli Antonii 43
5
Italian Violin-Virtuoso/Composers in the Early Eighteenth Century: Coreilli, Vivaldi,
Geminiani, Others 48
6
Sonatas of Telemann and Handel 88
7
The Sonatas of J. S. Bach 109
8
Some Lesser Sonatas of the Bach Era 138
9
Italian Virtuoso/Composers in the Mid-Eighteenth Century: Veracini, Tartini,
Locatelli 151
10
Some Violinist/Composers in Paris in the Eighteenth Century: Leclair, Mondonville,
Others 185
11
Schobert and Contemporaries: The Sonata for Keyboard with Violin Accompaniment
in the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century 206
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Page viii
12
Some Violin and Continuo Sonatas of the Later Eighteenth Century 223
13
Mozart: The Childhood Sonatas and the First Mature Sonatas (through K. 306) 228
14
Mozart: Sonatas K. 296, 376 to 380; Variations, K. 359 and 360 255
15
Mozart: The Last Sonatas, K. 402, 454, 481, 526, and 547 285
Postlude 305
Notes 307
Bibliography 317
Editions Used 327
Acknowledgments 347
Index 351
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Page ix
Preface
People are never satisfied! I have been having the time of my life these many years rehearsing, performing, and
recording some of the most challenging and satisfying repertoire that music affordsthe string-quartet literaturefrom
Haydn to Bartók and beyond. That should be enough for anyone; but no, I have not been able entirely to give up
an older allegiance to the duo-sonata repertoire, for violin and piano (or harpsichord, depending on the age of the
work); and an even older love, the duo for viola and keyboard. So I have tucked sonata recitals, here and there, into
the already crowded schedule of a quartet-player/teacher. And when an opportunity offered itself to write about the
violin sonata repertoire, I rose to the bait.
If I didn't know it when I started, I know now: everyone has written violin sonatas. At any rate, it seemed that way
to me as I contemplated the iceberg I had offered to demolish. But my task was simplified by the fact that this
book is for playersstudents, amateurs, professionalswho want to know about music that they can read, rehearse, and
perform. It is for performers who want to know what kind of music is available, so that they can move beyond the
ordinarily rather limited store of works that many of us have in our personal libraries, and finally (as I see it), it is
for those who want some guidance as to the type of music in question, its difficulty, what particular points of
interest it has, and how it can be approached in performance.
Accordingly, I limited myself, first, essentially to music available in modern, in-print editions. Some of this music
I had in my home library already; the rest I was able to purchase. Obviously, some of the titles included here are
not to be found, in stock, on the shelves of your local

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Page x
music store; and it is only fair to say that my concert travels have taken me to cities and music shops not on the
seasonal rounds of many players. With few exceptions, however, the music I discuss can be ordered and delivered
to you by your favorite music dealer without undue delay.
In choosing music for discussion, I was moved by two further concerns: first, I myself wanted to be interested in
the composition; second, the composer, or the style he represented, demanded inclusion. On these grounds, I
occasionally selected music available only in the kind of edition that you would have to consult at a large
university or municipal library with good music holdings.
Each reader will note the absence of this or that sonata or composeromissions that will seem unforgivable. For such
gaps, whether caused by lack of awareness on my part, by a mistaken personal value judgment, or by sheer waning
of energy and perseverance, I ask indulgence. There are also some sonatas omitted that I felt were simply beyond
the abilities of many readers, not to speak of (and I must confess it) my own descriptive and analytic powers. If,
for example, it is possible to describe Roger Sessions's difficult and important Duo for Violin and Piano as ''an
entirely utilitarian piece of music," as an eminent writer did in recent season, then I must carefully and cravenly
remove myself from the field of battle.
In short, many works, excellent and otherwise, have escaped my ministrations. As for that "otherwise," it is sadly
true that though composers have over the years written an overwhelming number of sonatas, the results have not
always been sensational. I have allowed myself to say soadmittedly from my own viewpointwhen I found a piece
to be uninteresting or repellent. I trust the reader to resist my judgment, check for himself, and exercise his own
taste as much as possible.
When I know the work to be interesting to me, whether on the basis of old acquaintance or new encounter, I have
said so. And I have tried to explain why. In nontechnical language, and in the frame of my experience with the
composition, I have given the kind of information I think will be helpful to the players in understanding the piece
and in beginning their study of it. If they already know the piece, I hope I say something about it that will give
them a fresh slant on the music. My discussion/description of the music varies from the briefest appraisal to rather
detailed accounts. I try to give some playing advice, but I am often concerned that the duo know something about
the layout and apparent purpose of the work, trusting that the alert mind and the sensitive ear will guide the fingers.
"How-to" books have their limits. One can show, in word, photo, and

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Page xi
diagram, how to bake a cake, execute a golf stroke, or fashion a joint in cabinetwork. But the actual execution of
the project is one that can more readily be shown ''live," and, for nicety and artistry of detail, is entirely dependent
on the practice and taste of the individual craftsman. So much the more is something as intangible as the
interpretation of a musical composition. My approach in playing is my own, and will not necessarily be agreed
with in every detail by any other performer; my way of translating that way of performance into verbal description
is again my own, and may not win the approval of other performers, scholars, or (perhaps most of all) composers,
who want their sound structures to speak for themselves, unencumbered by parasitic growths of words.
I hope, nevertheless, that the points I raise about the pieces discussed in this book are both appropriate to the works
themselves and of aid to readers as they come to grips with the music. Most of all, I hope that my own descriptive
approach to the individual composition will, by its example, encourage (or infuriate) the reader to the extent that he
will feel called upon to take his own personal stance with regard to the music. The player must try to understand
the work, as he sees it, and must learn his own way of presenting the composition in convincing fashion. At that
point, he and the composer will be brought into direct confrontation, and the "how-to" will be rendered happily
superfluous.
The players in the duo, each of them, will learn from one another in comparing their views about a work. They will
learn, too, from that most helpful source, the able performer-teacher, present at the rehearsal, listening to the
ensemble play, phrasing his advice in response to what he hears. As a supplement to such instruction, as a
handbook for the duo, this book has its function.
It should not be asked to function as a history of the violin sonata, as a study of performance-practice, as a survey
of violin playing per se, or as a kind of music history. Authoritative studies in these areas, in English or in foreign
languages, have been written and are indispensable. Some I have listed in text and bibliography. Others the readers
will find in the course of their own study. My purpose has been to take a performer's-eye view of the repertoire
(arranged approximately in chronological order), scanning broadly enough to expand the horizons of my readers,
and focusing sharply enough to interest them in using the available resources.
Through the kind permission of the various publishers, I have been able to include many musical examples in the
text. Only in the sounds represented by those examples can my descriptive words find meaning. The examples
themselves take their meaning only in the context of the

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Page xii
parent composition. It is my hope that the reader will be intrigued by text and illustration to the point where he will
want to add the music in question to his own library. Publishers (and composers) deserve this support. And the
playing duo, whether of amateur or professional persuasion, will be the better for having an active, usable body of
musical literature at its disposal for study and performance.
While I must accept responsibility for the musical interpretations and opinions I have presented in this book, I
must share credit for those insights with the people who have helped shape my musical experience. I owe gratitude
to the teachers who, in years past, guided me in the study of violin and chamber music, and in various aspects of
music history and musical alertness: Herbert Dittler, Paul H. Lang, Erich Hertzmann, and William J. Mitchell, all
of Columbia University. Countless rehearsals, recordings, concerts, and lectures with my colleagues of The Fine
Arts Quartet have, these many seasons, flame-tempered my musical sensibilities. Specifically in the frame of the
duo sonata, I have profited from musical collaboration with the pianists Alvin Bauman andin recent seasonArmand
Basile. To all of these, my warm thanks.
I make specific and grateful acknowledgement elsewhere in the book to a number of publishers who have been
kind enough to let me reprint excerpts from their editions. My special thanks are due Dr. Günter Henle, head of G.
Henle Verlag, Munich-Duisburg, for his generous cooperation in making his fine publications of the Handel, Bach,
Brahms, Schubert, Mozart, and Beethoven sonatas available to me for use here.
I do not know which is easier to endure about the house: a musician in the throes of constant concert preparation;
or a performer turned would-be author. In the suspicion that each role is as troublesome as the other, I must extend,
twofold, my gratefulness and affection to one who has patiently indulged me in both pursuits: my wife. She has
also participated directly in the preparation of the manuscript by typing portions of it and by constructing the index.
I am beholden to her.
ABRAM LOFT
UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSINMILWAUKEE
SPRING 1973

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Page xiii
Preface to Reprint Edition

Several years after the original publication of Violin and Keyboard (1973), I left the Fine Arts Quartet to serve as
chair of the string department and Professor of Chamber Music at the Eastman School of the University of
Rochester. My new post gave me opportunity to perform again a number of the works discussed in these volumes.
The experience reaffirmed my enthusiasm for the wonderfully varied repertoire of the violin-and-keyboard duo.
Some of the editions I refer to have now gone out of print, for example the ICMI volumes of Boccherini, Giardini,
and Locatelli (see ''Editions Used"). On the other hand, further editions of such works as the Bach, Mozart, and
Brahms sonatas have been published. Other duo sonatas, both old and new, have also been added to the repertoire
now available in library collections and through music dealers.
I hope the renewed availability of Violin and Keyboard will once again inspire readers to explore the rich literature
of the sonata. Happy huntingand happy playing!
ABRAM LOFT
ROCHESTER, NEW YORK
1991

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Page xiv
Errata
Numbers = page/paragraph/line.
Contents/Chapter''Corelli," not "Coreilli"
5
81/3/9 progress
83/3/3 Ignore left parenthesis
85/1/10 , (comma) after "Brussels"
93/3/7 " (quotation) after]
108/2/1 "E," not "E flat"
111/4/5 Ignore words, " . . . not at Lubeck, but"
166/3/5 " . . . measures 3 and 4 after letter C"
166/3/9 " . . . (as in measure 2 after letter C)"
179/4/1 , (comma) instead of ; (semi-colon)
207/5/1 "former" instead of "reformed"
215/2/1 Omit hyphen in Robbins Landon. Same error in Notes (No.
145), as well as Bibliography and Index, with author
incorrectly listed under R.
308/Note 18 No apostrophe in "Bibers." Same error in Bibliography.
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Page 1
1
Of Time and Temper
Think of a pursuit that demands the dexterity of Houdini, the patience of Job, the firmness of purpose of Captain
Ahab, the alertness and reflexes of a jet pilot, the conviction of a fine actor, the tact and adaptability and integrity
that everyone would want to possess. . . . Enough! The description is too high-flown to be tolerated. And the
endeavor in question must be impossible of human achievement.
The hyperbole is, after all, only slight. Playing chamber music in general, and the violin-piano duo specifically, is a
hard job. Consider a fine performance of a sonata. First, there is the sound of the playing. The violinist's left hand
moves precisely over the fingerboard, intoning the notes not only accurately, but also with the proper shades of
intensity, grading the color from palest coolness to the warmest glow that vibrato can provide. And the violinist's
right arm urges the bow into the string firmly, smoothly, whether in the broadest legato or the most sparkling,
pointed, or bouncing stroke. The pianist reveals an accurate and agile pair of hands, and an ability to coax from the
instrument its great range of tone colors and variety of sound textures. The pianist's feet must be almost as
educated as his hands, for the judicious use of the pedals is essential to the dynamic and sonorous palette of the
piano.
Both instrumentalists play sweetly or brusquely, as the occasion demands. To choose the temper of the moment:
this and all other decisions in the performance are the privilege and responsibility of the players. When


Page 2
the performer reads his music, he finds that the composer has given him a large amount of information and
instruction and an even larger area of option and choice. It is precisely in this choice that so much of the
excitement of the musical experience lies, both for the performer and the listener.
On the printed (or manuscript) page of music, the composer tells the player:
How fast the music should go (tempo).
What the counting unit is to be (meter).
What tonality and mode are to dominate the composition (by title, key signature, and the detail of the music
revealed by the opening measures of the work).
What general temper is to be observed (through the verbal character-superscription of the several movements
and episodes of the work).
What rhythms are to be played (shown by the consecutive note values of the music).
How the rhythms are to be sounded (shown via interpretation signs, dynamic signs, and words of instruction in
the body of the composition).
Last (but really first), how high or low the pitch of the myriad notes must be (shown by placement of the note
signs on the staves and by the orientation of the staves in musical space by means of the various clefs).
A brief excerpt from Anton Webern's Four Pieces for Violin and Piano, op. 7, will show how explicit a composer
can be in his instructions to the performer:
Figure 1-1.

Page 3
This composition dates from 1910. Since then, composers have far exceeded the density of instruction of this
Webern example. But it is impossible, through notation, to guide and control the performer in the smallest detail of
nuance and shading of the musical line. The composer must finally rely on the performer's musical experience,
familiarity with the particular author's idiom and style, and insight into the specific work being played. The
practiced ear must interpret the information absorbed by the eye.
How the skilled performer places his experience at the service of the composer's invention and intent can be seen
from the following illustration. Let us compare two performances of the opening measures of the Beethoven
Kreutzer Sonata, in A major, op. 47. We'll not identify the performers, but these observations are drawn from
careful inspection of the recorded performances of the Kreutzer by two different duos.
Figure 1-2.
In version one, the introductory Adagio is taken at a tempo of about (this numerical reference is, of course,
to the Maelzel metronome system, whereby musical time is generally measured today*). Owing to the declamatory
nature of the solo violin opening, one should not force every note into the frame of a rigid metronomic pulse. The
tempo figure given,
* M.M. (i.e., Maelzel's metronome) 60, indicates one pulse per second; M.M. 120, two pulses per second.
Thus, means that one eighth note occupies slightly less than one second of time.


Page 4
however, comes closest to reflecting the pace chosen by the performer. The violin tone is full-bodied, massive. The
pacing of the opening measures is rather steady, though with some thrust forward (to measure 3), then a slight
pulling back as the line progresses to its cadence in measure 4. The playing of the chords in measures 3 and 4 is
marked by a rather slow, regal rolling of the bow across the strings.
The shaping of the entire opening violin phrase is consistent with the traits already noticed. The violinist chooses to
play for a smooth dynamic profile; gradation from loud to less loud is held within a small range. The gaps in the
line are held to a minimum; the line ''breathes," but as though the continuity of the breath is more important to the
player than the time between inhale and exhale.
In version two, the Adagio is set at about . The violin tone is rather quiet, somewhat on the cool side. The
pacing of the line is variable, more agitated, more "nervous" than in version one. There is a quite noticeable thrust
forward, carrying the line through to the downbeat of measure 4 before letting the music relax and settle into the
cadence. The chords of measures 3 and 4 are played with a quick roll of the bow, as though to present each chord
as nearly as possible as a simultaneously heard cluster of tones.
In this version, moreover, the phrase is inflected so that the breaks in the line are emphasized. The total impression
given in the opening violin measures is one of a certain leanness, excitement, search.
Now, let us see what the pianist does with his opening statement, in response to the violinist's lead, in each of these
two performances. In version one, the pianist plays the quarter-note chords of his phrase (measures 5 ff.) as though
tolling a bell; each cluster of tones is struck with solemn gravity, giving the effect of a processional that matches
the massiveness of the violinist's way. The eighth notes (measures 6 and 7) move just as steadily as the opening
quarters. There is very little pushing of the tempo.
The pianist in version two takes another tack. His approach is rather light and flowing. The performer moves ahead
noticeably in the eighth-note passage of measures 6 and 7. The treatment of the entire phrase is forward leaning,
matching in this the trend of the opening violin statement in this particular performance.
Clearly, each pianist is acting in the light of a musical agreement he has reached with his violinist partner, so that
the approach of each duo to the music at hand is unified in intent. In the Presto that follows the introduction,


Page 5
Figure 1-3.
each duo proceeds in a fashion consistent with its handling of the prologue. In version one, the tempo of the Presto
is about . In version two, the tempo of the Presto is . The faster introduction in version two has
unfolded into a correspondingly faster Presto. Moreover, the two performers in version two use a less detached,
more connected treatment of the quarter notes that begin the Presto. The emphasis, again, is on the forward-leaning
drive. Also, the treatment of the grand cadences (measures 25 to 27, 34 to 36) is less portentous in the second
version than in the first.
Which version is preferable? Each one obeys its own logic. The introduction, as played by the given duo, sets its
own frame, casts its own implications; and these are borne out by the way of playing the Presto. Which duo has
struck closest to Beethoven's intent? The listener will decide, convinced that he, after all, has the true insight into
Beethoven's musical purpose. But first the performer must act with this kind of conviction, making clear-cut
choices so that a coherent musical organism can be discerned and evaluated by the listener. Through choice of
tempo, bowing style, specific string color, piano touch, inflection and pacing, shading of tone, logical relating of
successive events in the music, the performers must recompose the work for the listener. A musical composition is
experienced in sequence, from first note to last. The interrelating of these tones to one another, the assembly of
successive sounds into meaningful patterns must be accomplished by the performer, not left entirely to the
imagination and diligence of the listener.


Page 6
The organizing process does not end until the piece itself does. Any composition worthy of the name (literally
meaning, ''something put together") reveals in its sequence of events an internal logic peculiar to that composition
alone. Sounds heard early in the piece set conditions, make commitments that must be carried out and fulfilled by
later sounds in the work. In our Beethoven example, we can see this far-reaching relationship by working
backward from eight Adagio measures heard just before the headlong dash to the final double bar.
Figure 1-4.
These sustained chords reflect not only the stentorian chords heard near the beginning of the Presto (see Figure 1-3,
measures 25 to 27, 34 to 36)and at intervening points as wellbut also refer back to premonitory musical events in
the introductory Adagio.
Let us retrace our way, step by step. The closing Adagio reveals weighty half-step progressions (these are
bracketed in Figure 1-4). These progressions mirror similar, but faster motions that are predominant in the entire
Presto, from its very opening (see bracketed notes, Figure 1-3). These, in turn, are previewed by intervallic
fragments scattered throughout the introductory Adagio (refer to bracketed notes, Figures 1-2 and 1-5).
Figure 1-5.

Page 7
With such clear relationships binding the movement, it would be strange if the performers did not reflect the
consistent thinking of the composer. And we do find that our respective duos hold true to their specific attitudes in
playing the sonata. In each of the passages of fragments cited, the first duo selects the more evenly measured,
stable, anchored way of playing; while the second duo tends to move forward vigorously, emphasizing the
resolution of the half-step interval through more intense stressing of the second tone, marking off the successive
couplets (Figure 1-2, measures 16 and 17) with more pronounced pauses between, and so on.
Choice of tempo and musical concept, then, are fundamentally inter-twined. But we need not be so esoteric.
Practically, the players will observe the counsel offered by wise old Leopold Mozart, who urged that the
smallesti.e., fastestnotes in the piece be considered first, so that their clear and concise performance might set the
pace for the movement as a whole. Ideally, the truths of personal technique on the one hand, and an intellectual
grasp of the music on the other, will work together to guide the performer in his choice of speed. Certainly, no
composer would so rigidly adhere to his own metronomic marking that he would refuse to allow performance,
convincingly presented, in a tempo not excessively far from his own specification.
In an example outside the sonata literature, in Wolfgang Mozart's quartet writing, we can find a passage that shows
in wickedly effective fashion what his father was talking about. The opening of the finale of the Quartet in G, K.
387, begins in the second-violin part, thus:
Figure 1-6.
The first four measures are heard completely alone, the whole notes moving along with disarming slowness. (Are
they really whole notes, or are they actually lazy quarter notes? The ear cannot be sure.) As the other voices make
their successive entries, however, the texture thickens. More quickly paced motions (see Figure 1-6, measures 5 ff.)
take over to accom-


Page 8
pany the reiterations of the whole-note figure. And before long, we find all the instruments, including our hapless
second (see measures 23 ff.) dealing with impressively fast eighth-note passages. The reckless player who plunges
exuberantly into the opening whole notes will find himself stumbling and panicking by the time he reaches the
more athletic measures.
As it happens, the eighth-note situation in the Mozart example occurs earliest in the first violin part, not in that of
the second, who opens the movement. And this raises a further point: decisions in ensemble music (certainly as to
tempo, but also for any other aspect of performance) cannot be made in isolation. The author recalls an incident
during rehearsal years ago, whenin the innocence and enthusiasm of youthhe played merrily along in a lyric half-
note line in the violin part of a Mozart sonata. His reverie was suddenly interrupted by a resounding crash from the
piano. He turned to find his partner standing over the keyboard, livid with anger, snarling, ''Why so fast?" The
piano part, full of rapid-fire eighths and triplets, had been pushed to an impossible pace by the complacently facile
glide of the violin line.
Clearly, the appraisal of the musical situationboth of the moment and of the larger frame of the piececan only be
made by performers who are alert and responsive, each aware not only of his own part but of his partner's as well.
This awareness in actual rehearsal and performance is as important as a detailed knowledge of the score. For it
often happens that some inflection, some detail of playing that is spontaneously hit upon will reveal a facet of the
music not apparent in prior readings of the score. Such an insight through sound can be seized upon by sensitive
players and can, because of the coherent structure of the composition, have far-reaching effect on the interpretation
of an entire movement or an entire work.
Ideally, this kind of alertness between the members of a duo will do away with any false notions of solo-
accompaniment relationship. We have all heard sonata performances, especially in recording (where the
microphone placement can bring about very strange emphases), influenced by the "star" virtuoso idea. A violin
passage that is for the moment a plainly secondary patter of notes is brought into undue prominence, while the
pianist (the star's accompanist) labors to subdue really important lines into a background role. Such aberrations,
fortunately, are now the exception rather than the rule.
There are no pat answers. One composer may title his sonatas to read, "for piano and violin." Another, moved by
custom of the time or by personal preference, may reverse the order and give the violin first billing. But there is no
fixed, pecking-order relationship. At any given point, the roles may be reversed: now violin in the foreground, now
piano; now right hand


Page 9
of the piano, now left. Or, just as often, all strands in the fabric of the music can be given simultaneous
importance. Nor can one rely unquestioningly on first appearances. The figure that seems, at the opening of the
movement, to be a simple background element in the music can eventually reveal itself as a driving force in the
movement, one that generates much of the emotional impact of the composition. For the skilled composer, nothing
is waste; everything written is used so thoroughly that its importance grows with the expansion of the music. The
performer must realize and reveal that importance, no matter how mundane may seem the musical detail in
question.
The ideal duo, then, is egalitarian. While playing, each member hears the other. He responds quickly to the
suggestion madeeither in sound or in verbal explanationby his partner's way of playing a given passage. The two
argue differences in viewpoint, try various approaches to the music to find that one that seems to them the most
faithful realization of the composer's intent. To defend each player's right and responsibility to express his musical
opinion, and at the same time to arrive quickly and without undue fuss at a viable ensemble concept of the music,
calls for the tact and sincerity referred to in our opening paragraph.
Even more than sincerity, a sense of humor is needed. This, not only to smooth the way of the rehearsal, but also to
attune the players to the many instances of humor, of surprise, of dramatic shock that are to be found in the best of
chamber music. The twosome who would deal with the following passage from the finale of Mozart's Sonata in D,
K. 306, in utter, metronomic, stolid seriousness would be missing the point by a mile, and robbing the listener of a
wonderful musical caricature of the operatic ensemble cadenza.
Figure 1-7.

Page 10
Mozart, of course, is satirizing his own operatic style, as well as the conventions of Italian opera, which he had so
thoroughly absorbed during his childhood visits to Italy (he wrote the sonata quoted above at the ripe old age of
twenty-two). Another moral may be drawn here: in order to recognize opportunities for effective interpretation in a
sonata, the performers must have heard enough music to detect the composer's references to the varied scenery of
the musical world.
This chapter has followed a rambling path in its tasting of some of the excitements of sonata performance. The
excitement is there, real and solid. In today's crowded world, where conformity so often seems the expected and
easy way of life, chamber music brings us into close contact with men who are true individualists; they are
themselves in life and they stand revealed in their music. We who perform their music are individuals in our
handling of the composer's thought and are ourselves revealed. To be able to make a personal declaration is a rare
opportunity, one greatly to be treasured.
The chapters ahead take up many of the great and near-great composers who have made our sonata literature what
it is today. In each instance, one or more of the important and representative works by the man will be discussed.
My approach is primarily from the performer's viewpoint. As a performer, I give my views on the way the reader
should tackle the work to ready it for hearing. It need scarcely be added that the suggestions are those of one
performer. They are offered in the light of much hard-won experience and practice; but I willingly submit that the
ideas about the music to be discussed willmore than onceinvite argument and contradiction. That is of the essence
of music making, however, and is most welcome. And I hope there will be enough right about these ideas to guide
the reader into perceptive and fruitful ways of looking not only at the works considered herein but also at the whole
spectrum of the sonata repertoire.


Page 11
2
Sonatas by Three Italian Composers of the Early Seventeenth Century:
Cima, Marini, Fontana
The repertoire for violin and keyboard dates from the early years of the seventeenth century. The violin
familyviolin, viola, cello, and basscame into being in Europe before the middle of the sixteenth century. By 1600,
these instruments, strong and penetrating in tone, were beginning to displace the earlier, softer-voiced family of
bowed instruments, the viols.
Generally speaking, the musical taste of the sixteenth century had favored the spinning of polyphonic webs of
sound, several equally important strands of melody being woven together so that the ear's attention was directed to
all parts in turn. The ''new music" of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries championed monody, in
which a clearly exposed, intensely expressive melodic line was set off against a supporting background of
accompanying harmony.
First and foremost, the performance of the "intensely expressive melodic line" was assigned to the human voice,
able to clothe words, and their specific meanings, in tone. The possibilities of vocal monody were realized in
various kinds of composition, but most impressively in opera, and especially in the operas of Claudio Monteverdi
in the early decades of the seventeenth century.
In his operatic writing, Monteverdi specified that particular instru-


Page 12
ments (those and no others) were to perform stipulated parts of his score. This reflected a growing feeling for the
importance of specific instrumental tone color, and of instrumental music as such. To the age-old role of the
instrument as a support for the singing voice, or as a necessary prop to the dance and/or rite, was now increasingly
added the instrumental piece in its own right, written for a particular instrument or ensemble. (The option, whether
granted by the composer or assumed by the player, of substituting one instrument for another to suit convenience or
preference, long endured.)
Even in today's machine world, when listening to an instrument, we often tend to appraise its music making in
terms of its singing, voicelike qualities. We want the instrument to be a supervoice; the voice, a super-instrument.
So it was in the seventeenth century as well. The instrument that showed itself then to have the ability to sustain
and grade a tone, to spin a melodic line with the nicety, clarity, and intensity of the human voice was the violin.
The violin won a prominent place in instrumental music.
The soloistic melodic line found support in a ''continuous"or constant, throughout-the-work, thorough"bass": basso
continuo. This supporting bass was used for ensemble and larger-group music in the seventeenth century and well
into the eighteenth century; it is a principle of the musical writing of this time. Though there was some flexibility
in the instrumentation of this sustaining floor for the composition (depending on the size of the performing group,
the room in which the music was to be heard, the instruments available), the favored choice in music for small
ensembles was a combination of keyboard and cello or viola da gamba.
The left hand of the keyboard player, along with the cello, played the bass line actually written by the composer.
Above the notated bass line, the composer supplied numbers or figures (hence, the term figured bass, as a loose
equivalent for basso continuo or thorough bass), reflecting in shorthand fashion the defining intervallic successions
of the harmonic fabric of the piece; or, to put it another way, showing the construction of the successive chords. In
addition to playing the given bass line, the keyboard player improvised the harmonies of the music according to the
composer's instructions; this controlled improvisation, carried out chordally and with melodic embellishments
ranging all the way from trills and grace notes to (presumably discreet) running passage-work and contrapuntal
reflections of the solo line, is what is meant when we say that the keyboard player "realizes" the composer's intent.
As we shall see later, the violinist is also expected to do some realizing in his own right.


Page 13
The whole question of the relationship between the violin and the keyboard has been influenced by the changing
nature of the instruments themselves. And the changes, in turn, have been directed by the composer-listener's sense
of what is proper in ensemble sound. The keyboard instrument often used in earlier ensemble music was the
harpsichord. Whatever its shape, size, or name (clavicembalo, spinet, virginal, and clavecin were other regional
titles for the instrument), the essential fact about the instrument was that, in response to the finger stroke on the
key, a mechanism plucked the corresponding string to set it sounding.
The sound of the string begins to die as soon as the string has been plucked. Unlike the piano's hammer stroke, the
harpsichord's plucking action cannot be varied in force. By use of multiple sets of strings, two manuals, and other
devices, sonorities on the harpsichord can be contrasted to each other; but each sonority will have the
characteristic, level ''ceiling" of sound force. Note repetition, ornamental filling out of line, voice doublings,
chordal and linear thickening of the musical texture can modify this limitation of the harpsichord. And, so far as
the bass line is concerned, the sustaining tone of the cello supplies longevity as well as glow of tone.
It was precisely the clarity, the peculiarly rich "dryness" and restraint of the sound that made the harpsichord such
an effective foil to the violin line. The contrast and blend of the two instruments must have fallen as gracefully on
the ears of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century listeners as it does upon those of music lovers today.
The violin itself was essentially complete in design and engineering even before the great models of Stradivarius
and Guarnerius in the early eighteenth century. Certain changes were imposed on violins (the old ones included) in
later time: lengthening of neck and strengthening of bass-bar to permit greater string length and thickness,
increased string tension, increased brilliance and power of tone. The attributes of sound and performance these
changes favored cannot be transferred back, willy-nilly, to the performance of music of earlier times. Yet, the
violin has not entirely changed its characteristics from those early days. What we hear in the instrument is,
basically, what the earlier composers and listeners also heard and appreciated as the essential nature of the
instrument.
In pieces with basso continuo, the violin is in congenial company; it need not contend with the harpsichord and
cello for prominence in volume, but can play in comfortable manner, confident in the fact that its present strength,
both in instrument and bow, immediately gives it more muscle than it had in earlier days. Easy does it.
Easy, though, does not mean either pious or pickled. The players should be content with nothing less than a live
performance: one in which


Page 14
soloistic passages (for either side of the duo) sound as though they are played with conviction and grace. Do not be
afraid to highlight the shape and drive of a melodic line: the violin, by proper accentuation and dynamic
stressincluding tasteful crescendo and diminuendo; the continuo, by sonority contrast and by playing discreetly with
the duration of this or that note value.
And now, to the music. It should be noted that the favored ensemble group in the seventeenth century was the trio
sonata, wherein two duetting parts (often two violins) were supported by the continuo, and that the solo sonataone
melodic line against the continuo backgroundincreased in popularity toward the end of the century. Even so, we
can begin with interesting compositions from the early 1600s.
Giovanni Paolo Cima

Giovanni Paolo Cima's Sonata for Violin and Basso Continuo, from that composer's Partitura della concerti
ecclesiastici . . . con sei sonate per stromenti (''Collection of church concerti . . . with six instrumental sonatas"),
Milan, 1610, is the first published composition for such combination. 1 The work is in one continuous movement,
made up of passages of varying rhythmic speed and density, with scalewise runs enlivening the texture of the
writing. The violin-technique requirements of the piece are minimal (from our point of view), the left hand never
leaving first position, the right having to manage only simple string-crossing patterns, and so on. The sonata is as
much duo as solo, because the bass line alternates with the violin often and prominently. At the risk of sounding
condescending both to the composer and performer, I would suggest that this work is suited, today, for study by the
extreme novice or youthful duo, in preparation for the next piece we are to consider.
Biagio Marini
That sonata, one of the most effective for violin and continuo, is also one of the earliest: the Sonata per il violino
per sonar con due corde, by Biagio Marini, written no later than 1628. It was contained in the composer/violin-
virtuoso's opus 8, "Sonate, Symphonie, Canzoni . . . for all kinds of instruments,"all three titles serving in that
period as generic names for instrumental musicpublished in Venice in that year. The piece is not, as the title might
literally imply, intended for some sort of two-stringed


Page 15
violin. Marini is simply pointing, with obvious fiddler's pride, to the fact that there is double-stop writing in the
sonata.
There are many good things in the work: instruction to play slowly (tardo) and fast (presto); loud and soft playing
(forte and piano are indicated at one point, and opportunities for dynamic contrast and echo effects are found
elsewhere in the sonata as well); stately passages, stepped out in snapped rhythms ; sequences of sixteenths
and mixed rhythms; trilled passages that suggest a vocal, operatic model; dancelike episodes, of various kinds of
''footwork"; an instruction to improvise the performed version of a skeletally notated passage; measures of fiery,
virtuosic running work; and even a passage where the violin and bass line alternate with each other in duet
prominence.
All this is indicated in the space of some six minutes of playing time, in a work written in one continuous
movement. Yet the effect is somehow coherent and organized. Marini was not always able to carry off such a feat,
and apparently had to grow into the required imaginativeness. An earlier work by the same composer, the Sonata
La Giardana, from Marini's opus 1, Affetti musicali, of 1617, for violin or cornet (and continuo), is very short, little
more than a tentative and furtive tasting of several melodic effects and textures. The later work, despite its own
brevity and variety, gives a feeling of amplitude and fulfillment.
Some of the satisfaction comes from the double-stop writing (which, after all the panoply of the title, occupies only
one episode in the entire sonata). Marini shows thorough violinistic comprehension in the way he simulates two
(and more) voices in pseudo-polyphonic textures and in simultaneous, chordal writing.
What is most impressive about the piece, though, is not its fiddling around. There is all too much of that kind of
simplistic enjoyment of the acrobatics of the instrument in the repertoire of the seventeenth century (and much
later). Rather, it is the sense of maturity, of expressive purpose and achievement that comes out of the work. I have
known and played this piece since my college days. It wears very well indeed, and is a convincing illustration of
the liveliness of old music. No, that is not aptly stated. The Marini, rather, demonstrates two things: that every age
has had its "new music," and the best of such innovative writing retains its freshness still.
Both of these sonatas are contained in the anthology, Geschichte der Musik in Beispielen ("History of Music in
Examples"), compiled by Arnold Schering. Another Marini piece is found in the Hortus musicus series of
Bärenreiter (No. 129). The string bass part of this Sonata in


Page 16
D minor for Violin, String Bass (Gamba or Cello) and Basso Continuo essentially doubles the given bass of the
continuo, but also is given, from time to time, independent material that puts it in a duet role with the violin. Thus,
the work is a cross between a solo and a trio sonata, with the keyboard treble adding still further activity and
embellishment to the fabric of the piece. The sonata is in three movements, or parts, moving from slow to faster
writing and offering a coherent and pleasant overall effect.
Bartolomeo Montalbano
A sonata from the same period as Marini's opus 8, the sinfonia number 4 (1629) of the Bolognese-born Bartolomeo
Montalbano, reprinted by Franz Giegling in his anthology, The Solo Sonata, is again filled with violinistic
busywork. As Giegling points out in his fine historical introduction, this kind of writing shows the violin
establishing its prerogatives as a distinct and soloistic instrument in the seventeenth century, pulling away from
any subservience to the singing voice. The composer designates the organ as the continuo instrument, and the long,
sustained background chords presented to the active violin part may well preclude any real interest in the piece for
a performing duo. The work is available for inspection and enjoyment, nonetheless.
The subtitle of the piece, incidentally, promises a certain piquance, because it reads, ''Geloso." Before leaping to
any conclusions about the composition's exploration of a jealousy theme, however, see Giegling's source
information, and be aware that the sonata was dedicated to one Girolamo Geloso.
Giovanni Battista Fontana

Another early composer for the violin as a solo instrument was Giovanni Battista Fontana, who was born in Brescia
(the year is unknown) and died in Padua in 1631 of the plague. He was active in his native city, then in Venice and
Rome, and finally in Padua. The only extant compositions by Fontana are a set of eighteen "Sonatas for 1, 2, 3
[players], for violin or cornet, bassoon or chitarrone [a lute with extended neck, some six feet overall in length,
with drone bass strings], cello, or other similar instrument." They were preserved by the Church of Santa Maria
delle Grazie in Venice and published in 1641 in that city.
Of the entire set of works, the first six are sonatas for violin and basso


Page 17
continuo. The others are for various ensembles, duet or larger. The six violin sonatas were published some years
ago in modern edition.
If we begin our reading with the first page of the Fifth Sonata, this edition betrays what I feel is an error in
judgment on the editor's part. He has (as in all movements in these sonatas) provided his own tempo character
indication for the opening section of the piece: Allegro. Nevertheless, he sticks to note values that literally reflect
the page of the early seventeenth-century publication. The result is a dancelike composition that looks very stodgy
to the twentieth-century eye.
Figure 2-1
a. Mm. 1-4
b. Same, written in 3/4 time
To Fontana's eye, his own setting of the piece seemed quite lively (which, indeed, it is). Today's player needs
imagination to break the psychological barrier set up by the appearance of so many fat, slow white notes. Over the
centuries, musical usage in our notation has tended toward ever shorter note values, the tempo frame adjusting
itself to match. That is, we read ''shorter" notes than our remote ancestors, but we see them as slower units of time
than our forebears would have.
Conversely, ifwith Friedrich Cerha, the editor of the Fontana setwe jump back in time and read the apparently long
tones of the past, we must bring them into musical focus by "thinking" short. This amounts to a kind of musical
translation (which, indeed, editors should do for us), except that, unlike literary translation, we should end with
something that sounds fairly like the original. Our objection may be cantankerous, because Cerha does use our
"normal" values for all movements except an occasional one; but the appearance of a Presto (sonata 1) with lazy
note values comes as a shock.
However, the more important question is, Can one agree with the


Page 18
editor's claim that, ''These are mature works through and through, in which one scarcely notices any more how
very much Fontana's generation wrestled with the problem of an adequate instrumental style"? 2 This is a
historically valid statement. In actual fact, however, one "notices" greatly in the playing of these pieces. One must
be quite attached to the first position on the violin to listen conscientiously to such low-level racing-about on the
instrument. Lines and phrases should pause, breathe, eventually expire; but time and again, Fontana feels the need
to chase his fingers across the board. For example, from sonata 3, this passage:
Figure 2-2
Violin, page 2, lines 5-7
In largest view, the six sonatas break down into two types: 1, 3, and 5 are the more sober, stately, dignified,
"learned" pieces. Sonatas 2, 4, and 6 are somewhat more excited, flighty, freewheeling. But these are differences in
degree only. The fifth and sixth sonatas come closest to sustaining the interest of the listener, and should be played
for the insight they give us into the early efforts in the field of the sonata"a piece to be played" (as contrasted to a
piece for singing). One should also recommend these sonatas as learning or intermediate-difficulty pieces for
ensembles of varying ages. The fingers of the violinist are well exercised within the first position; the bow is
thoroughly used in on-the-string style, from articulate short notes to legato flourishes and slower lines. The
continuo is fairly simple, even when the player is called upon to reflect specific turns of phrase of the violin part.
Greater involvement of the continuo is to be found in the Tenth Sonata of the Fontana set, offered by Giegling.
This example, as Giegling indicates, hovers on the verge of trio sonata (it is written for violin, bassoon, and
continuo), except for the fact that the bassoon line is actually an elaborated version of the given bass line of the
continuo. If a bassoonist is on hand, our duo may well play the work as stipulated by the composer.


Page 19
Otherwise, the cellistif presentmay take over the assignment; and failing that, the keyboard partner can readily
incorporate the duetting part in his left-hand line.
The difficulty in all these pieces, for the younger player especially, will lie in phrasing a line that refuses to lie still
and be phrased, but goes its own unpredictable way. Come to think of it, though, it is precisely the young musician
whowithout the preconceptions of old writer-playersmay deal most successfully with such music, revealing its
exuberant freshness and charm.


Page 20
3
ViolinVirtuoso/Composers in Germany in the Later Seventeenth Century:
Schmelzer, Biber, Walther
In germany of the seventeenth century, English musicians, notably William Brade and Thomas Simpson, and
Italian violinist-composers such as Biagio Marini (the courts of Neuburg and Düsseldorf) and Carlo Farina
(Dresden and Danzig)during the first four decades, collectivelyjoined with native Austrian and North German
composers and violin virtuosos in the development of string playing. These musical currents interacted with each
other, the English contributing vigorously to the cultivation of dance-style music already current in Germany; the
Germans, significant advances in the technique of string playing, especially as regards polyphonic texture and
chordal passages; and the Italians, a sense of the lyric possibilities and formal cohesiveness of violin composition.
One of the earliest significant German composers in the field of the solo sonata was Johann Heinrich Schmelzer.
Of the three composers considered in this chapter, Schmelzer typifies the violin virtuoso exploring the possibilities
of his instrument with some dignity and a feeling for the coherence and structural integrity of his music. His
younger contemporary, Johann Walther, is a virtuoso of the kind encountered in every agethe pyrotechnics of the
instrument seem enough to interest him. The result, in his compositions, is music that often runs


Page 21
and piddles, rather than arrives at any organized impact in its own right. Take away the violin, and little is left.
Heinrich Biber, the third figure in our triumvirate, is the most accomplished instrumentalist of them all, judging
from the tasks he sets for himself in his own writing. And in some ways, he is the flashiest writer, because he gives
such stress to scordatura (i.e., abnormal tuning). But he seems to be more concerned with musical idea than either
of the others, and knows what to do with an idea. Of the three, his music has most stature, can be listened to with
interest today, andeven when it has ostensible programmatic purposestands as meaningful, well-knit musical
structure. The violin is essential to the writing, but the finger has not replaced the head; instead, it speaks for it.
Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

Johann Schmelzer, having served as musician at the imperial court of Vienna since 1649, became successively
vice-kapellmeister, a member of the nobility (as a mark of imperial favor for his services), andin
1679kapellmeister. His newfound eminence was short-lived, for he died the following year in Prague, esteemed as
one of the leading violinists of his day. The state of the art, not only in Schmelzer's own playing, but in
contemporary Germany in general, is summed up in his six Sonatae unarum fidium seu a violino solo (''Sonatas for
one violin [and continuo]"), from the year 1664. These sonatas, edited by Friedrich Cerha, are now available in a
publication by Universal Edition.
The prowess of the violinist will not go entirely unchallenged in these pieces; the third sonata, for example, has a
long, rapidly moving middle section that exercises the bowwith intricate string-crossing patterns and rapid
articulationsand the left hand, quick shifts, chordal grasping of the strings for the playing of arpeggiated figures,
and some high-position playing (to the seventh position). There is also, in the Adagio of this sonata, a modest
application of double-stop playing.
The six sonatas make up a variegated set. They differ in their general format as well as in structural detail. As the
Introduction to the Universal Edition points out, variation is the central theme of the first four sonatas of the group.
But the treatment of variation is peculiar to each.
The first sonata frames its variations thus: the opening episode is a brief processional in running 12/8 time; it is
followed by variations on thirteen statements of a six-measure bass progression, in changing meters; and the
closing suite of episodes is in duple, triple, duple meters.


Page 22
The second sonata is a variation throughout, on a seven-measure ground bass (i.e., a recurring, harmonically
defining progression of tones in the bass) that recurs seventeen times. The first ten statements are in duple meter,
while the last seven are in triple. Numbers eleven and twelve are each repeated. The statement and the attendant
variation in the violin part always coincide, that is, the variation occupies just the length of the seven-measure
frame.
Unlike its predecessors, the third sonata often has overlapping between ground bass and variation. The last bar of
the harmonic progression serves, in several instances, as the kickoff bar for the next variation. In this sonata, the
ground bass is ten measures long. There are thirteen statements of the ground, making up (as in the second sonata)
the entire composition. There are metric changes as well as indicated changes in tempo.
Again, the bulk of the fourth sonata is given over to variation on a ground. A four-measure, very simple ostinato
(that is, ''obstinate," constantly recurring pattern) is repeated no less than fifty-two times. The violin officiates
throughout, except for the first two statements (a kind of thematic declaration of intention) and for three exposures
of continuo alone at structural breaks in the course of the set. These spots provide opportunity for some soloistic
pyrotechnics on the part of the keyboard player. The "structural breaks" result from the fact that Schmelzer leads
the variations through larger episodes in the Saraband and Gigue. The variations end here, and the sonata continues
on to its conclusion through a series of wildly athletic passages, again set apart from each other by buffers of
harpsichord solo, and winding up in a Presto with rippling, triadic figures in the violin part.
The fifth and sixth sonatas do not, either of them, incorporate any variations. They are free to pursue the violinistic
life in untrammeled fashion. Of the two, the fifth seems the more exuberant and expansive, even though the sixth
has an impassioned moment in a recitativelike Adagio passage.
In using the Universal Edition, the performers will note the editor's comment that " . . . it was then [in Schmelzer's
time] common to write Allegro over passages with short notes and Adagio over those with long notes, although the
note values do not change." 3 However, the reader of the English translation (cited here) of the German Foreword
should take heed on one point. The German reads, " . . . auch wenn das Grundmass [italics added] unverändert
bleibt." That is, it is the basic beat, not the note values, that remains unchanged. The editor is saying that the terms
adagio and allegro may refer to the character and mood of the interpreta-


Page 23
tion, rather than to any change in tempo. Or, if we may twist the meaning a bit, the player must be guided by the
temper, rather than the tempo of the successive passages.
A note in postscript: once again, as in Cerha's edition of the Fontana sonatas, the Schmelzer pieces would benefit
from a modern translation of the sections that the editor has presented in note values literally reflecting the original
notation. Passages such as these from the fourth sonata would look more convincing to the modern player's eye if
recast as shown in the following example (with appropriate metronome marks to orient the performer's thinking):
Figure 3-1
a. Score, page 1, mm. 7-8
b. Score, page 4, mm. 1-2
The importance of the entire question of mood and tempo relationship, of nuance and flexibility in performance, is
made emphatic when we think of the kind of interpretation of music, especially ''old" music, to which we are often
subjected. Conductors, instrumentalists, singers, and more than one scholar all are too prone to assume that older
music (and sometimes not so old music) is dead music. The inflexible, unvarying level of speed and dynamics that
is imposed on music and the relentless flow of note after note, with scant heed to the inflection and nuance called
for by the text, let alone the musical lineall this makes a performance sound


Page 24
like some meaningless ritual. Such timeserving may have some secret virtue, perhaps not the least of which is the
filling up of the expected duration of a concert, a broadcast, or a recording. It should not be confused with music
making. I cannot stress enough the need to read the composer's notation expertly, to know what the given signs
mean, and to know as much as possible about the clues, the contemporary evidence, the commentaries that shed
light on what the composer and his contemporaries expected to hear in a performance. If, however, we assume that
people of any era were not flesh and blood, that they did not breathe, and that they did not expect their music to
''breathe," then our expertise shall be for naught. And we shall deserve the kind of concert that embalms music
rather than recreates it.
But to return to Schmelzer and a brief look at the Fifth Sonata of his set. The editor has added some bowings and
ornamentation (trills) to the violin part. What he has not shown is the inflection and punctuation of the melodic
line. Such indications would clutter up the page; nor could they, no matter how explicit, take the place of the
player's own sense of phrasing. The performer should not be misled by the "flat" look of the printed page into
playing the work flatly. The first ten measures of the opening Largo, for example, reveal an articulation of varied-
length units of time; these, coupled with the carefully contrived pitch sequence of the melody, give life to the
sound.
Figure 3-2
Violin, Largo, mm. 1-10
The tempo of the Allegro must be such that the predominant (slower) rhythms of the movement can have enough
swing and thrust, and yet not force the one rapid flourish of thirty-second notes (violin, measure 5) into a garbled
pace. The 3/4-time section that makes up the second half of the Allegro must be taken at a speed such that one bar
of the 3/4 equals approximately one-half measure of the duple-meter Allegro.
The same holds true for the relationship between the long- and short-note passages in the Adagio that follows. The
rapid passage-work, like many an episode in these pieces, displays (from our viewpoint) a rather innocent
enjoyment of violinistic acrobatics. If played with a light and


Page 25
whimsical hand, however, sequences such as the following (from this Adagio) can interest even the post-
Brahmsian ear:
Figure 3-3
Violin, Adagio, mm. 8-9
And in sedate portions of the sonata as well as in friskier moments (see below), the keyboard can reserve for itself
some part in the festivities.
Figure 3-4
Score, page 19, mm. 1-2
It is a sense of curiosity about a past era in music making and about a luminary from the early ages of sonata
writing, as much as any intrinsic excitement in the pieces themselves that draws us to these works. One need not
stage a Schmelzer-fest, however, to justify the inclusion of one of these compositions in an evening's musical fare.
They are useful, too, as moderately challenging study material for the intermediate ensemble.
Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber

Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber, violinist and composer, was born in Bohemia in 1644, the son of a ranger, and died in
Salzburg in 1704. 4 It is not certain where, or with whom he studied, though it may have been with Schmelzer in
Vienna. It is known that Biber was in the service of the archbishop's court at Krems, midway between Linz and
Vienna, in the 1660s, and that he left there in 1670suddenly, by not returning from an instrument-buying tripto
enter the employ of the archbishop of Salzburg.5 He attained, over the years, to vice-kapellmeister in 1679, and to
kapellmeister in 1684. In 1690, after earlier honors and favor shown him by Emperor Leopold I, he was at last
knighted for his achievements.
Though Biber showed versatility as a composerhis catalog includes liturgical works and opera, in addition to
instrumental music of various kindsit is for his solo violin composition that he is remembered today.6


Page 26
In his own time, Biber was already recognized as a leading violinist of the day. ''He was the first German violin-
composer who met in successful competition the Italian and French men then dominant in this realm of the art" 7
Biber's first publication for solo violin, around 1674, was a set of sixteen sonatas for violin with basso continuo
(except for the last, which was for violin alone). As he points out in his dedication to his employer, Archbishop
Max Gandolph of Salzburg, these "various sonatas, preludes, allemandes, courantes, sarabandes, arias, ciaconni,
variations, etc.," are intended to "honor fifteen sacred mysteries" of the life of Mary and Christ.8 The sonatas are
called the Mystery or Rosary sonatas.
The fifteen sonatas in question are assigned to their particular mysteries not by title, but by small engravings, one
at the head of each work, each depicting a New Testament scene; the sequence is as follows:
1. The Annunciation of the Birth of Christ.
2. Mary visits Elizabeth.
3. The Adoration of the Shepherds.
4. The Presentation of Christ in the Temple.
5. The Twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple.
6. Christ on the Mount of Olives.
7. The Flagellation of Christ.
8. The Crowning with Thorns.
9. The Climbing of Calvary.
10. The Crucifixion.
11. The Resurrection of Christ.
12. The Ascent of Christ to Heaven.
13. The Coming of the Holy Ghost.
14. The Ascent of Mary to Heaven.
15. The Crowning of Mary.
16. An apocryphal scene, apparently depicting the child Jesus, hand in hand with an angel, and represented by an
extended Passacaglia for violin alone (a set of variations on an ostinato melody).
These are short worksthough sonatas 14, 15, and 16 are somewhat longer than their fellowseach made up of several
brief movements separated by short pauses. The sixteenth work, a Passacaglia that concludes the series is, of
course, one continuous, single movement. What is particularly and immediately interesting about these pieces is the
fact that they are written, except for the first and last sonatas, in abnormal tunings of the violin.


Page 27
We are growing accustomed today to the idea of composers seeking out new sounds with which to worknot simply
new ways of handling sound, but new sounds to handle. For some, this has meant the use of intervals smaller than
our conventional smallest interval, the half-step. Microtonal intervals of quarter tone and much less have made
their appearance in some Western music, in belated reflection of the use of such sound measurements since time
immemorial in Eastern musical culture. Other composers have turned to electronically manipulated or generated
sounds, provided by computer, tone generators, and tape machines, not only for the precise control this gives the
composer over the materials and performance of his work, but also because of the infinite tonal possibilities thus
made available to him.
On a more limited scale, such efforts have been made by composers in the past. We have only to think of the
addition of valves to the old horn at the beginning of the nineteenth century, or, in the course of that century, the
invention, under the stimulus of Richard Wagner's operatic requirements, of the Wagner tuba, a cross between tuba
and horn, devised for its special mellow tone. Another nineteenth-century addition was the family of saxhorns and
saxophones, which have had such widespread use in military bands and jazz bands, respectively.
Similar occurrences took place in earlier times also. The piano and the violin were, at different points in history,
both created to satisfy the desire by composers, performers, and listeners for new ways of thinking and hearing
music. The violin has remained essentially unchanged since its crystallization in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. Yet even here there have been attempts to use the instrument in new waysnew not only in the sense of
heightened technical prowess on the part of the player, but also in imaginative ways of preparing the instrument
itself.
An interesting experiment in violin handling is the scordatura, the tuning of the four strings to pitches other than
the normal sequence of fifths (G-D-A-E). This tuning had become the norm for the violin in the mid-sixteenth
century when the fourth string was added to the earlier three-stringed instrument. Marini, in the 1620s, already
specifies altered tuning, in modest fashion. 9 But judging from the extant repertoire, it was Heinrich Biber who
made the most thoroughgoing use of such tunings, and specifically in the Mystery sonatas. At the head of each
sonata, on a short section of staff, is given the series of pitches to which the four strings are to be tuned for the
work at hand. We call the roll of these tunings here to show the extent of the task that Biber sets for himself as a
composer-performer, and for the performers who are to follow him in the execution of these works:


Page 28
Figure 3-5.
As will be noted from tunings for sonatas 7, 9, and 12, the raising of the lowest string is carried to such degree that
it is necessary in these cases to replace the G-string with a D-string. The G-string, raised to the pitch of C, would
not only be in immediate danger of breaking, but would impose a significant strain on the violin. The substituted
D-string, lowered a whole tone, is safer. For sonata 11, as the editor points out, the A- and D-strings must be
interchanged, so that the indicated tuning sequence of G-G-D-D can be carried out. 10
There is a further difficulty: the violin and its strings need to adjust themselves to the strains and intonation
patterns of the several tunings. Moreover, the tuning process itself takes getting used to on the part of the player,
for the tuning of a perfect fourth (called for in many of the specifications) is a more difficult hearing problem than
the tuning of the normal fifth.
Why bother? Indeed, one editor-commentator on these works manages to raise that question, answer it, and wipe
out all of Biber's effort with one stroke. In the introduction to the Universal Edition of these works, ''newly
arranged for concert-use" by the violinist Robert Reitz on the occasion of his performance of the entire cycle of
sonatas in Berlin, Weimar, and Vienna, in 19151917, Alfred Heuss has this to say:
For every sonata of this cycle, Biber chose a different tuning, of which most are such that the tuning in the
concert-hall is in general difficult, and would require the use of half a dozen specially tuned and played-in
violins, which is not easy to arrange. Robert Reitz has arranged the sonatas for the first time in a new
setting for concert-use . . . 11
What Reitz actually did was to set the pieces so that they could be played on the normally tuned (i.e., G-D-A-E)
violin.
The venerable Guido Adler, a dean among European musicologists and most sympathetic to the work and purposes
of Biber, starts down this same path of reasoning when he writes, of a Biber scordatura sonata in another opus, that
the tuning specified by the composer leads to some problems of reading. He states:
In order to avoid these confusions and since anyway in normal tuning only very few notes of the specified
part have to be omitted, the present edition gives the separate violin part in normal tuning [the original
notation being reserved for the score version].12


Page 29
And as recent a publication as the Historical Anthology of Music, in offering the Surrexit Christus hodie, from
sonata 11, again elects to present only the translated violin part, for normal tuning, without giving the original
scordatura part as a desirable alternate.
The point of the scordatura is not so much the ability to play chords and double-stops that are not readily available
in normal tuning, but rather the special sound color that the mistuning produces. Only the violinist who has drawn
a bow across an instrument with low-tuned strings can know the surprise of relaxed mellowness that comes from
the violin in such state; only the player who has felt the trumpetlike vibrations of an instrument that is tuned higher
than normal can understand the pleasure that Biber took, and sought to convey, in his writing for arbitrarily tuned
violins. That the thrill of writing in such fashion wore off even for Biber (he did not pursue the technique quite so
avidly in his later work) does not negate the sheer sensual enjoyment the volinist-composer took in exploring these
unique byways of violin tone.
The obvious question is, How does one read such tuning? Biber solves that problem in truly violinistic fashion.
Instead of writing actual pitch for the notes to be played on a ''mistuned" string, he writes the pitch that would
normally be played on the regularly tuned string at that point along its length. 13 Thus, at the beginning of sonata
10, the first note is shown as A:
The violinist, in first position, places his third finger on A; and, because the string is tuned one step low (to D, as
Biber instructs), the note actually sounds G
In this particular sonata, the tuning is
that is, every string is tuned normally except the top string. Thus, notes on the three lower strings sound as they are
written; those on the top string sound a whole step lower than written. Similar mixtures of actual and figurative
pitch indications will prevail in other sonatas of the set, except for those pieces where all four strings have been
altered (sonatas 3, 6, 8, and 12).
The player quickly learns that (as David Boyden points out) only first position will produce the tones called for by
the composer (unless


Page 30
higher passage-work on the E-string requires upward shifting); that the stopped ''equivalent" of an open-string note
will often not be the equivalent in a scordatura piece; that the key signature is tailormade for the particular tuning
and tonality, to govern the strings individually according to the given tuning; and that accidentals apply only to the
note in question, because the "same" note on another string may, again, not be the same. 14
Is this confusing? Not really, because the player soon gets used to the conditions of the specific tuning. And he
learns to ignore the usual association of position, finger choice, and resulting pitch that obtains in normal tuning.
This is true provided he is a seasoned enough violinist and music reader to have fixed associations of the written
symbol and the playing finger, because the choice of string and finger must be automatically evoked by the visual
signal of the notation.
All this is more complicated in the telling than the doing. Besides, the pleasure of playing a passage such as the
following15 more than atones for the temporary shock to the reflexes in learning the piece.
Figure 3-6
Normal-tuning supplement, page 23, staff 3
This passage seems to the violinist's eye as difficult and, in spots, impossible (note double trill, second beat,
measure 2, in Figure 3-6), as it actually would be on the normally tuned violin. But the sheer joy, I repeat, of
playing this passage with the ease indicated by the "mistuned" part is worth the effort.16
Figure 3-7
Scordatura supplement, page 17, from staves 6-7
Joy to the violinist that it is, the passage offers nothing special for the keyboard player. Yet, for him, as for the
listener, there is still the pleasure


Page 31
of hearing fresh sounds from the partner instrument. Beyond this, however, lies the realization, as one hears these
pieces, that they do not rely on the novelty of tone color of newly available violin concords for their validity. These
are solidly contrived, imaginatively worked out compositions, which at the same time enjoy the details of
innovation afforded by scordatura.
If we consider just one among these works, the twelfth sonata, the Ascent of Christ to Heaven, we can see the nice
balance of musical worth, tonal interest, and narrative suggestion that Biber brings off in these pieces. As Erwin
Luntz points out in his introductory comments to these sonatas, number 12 is one instance (he says, ''only," though
we are inclined to agree with Heuss that other sonatas in the set also reflect a similar purpose) where Biber has a
specific programmatic aim in mind: to represent the Ascent of Christ to Heaven in music of the type that would
herald the "reception of a princely visitor at the Salzburg court." 17 The sonata begins with an intrada, or entry
piece, which Biber handles thus in the opening measures (the notes in small print are the realization of the basso
continuo, as presented in the Denkmäler edition):
Figure 3-8
Intrada, mm. 1-3
It will be clear to the eye that the composer is imitating the sound of a brace of trumpets, performing a welcoming
flourish. To the mind's ear, also, the sound of the heightened bottom string, ringing out its open Cs (first three
measures), and of the unison Cs after the entry of the "second trumpet" at the end of measure 3 (cf. measure 4,
second half-bar) give a vivid impression of the trumpet idea. The players will readily adopt the brisk articulation
and regal tempo appropriate to the musical scene that is being depicted.
The effect of trumpeting is continued, very cleverly, in the second movement of the sonata, entitled, Aria
Tubicinum; this is truly a "trumpet aria," with the writing contrived to simulate not only the two solo trumpets but
the accompanying body of trumpets and drums as well (represented


Page 32
by the tucket rhythms and harmonies in the low register of the violin and in the continuo bass line). As the
musicologist Max Schneider pointed out in a commentary on this Biber edition (Zeitschrift der Internationalen
Musikgesellschaft, VIII, pp. 471474), the realization of the continuo is superfluous. Biber gave the instruction Solo
Violone for the bass in this movement, indicating that he wanted that line alone, played by the low-stringed
instrument only (and so without keyboard chordal filling) to sound against the violin part.
Figure 3-9
Aria tubicinum, mm. 5-7
The honored guest now having been hailed in such splendid fashion, the festivities commence, as represented by a
round of dance pieces: first, an Allemande, then a Courante, each with suggestions of a band of players, rather
than the one violinistas seen in this excerpt from the Courante:
Figure 3-10
Courante, mm. 1-5
And, to conclude the sonata, a lively Double, sequel to the Courante, withat its very enda last suggestion of
trumpet fanfare. Truly, a picture of Heaven in terms of worldly pomp and pleasure!
The reader will be reassured to know that the edition under discussion here supplies not only a violin part notated
as Biber had it, but an additional part (an Übertragung, or ''translation"), written in the actual, sounding pitches of
the music. The duo may warm up by using this version to learn the sound of the pieces, though it is perhaps best to
plunge right in and learn sound, tone color, and necessary reflexes all at once, sonata


Page 33
by sonata. Certainly, as we have pointed out, the indicated scordatura, and the ''untranslated," unaltered violin part,
should be used in actual performance, so that the tonal effect intended by Biber is preserved for the listener.
The editor of the Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich (Monuments of Music in Austriahenceforth DTÖ) volume,
as a matter of fact, ran into trouble in his "translation" of sonata 11. There, in addition to the original (scordatura)
violin line and the Übertragung offered in the other sonatas of the set, the score presents yet a third line, marked
Einrichtung ("adjustment" or correction). This is much needed, because the "translation" consistently presents
melodic sequences that are horrendous in their own right, as well as in their conflict with the composer's given bass
line. The editor's corrected version is scarcely better, leaping awkwardly from one register to another.
The separately printed violin part, in scordatura, bears the footnote under the first page of sonata 11: "The E-string
is here tuned to D, the D-string, in proper tuning, is put into the A-string notch on the violin; the A-string, in the
D-space, but tuned down to G; the G-string remains in normal tuning." Referring to the scordatura legend at the
start of the sonata (both in the score and the part), we find that the beaming of the four pitches indicates this string
transposition. Yet another separate binding, for sonata 11 only, gives the score, violin and keyboard (without the
original, translation, or any other indication), in a translated version reflecting the tuning described above.
Everything now works in proper fashion, both the violin melody itself and its relationship to the basso continuo.
And it becomes clear that the editor had originally missed the proper sequence of tuning, but had instead read
(from top to bottom): D, G, D, and G. Hence the harsh leaping of the "translation" and the attempt to correct the
violin part. The error was discovered after the original publication of the Denkmäler volume. The user of the 1959
reprint will want to know about the mix-up described above, so that he can (preferably) stick to the properly
attuned scordatura version or the correct normal-tuning version given in the separate violin supplement.
The reprint publisher has been taken to task for not having removed the erring version of sonata 11 and such
mistakes as that described above from the reissued volume. 18 In view of the fact that other, later editions of these
sonatas have the serious drawback of eliminating the scordatura setting throughout the opus, we must be grateful
for the continued availability of this reprint, the closest convenient approach the performer can have, to date, to the
original intention of the composer.
Facile and inventive though he was in the handling of scordatura


Page 34
writing, Biber obviously felt that he had acquitted himself amply in this regard with the Mystery sonatas. For, in
the set of eight sonatas for violin and basso continuo, published in 1681, and regarded by Guido Adler as the
keystone of Biber's compositions, Biber makes much less use of such tuning. Here the sixth sonata moves to a
scordatura in its second half, lowering the E-string to D. Also, the entire fourth sonata is in scordatura, using the
tuning:
Aside from this, all is normal: regular tuning, and in Biber's characteristically solid manner of composing. 19
There are surprises however. The most striking is contained in the final sonata (number 8). It bears the cautionary
instruction, A violino solo; otherwise, the player at first glance would look for a second violin:
Figure 3-11
Sonata 8, violin, mm. 1-5
Closer inspection reveals that these measures, like the entire sonata, can be played by one, single violinist. Even the
more athletic passages are so contrived that the ''two" players can keep out of each other's way.
Figure 3-12
Score, page 66, violin, mm. 4-5
There are also passages, as in the Sarabanda, where the lines move simultaneously, and the player must read the
score while he plays, making the two parts into one, composite, double-stop part.
Figure 3-13
Sarabanda, violin, mm. 1-4

Page 35
Biber is impartial in his treatment of the violin ''duo"; if he gives "first" violin the spotlight in the Aria, having the
presumed second violin remain silent throughout, he reverses the situation in the florid episode that follows the
Sarabanda, giving everything here to the lower violin line.
Figure 3-14
a. Score page 69, violin, m. 4
b. Score page 71, violin, m. 1
If all this indicates a certain humorous bent on Biber's part, that impression is strengthened by such touches as the
close of the third sonata. There, the last thirteen measures of the piece are given over to a furious cadential flourish
over a droning oscillation in the bass; just when we think that the process threatens to go on into eternity, Biber
breaks off, in the very middle of a measure, leaving performers and hearers gasping. End of piece!
Figure 3-15
Page 35, mm. 9-10
In every sonata, variation plays a prominent role. In this respect there is a change from the sonatas of the Mystery
set, for there, three of the sixteen (numbers 2, 6, and 13) have no variations movement. In the 1681 opus, variations
are found throughout, sometimes twice within a single composition.
As a representative example of this set of pieces, let us focus on the first sonata in some detail. The work begins
and ends with elaborate, toccatalike episodes on an extended pedal point. The first twenty-two measures


Page 36
of the sonata ride on a sustained A in the bass; the last twenty-four measures rest on a floor of D, which gives way
only in the closing bar to a tonic, A. Above these supports, a varied program of activities is carried out. At the
beginning of the sonata, there is a fanfare:
Figure 3-16
Page 9, mm. 1-3
Following this, there are brilliant runs up and down the fingerboard, and simulated two-part flourishes:
Figure 3-17
a. Page 9, violin, m. 11
b. Page 10, violin, m. 7
A brief Adagio, in simple chordal setting, gives relief before another extended episode of bravura sprinting,
wherein Biber hurtles through the limits of the first-to-fourth position area of the violin:
Figure 3-18
Page 11, violin, mm. 11-12
This passage, like the opening page, is written over long, sustained tones in the bass. A short, adagio cadential
phrase closes this phase of the sonata.
Now we move into a somewhat longer section, Presto, in which the violin carries on a sprightly duet with itself,
with recurring, clear-cut successive entries of the two voices. The continuo, too, is drawn specifically into the
multi-part writing, the bass imitating the upper lines in the second half of measure 3 and elsewhere:


Page 37
Figure 3-19
Page 12, mm. 1-4
The next ''movement" (I put the word in quotes because the work, as do all the sonatas of Biber, moves without
pause from one episode to the next, so that the sonata seems to be a freely unfolding, continuous composition) is
the center of gravity of this piece: a set of variations, so titled (Variatio), on an ostinato. This figure, a four-note
sequence representing the harmonic progression, I-IV-V-I (or tonic, subdominant, dominant, tonic), is repeated no
less than fifty-eight times. Each eight-measure sequence (comprising two statements of the ostinato figure) bears its
particular variation pattern in the violin part, except for the opening statement, and a rare "breather," where the
continuo is allowed to disport itself without the encumbrance of the violin. A partial roll call of the variation
patterns may give us the feeling of turning the pages of a wallpaper sample book, but will also convey the idea that
the players enjoy a violinist's field day in this movement:
Figure 3-20
a. Page 13, mm. 13-16
b. Page 13, violin, mm. 53-54
c. Page 15, violin, mm. 1-2
d. Page 15, violin, mm. 34-35

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e. Page 15, violin, mm. 39-40
f. Page 17, violin, mm. 1-2
g. Page 17, violin, mm. 16-20
And the Finale, on a long pedal-point D, acts as an epilogue by carrying on some of the pattern techniques already
exploited in the Variations.
Few dynamic or tempo guide marks are provided by Biber. We should, however, take our cue in this regard from
the advice given by Adler in his Preface to the edition. Indeed, his comments might well be heeded by those in all
avenues of performance (from solo instrument to orchestra and chorus) who, in their slavishly literal response to
the paucity of instruction found in many an older composition, have reduced the music to a dull and soporific
experience, reflecting neither the humanity of the composer nor the sense of enshrined treasure that such
interpreters seem to be seeking. Adler advises freedom in changing tempo from one variation to another, or from
one episode to the next in toccatalike, improvisationally styled movements. He also counsels freedom in dynamics,
including the use of crescendo and diminuendo.
The composer expects sound gradation on the part of the performer. . . . What Biber provides in the way of
performance and ornamentation signs is extremely limited. And the way in which he indicates them lets us
know that he expects the free taste of the player to take over. 20
Throughout his commentary, Adler makes reference to the serious delight that Biber takes in the violinistic quality
of his art. That delight is built into these pieces. If the duo (and coworking cello) will try to approach these sonatas
in a way that sets the violin to best advantage in the moods explored, the playing of these pieces will be a lively
source of pleasure, and not an act of antiquarian resurrection. An excellent and sensitive recording of the Rosary
sonatas was issued in recent season and should be heard by the duo as part of their preparation for performing
Biber's music (cf. Footnote 18).
Johann Jakob Walther

Johann Jakob Walther, with Biber one of the great violin virtuosos of Germany in the seventeenth century, was
born in Witterda, in the Erfurt


Page 39
region, in an unknown year sometime in mid-century. He died in Mainz in 1717. His early training is not definitely
known; he had, however, acquired sufficient prowess on the violin by the early 1670s to merit employment at the
court of Cosimo III of Tuscany. He moved on in 1674 to a post as first chamber violinist at the court of the elector
of Saxony, Johann Georg II, in Dresden. 21 He had been preceded there, a generation earlier, by Carlo Farina, the
Italian virtuoso. Walther himself had, as a younger colleague in the court chapel, the esteemed German violinist,
Johann Paul Westhoff.22
Two years after entering the Dresden service, Walther published (1676) a collection of Scherzi da Violino Solo con
il Basso Continuo per l'Organo o Cimbalo, accompagnabile anche con une Viola o Leuto. The edition bore a florid
dedication in Latin to the ''most serene Elector, and most clement Lord."23 A second edition of the set appeared in
1687. In 1680 or shortly thereafter, Walther left Dresden in the wake of musical economies instituted at Dresden by
the new elector (Johann Georg II having died that year). From then until his death in 1717, Walther was in the
service of the electoral prince at Mainz. Because in 1687 Johann Georg was no longer on the scene, and because
Walther in any event was not at Dresden, the composerwith great good senserededicated the collection to his earlier
employer, "the Most Serene Highness, Cosimo III, Grand Duke of Tuscany."24
As Gustav Beckmann, editor of the Scherzi, deduces from the respective dedications, the completion and
presentation of a set of compositions was a contractual obligation both at Dresden andbelatedly fulfilledat Florence
as well. We can hope that Cosimo was not aware of the double-duty to which Walther's musical offering had been
put. The title heading of the first page of this edition is identical with that of the first, except that the bottom of the
ornamental frame has been trimmed to permit insertion of new date-and-place information, and the Latin word for
Mainz (Moguntiae) has been inserted under the word Saxony, in place of the date of the first edition. Walther
permitted the words, "First Chamber-Violinist of the Electoral Highness of Saxony," to remain in the engraving
(possibly as a publisher's economy measure). But at Mainz his duties seem to have been a mixture of musical and
clerical. For, in 1688, he published his only other known set of compositions, also for the violin, the Hortulus
Chelicus, or "Violin Garden" (including compositions not only for one violin, but also for two, three, and four).
And there he describes himself as Secretario Italico, or secretary for Italian affairs, to the elector of Mainz.25
There are twelve compositions in the Scherzi. None of them is individually called by that title, which seems to be a
kind of intriguing sales


Page 40
heading for the entire set. Eight of the works are entitled Sonata; two (numbers 5 and 12) are called Aria. The first
piece, a sequence of dance-titled movements, has no overall title; and the tenth is titled, Imitation of the Cuckoo.
Let us save this last for dessert, and consider first several of the other pieces in the set.
Number 1 is a fairly serious, not to say deadly, exercise in the elaboration of a sunny tune, couched in five
movementsAllemande (Adagio), Allegro, Corrente, Saraband, Gigathat is, in four dance-style movements in a
sequence that became typical of the suite structure in the later seventeenth century with an added ''abstract"
movement (the allegro) in the second spot in the series.
With dogged determination, the tune returns for what seem innumerable times (not only in the first movement but,
in slight transformation, in the succeeding movements as well), to show Walther's abilities in string crossing
(slowly, then faster), slurred and articulate bowings, various sixteenth-note rhythms and groupings, thirty-second-
note flourishes, simulated two-voice playing, and rapid, arpeggiated cross-string figures. The imaginative
embroideries on the tune are palatable in themselves. It is just that the tune, quite recognizable through the
ornamental shrubbery, is heard too often for its own good.
The first movement of the second sonata is a prelude to the work, two stately and lyric passages framing a short
presto passage in running figuration. There follows an Allegro, an alert, jaunty, but overextended sixteenth-note
journey around the violin. A brief interlude in two-part (for the violin), slower-note writing is then heard, followed
in turn by a dance-like, triple-meter movement, again too long. Next comes an energetic passage in 4/4 time,
passing into a chordal cadential passage (including quadruple stops), and ending with an adagio flourish. The
concluding Allegro movement is a jaunty exit march, in 12/8, the violin consistently treated in two-voice style.
Overall, this composition is more interesting than the first scherzo, but suffers in some episodes from the same
tendency to overextend a modestly interesting idea.
Number 3 is again titled sonata, with the instruction Allegro et forte. It begins with a sustained and chordally
fleshed-out opening episode, an Adagio that offers interesting "three-dimensional" alterations between slow and
presto-flourish passages. The Lento offers the simplicity of unadorned single-line writing, in slow triple time. Then
the trouble begins: a jagged-rhythm episode is too long, as is the following two-voiced Adagio, a succeeding
quasi-bariolage section, with stopped and open-string notes juxtaposed in rapid fashion, and (after the interpolation
of an "arpeg-


Page 41
giated'' and an adagio interlude), a concluding Largo and Adagio. The effect is too much that of a violinist's
treasure chest rather than of a composer's box of inspiration.
Number 8 is virtuoso, with long passages of arpeggiando con arcate sciolte, that is, to be played in loose, easy
bowing, the stroke confined largely to the wrist, andat speedinevitably resulting in a light spiccato (at least with the
modern Tourte-style bow).
Number 10, entitled Imitatione del Cuccu is one of the more imaginative pieces of the set. Walter does not produce
his bird immediately, but, in a quiet and shimmering opening passage, with double-stop eights played four to a
bow with gentle articulation, he seems to conjure up the woodland dell as a setting for the birdcall. An Allegro
soon breaks in, with pseudo-antiphonal writing that introduces not one, but a whole flock of cuckoos. Walther's
cuckoo is represented by a descending minor third,
which is conventional enough in the language of the musical aviary. At a later point he also identifies, with the
word cuccu, a descending fifth as a birdcall. Thus we may be forgiven for detecting the bird's presence in many a
melodic detail in the violinistic barrage that ensues.
A more ingratiating piece on the cuckoo subject, incidentally, can be found in Schmelzer's Sonate Cucu in modern
edition (from the manuscript source) in DTÖ, volume 93. Another bird piece is contained in that composer's Suite
in D, no. 2 (reprinted in the same source), whose fourth movement is a gallina, or "rooster" piece, complete with
crowingthough only at the start, as though to announce the dance rhythm that dominates the rest of the movement.
This piece, as well as the Suite, no. 1, that precedes it in the DTÖ edition, shows Schmelzer's use of scordatura,
though with much less strenuousness than in the case of Schmelzer's pupil, Biber.
In any event, the tenth Walther scherzo seems, probably because of the loose-knit scheme of coherence supplied by
the bird-call motive, less tedious than its fellows. A more impressive Walther effort is available in a modern
edition of the Sonata mit Suite, no. 2, for violin and basso continuo, from the opus Hortulus Chelicus (1688). The
first movement is a GravePoco AllegroAdagioPrestoAdagioPrestoAdagio (the frame of the first movement of
Corelli's sonata, op. 5, no. 1, is already here). This is a good movement, suggesting the motley tastings of the old-
style sonata


Page 42
movements. There are double-stops in the slow sections, and an extended closing section on the rhythm,
In the suite part of the work, there is an Allemande, Saraband, and Gigue, each in two sections, and each with a
double-stopped reprise, marked Variatio. The finale has an extended, adagio, cadential close.
This suite, again, is more cohesive, more interesting than the helter-skelter Scherzi. The elector of Saxony was
sufficiently impressed with the prowess of his court violinist to present copies of the Scherzi as gifts. With him, as
with other contemporaries of Walther, we can recognize the skill that made Walther one of the leading violinists of
seventeenth-century Germany. If we can lose ourselves in the contemplation of these violinistic antics, then the
Scherziand especially the Cuccucan join the works that may with profit be studied and heard in the twentieth
century. It should be added that the fourth sonata of the Scherzi set is included in the Nagels Musik-Archiv series,
number 89. A careful and practical edition, with separate string parts, this publication gives the duo (and its cellist)
opportunity to try an interesting example from the Walther opus.
Georg Muffat
Georg Muffat (16531704) was of English, Scottish, and French descent. Born in Mégève in the old Savoy province
of France, he grew up in Alsace and considered himself German. He studied with Lully in Paris in the late 1660s
and with Corelli in Rome in the early 1680s. Muffat was one of the German composers instrumental in bringing
the stylistic influences of French and Italian music into the writing of his own country.
The Sonata in D for Violin and Basso Continuo, published by Schott in a performing edition, is cast in the mold of
the French overture: a stately Adagio opens the work and returns in abbreviated form at the end to frame the piece.
Between stand a fugal Allegro (the imitations carried out specifically between the violin and the bass line), a
middle Adagio (more ornate than the slow end-sections and not related to them), and a second Allegro that moves
through a triplet episode and on to a series of virtuosically brilliant scale runs in thirty-seconds before receding into
the closing Adagio. The several movements or sections flow into one another, constituting a rather short,
variegated, and highly colored work that sounds as well in the concert program as in the living room.


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4
Italian Violinist/Composers of the Bologna School in the Later Seventeenth Century:
Cazzati, the Vitalis, degli Antonii
The history of instrumental music in Europe is closely intertwined with that of life in church, town, and court.
Among the cities with a long tradition of musical activity, few have an older tradition than that of Bologna. In the
later seventeenth century, and centering on the music making in the cathedrals of the city, an important school of
instrumental playing and composition developed. In this chapter we consider sonatas by some of the prominent
figures in this sphere of activity.
Maurizio Cazzati
One of the early leaders of the Bolognese group of composers in the seventeenth century was Maurizio Cazzati (ca.
16201677). He wrote voluminously and diversely. Of his many instrumental compositions, the duo can try the first
sonata of opus 55, published in Bologna in 1670 and available in modern reprint in both the Giegling anthology
and the Historical Anthology of Music. The continuo specifies organ and double-bass viol (violone), with an active
bass line that often reflects the proceedings of the violin part. The work is in four short movements, progressing
from a vigorous, slow, and dancelike opening, through a Grave interlude, and on into Presto and Prestissimo
closing chapters. There is enough cohesive-


Page 44
ness in the writing to make the piece interesting to the ensemble, for study and contemplation, if not for concert
programming.
Giovanni Battista Vitali

''He does not deserve the name of musician who does not manage somehow to penetrate the deepest mysteries of
the art." 26 Thus does Giovanni Battista Vitali open the Foreword to his Artifici Musicali, Opus XIII [1689],
containing "Canons of various kinds, Double Counterpoints, Curious Inventions, Capricii, and Sonatas." The
sonatas in question are two, for violin and continuo, at the very end of this varied opus. Vitali, born in Cremona
about 1644, died in Modena in 1692. He had served the duke, Francesco II, as assistant and maestro di capella
since 1674. Before that, he had been successively violist at the church of San Petronio and choir-master at the
church of San Rosario in nearby Bologna, the city in which he had his musical training. With the older master,
Maurizio Cazzati, and with such successors as Giuseppe Torelli, Pietro degli Antonii, and his own son, Tommaso
Antonio, Vitali is a prime figure in the Bologna musical hierarchy. It should be noted that Corelli trained in
Bologna, referred to himself as il Bolognese, and carried the traditions of structural clarity and melodic beauty
from his early instruction to his mature work at Rome.
Both in the Preface to this opus and in the performance instructions and musical detail of the "artifices" to which
he devotes much of the space therein, Vitali enjoys displaying his prowess as a composer. The two sonatas
demonstrate that competence less overtly, but with assurance. The first sonata is in five movements, slow-fast-
slow-fast-slow, the second, in four, slow-fast-slow-fast. In the first Allegro of sonata 1, the violin seems at times a
high-register "under" voice, implying prime thematic participation in the realized keyboard treble, oras sometimes
indicatedplacing focus on the given bass line. The second Allegro is a rather simple movement, with constant
attachment to arpeggiation patterns in 6/8 rhythm, and with much string crossing. The Second Sonata, as the
editors point out, reveals what must be a conscious binding of the four movements to one another through the use
of related thematic material for all four.
These are good pieces, of moderate difficulty for the violin. The writing is single stop throughout, and does not rise
above third position. The concise, well-balanced movements are rather sophisticated in their economy and in their
avoidance of violinistic acrobatics. The Vitali sonatas are excellent material for the less skilled duo, and perhaps
suited to performance by the concert ensemble, in proper program context.


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Tommaso Antonio Vitali

Tommaso Antonio Vitali (ca. 1665after 1747) served under his father at the court of Modena and eventually was a
successor as director of the court music. The word sonata occurs as the title of two sets of trio sonatas published by
Vitali in 1693. The remaining opus of this composer, dating from 1701, is labeled, Concerto di Sonate, op. 4, for
violin, cello, and keyboard. Despite first appearances, the word concerto is used here not in its familiar, musical
sense, but clearly in the figurative meaning, that is, ''a [harmonious] grouping of sonatas." Certainly there is no
concerto-like flam-boyance about these pieces. Like his father, Vitali stops at third position and eschews double-
stop writing throughout. The restraint will be especially noticeable to the reader when he inspects the twelfth and
last composition of the set, an ostinato composition on the folia theme. The contrast to the often playedthe only
playedchaconne attributed (and apparently falsely so) to Vitali is clear. 27 In its bombast and pyrotechnics, and in
the gaudy harmonizations customarily heaped upon its "realized" continuo, that chaconne is for me one of the more
repulsive experiences of the violin concert repertoire. As revealed in these sonatas, Vitali is both less and more
than the imposed work would have us assume: less the virtuoso, more the composer of refined taste.
The duo can have the best of both possible worlds by choosing to play Sonata number 9, in G minor, where the last
of the four movements is itself an ostinato composition built on an interesting bass sequence. The cello of the
continuo has an active role in this movement, too. And this raises the point that, in many passages, these pieces
resemble trios, owing to the lively participation of the cello in the proceedings. This is especially so in the final
Allegro of Sonata 4, in G, where the involvement of the cello is carried to a surprising extent.
There is interesting similarity in the structure of the opening movement of the Sonata number 8, in C, to that of the
initial movement of Sonata 1 of Corelli's opus 5: the alternation of the fast and slow sections, the exposure of rapid
passage-work in the violin over the pedal-point treatment of the continuo. The publication of the Corelli example
precedes that of Vitali by a year. Could there already have been reflections of the older master's work in that of the
younger composer?
Sonata number 11, in B minor (which is available in separate issue, as number 38 of the Hortus musicus series, in
an edition by J. P. Hinnenthal) is quite simple in technical requirement. It is well suited to the novice, even the
child, duoalways allowing for the increased difficulties introduced by the requisite improvised ornamentation.


Page 46
These sonatas of Vitali are light and lively pieces, ''chamber" sonatas, mingling movements of dance and abstract
title to good effect and offering fresh and surprising turns of harmony and of voice leading. Available in a reliable
and inexpensive edition, they deserve study and performance.
Pietro Degli Antonii

Pietro degli Antonii was born in Bologna in 1648 and died there in 1720. He was prominent in the musical life of
the city, serving as director of music at several churches, including San Giovanni in Monte, an important music
center. He was made a member of Bologna's Accademia Filarmonica, one of the longest-lived and most famous of
European music societies, at an early age and was elected its president no less than six times.
Degli Antonii was a versatile and prolific composer, producing oratorios and operas as well as instrumental music.
His catalog includes two sets of violin sonatas: opus 4, published in 1676, and opus 5, from the year 1686. In both
cases, the title reads, "for Solo Violin with basso continuo for the Organ." This is a reflection of the church context
in which the composer wrote much of his music; the pieces can of course be played with harpsichord or piano
(with cello). Three sonatas of opus 5numbers 1, 4, and 6have been printed in a modern edition by the Austrian
musicologist, conductor, and composer, Bernhard Paumgartner. Dr. Paumgartner's Introduction to the edition offers
not only historical background but also expert and sympathetic comments on the manner of performing these
pieces.
Of the three works, only the second movement, Allegro, of number 6 seems too extended for its material.
Otherwise, the movements are brief without being hurried, complete without pretentiousness or redundancy. The
temper of the several movements is well balanced within the given sonata. Structurally, too, the sonatas are well
planned: each of the first two is made of five movements, with pairs of slow-fast sequences framing a central,
deliberate movement. The third composition has the slow-fast-slow-fast sequence that we are accustomed to in the
Italian baroque sonata.
Each sonata holds movements of special appeal, such as the tremulous Grave of number 6its effect achieved
literally by the composer's indicated tremolo, i.e., the playing of repeated tones with gentle articulation within one
bow, and with as small a gap as possible between the successive tones in the keyboardor, in sonata 1, the lulling
quality of the middle movement, Aria grave.
The middle work of the edition, sonata number 4, typifies the chal-


Page 47
lenge such music gives the contemporary player. We are used to the piece that states its premise, elaborates thereon
with dramatic force, and resolves all musical problems at the end with some air of finality. Here, on the contrary,
we are faced with an opening Grave that winds its way seriously, but in quiet whimsy, never really repeating itself,
spinning out its melodic thread in quasi-improvisatory fashion. The violin is in the foreground, but not
ostentatiously so; and the keyboard is content to provide harmonic support, except for two rejoinders at the
beginning and end of the movement. The second movement, Aria: Vivace, is dancelike in tune; and, as dances will,
this or that step is repeated. The pace quickens for the second half of the movement, with sixteenths now taking the
place of the earlier predominating eighth. Again, however, one has the feeling of moving through the dance, not of
striking a grand pose. The next movement, as luck would have it, is called Posato, or ''posed"; Paumgartner says
this title should be understood to mean "mature, vigorously decisive." To be sure, this movementwith its reserved,
walking gait and its quasi-canonic answers from the keyboardis more sober than its fellow. But it wears its dignity
lightly, and seems to taste its mood rather than get mired down in it. The fourth movement, Adagio, is too brief to
be anything but the prelude it is; the concluding Vivace that issues from it is not very long either, moving
trippingly, yet sedately, to its end, departing quietly and in mid-flight, hardly tolerating any retard to mark its
going.
Obviously, we have described the kind of work that would be crushed if surrounded by a Brahms or a Hindemith
or a Bach sonata. Or would it? In its very innocence and ease (it eschews those higher positions that make the
companion sonatas of the set somewhat more demanding, technically) lies its strength. The adult duo will benefit
from playing so direct and unassuming a work; the younger ensemble will find its easy humor and good nature
refreshing. To be more specific, the players will be so in sympathy with its qualities that they may not even notice
them; enjoyment need not always be explained.


Page 48
5
Italian ViolinVirtuoso/Composers in the Early Eighteenth Century:
Corelli, Vivaldi, Geminiani, Others
In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, Rome and Venice continued long-established traditions of
support for cultural and artistic endeavors. Rome was then the seat of a papacy reinvigorated by the events of the
Counter-Reformation, the site of the palaces of residents and visiting ecclesiastic and lay nobility, and the scene of
magnificent liturgical and secular ceremonies and entertainments. Venice, although no longer the political or
commercial power it had been, was still a city of wealth, where taste and pleasure were well served. These were
two centers in Italy that fostered native talent and attracted it from abroad as well. And here we find two of the
composers most important in Italian instrumental music of the eighteenth century: Corelli and Vivaldi. Whether by
teaching or example, in the work of immediate and later disciples and imitators, in their influence on the writing of
great composers in other countriesTelemann, Bach, and Handel among themthe two Italians were prime forces in
the musical events that surrounded and succeeded them.
Arcangelo Corelli
Indeed, this most excellent master had the happiness of enjoying part of his fame during mortality; for
scarce a contemporary musical writer,


Page 49
historian, or poet, neglected to celebrate his genius and talents; and his productions have contributed longer
to charm the lovers of music by the mere powers of the bow, without the assistance of the human voice,
than those of any composer that has yet existed. 28
Thus did the English music historian, Charles Burney, write at the end of the eighteenth century of a composer
whose work had graced the world of that century's beginning: Arcangelo Corelli. That renowned and respected
violinist, teacher, and composer was born in Fusignano, Italy, near Bologna, on February 17, 1653.29
At the age of thirteen, following earlier training at Faenza and Lugo, he was already studying at Bologna,
eventually having violin instruction with Ercole Gaibara, with that master's pupils, Giovanni Benevenuti and
Leonardo Brugnoli, and possibly also with Bartolomeo Girolamo Laurenti.30 At least as early as 1675, Corelli had
settled in Rome, the city that was to be (with a few possible interruptions for travel) his residence for the remainder
of his life. He advanced rapidly from the status of a subordinate instrumentalist to that of principal violinist and
leader of the orchestras in which he performed. As teacher, he was sought out by gifted professionals and
enthusiastic amateurs alike. Such distinguished virtuosos as Geminiani and Locatelli were products of his
schooling.
Corelli was music master to Cardinal Panfili from 1687 to 1690, and from then on, music director and chief
violinist at the palace of Pietro Ottoboni, the cultured prelate who in 1689 had been named cardinal and high
church officer by his uncle, Pope Alexander VIII. Corelli remained active in public musical life until 1710; he died
on January 8, 1713, and was buried in the Pantheon in Rome.
Patrician in background and temperament, Corelli could still defend his musical opinions with spirit. He could also
throw himself into his violin playing with considerable ardor. A contemporary witnesspossibly Johann Ernst
Galliard, the German-born composer, musicographer, and oboisthas testified to the physical involvement, even
contortion, that Corelli (in common with other Italian violinists of the day) underwent when in the throes of
performance.31
Calculation, control, and sensitivity are mingled also in the compositions of Corelli. The master issued six sets of
works, beginning with four groups of trio sonatas (1681, 1685, 1689, 1694) and ending with the violin sonatas of
1700 and the concerti grossi (posthumous) of 1714.32 Though these were undoubtedly not his only works, the
relative limit that he set upon his officially released music reflects the care and concern that he gave to his writing.


Page 50
The opus that concerns us directly is number 5, ''Sonatas for violin and bass [violone] or harpsichord, dedicated to
Her Serene Electoral Highness, Sophia Carlotta, of Brandenburg . . ." The set of twelve sonatas appeared twice in
Rome in 1700; it also appeared in Amsterdam that same year, with Estienne Roger the probable publisher, and in
London, published by J. Walsh. That editions appeared in the three centers all in the one year indicates the great
repute of the composer. Other editions appeared in Italy, France, and Holland in these early years of the century. 33
But the one that interests us most is that of Estienne Roger (ca. 1715) subtitled, "Third edition, wherein have been
included the ornaments of the Adagios of this opus, composed by M. Corelli, as he plays them."34 Marc Pincherle
maintains that this edition must have appeared during Corelli's lifetimeso the words, "as he plays them," carry real
weightand also that the Roger edition in question is identical with the fourth edition of Pierre Mortier35 (which
serves as the basis for the Schott publication of the Corelli sonatas, edited by Bernhard Paumgartner).
The Augener edition of the Corelli sonatas, by Joseph Joachim and Friedrich Chrysander, is also based on the
contemporary edition that carried Corelli's (presumed) own ornamentations. But the Schott publication has two
advantages: the engraving is in larger format and somewhat clearer to the eye and, most important, the continuo
part is realized, thus coming to the aid of the uninitiated or unadventuresome keyboard player. Paumgartner (like
Joachim and Chrysander) supplies both the original, notated violin line, and the ornamented-by-Corelli version.
The Paumgartner edition is the source of the illustrations in this chapter.
The International Music Company edition (by Gustav Jensen) is readily available; its prime drawback is that Jensen
does not use much of the Corelli ornamentation, although he does use some of it, but nowhere identifies it as
stemming from Corelli. Instead, it is sometimes woven into the Jensen version of the violin line. Because Corelli's
original notated part is not supplied by Jensen for comparison, the player does not realize either that he is not
always playing Corelli's own, "given" version of the part or that he is often playing a bare-bones linerather than a
properly embellished onein the slower movements of the work.
Sonata number 1, in D. Corelli, in his opus 5, combines a consummate command of the violin technique of his day
with a feeling for structural clarity and cohesiveness in the planning of his music that is of a level rarely if ever
achieved in the violin repertoire up to that time. The Grave of sonata number 1 is convincing proof of this. It is a
curtain raiser for the sonata (and for the opus as a whole), and as such, it must arrest


Page 51
the attention of the listener, at the same time stating the thesis of the piece: a work for violin with supporting bass
or harpsichord, as the set title has it.
There are two strikingly contrasted elements in the violin line: in 4/4 meter, a lyric, grandly moving line; and in 6/8
meter, interrupting the serene flow of that melody, sections of flashingly brilliant arpeggiation figures, in regular
sextolet groups of sixteenths. If we consider the first four measures of the work, two things are clear: first, the
contrasting facets within the violin part; second, the contrasts in the supporting bass. Where the violin moves
slowly, the bass line moves in fairly even step with it; where the violin moves briskly, the bass is reduced to a
sustained, pedal-point tone to provide a simple background for the violin gyrations. And instead of the figured-bass
numbers that instruct the keyboard player in the other sections, the pedal-point line bears the admonition tasto solo,
or literally ''key only," but in the musical parlance of the time, telling the player to sound only the indicated bass,
without any improvised, added tones above. The background is, of course, not as sere and simple as the indicated
monotone would imply, because the pedal point will have the sustaining power and glow (and even dynamic
gradation) that the cello can provide. Andreas Moser, indeed, suggests in a parallel situation that the cello (of the
harpsichord/cello combination) take the pedal-point basstone by itself. 36 As for the harpsichord, the fact that the
instrument cannot sustain the sound of a single stroke over so many measures tells us that the pedal point will need
reinforcement with fresh impulses on the note. Robert Donington goes further: "When . . . the harmony [of the
upper, melodic part] is simple and changes not too frequently orrapidly [or not at all, as in the Corelli example], it
may often be desirable to accompany with full chords, whether these are shown by figuring or not."37 If, because
of sheer availability, one is using piano, the pedal point may well prove strong and sustained enough with a single,
unadorned stroke at the keyboard.
There is, incidentally, some difference of opinion about the choice of continuo instrumentation. Donington
translates the o in Corelli's stipulation, "violone o cembalo," not literally as "or," but freely as "and/or." Boyden, on
the other hand, is inclinedon the evidence of Corelli's title page for his several opera and on parallel evidence from
the title of opus 4 (1671) of G. M. Bononcinito think that this wording is specific and deliberate, referring "to the
unusual and little-known practice of omitting the keyboard."38 For F. T. Arnold and others, there is no alternative
to the combination of harpsichord and low melodic instrument as the effective


Page 52
solution to the realization of the continuo. (There is further discussion on this point in the Handel portion of
chapter 6.)
If players are too timid and hesitant about using the facilities at hand, they will deny themselves contact with much
stimulating music. What so expert a musician as Thurston Dart had to say about the observance of distinctions
between music for harpsichord, clavichord, and piano may be extended to apply to the choice of instrument for the
keyboard in continuo music:
. . . it would be absurdly impertinent and visionary to suggest that present-day performances . . . should be
confined entirely to those given on the original instruments . . . Early keyboard music is too universal in its
appeal to be restricted to a narrow circle. This music has been regularly, widely and lovingly performed on
the piano for more than a century, and anyone who tries to build a fence around it will be no more
successful at cuckoo-catching than were the Three Wise Men of Gotham. 39
By the same token, excerpts from contemporary sources in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as offered by
Peter Williams in his handbook,Figured-Bass Accompaniment, show that the instrumentation of the continuo
varied with the period, the style, the locale, and the function of the music in question.40 There is no denying that a
combination of harpsichord and cello is desirable in the performance of the continuo in the violin sonata; especially
so because, as some writers indicate, the stringed instrument could perform the entire, fast-moving bass line,
leaving the harpsichord to pick out the essential tones''good advice for modern players who all too often keep up an
endless harpsichord chatter."41 There should, then, be no arbitrary substitution of piano for harpsichord, or willful
omission of the cello from the continuo. On the other hand, the duo should leave itself free to play the repertoire
with the available forces, ably and with insight.
As an aid to such performance, editors of modern publications of older music supply realizations of the continuo,
advice on ornamentation, improvised embellishment of melody, and so on. For guidance to the player's own
interpretation of such essential detail, there are several excellent works in English. The continuo player will
welcome the clear introduction to the spirit and techniques of figured-bass realization provided by the Williams
book. A most comprehensive survey of questions and answers in performance-practice, including such areas as
embellishment, and dynamics, is to be found in Robert Donington's The Interpretation of Early Music (Donington
also has a long and helpful article on "Ornamentation" in Grove's Dictionary). The shorter, less detailed, but very
incisive The Interpretation


Page 53
of Music by Thurston Dart is also to be prized. The duo will find invaluable information in The History of Violin-
Playing by David D. Boyden, and in the several exhaustive volumes on the sonata idea by William S. Newman,
which offer perceptive commentary on the music of the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries. For further
sources, use the bibliographical guide, Performance Practice, edited by Mary Vinquist and Neal Zaslaw.
But to return to the Corelli sonata: the alternate treatment of the bass shown in the following illustration holds true
throughout the opening movement, so that the structure of consecutive, polar opposites is set off in bold relief.
Figure 5-1
Mm. 1-4
As explained earlier, the Mortier and Roger editions of Corelli's opus 5 provided, in addition to the written line of
the violin part, an ornamented version of that part in the slow movements of the sonatas, ''as played by" Corelli
himself. Though this improvised ornamentation of the line would by no means have remained constant from one
performance to the next, the fact that Corelli himself presumably did play the adagios in this particular fashion at
least once gives us a direct view of the composer's desires in the presentation of his work. Let us now see the first
two (slow) measures of the piece with Corelli's own emendations (shown in the upper staff):
Figure 5-2
Violin, mm. 1-2

Page 54
The sign + stands for trill; and, because the entire ornamentation is improvised and a matter of taste, additional
graces and ornaments can be included, though Corelli's generosity needs but little larding. 42 As we can see, the
slow measures now have quickly flowing rivulets alternating with broader, less decorated tones, so that the
plasticity and warmth of the lyric writing is heightened. Also, the streamers of sound add to the quality of freedom
and willful play of melody, in contrast to which the regularity of the sixteenth-note arpeggiations in the allegro
passageseven allowing for due impetuosity in performanceseems all the more controlled and orderly.
If the composer has been courteous enough to permit his improvisings to be set down for us, it would be most
ungrateful if we now set doggedly to work, beating with metronome and foot, to reduce these gracious turns of
fancy to rigid, exercise-ish gymnastics. The elaborations, whether Corelli's or those of the individual performer,
must be played freely, with an eye to the shape of the line rather than to clocklike pulse. Otherwise, the entire
purpose of the ornamenting is defeated.
Turning to the complete first Allegro section, the line should be graded dynamically, even though (here as
elsewhere) the composer has provided not one dynamic sign, preferring to leave this area of embellishment to the
judgment of the performer. I would suggest that the Allegro begin mezzo-forte, increasing gradually to forte at
measure 7, then diminishing again to mezzo-forte in proceeding to the downbeat of measure 10. A similar plan can
be followed in the second Allegro, except that the register change in the violin part in measure 23 suggests a fresh
reinforcement of volume.
Here, as throughout the piecewhether in slow or fast passagesthe continuo players must combine a sense of metric
organization and drive with an alertness to the stretchings of the violin line, so that the feeling of controlled
freedom is apparent in the entire fabric of the movement. If we may, in conclusion, suggest tempi for the several
sections of the movement, they would be:
The second movement, Allegro, continues in its own way the contrasts of the sonata's opening. Most of this
Allegro simulates trio-sonata texture, the violin incorporating within its one part the two melodic voices of the


Page 55
upper register of the trio sonata (and sometimes suggesting the participation of even more voices):
Figure 5-3
Mm. 36-40
The bass is also drawn into the conversation, responding to the violin's ''voices."
This dialogue is finally replaced by what can be called a crowd of voices, a babel of musical talk, represented by
an arpeggio passage that moves in accelerating harmonic motion. Here are several measures from this passage, as
they are notated, and as they might be played:
Figure 5-4
a. Mm. 71-74, original
b. Mm. 71-74, suggested version
Note that the pace of the continuo has quickened to a steady stream of eighth notes to counter the activity in the
upper register and to supply a strengthening pulse.
Now, there is a divergence of upper and lower layers: the violin moves into a vigorous display of sixteenth-note
writing, wherein two mutually responsive parts are still represented; the continuo, meanwhile, steadies to a solid
quarter-note march.


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Figure 5-5
Mm. 78-79
And to close, an Adagio arpeggio flourish, quite short, sealed with a scale-wise streamer and cadence, as seen in
these two last measures, with the original violin version in the lower staff, the editor's embellished version in the
upper staff.
Figure 5-6
Violin, mm. 95-96
There follows a particularly interesting movement, a perpetual motion in sixteenths: the one violin line sketches
out not only the conversation of two or more voices, but masses and textures of varying dimension and density. To
single out some of these effects:
Figure 5-7
a. Mm. 1-2, covering much of the playing range
b. Mm. 13-14, moving part against drone line
c. Mm. 19-20, spotlight on different registers
And, under and almost around all this, the constantly striding bass line, outlining in its own leapings the functions
of at least two simultaneously moving lines:


Page 57
Figure 5-8
Mm. 1-4
The gulf between notation and sound in the music of this period is felt most keenly in the fourth movement of this
sonata, Adagio. If one plays the written violin line, it seems so bare and economical that one is tempted to force, to
stretch exaggeratedly, to vibrate overheatedly in order to bring the movement to what becomes a rather
supercharged life. This is especially true of a passage such as that in measures 14 to 19; the player so wants to
reflect the building climax of the line. This leads to some straining when only the written line is played; the rich
and cumulative effect is much more easily achieved in the florid, decorated version of the line suggested by
Corelli:
Figure 5-9
Mm. 14-20
The final Allegro is a brilliant violin concerto movement in miniature; the violin is its own orchestra in the opening
and closing episodes (measures 1 to 17; measures 41 to 50) of the movement. The middle section is the province of
the ''soloist." The effect of many against one can be seen in the following excerpt:
Figure 5-10
Mm. 37-44

Page 58
It will be noticed that the bass is more ornate in the ''orchestral" passages, simpler and unobtrusive in the support of
the "solo" passages.
Generally speaking, the sonatas of the first half of opus 5 are more difficult than those of the second part. The
movements of sonatas 7 through 11 bear dance-suite (that is, sonata da camerachamber sonata) titles: Preludio,
Corrente, Sarabanda, Giga, Gavotta. Those of the first part carry only abstract character titles (suited to the status
of these compositions as sonate da chiesa, or church sonatasserious and sober works): Allegro, Adagio, Vivace.
The two exceptions are the final movements of sonatas 3 and 5, which, in addition to the Allegro masthead, carry
also the superscription, Giga. The movements come honestly by this title, as can be seen in the pace of the
following excerpt. 43
Figure 5-11
Sonata 5, Giga, mm. 1-2
In contrast to the lighter nature of the later pieces, where the composer tends to use only single-line writing for the
violin, he feels called on, in the "serious" first half, to include movements wherein double-stopping and pseudo-
polyphonic writing predominates. We have already seen this at work in the second and last movements of the first
sonata. Even more demanding examples can be cited from other sonatas in the set. In the second movement,
Allegro, of sonata 2, there are passages in consecutive thirds and sixths.
Figure 5-12
a. Violin, mm. 28-29
b. Violin, mm. 47-48
More difficult still, because of speed and repetition of notes, is the following passage, midway through the first
Allegro of sonata 3:


Page 59
Figure 5-13
Mm. 22-23
The opening of this movement, too, with its entry of the ''second" part, requires skill not only in double-stopping,
but also in handling of the bow, for, in the playing of the two lines, first the lower voice must be favored (measures
3 and 4), then the upper (measures 4 and 5), then both equally (measures 5 and 6).
Figure 5-14
Mm. 1-7
The Allegro movements of Sonata 6 also provide some challenging double-stop passages, for example, in the first
Allegro, the measures where the left hand has to trace out a sustained and a moving voice simultaneously.
Figure 5-15
Violin, mm. 13-15
There is challenge again in the final Allegro of the same work, the opening passage, where a moving initial line
(the "second violin" in this case) meets the second entry, to run side-by-side with it; and where, in addition to the
ability to project both these lines, the violinist must also display the control needed to subordinate the violin "parts"
to the continuo presentation of the third voice entry and then to alternate quickly in prominence with the continuo
line in the succeeding measures:
Figure 5-16
Mm. 1-9

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If the sonatas of the second part of opus 5 present fewer technical problems for the violinist, they do not lack in
musical challenge for the duo. The relative simplicity of the violin line encourages the composer to place the violin
and continuo in duo roles in many passages. This treatment is by no means absent in the earlier pieces of the set
(see, for example, the continuo part in the first Allegro of Sonata 4). But we now find happy instances of the
interplay between violin and bass in episodes such as this, from the Giga movement of sonata 7:
Figure 5-17
Mm. 1-12
There is more of this rapid dialogue in the Giga of Sonata 9:

Figure 5-18
Mm. 5-7
In the final movement of this sonata, the Tempo di Gavotta, it seems that the center of attention is in the continuo
part, for its bustling eighth-


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note motion is ''accompanied" by the more sedate quarter-note pacing of the violin:
Figure 5-19
Mm. 9-13
Once again, we must not be misled by the appearance of the printed page. The title of the edition meant what it
said: the adagios (and they alone) are shown with the ornamentation as played by Corelli. That is, the
ornamentation is given only for the slow movements in the sonatas of part one. The sonatas 7 through 11 are
presented without any added ornamentation in the slow movements. Here too, however, it is expected that the
performer will provide the desired elaborations. As it happens, proof of this is available in the edition of Corelli's
sonata number 9, as played by his eminent pupil, Geminiani. Here is the opening of the Preludio of that piece,
showing (again in score fashion) the original, unadorned lineas written by Corelliand the version as performed by
Geminiani. 44 The elaboration, it is true, is by Geminiani, not Corelli, but the pupil would certainly reflect the
habitual practice of his revered teacher, and indeed, of the general musical taste of their time.
Figure 5-20
Mm. 1-2
This movement, like most of those in the sonatas of this half of the opus, is in two sections, each section marked
for repetition. In such case, the custom was to present the music of each section essentially as notated by the
composer; the repetition of the section would then be played with improvised elaborations. Thus, the model and its
ornamented version could


Page 62
be heard in immediate succession, and the listener could enjoy with the performer the experience of seeing the
music flower into its new and other self. Awareness of this practice gives us reassurance, forif we look at
Geminiani's elaboration on passages in the fast movements of this same sonatawe may feel that the performer
makes the music his own in over-possessive fashion, changing details of the melodic line in so arbitrary a way that
it becomes more a matter of recomposing than of ornamenting the original. And we are not always convinced that
the new version is preferable to the original. By having the ornamented setting follow directly upon the simpler
original, however, we are always in a position to hear through the ornamental foliage to the outline of melody as
presented by the composer.
Figure 5-21
a. Mm. 1-3
b. Mm. 1-4
As Pincherle points out, Geminiani's elaboration of the fast, as well as slow, movements of this sonata suggests
that Corelli, too, intended that decoration be provided in general (and within the limits of taste) in the fast
movements of his sonatas. There could, then, be justification for applying this principle to the fast movements of
the sonatas in part one, as well. The inherent complexity of voicing and line in those movements, however, will
make discretion all the more necessary in adding further ornament. For an illustration of the moderate approach,
see the ornamented version of Sonata number 9 printed by Schering in his Alte Meister volume.
Pincherle, in an extended section of his study of Corelli, discusses the origins (in Portugal, the fourteenth century),
of the follia or folia theme,


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its service as a dance and ballet tune, and its useas a popular tuneas the basis for sets of variations by composers in
several eras. He also discusses in detail the exposition of bowing technique that Corelli's follia, the twelfth and last
item in opus 5, offers in its twenty-three variations. 45 I am inclined to agree with his appraisal of the piece as
primarily pedagogical, certainly as compared with the musically appealing and multi-faceted sonatas that precede it
in this opus. With the exception of the sustained demand made upon the left hand in the twenty-second
variationthirteen continuous measures of the following kind of pattern
Figure 5-22
Mm. 313-315
there is nothing in the way of technical problem that cannot be found in full measure in the earlier sonatas. And
there will certainly be more surprise, suppleness, and musical enjoyment for the duo in the first eleven pieces. (This
is particularly true for the keyboard player, who must often take more pleasure in the hearing of the violin part than
in the particular function of his own participation in the sonata.) Those desiring an orderly exploration of Corellian
technique, however, as an introduction to the sonatas rather than as a culmination thereof, will profit from study of
the Follia variations.
Three Other Masters

Of interest to the duo as examples by lesser composers of the Roman scene in the Corelli era are works by Lonati
and Valentini. Carlo Ambrogio Lonati (second half of the seventeenth century) was, with that merciless precision
of an earlier time, nicknamed the Hunchback.46 In addition to this distinction, the Milanese-born violinist and
composer (operas, vocal and instrumental compositions) was for a time the director of music at the court of the
abdicated Swedish Queen Christina in Rome before Corelli took on that duty. Lonati also had the honor of being
the first teacher (at Milan) of Francesco Geminiani, before the latter moved on to Rome and to study with Corelli.
Lonati's Sonata Quinta, for violin and basso continuo, is reprinted in the volume, The Solo Sonata, edited by Franz
Giegling. The five movements of the sonata are in slow-fast-slow-fast-fast tempo relationship. The


Page 64
opening movement, a Largo with a middle Allegro section, presents the cello part as an active line in its own right,
responding to, and moving parallel with, the violin part. The result is like a trio sonata, but with the cello (rather
than a second violin) in the middle ground between the bass line and the violin. This function of the cello line is
not indicated specifically anywhere else in the sonata. On the other hand, in the second movement, a Vivace, the
double-stopping of the violin part gives it a two-voice role, removing some of the need for the cello activity
described above. Even when the violin is not moving in actual double-stops, it takes on a broader aspect (and
definitely holds the center of the stage) by leaping-work figures in the running-sixteenth passages. Other
noteworthy items in the sonata are the long line of the Largo third movement (there is no rest from measure 7
through 27, though phrase breaks are composed into the moving melodic line), and the unplayable places in the
second fast movement, the Spiritoso (cf. measures 7 and 10 in the violin part).
Giuseppe Valentini (ca. 1681ca. 1740), violinist and composer active in Florence and Rome, published a set of
Sonate da camera, op. 8, in 1714, in Rome. His Sonata in D minor, op. 8, no. 1, and that in G (no opus number
given, though presumably from the same set) have been issued in modern edition. Both are five-movement works,
slow-fast-slow-fast-fast, of limited difficulty. There are, for example, no double-stops at all in the D minor, and
chords only at cadences in the G major. The latter (again!) begins with a movement that seems modeled on the
opening of Corelli's first sonata, pedal points and all. Both sonatas are suitable for the novice and intermediate duo.
The music is almost as interesting as that of Vivaldi, and rather easier to bring to performance level.
Before proceeding to the works of Vivaldi, another and earlier composer of the Venetian school should be
mentioned, the famed Giovanni Legrenzi (16261690). An organist rather than violinist, and known for his operatic
and church music (becoming music-director of St. Mark's), Legrenzi was also a significant composer of chamber
music in the late seventeenth century. An example of his sonatas for violin, cello, and continuo from the set La
Cetra (''The Lyre"), Opus 10, 1, is available in the Hortus musicus series. As in the case of the Marini example in
the same edition (Hortus musicus 129), the Legrenzi work gives the cello considerable freedom and individuality,
especially in the faster portions of the sonata. There it duets actively with the violin, establishing only briefly and
in passing its relation to the bass lines of the continuo. The piece is in four short, well-contrasted movements, and
should brighten the home-music circle.


Page 65
Antonio Vivaldi
Walter Cobbett, writing in the 1920s, said of Vivaldi that ''he is among the early writers whose compositions,
especially his violin works, may be said to 'have a future.'" 47 The prophecy was a safe one, because the
importance of the Venetian master of the early eighteenth century had been recognized, at least by the scholarly
fraternity, for decades before the time of Cobbett's writing. A perusal of current record listings shows that there are
today almost 250 recordings of Vivaldi works on the market. It is all but impossible to get through a week of
concert/phonograph/radio scheduling without being exposed to one or more Vivaldi compositions. The Red Priest
(Vivaldi's red hair was a family trait) has come into his own with a vengeance.
Born in Venice ca. 1678, the only distinguished son of the St. Mark's violinist, Giovanni Battista Vivaldi, Antonio
Vivaldi entered holy orders in the 1690s and attained to the priesthood in 1703. By his own account, a severe chest
condition prevented him from saying mass after the first months of his ordination. That same year he became a
teacher at the Conservatory of the Hospital (or Asylum) of the Pietà, one of four such institutions, known
principally for their musical pedagogy and performing activities, in Venice. Vivaldi's duties were many and
demanding, because he served also over the years (until 1740) as orchestral director and composer at the
conservatory. However, he had capable assistants and a large group of enthusiastic and well-trained female student
performers. "He could experiment and study at his leisure the best way to apportion the orchestra; he could attack
various comprehensive or detailed problems without being at the mercy of the clock, of an obstinate performer, or
of the strict regulations of a labor union."48
As composer as well as violin virtuoso, Vivaldi was internationally acclaimed in his lifetime, then literally
forgotten.49 When he was called to mind, the memory was not necessarily flattering. Sir John Hawkins, in his A
General History of the Science and Practice of Music, in 1776, only thirty-five years after the death of Vivaldi, has
this to say, speaking about the concerti, having already dismissed the "solos and sonatas" as being "tame enough":
For these his singularities, no better reason can be given than this: Corelli, who lived a few years before
him, had introduced a style which all the composers of Italy affected to imitate: as Corelli formed it, it was
chaste, sober, and elegant, but with his imitators it degenerated into dullness; this Vivaldi seemed to be
aware of, and for the sake of variety, gave into a style which had little but novelty to recommend it.50


Page 66
It is a quirk of fate that Vivaldi owes his resurrection indirectly to another composer who, in turn, suffered a similar
decline in popularityMendelssohn. For it was Mendelssohn's revival of the Saint Matthew Passion in 1829 that
brought J. S. Bach out from relative obscurity. The exploration of Bach's musical antecedents eventually led to the
''discovery" of Vivaldi and to his subsequent musical canonization. It is Mendelssohn himself who now languishes.
In any event, Vivaldi, what with his native ability and the constant demand by his employers for his compositions,
poured out a torrent of music. The number of works is the more astounding because Vivaldi spent a significant
portion of his career in concert tours through Europe. In instrumental works alone, according to Pincherle, there are
554 compositions, 454 of them, concerti. 51
Vivaldi's chamber works include thirty sonatas for violin and basso continuo.* Twelve of these are contained in
opus 2, published in 1709 in Venice, reissued in Amsterdam by Roger several years later. Opus 5, published by
Roger about 1716, contains four solo sonatas (for violin and basso continuo) and two trio sonatas, with the title
page stating opera 5, or really part two of opus 2. In this chapter we shall first discuss several sonatas of opus 2
proper. Pincherle observes that, in common with opus 1, (a set of trio sonatas, 1715), these sonatas "do possess
points of real beauty, but the composer's personality is scarcely released in them . . . [they] are clearly related to
Corelli's work."52 The player will note, from the following consideration and especially from a playing of these
sonatas, that there is, by far, enough of interest in these pieces to warrant their performance.
Sonata in D minor, op. 2, no. 3. This work begins with vigor. The Preludio: Andante opens with a bold statement
in the violin, pushing off from a middling high D and progressing relentlessly to the low A of the instrument, all in
the first measure:
Figure 5-23
Mm. 1-2
* This figure, given by Walter Kolneder in Antonio Vivaldi, His Life and Work, trans. by Bill Hopkins
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970), p. 37, is based by him on the thematic catalogue compiled
by Marc Pincherle.


Page 67
Note how the rhythmic scheme helps the forward and downward thrust of the line; a fourth, then a third, in
eighths; moving on to smaller, scalewise steps and shorter note valuessixteenths pushing on to the third beat, then
away from it into the concluding eighth on the weak part of beat three. The bass line overlaps the end of the violin
line, borrowing the energy of that line by use of the same pattern, and carrying the thrust to the end of the measure.
There is a great leap then, to the beginning of the second measure in the bass line, for literal repetition, at the
octave, of the violin line in bar 2. This gives the violin a chance to ''play bass" in the upper register, and to end the
first phrase unit with a tremendous two-octave leap (also making use of that grand gesture of violin playing, the
magnificent crossing from the E- to the G-string).
This sets the tone for the entire Preludio. Periods of restful, small-scale motion alternate with measures where
boisterous activity breaks out. In this activity, the bass line plays it part well. It will go along for a time in
unassuming manner, supporting the upper part with workmanlike harmonic motion, will take part in sequential
patternmaking, tossing a fragment back to the violin and catching it up again, and then will engage in a musical
weight-lifting contest with the violin, the two protagonists challenging each other, as in this passage:
Figure 5-24
Mm. 11-db.13
And there are passages, too, where the bass exults in the solo role, letting the violin take the back seat for a time:
Figure 5-25
Mm.28-31
So active is the bass line here, rhythmically, that we may fail for a moment to recognize that it is really performing
a decorated harmonic role, the


Page 68
melodic interest (though heard in fits and flashes) still being carried by the violin.
Somewhat similar conditions hold true for the second movement, Corrente: Allegro. Look at the opening:
Figure 5-26
Corrente, mm. 1-4
The violin uses the first measure as a kickoff point to reach the plunging release of measure 2. But the bass
provides a motoric undercurrent that immediately ignites the force of bar 1. As we move through the first section of
the Corrente, the two participants ''cover" for each other. When one moves, the other gives slower, but quite sturdy
support and commentary.
The second section continues this game, but in longer rounds. Measures 20 to 26 have the bass pumping away in
eighths, the violin singing in more sustained fashion. Then roles reverse, with violin taking the athletic stance until
the last measure, and the bass giving solid harmonic underpinning in quarters. This sounds like simple pleasure;
and it is, in the sense of enjoying the sheer sense of mobility. But that is a thing to be treasured in music. In
moderate doses, energy can outweigh sophistication in a popularity count taken among even the most sensitive and
initiated of listeners. Besides, this kind of writing is not all that simple and predictable. A composer who will give
us a whole movement of eighths and quarters, spiced with only an occasional crackle of sixteenths, and then,
shortly before the end of the movement, will unleash this one, nonconformist measure
Figure 5-27
Violin, Corrente, mm. 39-44
is untrustworthy enough to be great fun. On the other hand, this one measure might be regarded as an instruction
by the composer to treat several other measures, earlier in the movement, in similar fashion. We


Page 69
refer to measures 10 to 14, shown here as notated, and as they might well be played.
Figure 5-28
a. Violin, Corrente, mm. 10-12, as notated
b. Suggested playing
The brief Adagio serves as a transition from Corrente to Giga, more than as a movement in its own right. Even so,
it is well and tightly planned, with rhythmic flow greatest in midstream, most stable at beginning and end. B flat is
the high point in the line, and is reached three times, with differences not only in the general melodic content, but
alsoeach timein the detail of the melodic moment.
Figure 5-29
Violin, Adagio, mm. 1-3, 5-6, 8
Of course, the gradation of rhythmic texture alluded to above exists on paper; in actual performance, the
embellishments added by Vivaldi and his contemporaries might well have obscured such distinctions. Allowing for
the exuberant ornamentation habits that Vivaldi is known to have displayed, we may still draw some basic
differences among the slow movements in these sonatas as a guide to the player's own decisions about
ornamentation in performance.
The Adagio in question, for example, is more ornate, in its notated form, than some other slow movements in this
opus. See, for instance, the Sarabanda: Largo of sonata 1; the Sarabanda: Andante of sonata 4; and


Page 70
the Grave of sonata 12. In each of these, the slow tempo, coupled with the rather open writing of the melodic line,
definitely calls for significant embellishment. Other slow movements in these sonatas, though more densely written
than the examples cited above, can still be ornamented, especially in the repeat playing of each section of the
movement. This holds true for the Preludio movements of sonatas 1, 3, 4, 6, 8 (though here the convoluted line
does not really need much added ornament), 9 (same comment), 10, and 11.
The Preludio of sonata 12, though a Largo, is so densely written that added ornament should be applied only with
some reserve. The Preludio of sonata 7, though rather ''open" in appearance, should not be embellished (pace,
Vivaldi), except in the opening five and closing six measures of the movement. The body of this Andante seems so
clearly designed to set the violin and bass line off against one anothereither measure by measure or in quicker
alternationthat it would be a pity to obscure the shifting of interest back and forth between the two by ornamenting
the voice that is for the moment secondary in importance. Here is such a passage:
Figure 5-30
Sonata 7, Preludio, mm. 36-40
The Preludio of sonata 2 is curiously like a negative rendition of the first movement of Corelli's sonata number 1.
In the Corelli example, the movement is framed in the slow end-sections, with other such sections inserted
between the faster episodes in the course of the movement. In Vivaldi, the movement is Presto from beginning to
end, but punctuated by two one-measure adagio cadential figures (which should, of course, have a bit of rhapsodic
embellishment to give further relief from the metric running of the presto passages). There is another similarity to
the Corelli example: the first two presto sections are sustained by a pedal point in the basso continuo.
Returning to sonata 3, we note that, in both the Adagio and the concluding Giga, the bass is confined to basslike
activity, with none of that thematic involvement allotted to it in the first two movements. Here it is


Page 71
pretty much the violinist's show. All hands, however, can enjoy the clever pacing of the Giga, where a short first
phrase (measures 1 and 2) is followed by a long melodic burst that carries, with no real break (except for a possible
echo treatment of measures 10 and 11), right through to the end of the section. The second section moves at an
insistent clip from first to last. There are slight breathing points after the first beat of measure 15, measure 16, and
measure 17, at the end of measure 19, at the fourth beat of 21, and possibly at the end of measure 24. Otherwise
the Giga shows a clean pair of heels, and should be played with verve and celerity.
Sonata in E minor, op. 2, no. 9. The duo will want to observe the niceties of construction in the opening Preludio of
this sonata, both for the pleasure it affords of watching a skilled composer at work, and also so that the awareness
can guide them in the playing of this Andante. The violin begins; its statement of the opening three measures is
imitated by the bass in measures 3 to 5. The two statements overlap by one note, and the violin moves aside to
provide a contrasting, background voice to the keyboard statement:
Figure 5-31
Preludio, mm. 1-7
This overlapping statement is repeated twice more in the course of the movement: in measures 15 to 19 of the first
section, with the keyboard taking first place in line and the violin carrying us into the dominant, B minor; and
again in measures 48 to 54 of the second section. Why so many measures this last time? Because of the composer's
tricky way of introducing the return of the opening of the movement. The keyboard proclaims the familiar idea in
the subdominant, A minor; the violin overlaps, beginning in measure 50, with the keyboard continuing as though it
is now serving as foil to the violin. But the violin statement is in E minor, the tonality of the movement; and the
keyboard recognizes the leading role of the violin in this instance by taking up its statement, in E minor (as at the
beginning of the movement) in measure 52:


Page 72
Figure 5-32
Preludio, mm. 48-54
Each of these three statements of melodic purpose is followed by a passage in which the musical material is
extended, adapted, repeated. Each of these passages is ten measures long (measures 5 to 14; 20 to 29; and 55 to
64). There is a ''middle" section (actually, the opening of the second section of the movement), which carries on
from measure 30 to 48; and a short coda, from measure 65 to the double bar.
As seen from the examples, there is a satisfying balance between the solidity of the quarter-note rhythm, moving to
the dotted snap of the cadence, and the patterns where short groups of sixteenths alternate with sprightly eighths, or
with broader units (as in Figure 5-31, measures 6 and 7).
The Capriccio: Allegro, second in this sonata, is a perpetual motion movement, but not for the violin alone. To the
interest of music in flight is here added that of contrast in sound. The violin never carries the sixteenth-note motion
more than five measures (and that, only once) without yielding the turn to the bass line, as in measure 17:
Figure 5-33
Capriccio, m. 17
This is a good movement to play and hear.

As in the third sonata, Vivaldi devotes the last two movements of this sonata to his own instrument. The Giga:
Allegro is considerably longer than the concluding Gavotta: Presto (forty-five measures, as against twenty-three).
They constitute a related pair, with the Gavotta offering a concise "chaser" to the Giga's elaborate pacing:


Page 73
Figure 5-34
a. Violin, Giga, mm. 1-3
b. Violin, Gavotta, mm. 1-8
Sonata in A minor, op. 2, no. 12. This, the last of the Vivaldi sonatas of opus 2 we shall single out for discussion, is
one of the longer of the set. It is also one of the most challenging for the violin, but less so for the keyboard,
because here the solo role is given to the stringed instrument almost throughout the sonata.
The Preludio: Largo is livelier than its character marking would indicate, because the melodic line has a jaunty
rhythm:
Figure 5-35
Preludio, mm. 1-db.2
Even so vivacious a line would pall over the length of a forty-four-measure movement (for Vivaldi calls, of course,
for repeats of both sections) if there were no elements of relief in the writing. However, the violin line plays not
only against an occasional thematic response from the bass line but also against the more usual supporting
harmonic ''walk" of the bass, and, every now and then, it breaks into a two-part activity all its own, as in measures
15 and 16:


Page 74
Figure 5-36
Preludio, mm. 15-16
The bass and violin, between them, cover much of the available pitch range, sometimes actually sounding in unison
with each other; with the parts added by the keyboard player in his treble ''realization," the result is a closely
interlocked web of musical lines.
It is important for the violinist to play the dotted figure throughout with care for the brevity and snap of the thirty-
second note, and with occasional articulation of the couplets, so that any suggestion of flabbiness or rounding off
of the rhythm can be avoided.
The Capriccio: Presto is a nonstop flight in the bass, which jogs along in eighth-note step (mostly in octave leaps)
with no interruption until the final cadence of its forty-seven measures. The violin draws breath at the end of
measures 3, 10, 19, and 28. After this, the breathing is shorter (only an eighth-rest gasp, instead of the earlier
quarter rest) in measures 35, 38, 40, and 44. As often happens in baroque music, the surface pattern of the music,
apparently repetitious to the point of boredom, is actually subtly varied and impelled by the composer.
Typical of a perpetual motion movement, the interest here lies in the perception of the continuous, "sustained"
voices that reveal themselves through the foliage of the pattering sixteenths, and the interplay not only between
those strands in the violin part, but also between them and the bass line. Add to this the sensation of two parts in
the bass (for the splitting of one line into two by the octave leaping in the bass does give such a pseudo-polyphonic
effect) and the textural possibilities of the movement are apparent.
The Grave weaves the bass and treble together throughout the movement, beginning with the enchaîné writing of
the opening measures:
Figure 5-37
Grave, mm. 1-7

Page 75
In the concluding Allemanda: Allegro, the continuo is almost superfluous. The violin part climbs and dives so,
thatall by itselfit suggests all parts needed to make a satisfying, harmonic web of sound. The continuo, indeed, is at
one point reduced (measures 21 and 22) to short, crisp eighths in order to leave the way clear for the violin
gyrations. The activity of the violin is shown by the fact that, in the entire movement (and only near the beginning,
as though the violinist is still warming up his motors), there are only two rests of an eighth, one of a sixteenth. The
pace, however, should not be headlong, but should rather suggest easy, controlled, effortless dancing in a small
floor space. The intricacy of the line will be excitement enough:
Figure 5-38
Allemanda, mm. 5-7
The remaining Vivaldi sonatas for violin and basso continuo include four that are contained in his opus 5, entitled
''Six Sonatas, Four for Violin and Bass, and Two for Two Violins and Basso Continuo . . . ," published first in
Amsterdam by the renowned firm of Roger ca. 1716. Each of these sonatas begins with a Preludio and continues
with two or three dance-titled movements. While they are pretty enough, these pieces suffer from an unrelieved
sameness of rhythmic figure throughout the body of each movement. Vivaldi is too content with repetition, and
loses that flexibility and nuance that characterize the more interesting examples of his own and of contemporary
works. Of these sonatas, the fourth example is perhaps the most worthy of performance. The entire group of
sonatas, though, is suitable for study by the duo of intermediate proficiency.
In 171617, Georg Pisendel, the German violin virtuoso (he is discussed at greater length in chapter 8), lived for a
time in Venice. It was at this point that he studied with Vivaldi. Probably during this period, Vivadi penned a set of
four sonatas "made for maestro Pisendel." The fact that this attribution was apparently written in at the head of the
several sonatas at some point after the completion of the autograph suggests that they were neither commissioned
by Pisendel nor originally intended for him, but were so dedicated by Vivaldi later. 53 Also dedicated to Pisendel


Page 76
were a sinfonia and six concerti. If the title of the sonatas means that the works were actually designed for Pisendel
himself to play, then Pisendel was a better violinist than his own sonatas would indicate.
In any event, these Vivaldi sonatas are among the most interesting of his products for the duo. The first, second,
and fourth works are of four-movement, slow-fast-slow-fast construction. The third sonata is a seven-movement
suite, or sonata da camera in slow-fast-fast-slow-fast-fast-fast sequence, alternating between G major and minor,
with the final movement a complex of two minuets. Interesting though this sonata is for its movement sequence, it
is not as impressive as the other three pieces in the set.
In the first sonata, for example, there are wide leaps in the violin and bass lines which give an effect of great range
and expansiveness, and of more than two voices. The second movement of this sonata has the violin working in
wide crossing patterns in thematically significant passages. Double-stop writing is interestingly used in the finale
of this sonata, with one violin ''voice" remaining stationary, the other strand of the double-stop passage providing
the moving line. The entire opening movement of the second sonata is cast in double-stops.
There is prominent use of bariolage in the second movement of sonata 2, involving difficult stretches (viz.,
alternate Bs on the A- and D-strings of the violin) and in measures 7 and 8 alternation of single- and double-stops
as an outgrowth of the bariolage pattern.
The second slow movement of sonata 1 is remarkable for its pathetic impact, the effect heightened by the constant
tolling of the bass line. As far as ornamental treatment of the slow writing is concerned, the editor provides an
instructive ornamented version of the Adagio of sonata 2 (the movement is presented in original and in decorated
form, and with a different realization of the continuo in each case: more active and ornate against the simple violin
line; less active as a foil to the adorned violin version). In sonata 4, on the other hand, both slow movements are
provided by Vivaldi himself with a written-out, ornamented violin part, with no specific indication of the skeletal
melodic line that underlies it.
Interesting because of the known admiration that J. S. Bach had for the work of Vivaldi is the clear resemblance
(the similarity is pointed out by the editor) between the start of the concluding Presto of sonata 2 and that of the
second movement of the Bach A major sonata, no. 2, for violin and keyboard (Vivaldi uses the same key). The
editor refers to the hypothesis that, in his Dresden visit of 1717, Bach "probably met Pisendel and consequently
could have become acquainted with the Vivaldi material that


Page 77
the latter had brought from Italy, which was not without influence on Bach's own production in the following
years.'' 54 The Bach movement is larger, more fully realized, more satisfying, but the Vivaldi example has a
propulsive force and economy of its own.
Francesco Saverio Geminiani

Francesco Saverio Geminiani was born in 1687 in Lucca and died in Dublin in 1762. His early study was with his
father, then with Carlo Ambrogio Lonati, violinist and composer at Milan. Geminiani went on to study in Rome
with Corelli, who is considered his principal teacher. He in turn, along with Locatelli and Somis, is ranked the
most important representative and continuator of the Corelli school of violin playing and composition. It should be
added that Geminiani also studied composition with Alessandro Scarlatti in Naples. After these years of
preparation, Geminiani served for a time (170610) in the town orchestra of Lucca, and in 1711 as concertmaster at
Naples. In 1714 he went to England and, except for two stays in Paris, remained a British resident for the rest of
his life. From 1759 until his death in 1762, he lived in Dublin, which city he had visited twice before.
Geminiani's appearance in London augured well: " . . . in a short time he so recommended himself by his exquisite
performance, that all who professed to understand or love music, were captivated at the hearing him; and among
the nobility were many who severally laid claim to the honour of being his patrons."55 Thus reports Hawkins, who
goes on to relate, however, that Geminiani's complete avoidance of opera in his activity as composer left him
without that appeal essential to true popularity in England. Moreover, he did not strongly pursue a career as
performer, but devoted himself instead, by choice or necessity, to a busy teaching schedule.
Matters were complicated for a time by Geminiani's passion for buying and selling paintings. In this he may have
been moved by the example of Corelli, who was himself an art collector. In any event, Geminiani was thrown into
debt by his art dealings and was for a short time even imprisoned at Marshalsea debtors' prison, winning his release
through the intercession of his patron, the earl of Essex.
Hawkins, writing in 1776, says of the late violinist's prowess that, "suffice to say that he had none of the fire and
spirit of the modern violinists, but that all the graces and elegancies of melody, all the powers that can engage
attention, or that render the passions of the hearer subservient to the will of the artist, were united in his
performance."56 Here,


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one suspects, Hawkins is unconsciously quoting from Geminiani's own words. In his famous treatise, The Art of
Playing on the Violin (1751), Geminiani maintains that, '' . . . with regard to musical Performances, Experience has
shewn that the Imagination of the Hearer is in general so much at the Disposal of the Master, that by the Help of
Variations, Movements, Intervals and Modulations he may almost stamp what Impression on the Mind he pleases."
57
Though long-lived, Geminiani wrote comparatively few works. Of his output, the sonatas for violin and continuo
are:
Opus 1, [Twelve] Sonate a Violino, Violone, e Cembalo, London, 1716 (Amsterdam, 1717), dedicated to
Geminiani's patron, Baron Kielmannsegge. These sonatas are not to be confused with an earlier opus 1, twelve
sonatas for violin alone (without continuo), Bologna, 1705.
Opus 4, [Twelve] Sonate a Violino e Basso, London, 1739.
Opus 5 (opus number of the original set of compositions), VI Sonate di Violoncello e Basso Continuo composte
da F. Geminiani. . . ."Transcribed by the composer himself for the violin with changes proper and necessary for
that instrument." London, ca. 1747.
Sonata in A, op. 1, no. 1. The AdagioPresto that opens this sonata shows Geminiani the true Corelli disciple. The
slow and fast sections alternate as in the first movement of Corelli's sonata op. 5, no. 1, with the same contrasting
of regal state and impassioned running work. But the successive adagio portions differ markedly from each other
(respectively, chordal-polyphonic; instrumentally conceived recitative; cantabile extension of the melody), and the
presto sections seem more independent of the framing adagio passages. With regard to these sixteenth-note runs,
observe Geminiani's own bowing instructions: "The Bow must always be drawn strait on the Strings, and never be
raised from them in playing Semi-quavers [i.e., sixteenths]."58 Moreover, the composer urges the player to perform
such a line (or any violin line, for that matter) with alertness to the phrase structure, rather than a groping emphasis
on time counting: " . . . in playing Divisions [passages of small note-values], if by your Manner of Bowing you lay
a particular Stress on the Note at the beginning of every Bar, so as to render it predominant over the rest, you alter
and spoil the true Air of the Piece . . ."59
The second movement is a fugal Allegro non troppo. Fresh, brisk, but rather wandering in its effect, the extensions
of idea seem intended more for the performer's enjoyment than for the intrinsic needs of the music.


Page 79
Again, a straight bow, drawn with short, clinging, clean strokes, is most important.
The Grave is short (seven measures), a curtain raiser to the final Allegro. These measures cry out for some
improvised ornamentation. The editor (in the violin part) has supplied a modest amount, consisting of several trills,
guiding himself by the indications given by Geminiani in the 1739 edition of these pieces, wherein he added ''for
greater facility of use, the graces to the adagios . . ." 60 The Allegro is a jog-trot perpetual-motion piece, oscillating
between first and third positions.
In his treatise, Geminiani instructs that the violin "be rested just below the Collar-bone." The title engraving of
Geminiani in the Paris edition of the treatise shows him holding the violin under the chin. As Boyden suggests,
however, Geminiani may have "lapsed occasionally into the [under-chin] position"; the shifting from first to third
(and to and from second position as well) in this movement would be difficult without some chin grasp of the
instrument. The quick notes of this Allegro must certainly be bowed so that the "motion . . . proceed[s] from the
Joints of the Wrist and Elbow."61
Sonata in D minor, op. 1, no. 2. In the first Adagio the violin line is distributed in slurred couplets, whether in
scalewise or leaping motion, producing a wavelike effect that is at once soothing and intense. Much of the
intensity comes from the occasional harmonic surprise, as in these measures:
Figure 5-39
Mm. 4-6
Recognition of melodic direction and of momentary goals is imperative on the part of both players.
This movement seems more interesting than its opposite number in the first sonata. It is denser, more compact, and
more incisive. The same holds true for the Allegro: its fugal entries come quickly, the rhythmic pacing of the
individual lines is tighter, the entire look of the movement is psychologically more stirring, with generous use of
sixteenth-note turns, and two entire passages given over to motion in sixteenths. The flourish that ends the
movement is a nice touch, completely in keeping with the rather intense drive of the chapter:


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Figure 5-40
Mm. 44-47
The Adagio third movement could again, I feel, stand more ornamentation than the editor has chosen to indicate in
his version. Except for some tastefully added slurs, the only modification he has made is the insertion of a trill at
the cadence midway through and again at the end. The concluding Allegro, growing directly out of the Adagio, is a
sturdy, not terribly exciting, close to the sonata. The voicing of the strands in the violin part requires that slurs be
adopted, as illustrated in the opening measures (and following the clue given by Geminiani in the slurred
suspension in measures 25 and 26):
Figure 5-41
Allegro, violin, mm. 22-27
The violinist will be challenged by several rapid passages in parallel thirds.

The Sonata in E minor, op. 1, no. 3, starts out interestingly enough:
Figure 5-42
Adagio, mm. 1-3
Is it in A minor (middle of measure 1)? No, as the second measure gradually convinces us, the key is E minor.
Despite the promise of surprises to come, the two movements of this sonata turn out to be rather plodding.
Of Schott's projected edition of the entire set of Geminiani's opus 1, only the first volume, comprising the first three
sonatas of the set, is pres-


Page 81
ently available; the other three volumes are in preparation. An earlier complete edition, that of the Smith College
Music Archives, edited by Ross Lee Finney, is out of print. From the Hortus musicus series of Bärenreiter come
sonatas numbers 1 and 4 (in D), series numbers 173 and 174, respectively. Also, the Sonata in D minor, op. 1, no.
12, exists in an older edition, from 1929, by Alfred Moffat (Simrock, catalog number 1067). This is a ''new concert
version," and Moffat has apparently taken some liberties with the original, judging from the fact that the title of the
opening movement has been changed from Amoroso to Andante, the start of the violin line both set down an
octave and ornamented (without any indication thereof), and the entire work given the title, Sonata Impetuosa.
Moffat has taken the label from the Allegro impetuoso finale, with its curiously lurching rhythms. I find that I
prefer the fourth and twelfth sonatas to those of the Schott volume. The problem lies not so much in the slow
movements; lyricism apparently came easier than the rigors of leading an active idea, or a polyphonic texture,
through an extended fast movement. Those movements of sonatas 4 and 12 are not overprolonged; they hold up
well and stay off the treadmill that Geminiani constructs for himself in the earlier sonatas.
It is unfortunate that no publisher has yet seen fit to bring out a modern edition of the opus 4 sonatas, available in
the 1739 edition at least in the research collections of the New York Public Library and the University of
California Library at Berkeley. Perusal of that set indicates that those sonatas are more imaginatively constructed
than those of the 1716 opus.
Meanwhile, the sonatas of opus 5, with the "proper and necessary changes" incorporated by Geminiani in
reworking them from the original cello version, are available in the Peters edition. The ornamentation, especially
the trills and turns, is frequent and specified. "The work illustrates the change in musical style characteristic of the
1740's; over a completely traditional thoroughbass structure the composer develops the solo part in an elaborately
embellished rococo-like melodic line." 62 The resulting effect is breathier, more flighty than that of opus 1. By the
same token, a flexible and vivacious air replaces the rather stolid progess that Geminiani sometimes makes in the
movements of the violin pieces. If the violinist may be forgiven, for once, in purloining the literature of another
instrument (and one that is not, after all, as richly endowed with repertoire as the violin), these are excellent
acquisitions. Moreover, the theft is condoned by the composer; even for such finery as the opening of sonata 2,
with its long and glittering line:


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Figure 5-43
Violin, Andante, mm. 1-5.
The duo will also enjoy playing through the twelve isolated movements from Geminiani's Art of Playing the Violin.
These movements have been issued, with realized continuo, and with an informative note that comments, among
other things, on the varied nature of the sample movements, by Editio Musica, in an edition by Böhm and Orszagh.
In addition to fingering and bowing suggestions, the violin part has been equipped with a foldout panel listing
Geminiani's ornamental signs and their realizations, so that the player may have a ready reference guide while he is
learning the pieces. Further, the editors have ordered six of the movements (7, 8, and 12; 9, 10, and 11) into
composite three-movement ''sonatas," thus enlarging the extant body of Geminiani works for the violin and
keyboard.
In general, I feel that Geminiani writes well, but with a touch of the cerebral and stuffy about his work. He stands
midway between the conservative, "classic" style of Corelli and the more adventuresome writing of a Locatelli or
Veracini. All three have more sweep and charge than Geminiani chooses to display.
Tommaso Albinoni
Born in Venice in 1671, into a family of comfortable circumstance, Tommaso Albinoni, possibly a student of the
Venetian composer Giovanni Legrenzi, directed himself from an early age toward a musical career, spent for the
most part in his native city. Though he was a prolific composer of opera, Albinoni also produced a number of
instrumental works, including a set of violin sonatas, Trattenimenti Armonici per Camera Divisi in Dodici sonate,
op. 6, from the year 1711. Of the twelve works in that opus, seven have been issued in modern edition:
1, in C major, NMA, No. 9, ed. Upmeyer.
2, in G minor, Schott, No. 5480, ed. Polnauer.
4, in D minor, Hug, No. 1035, ed. Reinhart.


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5, in F major, Hug, No. 105305, ed. Reinhart.
6, in A minor, Hug, No. 9668, ed. Paumgartner.
7, in D major, Hug, No. 10305, ed. Reinhart.
11, in A major, NMA, No. 9, ed. Upmeyer.
The sonata that has attracted most attention is number 6, owing to the fact that Heinrich Nicolaus Gerber, a German
organist-composer who studied with J. S. Bach, was assigned by his teacher to realize the figured bass to this very
sonata. Bach himself made some corrections of Gerber's realization, and all has been preserved. We should not be
led by Bach's attentions to assume that this sonata is the best available. It is solid music, with a long and neatly
fitted fast movement, but other Albinoni works are more exciting. However, the opportunity to study Bach's
treatment of figured bass, and his way of making it appropriate to the music it supports and reflects, should not be
neglected. This is a good edition to have in the duo library.
We may put aside number 11, in A, which is not one of the more brilliant compositions of Albinoni's set. In the
others, however, we find elements that stamp Albinoni a worthy successor to, and builder on, the Corelli model,
and as a conquering rival to Vivaldi in the violin-sonata repertoire. In sonata 1, there is the harmonic sharpness of
the two slow movements, especially in ''foreign" tones that the violin suddenly pulls out of the air in its lyric
wanderings in the second Adagio. The second movement, only relatively a "fast" movement (its marking is
larghetto), is a perpetual-motion movement in slow-motion pacing. The beginning and end of the movement are
built on sequential rhythmic-figure designs. The middle (i.e., the beginning of the second section of the movement)
is almost literally a slow view of the Corelli-style sixteenth-note running work. The Larghetto of sonata 2 is
another example of Albinoni's ability to combine motion, plasticity, lyricism, and rhythmic flexibility all at once.
The opening Grave: Adagio of sonata number 5 seems to be modeled, at least harmonically, on the Gavotta
movement from Corelli's sonata 10. (The fact that the first movement of Albinoni's sonata number 7 also shows
similar outline suggests that the harmonic frame of the Corelli movement is so general a pattern for the time that
the relationship just described may be more deduced than actual. Many composers, however, Vivaldi among them,
were affected by the Corelli Gavotta. 63 Albinoni's sonata number 5, in any eventor at least the first three
movements, for the final Allegro is somewhat of a letdownmerits the attention of the duo, even to the extent of
concert performance. The Grave is of great beauty; the


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second movement, Allegro, is short, brilliant, vigorous, showing full command of rapid detached and slurred bow
strokes and of cross-string playing.
At the start of sonata number 7, the composer appends the instruction, ''the dynamics of the accompaniment always
to accommodate the violin." It is a strange marking, because one assumes such cooperation can be taken for
granted, and it is an instruction that would have to be carried out on the harpsichord by varying the thickness of the
realization or by using the contrasting registrations on each of the two manuals of a larger instrument. The editor
points out in his Preface that the organ can be used as the continuo instrument, in which case the dynamic
adjustments are the more readily solved. In any event, sonata 7 is not deserving of special attention, because others
in the set are more interesting.
The finest work among those available in reprint is Sonata number 4, in D minor. Its opening Grave: Adagio is a
most florid movement, highly colored in harmony as well as in melodic detail. Its phrases are of unusual length (the
first breath does not come until measure 7); the line, of continuous, soaring power. The editor of the Hug
publication has chosenas he explains in a prefatory note to this particular sonatato interpret the instruction for
arpeggiated playing, at the movement's cadence, as a license to play, instead, a short cadenza. This seems a valid
decision, because a series of mere arpeggiations, coming at the end of so intense a movement, does not seem an
appropriate culmination. These remarks apply with equal force to the second Adagio.
The two fast movements are so brilliantly set, with their skillful exploitation of the sonorities afforded by many
string crossings, that the total impact of the sonata is one of unusual richness and vitality. The boundless
energyachieved within the confines of the first three positions on the violinthe propulsive force of the rhythms, the
occasional intensifying chord, the introduction of thirty-second-note rhythms toward the end of the first Allegro,
all of this produces an effect of great brilliance without going beyond intermediate difficulty. This sonata is one of
the finest products of Italian baroque violin literature and should be included in today's concert repertoire.
Evaristo Felice dall'Abaco

One of the pleasures of exploring the duo-sonata literature is that of coming on the work of a man who, though less
widely known than he should be to both the concert audience and the professional fraternity, is nonetheless a
composer to hear and enjoy. Such a figure is Evaristo Felice dall'


Page 85
Abaco, born in Verona in 1675. He studied with Giuseppe Torelli and, during some years of service at the court in
Modena, with T. A. Vitali. Dall'Abaco, then, maylike his older contemporary, Corellibe termed an offshoot of the
Bologna school, affected of course in his own work by the pervasive model of the older man, as well as by the
example of the French sphere, to which he was for a time exposed. For in 1704 dall'Abaco went to Munich to enter
the employ of the electoral court. The defeat of Bavaria in the battle of Blenheim, a critical event in the War of the
Spanish Succession, forced the Munich court to remove to Brussels the transferred retinue including our composer.
It was not until 1715, in the wake of the Peace of Utrecht, that the court was reestablished at Munich, where
dall'Abaco continued to serve until his pensioning in 1740 (he died in 1742). During the years of exile, he wrote
two sets of twelve sonatas each, opus 1 and opus 4, for violin and continuo.
Of opus 1, sonatas 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 11 have been issued in modern edition, and from opus 4, sonatas 3, 4, 5, 6, 8,
and 11. These pieces are of intermediate difficulty only. There are extremely few violin double-stops, and nothing
higher than third position is required. The continuo is consistently drawn into the repartee with the violin. Possibly
this is because of the composer's intention (as stated in the title of opus 1), that ''either cello or harpsichord" be
used as accompaniment of these sonatas. The editor overrules the option, saying that "for the playing of the bass it
is obligatory to have a cello as well as a keyboard instrument, so that the figuration in the keyboard can
occasionally be simplified." Strangely enough, the title page of this very edition (Schott, from which our
illustrations are drawn) says that the cello part is "ad lib."
These sonatas have an opulence and vigor, combined with a concise and trim way of musical thought, that makes
them a delight to play. In opus 1, the Giga finales of sonatas 2 and 5 are especially energetic and appealing, as are
such movements as the Allegro of sonata 11, with its interesting broken-field bowing passages for the violin,
Figure 5-44
Allegro, mm. 8-11

Page 86
or the Allegro e spiccato (i.e., detached and articulate) movement of Sonata 6, with wonderfully expansive energy
and constant interplay between the violin and bass. The richly colored harmonic outline of the individual voices
and the active interplay between violin and bass line reinforce the possibility of performance by violin and cello
duo, should the harpsichordist/pianist not show up for the evening's musicale.
The duo relationship of the two parts is again suggested by the Chaconne of Sonata 5, where the violin and bass
alternate, at various points in the movement, in carrying the melodic line.
Figure 5-45
Chaconne, mm. 21-26
For the most part, dall'Abaco writes mobile lines in these pieces. The Largo of Sonata 4 is an exception, with its
slow-moving, open appearance. The texture here will of course fill in to some degree with the addition of the
improvised ornaments of performance.
Figure 5-46
The duo will also enjoy dall'Abaco's sonatas from opus 4. The ideas are lively in nature and in presentation, and the
sonatas are consistently appealing. Especially to be recommended are such movements as the Vivace e puntato and
the Allegro ma non presto of Sonata 4; and the second Allegro of Sonata 8. I am tempted to express a preference
for the sonatas of opus 4 in general. But almost any of the reprinted pieces would give a good account of itself in
present-day programming: unassuming, moving in temper from fresh gaiety to limpid tranquillity, never tedious or
excessively drawn-out. Throughout, we are given the impression of a well-fed, intelligent, and contented
practitioner of the sonata craft.


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Giovanni Battista Somis

Giovanni Battista Somis (16861763), Turinese violin virtuoso, studied with both Corelli and Vivaldi, and was
himself the teacher of Leclair and Pugnani. From his opus 4, a set of sonate da camera, dedicated to the Corelli
patron, Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni, and published in Paris in 1726, I have seen the fifth sonata, in G minor, in
modern edition. It is in three movements, slow-fast-fast, the first a short Largo of restrained lyricism. The second,
an Allegro of vigorous tone, has a violin line that calls for imitative responses. The solo part hints at multi-voice
effect, but confines itself to single-stop playing throughout. Most of the imitative activity, then, takes place
between the violin and bass, with some participation by the realized treble. The finale is in two repeated sections,
with emphasis on quarter-beat motion; there is ample room for ornamentation in performance.
The technical requirements are modest in this piece. As Moser indicates, these are more demanding in the opus 6
sonatas. An example from this set is available in the edition by the French cellist, Joseph Salmon, published by
French Ricordi in 1918. Salmon has the charming habit of not revealing the source of any of his many editions for
his Ricordi series. However, from Moser's description of the finale, Tambourin, of sonata number 10, of opus 6,
with a tasto solo G throughout, it can be seen that this is Salmon's source. It can also be seen that Salmon, in
addition to suppressing the ''bass only" instruction, has provided an almost constant patter of sixteenths in the
keyboard treble, in rather rosy harmonies, at that.
The editor provides similarly active realizations of the keyboard part in the opening Allegro and succeeding Largo
(can he have switched the order of these movements?). If the continuo player can realize his way back to a less
flowery setting, the duo will enjoy this lively example of Somis's art.


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6
Sonatas of Telemann and Handel
Georg Philipp Telemann

Eric Blom, editor of the fifth edition of Grove's Dictionary, says, at one point in his Preface, that ''it is not one of
the functions of such a dictionary as this to issue certificates of greatness." 64 One turns, then, to the article on
Johann Sebastian Bach to observe that it is more than twenty-eight pages in length. And, moving on in the
alphabet, to the entry on Georg Philipp Telemann, one is struck by its brevity: scarcely three columns of copy. The
reason is given in the text of the article: "In his own days . . . a composer of the first rank, but the verdict of
posterity has been less favorable . . . [Telemann] originated nothing . . . [and displays] a lack of any earnest ideal
and . . . a fatal facility naturally inclined to superficiality."65
The world has hardly been able to forgive Handel for the impertinence of having had as great a genius as
Bach's and a much greater success. The rest have fallen into dust; and there is no dust so dry as that of
Telemann, whom posterity has forced to pay for the victory which he won over Bach in his lifetime.66
So begins Romain Rolland's essay, "Telemann: A Forgotten Master." The brusqueness of his statements may take
the reader aback; but the validity of his stand will impress the player who takes the trouble to familiarize himself
with the baroque master's music.
Yet Rolland himself seems to join the ranks of the detractors toward the end of his essay, advancing again the
familiar argument against Telemann:


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Gluck, with much less music than half a score of other German composers of the eighteenth centurythan
Hasse, Graun, or Telemann, for exampleachieved where the others amassed material. . . . The fact is that he
imposed a sovereign discipline upon his art and his genius. He was a man. The others were merely
musicians. And this, even in music, is not enough. 67.
Telemann was no ''mere musician": he was a distinguished student both in his preparatory years and his university
days, proving himself much at home with intellectual pursuits and acquiring a cultural breadth that remained as a
lifelong trait; he became a musician by personal design and commitment, overcoming long and persistent pressure
from his family to avoid the musical profession as one beneath the family status and traditions, and he made the
final decision at the time he entered Leipzig University.
Telemann was born in Magdeburg in 1681; he died in Hamburg in 1767. His long life was incredibly rich in
musical productivity and in involvement in every conceivable aspect of music making: composer, author, teacher,
journalist, engraver, publisher, impresario, instrumentalist, music director, and so on. Scion of a family that had
produced a number of clergymen, he had the background and intelligence to lead him into similarly serious and
respectable pursuits. He proved passionately devoted to music, however, learning so much through watching and
listening to musicians, and even more from reading and copying scores, thatthough essentially self-taughthe
eventually became adept at music for every medium of the time. His expertise ranged from solo instrument to
orchestra; from cantata to oratorio; from simple song to opera; and he wrote in all contemporary serious musical
styles and idioms, and incorporated in his work some of the regional folk music with which he came in contact.
The posts he held tell of his energy and adventuresomeness:
1702He founded a Collegium Musicum at Leipzig (where he had gone to study at the University). At the same
time, he became director of the Leipzig Opera.
1704He was appointed organist at the New Church, Leipzig.
170607He became kapellmeister at the court of the count of Pomnitz at Sorau. Here he had contact with French
music (owing to the Gallic enthusiasms of his employer) and fruitful acquaintance with Polish folk music.
1712He became town music director and church Kapellmeister in Frankfurt and he assumed direction of the
Collegium Musicum in that city. Here he composed oratorios and much chamber music.


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1721His Hamburg career begins. Music director for the city, he was also cantor at the Johanneum church (with
teaching duties). He composed all kinds of church, occasional, and ceremonial music. Once more, he held
directorship of the Collegium Musicum. In 1722, he became director of the Hamburg Opera, staving off its
demise for a decade and bringing it to a last period of high productivity.
Active in the publication of his own music, he produced didactic works and musical treatises as well.
In 1722, Leipzig tried to hire Telemann as Thomaskantor. Hamburg finally met his demands, and he stayed on
in the post that was to remain his until his death. Leipzig, for lack of the glamorous Telemann, made do with
Johann Sebastian Bach.
1737In the autumn of this year, he began an eight-month stay in Paris.
1740In this decade, there was a significant reduction in composition, with Telemann choosing to concentrate on
pedagogic works.
1755Then, from about 1755, the last works, continuing on up to the time of Telemann's death.
During his years at Frankfurt, Telemann served as factotum to the Highly Noble Society of Frauenstein, a group of
Frankfurt noblemen who met in the palace of that name. Among the activities supported and participated in by the
members of this organization was a Collegium Musicum; founded in the seventeenth century, this musical society
within a society now entered a new and flourishing period. Under the guidance of Telemann, it presented regular
weekly public concerts during the winter season, performing a wide variety of music, both instrumental and vocal,
including much that was specially provided by Telemann. ''From this time dates not only the public concert activity
in Frankfurt, but also Telemann's European renown." 68
The chamber music composed by Telemann for these concerts includes a set of Six Sonatinas for Violin and
Harpsichord, first printed in 1718. Each piece consists of four movements (slow-fast-slow-fast), except for the last,
a fast-slow-fast threesome. The diminutive title, sonatine reflects the brevity of the works and of their component
movements, as well as the limited technical demands imposed on the violinist. There are almost no double-stops;
much of the music is playable in first position; and third position (with a fourth-finger extension for the octave
harmonic) is the highest ascent into the stratosphere. The music is intended, obviously, for the capable amateur of
the Frankfurt Collegium and, by the same token, for the student and enthusiast of our own time.


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Yet these are no mere learner's pieces; a passage such as this, from the Vivace of sonatina 3, shows how supple a
bow arm (and wrist!) is needed to navigate the crossing pattern and to effect the alternation of individually stroked
eighths and slurred triplets, of broadly spanned figures and low-flying ones:
Figure 6-1
Violin, Vivace, mm. 24-27
And these measures, from the Adagio of sonatina 5, call for a keen ear, vital fingers, and emotional warmth from
both players. Note especially the wild-eyed leap from B to A sharp (and the stern impact of the A sharp) in
measure 3:
Figure 6-2
Adagio, violin, complete
Some of the writing in these pieces suggests violinistic busywork, with more smoke than flame; for example, this
passage from the Allegro of sonatina 1:
Figure 6-3
Allegro assai, mm. 3-4
Also from the Frankfurt period is a set of Six Sonatas for Violin Solo, Accompanied by Harpsichord, engraved and
published by Telemann in 1715. The format is that of the slow-fast-slow-fast, four-movement sequence
throughout, with three of the sonatas presenting the titles and textures of abstract musical structures; the other
three, the labels and musical gesture of dance-style movements. These pieces are not massive enough for the
general concert program, but will graciously adorn a musical setting akin to that for which they were originally
designed: the home musicale.
Sonata number 3, in B minor, from this set, presents in its first two


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movements almost the aspect of a duo sonata in the modern sense, so active is the continuo in the musical dialogue.
In the third movement, Andante, we meet a case where the honored rule of automatic accommodation between
triplet and dotted rhythms must be questioned. As the following excerpt (measures 1 and 2) shows, Telemann uses
the dotted rhythm in almost every beat of the music. Often, as in measure 1, the dotted rhythm is handed from
keyboard to violin and back. If, on second or fourth quarter of the measure, the composer offers the contrast of the
triplet figures, these rhythms cannot countermand the continuous thread of dotted figures winding above and
around. It seems best to let triplets and dotted figure sound simultaneously and distinctly.
Figure 6-4
Andante, mm. 1-2
When, as in measure 1 and often throughout the movement, the dotted figure, is used, it should be altered to
sound thus, because the faster dotted pattern on an eighth pulse is often set against the figure in one of the
other voices. (Such tightening of a more broadly notated dotted rhythm is the rule in French music of the time, to
whose influence, as noted above, Telemann was exposed in the Sorau period.)
The Giga of sonata number 2 presents, in more youthful, more easy-going fashion, the kind of writing Bach was to
use a few years later in the Prelude of the Sixth Suite for Cello Alone (in the same key, D major). The triplet
bariolage on stopped and open unison, the rising melodic line pulling away from the bariolage, the use of the
bariolage figure at the harmonic landmarks of the movement (such as at the beginning of both principal sections of
the movement) are present here. In addition, Telemann utilizes the stopped-open alternation with more
concentration and more simple pleasure than even Haydn displays in the same kind of tactic in his finale of the
Frog quartet, which, again, is in D major, no doubt because that key encourages the seeking out of open-string
levels. Here is Telemann, enjoying himself:


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Figure 6-5
Giga, mm. 37-40
The Giga of the sixth and last sonata of this set is a stunning closer for the opus. It is, I hope, not too egocentric of
a violinist to say this, for the movement is a moderate field day for the stringed instrument, with rising fanfares set
off against solitary, punctuating chords in the bass, with rolling octave clangors, and with two long and exuberant
solo passages against pedal-point bass tones. This kind of movement is one of those that makes Telemann a sheer
delight for the duo and demonstrates again that, within the all-encompassing basso-continuo principle of baroque
chamber music, something new can always be written.
Generally speaking, the music in these sonatas of the 1715 set is succinct and directed. In skilled hands, with
appropriate dynamic gradations, echo effects, and the like, with improvised ornamentation (especially in the slow
movements and in section repeats), and especially with a performer's outlook that does not equate brevity with
inconsequence, these pieces deserve hearing.
In 1733, in his second decade as the arbiter of musical taste in Hamburg, Telemann himself engraved and
published a set of compositions entitled, ''Musique de Table, divided into Three Parts, each containing One
Overture with suite [of dancelike movements], for seven instruments; One Quartet; One Concerto, for seven
[instruments], One Trio, One Solo [sonata], One Conclusion [a final movement, set for the instrumentation of the
Overture], the instrumentation changing throughout. 69 The publication was widely subscribed by amateurs and
professionals in courts and cities throughout Germany and in other countries, including the long-time friend and
correspondent of Telemann, "Mr. Hendel, Doctor of Music, London."
With the varying ensembles and instrumentation in the sequence of compositions, Telemann provides us with a
survey of contemporary instrumentation and sound textures. He also offers us a compendium of the kind of music
that would have been used on ceremonial or social occasions in the court or well-equipped home of that time. The
concept (by no


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means exclusive to Telemann) is delightful, and especially so to us, in an age when such social music is a nostalgic
glimpse into times long past.
The solo sonata in part two of the Musique de Table is for violin and basso continuo. The verve and jauntiness of
the music can be seen in such passages as measures 12 to 14 of the first movement, Andante, progressing from the
deliberation of trills on successive beats to the slightly greater mobility of the ascending Schleifer on the first two
beats of measure 13, and the telescoped descent of the remaining beats in that bar.
Figure 6-6
Violin, mm. 12-14
Or again, note the broadening funnel of sound in the violin part of measures 66 to 70 of the Vivace, with the
bariolage spreading from alternating As, to the alternating of drone and descending line, and finally to the thicker
texture of the descending double-stop thirds of measures 68 and 70, culminating in the triple-stop resolution in
measure 70.
Figure 6-7
Violin, mm. 65-70
And, finally, there is the quirk of having the constant jig of the closing Allegro suspend (at the end of each of the
two, repeated sections of the movement) on the stately cadences of the two Adagio measures (measures 21 and 22,
51 and 52):
Figure 6-8
Violin, mm. 18-22

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A major contribution of Telemann in the field of the duo sonata is the set of Sonate Metodiche (''methodical," that
is, instructive), op. 13, issued in Hamburg in two sets: six sonatas of the year 1728, "for Violin Solo or Flute," and
the sequel, a further set of six sonatas, from the year 1732, subtitled this time, "for Flute or Violin." According to
the late Max Seiffert, musicologist and editor of the collected edition of Telemann's music (now in progress),
violinistic traits mark only the fifth sonata as predominantly for that instrument; the first, second, sixth, and ninth
can be viewed as belonging to either instrument; the rest are flautistic. Violinists will not be held back from
exploring the entire set (any more than an occasional doubled Estopped and openin the finale of the sixth sonata
will prevent flutists from having their way with that piece).
The "methodical" aspect of these pieces attaches primarily to the fact that the first slow movement in each
composition is presented by Telemann in two versions: the topmost staff in the score carries the melody in its
simple version; the second staff presents Telemann's suggested ornamentation of the line. Unlike the corresponding
case in the Corelli sonatas, opus 5, these elaborations are positively certified as the composer's own, and all the
more exciting for the insight into contemporary performing practice.
The reader will be startled by more than one passage; for example, these measures from the Cantabile of sonata
number 6:
Figure 6-9
Violin, mm. 19-20, both versions
One would not think that the original version needed much added array, because of its moving line and the trill
indications over two notes in the passage. Telemann's indicated adornments, however, transform the melody into a
quite active line, intensifying every detail and implication of the original. It should be noted, moreover, that the
elaborated movements in these sonatas have no repeat sections. Presumably, the listener would never hear the
melody in its pristine state, because the ornamentations are shown to begin with the first notes of the piece. In the
case of the second sonata, the composer begins the original melody sedately on the downbeat; the altered version
begins on the second eighth, whichquite apart from the succeeding ornamentationis already enough to put a
different cast on the trend of the tune:


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Figure 6-10
Violin, mm. 1-2
As for the pieces themselves, they are long enough (four and five movements) to satisfy, without resort to tedious
padding. The sonatas are not heavyweight pieces; yet their appeal and charm is undeniable. Consider, from
Seiffert's one ''violin" choice, sonata number 5, these passages from the rousing finale:
Figure 6-11
a. Violin and bass, Allegro, mm. 1-8
b. Violin and bass, Allegro, mm. 19-26
Imagine the fun of an entire such movement, with the clangor of the repeated quarter notes (cf. measures 5 to 7), or
the cavorting of the leaping and chromatic line (as in the second passage, above). Let the keyboard player note, too,
how neatly his bass line participates in the festivities in these passages.
As just one more illustration of the imaginative writing in these pieces, see this opening to the penultimate
movement of the same sonata. Entitled,Ondeggiando ("undulating"), the music rocks and lulls us, a needed and
restful oasis between the energetic movements that surround it on either side:
Figure 6-12
Violin and bass, Ondeggiando, mm. 1-5

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In short, Telemann's methodism makes delightful playing.
From Telemann's Essercizii Musici overo Dodeci Soli e Dodeci Trii (''Musical Essays, or Twelve Soli and Twelve
Trios"), dating from after 1739, I have seen two sonatas in modern reprint: number 1, in F, and number 7, in A.
The Sonata in F impressed me more, specifically for the richly convoluted line of the solo part and the equally
entwining harmonies of the opening Andante; also for the similar qualitybut now in exuberant frameof the closing
Allegro. The first Allegro is not always musically convincing in its bustling about, though the rather evenhanded
activity of both instruments will keep them and the audience amused. The violin is in single-stop writing
throughout, so that the imitative treatment in the writing necessarily involves the given bass and added
participation by the realized voices. A very good ensemble movement results. The third movement, an undulant
Siciliana, will prove appealing.
This piece, along with those from the Metodiche sonatas and the Musique de Table, belongs without apology on
today's sonata programs. The dust of Telemann is, after all, not so dry.
George Frederick Handel

In February of 1685, a month almost to the day before J. S. Bach came on the scene in Eisenach, Georg Friedrich
Händel was born in the town of Halle, Germany. Despite paternal misgivings about the solidity of a musical career
(the elderly father, a barber-surgeon, having attained to the eminence of court surgeon to the duke of Saxe-
Weissenfels), the obvious musical ability of the boy prevailed and, in 1692 or 1693, he began studies with
Friedrich Wilhelm Zachau, organist of the Liebfrauenkirche in Halle. In 1702 Handel (to revert to the English
spelling of his name), entered the law curriculum at the University of Halle, in deference to the ideas about security
proclaimed by his father (already deceased), but he also became organist at the Domkirche. A year later, he gave
up both pursuits and removed to Hamburg. Reinhard Keiser, the distinguished composer, conductor, and
impresario, was director of the opera theater there, and it was under him that Handel served as violinist and
harpsichordist.
In 1706, Handel went to Italy, and for the next three years moved to and fro between Florence, Rome, Venice, and
Naples. He quickly made his mark as a composer of Italian opera, and came to know the leading Italian composers
of the time, Corelli and Alessandro Scarlatti among them. In 1710, Handel returned to Germany, to a post as
kapellmeister at the court of the elector of Hanover, but with an early leave for travel to


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England. A half-year stay in London was followed by a period of time again at Hanover. In 1712, Handel returned
to England, overstayed his leave, and was eventually followed by his employer when, in 1714, that worthy
ascended to the English throne as George I, the first Hanoverian King. Handel was more than ever involved in
operatic ventures, as composer and impresario combined. Except for a few visits to the Continent, first as a
member of the retinue of King George, later on business or recuperative trips of his own, Handel spent his
remaining years in England. German-born, steeped in the Italianate musical ways of his time, Handel came to be
hailed as one of England's most ''native" composers.
. . . Handel, enroll'd our Son, thou shalt admire
Justly, for ne'er did Stranger land more welcome
on Anglian Shore, or one more fam'd in Musick . . . 70
There is a story, current among orchestral players, about the cellist who woke from a dream where he had seen
himself playing in a performance of Handel's Messiah, only to find that he was. Handel, for most of us, has the role
of harbinger of Christmastide in performances of the Messiah that have become seasonal rituals. Indeed, one movie
some years ago (an English-made effort, at that) went so far as to reveal Handel, in the climactic moment of his
life, composing Messiah to the inspiration of Biblical visions miraculously screened on the wall of his study. That
oratorio is a masterwork, of course. In other creative moments, however, Handel wrote numerous operas, assorted
stage music, choral works, passions, eighteen oratorios other than Messiah, liturgical compositions, vocal
ensembles, cantatas, songs, orchestral music, organ concerti, keyboard worksand some fifty pieces of chamber
music.
Included in these last are the six sonatas for violin and continuo, from opus 1. Chronologically, this opus number
means nothing, for the set of works in question was published in the early 1720s, when Handel was approaching
forty, and long after he had started to produce. It was about 1722 that Jeanne Roger in Amsterdam brought out
"Sonatas for a Flute, Violin, or Oboe, with Basso Continuo, by G. F. Handel."71 There were twelve works in this
set, including three of the pieces that we know, in the six violin sonatas, under the numbering: opus 1, number 3, in
A; opus 1, number 14, in A; and opus 1, number 15, in E flat. It seems that Roger was using plates that had been
engraved by the London publisher, John Walsh, the elder, who had been Handel's principal publisher in England
since 1711. Why Walsh did not himself bring out this first edition of the sonatas is not clear. In any event, Walsh
did bring out his own edition


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around 1732, under the title, ''Solos for a German Flute, a Hoboy or Violin With a Thorough Bass for the
Harpsicord or Bass Violin Compos'd by Mr. Handel."
Again, this set contains twelve works. Walsh has, as part of his title page, the observation, "Note: This is more
Corect than the former Edition." In addition to lesser changes, this may refer to the substitution of two entire
sonatas for a pair (numbers 14 and 15, above) that had appeared in the Roger set. As a result of this change, this
publication now included two more of the sonatas known to us as part of the Handel six: number 10, in G minor,
and number 12, in F. Where was number 13, in D, referred to by one Handel scholar as "perhaps the greatest work,
from the standpoint of purely musical value, in the whole collection"? It was not in the set at all, but was published
by Chrysander in the Händel-Gesellschaft edition in the late nineteenth century as part of the opus 1 collection. As
for the opus 1, that term was first used by Walsh in advertisements of 1734.
To further complicate matters: on the British Museum copy of the 1722 Roger edition, an early commentator wrote
about sonatas 14 and 15 (our numbering), "NB. This is not Mr.: Handel's." Perhaps it was for this reason that Walsh
replaced these two pieces in his 1732 edition. Unfortunately, however, the British Museum copy of that edition (as
represented by a 1733 reprint) again bears the written comment, "Not Mr. Handel's Solo," about the very pieces that
Walsh had used as replacements: works that we know as numbers 10 and 12. At any rate, all six sonatas have long
been accepted as Handel's own, and are so played and enjoyed.
The reader will note again, from the title of the Walsh publication of 1732, the words, " . . . With a Thorough Bass
for the Harpsicord or Bass Violin . . ." However, Handel seems not to have supervised any of these editions, so we
cannot be sure that the instruction reflects his desires in the matter. On this subject, the following two passages will
be of interest:
Finally, we must point to the title of Handel's Opus 1, and the appealing possibility that it raises of
performing these sonatas with a cello, a gamba, or a bass alone, a practise which many composition-titles
show us to have been at that time a rather usual one; in this case, the indicated harmonies must of course be
filled out by double-stops or rolled chords. 72
The practise of the basso continuo era permits . . . performance with the strengthening of the bass by cello
or gamba orand this alternative is especially to be stressed for these sonataswithout keyboard, with only a
string-bass instrument. If the sonatas are played as duos, which is much to be recommended, then it is
clearly revealed how


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masterfully the two voices are set off against each other rhythmically and thematically. 73
The reader will want to compare these statements with the judgments on the continuo setting of the Corelli sonatas
(see chapter 5). About using the piano instead of the harpsichord, the writer of the second passage is rather
negative (''This sound [of the harpsichord], desired by the composer, is to be heard wherever sensitive musicians
feel dedicated to original performance practise.").74 But the author of the first comment quotes the eminent Johann
Joachim Quantz, flutist and court composer to Frederick the Great, to the effect that the pianoin any event the
softer-toned piano of the mid-eighteenth centuryis ideally suited to an accompaniment role. In short, these robust
and nourishing Handel sonatas are accessible to a variety of instrumentalists.
The illustrations in this section are drawn from the new edition of the Handel sonatas, by Stanley Sadie, published
by G. Henle Verlag. It is titled, Sieben Sonaten für Violine und Generalbass; the seventh work, as the editor
explains in his Preface, "was originally published as Opus 1 No. 6 for oboe, but Handel's autograph shows that it
was marked by the composer as 'Violino Solo.'"
Sonata in D, op. 1, no. 13. This is the curious sonata in the Handel set. Its very opening is a puzzle to the neophyte
player. The first movement is marked Affettuoso; but the first four notes of the violin part prove nettlesome, rather
than affectionate: DF sharpAE! The E is not only foreign, but it is also long, insistent, stubborn, and for the
moment, unresolved. It clashes against the opening D of the continuo; the motion of that bass note to C sharp
ameliorates the situation briefly. But the tartness is resumed at the beginning of measure 2, when an F sharp bass is
pitted against the still-maintained E. The pattern of the opening is reflected in the moving notes of the violin's
second measure: ADF sharpB! Here, of course, the clash is linear, between the initial A and the arrival on B.
We are stretching things, to be sure. What is involved is a simple friction produced by suspensions:
Figure 6-13
Mm. 1-3

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Handel does the the stretching himself, however, introducing the irritant note not by direct motion but from afar,
emphasizing its foreignness thereby:
Thus, it clashes not only against the bass, but against its fellows within its own line. This way of doing things once
fixed upon, the composer adheres to it with grim purpose through the movement. The melodic interval of a ninth
occurs in the violin part in measures 5 (F sharpG sharp), 6 (AB), 12 (AB), and 13 (EF sharp). And so pungent is the
flavor of these intervals and their presentation that more innocent situations take on the same kind of emphasis in
our ear. EC sharp (measure 6), F sharpD (measure 7), EB (measure 9), EG sharp (measure 14), the downward leap
of F sharpD (measure 20), or the upward progression, immediately following, of DC (measure 20), GB (measure
21), AC sharp (measure 22), all acquire a special glint by association.
For the performer, the problem is two-edged: either he plays the movement with bland impartiality, plodding
through all notes, sweet and otherwise, unaware of their varying potency, or else, recognizing the acerb nature of
the sustained ''foreign" tones, he lays into them with relentless pressure, so that the emphasis becomes leaden and
unappetizing.
Rather, the sustained irritant notes must be played with easy stroke, with warm but not sizzling vibrato, so that the
note resonates, glows, lending its peculiar intensity to the otherwise normal progressions of the music in a graceful
manner. The shock value of the sounds in this Affettuoso, then, will have that mixture of warmth and hostility that,
we are told, so often colors the course of affection, and that certainly seems to be the blend sought by Handel in
these lines.
In playing this movement, the performer will be aided by its clear-cut organization. To reassure himself on this
point, he need only refer to the third movement, Largo, of the first sonata in this opus, for flute. 75 The flute
movement is clearly an earlier version of the violin Affettuoso; it is somewhat shorter, andthough it starts like its
successorit meanders badly, both in harmony and in melodic handling, so that, with the best playing imaginable, it
must still give a confused and unsatisfying effect.
However, to return to the violin sonata: Here are two measures from


Page 102
the opening movement, first as seen in printed format, and then as that first version might look if written out in
note-for-note fashion. The clumsy look of the written-out version, incidentally, is a telling argument for the use of
the shorthand ornament signs, or indeed, for the omission of the signs altogether, in favor of the player's own style-
guided sense of improvisation; beyond the complex look of the written version, it lacks the ability to convey the
last touch of inflection that marks the informed, live performance. 76
Figure 6-14
a. Mm. 7-8, as printed
b. Mm. 7-8, as played
The Allegro second movement starts with the composed acceleration so often found in late baroque melody:
and so forth. Notice the rather informal way the violin line has of breaking off, then resuming course (see measures
5 to 12), or its offhand way of making an entry (measure 9, last beat). This kind of activity takes place when the
bass has the thematic center of attention (see measures 5 ff.).
Figure 6-15
Mm. 5-7

Page 103
The violin takes over, in literal reflection, the rhythm and outline of the accompanying bass from the opening
measures of the piece. Bass lines do not have the same melodic obligations that ''melody" lines have. The bass
function, when transferred to the violin line, seems strange in its new setting.
It is this kind of interplay, though, carried out often in the course of the Allegro, that makes it a challenge and a
pleasure for the duo. It is not only a duo between violin and bass line, but, as well contrived by the editor in his
realization of the continuo, also a conversation in which the upper keyboard line can participate.
Figure 6-16
Mm. 26-28
There are some breakneck passages for the two instruments in the movement, sometimes combined with broken-
field running. In measures 35 to 37, the violin starts its sixteenth run as a melodic instrument. In measure 36, the
bass takes up the subject of the movement. When the bass launches into its eighth-note motion, midway through
bar 36, the violin, without breaking its sixteenth-note stride, jumps immediately into an accompanying role, leaping
in register and also changing at the same time from a scalewise to a chordal pattern. The continuo has a similar
change as it moves from the first half of measure 24 to the second:
Figure 6-17
a. M. 36
b. M. 24

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Throughout the movement, the player must be alert to the changing roles, both in his own part and in that of his
rival, and he must act accordingly.
The Largo third movement sets a familiar baroque trap for the player: recurrence of rhythmic figure. Let the mold
of uniformity come down upon the measure-by-measure play, and every listener within earshot will be in a trance
of boredom by the end of the fourth measure.
Figure 6-18
Mm. 1-4
It is essential that the player, in this phrase, bring out the arch represented by the four strong beats, first to last. The
two dotted figures (measures 1 and 2) must not be too obtrusive, because they represent a static thread in the
melody. Note that the dotted figure, however, should be slightly sharpened, prolonging, or almost double dotting,
the longer note, shortening the second note to match. The second such figure should be somewhat stronger than the
first, and the third should be stronger still, and yet subordinate to the C sharp at the beginning of the measure. This
note will, in turn, move toward the D at the start of measure 4, which is the goal of this initial phrase, the energy
then draining quickly away in the progression downward to the final B of the line.
I must point out that, far from the double-dotting approach, Stanley Sadie, editor of the Henle edition, suggests the
possibility of approximating a triplet rhythm in performing the dotted figures
The player will want to experiment with both treatments of the rhythm, observing for himself the effect achieved.
In either case, discretion must prevail.
Fortunately, the movement is well engineered by Handel; to ruin the music, the performer will have to work at it.
Along with the frequent repetition of dotted figure, there is subtle play of variety. The second phrase starts with
another threefold repetition of the rhythm of bar 1; but instead of closing off in its fourth measure, this phrase goes
onward


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and up, introducing a new rhythmic figure. This, though once repeated in its own right (measures 8 and 9), is part
of a much larger phrase, now extending over twelve measures (5 to 16). We need only examine the ornamental
rhythmic detail in this unit, and compare it with corresponding fragments of later passages in the movement, to
note the fine-grained way this one facet of melody is altered to suit the demands of musical flexibility:
Figure 6-19
a. M. 8, beat 3:
b. M. 23, beat 3:
c. M. 29, beat 1:
Also, phrase 1 is four measures long; phrase 2, as already mentioned, is twelve measures; and phrase 3, twenty-
three. And this counts only the violin part (which is predominant in this movement). Actually, there are very brief
interludes for the continuo alone, extending the phrases still further.
The pace of the movement gets added impulse and relief from the ornamentation the performer is expected to
provide. In addition to mordents and trills to enliven the long notes of the rhythmic patterns, there is also the
essential trill on the penultimate note of important cadences (especially at the end of the movement). The performer
can take a cue from the increased ornamentation built into the given melodic line midway through the movement
(see measures 21 to 28). The embellishment of the first part of the movement, however, must remain modest
enough so that the progress in intensity in the unfolding movement is not pushed too hard, too soon.
Note, too, that the ''true" cadential ending of the movement occurs in measures 36 and 37, with the remaining three
and one-half measures serving as epilogue.
Figure 6-20
Mm. 35-40

Page 106
The final movement, Allegro, combines the composed speedup of the second movement's subject with a successive
emphasis on several different rhythmic patterns. The acceleration is over a larger musical span here, to allow for
the sequence of rhythmic episodes.
Figure 6-21
a. Dotted figure, mm. 1-2
b. Short running figure, mm. 5-8
c. Long running figure, mm. 13-14
The score indicates three cuts in this movement, apparently by Handel himself: measures 19 to 24, 41 to 51, and 61
to 68. In the first and last of these passages, the keyboard takes up the running figure. It would seem that Handel
wanted, on second thought, to have the acceleration lead to the end of the major structural sections exclusively in
the violin part, without giving a turn to the basso continuo. The effect of the three cuts, taken together, is to
streamline the sonata and make it move with the greatest possible directness in its closing moments.
Handel later (1751) used this same movement in his last oratorio,Jephtha, as a sinfonia, midway through Scene I
of Act III, with identical melodic line and bass line, the only change being the addition of a middle voice, for the
viola. 77 The viola part is in effect a realization of the figured bass of the sonata movement, showing the kind of
texture and thematic participation that Handel expected of the inner voice. Moreover, the sinfonia omits those same
portions that had been crossed out in the autograph of the sonata movement.
Of course, the change from duo to orchestral setting carries with it an effect of massive sonority that goes far
beyond what the printed page might indicate. So also, but in much greater degree, does the change that takes place
in the material of the first Allegro of this sonata, when it is


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made the basis for much of the large double-choral piece that opens Act II of Handel's oratorio, Solomon (1748). 78
The quotation is at first rather literal, but grows into something larger and quite distinct from its sonata origin.
The very minute when the borrower looks at the material he is about to use, a process is begun. No matter
how much it resembles the original, in the hands of a real artist, it becomes a different plant, different sap
will flow in its veins, it will acquire a different coloring and will occupy an entirely different spot in the
garden into which it was transplanted.79
Here are some observations about other movements in the set of Handel sonatas.
Sonata number 3, in A. The second movement, Allegro, a brilliant affair, has a lot of good fiddling in it. The finale,
a rollicking 12/8 Allegro, is fun.
Sonata number 10, in G minor. The third movement, Adagio, is quite simple in its melodic outlines and will be an
unsatisfying interlude unless fleshed out with appropriate embellishments. The same holds true, over longer time-
spans, for the third movements of sonatas 12, 14, and 15.
Sonata number 12, in F. The second movement, Allegro, must be handled with care. Its rather four-square motivic
writing and phrasing can quickly yield a wooden effect. There is relief in the continuous-sixteenth passages that
mark the second section of the movement, but a light touch will be needed throughout. The Allegro finale is a good
example of the equating of dotted figure and triplet. The need for this treatment can be seen from a glimpse at the
first two measures; every dotted figure, including those in the violin part, must be played as a triplet, in order to
conform to the rhythm of the motion in the opposing voice:
Figure 6-22
Mm. 1-2
Sonata number 14, in A. This is a joy throughout. Sunlight and radiance fills the first, second, and fourth
movements; the third movement, Largo, is the only one in minor and is suffused with a mild pathos, offering only
a moderate shadow episode before the easy sparkle of the conclusion. The opening Adagio has been provided by
the composer with


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written-out embellishments; the editor has added only a few, including the brief cadenza in the last measure of the
movement.
Sonata number 15, in E flat. The fast movements, both Allegro, are engaging and bright. The entire sonata makes a
fine, compact addition to the concert program, and can be attempted by the intermediate player with a supple bow-
arm (if this is not a contradiction in terms!).
In general, the Handel sonatas are easier, both technically and musically, than the Bach works for violin and
keyboard. The movements are shorter, the texture less complex (especially because Handel treats the keyboard in
the older, accompanying role rather than in Bach's forward-looking, thoroughly integrated manner). There is a kind
of bluff, good-natured accessibility about these works that makes them entirely pleasant andin the long runnot too
gripping in repeated hearing. They are relatively early works; some portions of them, according to Schmitz, may go
back to Handel's teen-age years. They have ''fine melodies, richly embroidered instrumental arias, and vivacious
dance movements." 80 When all is said and done, however, they may smack a bit too strongly of " . . . a sane and
balanced mancapable, shrewd, honest and dependable," as Handel has been characterized by one of his most ardent
devotées.81 It is as though these pieces, marking a transitory interest on Handel's part, a genre that he had to try as
part of his music-making experience (as, for that matter, seems true also in the career of J. S. Bach), tap only the
more limited resources of his personality.
This leaves them, nonetheless, the products of a genius, and quite well suited to challenge, in modest fashion, the
digital and musical alertness of all performers. These sonatas have a firm place in the teaching studio, as well as a
solid, if more restricted, role in the concert auditorium.


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7
The Sonatas of J. S. Bach
If he had a friendperhaps a publisher?who would have encouraged him to take a day off say once a week we
might have been spared some hundreds of pages in which there are rows upon rows of joyless bars, always with
that little rascal of a subject and its countersubject. 82
We shall seek in vain for one fault in taste in all that vast amount of work in which we constantly find things
that might have been written yesterday, from the capricious arabesque to that outpouring of religious feeling for
which we have so far found no better expression.83
The author of both comments is one and the same: Debussy. More surprisingly, the subject of both comments is
also the same: J. S. Bach. If the first comment is shocking to Bachomanes (and who among us is not such?), it
must be understood that the words were written by a deathly ill Debussy, in the last year of his life, and at a time
when he had been preoccupied with the task of editing the violin and the gamba sonatas of Bach for the publisher,
Durand. The other, ecstatic view dates from Debussy's years as music critic, at the very start of the century and at a
time when he was in his prime.
We make this apology not out of a spirit of condescension; quite the contrary: one who has performed Bach can
well understand the frustration that can result from falling into the ocean of notes left to us by the master. To
plunge in heedlessly is to take the printed page at its face value: an all-over, wallpaperlike pattern of seemingly
uniform rhythmic flow. This


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misconception can lead eventually to the overhead comment of a student (he is, thankfully, nameless), ''Bach
should be mechanical!"
Bach is, of course, anything but that. His music abounds in subtle nuance and inflection, of a kind that is endlessly
challenging, solved only to call for fresh inspection, fresh resolution. This is as true of the sonatas for violin and
keyboard as of any other Bach work. The very titling of the opus is a point of discussion. J. N. Forkel, one of the
leading musicographers of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and a foremost early Bach scholar,
describes these sonatas as "for the clavier with the accompaniment of a violin obbligato." 84 Rudolf Gerber,
twentieth-century musicologist and editor of these sonatas for the Neue Ausgabe of Bach's works (hereafter NBA),
titles them "for violin and obbligato Harpsichord."85
Both viewpoints are correct; for in these compositions we are dealing with instruments of equal importance.
Because, by virtue of fingering melodic lines with two hands, the keyboard player can account for at least two
voices, he may be thought to have the more prominent place in the ensemble. But the emphasis in these sonatas is
precisely on the several active parts, and not on the particular instrument to which the given part is assigned.
[These] are essentially trio sonatas in which the first violin part of the old trio sonata is assigned to the
violin solo and the second violin part of the trio sonata is given to the right hand of the harpsichordist. The
accompaniment is then played by the left hand, the right hand also participating at need.86
So intent is Bach on the idea of the important function of each strand in the musical fabric that he abandons the
usual practice of his time; instead of providing one fairly specific melodic line for the violin, another specific line
for the bass, and mere shorthand numeral indications for the harmonic contours of the middle-voices-to-be-
improvised, he uses figured-bass texture only here and there in these pieces, and for the most part writes out each
and every voice in the keyboard (and violin) completely.
In part, this procedure may have been intended as a safeguard against the overenthusiastic ornamentation and
improvisation that was already the habit of some performers in Bach's earlier years. In a more positive vein,
however, it is Bach's declaration of concern for the integration of each voice into the musical business at hand.
The fact that Bach is so specific in his notation brings performance dangers in its train. Violinists who have studied
the first of the Sonatas


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for Violin Alone, the one in G minor, will recall the difficulty of the first movement therein, the Adagio. The line
is fairly black with notes, and the impulse of the player is to give full measure to each and every blob of ink. The
result then is a turgid and starched trickle of sound, with every semblance of propulsion and flow quite
extinguished. If, in the Corelli sonatas, the danger lay in taking the skeleton of the music for the living organism,
the danger in the Bach pieces is rather that of viewing the very pores of the music's skin so myopically that all
sense of the structural frame of the music escapes entirely.
Further, the specific gravity of a Bach line tends to be greater than that in other composers. Important tones occur
at relatively great frequency. The player must penetrate through the ornamental surface of the music; yet at the
same time he must not mistake a structural member for an ornamental accessory. As in house repair, one may tear
out a partition, only to find that it was a bearing wall, vital to the soundness of the edifice. The Bach player must
be both analytic and self-critical; he must hear, feel, andabove allthink. Bach without thought is an overwhelming
bore.
The Bach family served court, town, and church music in Germany (especially in the central German region of
Thuringia) and, to a much lesser degree, abroad, from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. Of all the many
musical Bachs, Johann Sebastian was the greatest. He was born in Eisenach in 1685. Orphaned at ten, he joined the
household of his oldest brother, Johann Christoph, at Ohrdruf, and studied keyboard with him. He continued his
studies at Lüneburg, and there and in neighboring cities heard much, including the playing of notable organist-
composers such as Jan Adams Reinken and Georg Böhm, and the French-oriented music at the ducal court of
Celle.
Bach was already composing while at Lüneburg; and he soon had opportunity to put his abilities as player and
writer to active use. In 1703, he became a violinist in the court orchestra of Weimar; later that same year, he
transferred to the town of Arnstadt as church organist. His next post was not at Lübeck, but, in 1707, as organist at
the Blasiuskirche in Mülhausen. And in 1708 he began a nine-year tenure as organist and, later concertmaster at
the ducal court of Weimar. Late in 1717, he took up duties as kapellmeister at the princely court of Anhalt-Cöthen.
Bach remained at Cöthen until 1723, at which time he assumed his last and longest post, that of cantor of the
Thomaschule in Leipzig, which he occupied until his death in 1750.
Instrumental music looms large in the list of works written by Bach


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during the Cöthen years: the six Brandenburg concerti, for varied rosters of instruments; the orchestral overtures,
also rather experimental in their instrumental groupings; the two solo-violin concerti and the double concerto for
violins; the six sonatas for violin alone; the like number of suites for solo cello; and so onincluding the set of
works that interests us here, the six sonatas for keyboard and violin.
There is about these pieces that same adventuresome air that characterizes the Brandenburg concerti; where, in the
latter compositions, Bach was able to call upon contrasting and changing sonorities in the several works, he is
restricted here to the sound of violin and harpsichord. Within that limitation, considerable variety of effect is
achieved. There is, of course, a wide range of temper from movement to movement, and from one sonata to the
next. It seems, as one plays through the sonatas, that Bach treated the six works as contrasting and complementary
members of a single opus. At the risk of vast oversimplification, we might characterize the several works as: 1. (B
minor) serious; 2. (A major) tranquil, with bright overtones; 3. (E major) noble, jazzy (especially the second
movement of this sonata), brilliant; 4. (C minor) lamenting (the similarity of the opening movement to the aria with
violin obbligato, Erbarme dich, mein Gott, from the Saint Matthew Passion, has been widely noted and is
immediately apparent to the player), dark, impassioned; 5. (F minor) studious, the most ''academic" of the six
pieces; 6. (G major) sturdy, determined, hearty.
The familiar view of these sonatas, voiced among others by Boyden (see above), is that they are texturally unified
by a transfer of the old triosonata idea to the setting of two instruments: violin linekeyboard treblekeyboard bass.
On the other hand, Hans Eppstein, editor of the new Henle issue of these compositions, maintains that the trio-
sonata conception of these works "is not a perceptive definition; in certain aspects, it is even directly false."* My
own inspection of the sonatas, movement by movement, had already revealed much contrast in voicing, extending
all the way from the grouping of solo instrument with accompaniment to full four-part setting, suggestions of
quintet, and even of small orchestra. In particular, the frequently high level of activity of the bass line forces upon
us the thought that Bach is writing trios, for three almost equal voices, rather than continuing in the vein of the
traditional trio sonata. 87 If we classify the movements by voicing, as in the following tabulation, we shall find that
the examples of duo with accompaniment, which most closely parallels the
* Hans Eppstein, "Zur Problematik von J. S. Bachs Sonate für Violine und Cembalo G-dur (BWV 1019)."
Archiv für Musikwissenschaft, No. 3-4, 1964, p. 217.


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trio sonata texture, number significantly less than those where three almost equal parts prevail. (Arabic numbers
refers to the sonata; roman numerals, to the movement.)
1. Solo and accompaniment. This is the more exceptional treatment in these pieces, but is to be found in 3-I, 4-I, 4-
III, and 5-III. In the first three cases, the violin is the ''soloist"; in the last, the keyboard. But, in the first three
instances, we must still hesitate to relegate the keyboard figuration to a subordinate role, because the "background"
patterns have so vital and lyric a life of their own that they contest strongly with the prominent melodic line of the
violin for our interest.
2. Duo with bass accompaniment. Sonata 1-I is the first such example, though one again hesitates at this
attribution. The treble of the harpsichord presents two (mostly) parallel lines in its own part, one or the other of
them breaking away to respond to the single-line statements of the violin line. The parallel-motion lines in the
harpsichord broaden the single strand of melody into a band of melody. The violin takes up parallel-line double-
stops to accompany the harpsichord in its turn; and the bass line is so prominent a support that it vies with the
upper lines for prominence. Is this movement, then, a duo, a trio, or a would-be quintet?
In sonata 1-III, the duo treatment is more clear-cut, with sixteenth-note motion characterizing both violin and
harpsichord treble, the bass line moving in eighths. There is marvelous interplay between the two upper lines.
In sonata 2-III, the two upper voices, in beautifully expressive canon throughout, are clearly the duet in the
foreground. But the bass, with its constant play of sixteenths, is so florid in its motion that it runs a close second to
its fellow voices.
At last, in sonata 3-III, there is a consistent duet throughout, between violin and keyboard treble. The pulsating
eighth chords of the keyboard and the violin double-stops belong to the accompaniment element in this movement.
The second movement of sonata 4, a Largo, begins as a duo with accompaniment, but, for its second half, becomes
a foursome.
Though the third movement of sonata 6 is for keyboard alone, it must be classed as at least a duo with (and
sometimes without) accompaniment, and at certain points as a trio.
3. Trio, with bass line providing equal, or almost equal third voice. This category applies to fully half the
movements in these sonatas. As our description under the preceding headings indicates, the number of such
movements may be even larger. Those included here, however, are set apart


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byand, indeed, owe their strong three-part equality tothe fact that imitative writing links the several voices to one
another: 1-II, 1-IV, 2-I, 2-II, 2-IV, 3-II, 4-II, 4-IV, 5-II, 5-IV, 6-I, 6-IV, and 6-V.
4. Quartet. This applies to 5-I, which Philipp Spitta terms ''the only [movement] . . . in which four real parts are
employed." 88 In other movements there may be occasional snatches of four-part writing, but here the voicing is
consistent. The keyboard provides a three-part web of imitatively treated voices; the violin part, though often
reflecting the activity of the lower voices, acts more as a lyric commentator on their conversation.
5. Concerto. Movement 3-IV seems to present the violin and keyboard treble in the role of soloists in a double
concerto (cf. measures 35 to 77; measures 92 to 102); in the remainder of the movement the protagonists give the
impression, quite credibly, of being the whole orchestra, the tutti.
That Bach was concerned with questions of contrast and balance between the several movements of the sonata can
be seen in the known changes he made in two of these sonatas.89 In the case of sonata 6, there were three versions,
and each of these had more than the grouping of four movements common to all the other sonatas in the set.
According to the NBA editors, the earliest, Cöthen version had five movements: the first and last movements were
identical. In the first revision, early in the Leipzig years, this movement still appears at both beginning and end of
the sonata. Manfred Bukofzer describes this version as carrying "the da-capo principle [of the baroque concerto] to
its highest point. The first movement, in itself a da-capo form, must be bodily repeated as a giant da-capo at the
end and thus flanks three slow movements of pronounced lyrical affections."90 Note that Bach retained the idea of
the fast-moving frame for the sonata even when he removed the "giant da-capo." In the final revision, probably
after 1731, the same initial movement is heard, but only once; a new finale (the Allegro familiar to all of us) is
added. The title of the first movement changed in the three versions: from Presto and Vivace, to Allegro. Because
the music remained unaltered, it is difficult to say that the change in character marking has real significance for the
player, except to reinforce the conviction that the tempo should not be rushed.
The Cöthen version (again according to the NBA editors) had three middle movements: a Largo (which is retained
as the second movement in all three version); a Cantabile, ma un poco adagio, with beautifully decorated writing
for the violin-and-treble duet;* and an Adagio.**
* See Henle edition, J. S. Bach, Sechs Sonaten, pp. 128-134; Bärenreiter edition, II, pp. 60 ff.; and NBA
VI/1, pp. 147 ff.
** See Henle edition, pp. 124 ff.; Bärenreiter II, pp. 65 ff.; NBA VI/1, pp. 202 ff.


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The first Leipzig revision had six movements. To open, there are the original fast and Largo movements; then, a
new third movement (replacing the Cantabile), for harpsichord alone; next, the original Adagio; a fifth, inserted
movement for duo again, but now with violin as solo, keyboard as accompaniment; and at the end, the repetition of
the opening Vivace.
In the third shaping of the sonata, which we know today, Bach went back to five movements. The first movement,
now called Allegro, is original; so is the second movement, Largo. In third spot there is a new movement for
harpsichord alone, Allegro. Then a new Adagio, longer and more ornate than the movement it replaced, possibly to
compensate for the elimination of the fifth movement of the second version. Finally, a new Allegro (rather than a
repetition of the opening movement).
The illustrations in this chapter are drawn almost entirely from the excellent new edition of the Bach sonatas,
published by G. Henle Verlag. Eppstein, editor of the set, argues convincingly on the basis of internal and external
evidence surrounding the sonatas that the above (and usual) chronology of the works should be reassessed. He
suggests that allincluding the sixth sonatadate not later than 1723. Further, that the first two versions of the sixth
are earlier in origin, going back possibly as far as 1720 or even before; and that the six-movement version of the
sonata (beginning and ending with the Vivace) preceded both five-movement versions, contrary to the traditional
view. Thus, the five-movement grouping, still with identical end-movements (but now called Presto), constituted
the second version of the work. This version, then, became the final one through yet another change in title of the
first movement (from Presto to Allegro), the insertion of two new middle movements (the present solo keyboard
movement in place of the Cantabile, the present Adagio in place of the older one), and the provision of the new
Allegro finale in place of the grand da capo ordering.*
The two movements peculiar to the six-movement version, the harpsichord solo and the duo fifth movement, were
transferred by Bach to the Sixth Partita, in E minor, of part one of the Clavierübung (1731), where they serve as
Courante and Gavotte (without violin, of course). The original setting of the Gavotte movement has survived only
in the continuo bass line. 91 In the Clavierübung, the movement has been shifted from its original G minor to E
minor and bears a treble part that we can assume reflects the original violin melody. The Henle edition presents the
movement, so ordered and also restored to G minor, in an appendix to its printing of the sonatas.
* Eppstein, ''Problematik," pp. 237-238.


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Figure 7-1
a. Harpsichord solo movement, mm. 1-5, from the six-movement version of
sonata 6: 92
b. Gavotte, reconstituted for violin and keyboard, mm.
1-2:93
The Adagio movement of the first two versions of the sixth sonata begins as follows:*
Figure 7-2
Adagio, mm. 1-2
In trying the several versions of the sonata and in pondering the question of their chronology, the duo will at the
same time, with the editors, reflect on the considerations of balance that made Bach experiment with the number,
the musical texture, and the instrumentation of the movements as he changed from one version to the next. The
players can put their views to the test by trying the several versions as presented by the Henle and Bärenreiter
editions.
Spitta, at any rate, years ago cast his preference for the earlier five-movement version. It is this setting that he
describes at length, and espe-
* See the Henle edition, J. S. Bach, Sechs Sonaten, pp. 110-111.


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cially its third movement, which stood at the center of the fairly symmetrical structure of that sonata:
. . . remarkable for a singularly bridal feeling . . . there is developed in the two upper parts a kind of loving
intercourse, a dialogue as from mouth to mouth, carried on above a bass which has nothing to do but to
support the harmony . . . 94
Whether it is true that ''the whole structure [of the sonata] was endangered" by giving up this movement and by the
other changes Bach made is something the individual player will have to decide for himself.
One further change, in the fifth sonata, should be mentioned: in the revised version of the sonatas, the Adagio, with
sixteenth-note motion in the two lines of the keyboard part, was replaced by the present movement, wherein the
keyboard has swirling figures of thirty-seconds passed from hand to hand. In a movement of such length (twenty-
seven slow measures), the performers are well occupied in maintaining interest with either kind of constant
rhythm. The thirty-seconds, however, do lend themselves more readily to the rhapsodic atmosphere of such a
movement; and, as can be seen from the following excerpt, the new version was used by Bach to attain interesting
dissonant/chromatic shadings:
Figure 7-3
Adagio, third movement of final version, sonata 5*
The titles of the several sources used in editing the Neue Bach-Ausgabe version of the six sonatas read (the letters
are those used by the NBA editors):95
A. Six Trios [!] for Harpsichord and Violin . . .
B. Six Sonatas for Harpsichord and Violin obbligato . . .
C. Six Sonatas for Concertato Harpsichord and Violin.
D. Six Sonatas for Concertato Harpsichord and Concertato Violin . . .
E. Six Sonatas for Concertato Harpsichord and Solo Violin, with Bass for the Viola da Gamba, accompanying,
if desired . . .
F. [Trios] for Obbligato Harpsichord and Violin . . .
G. Sonatas for Concertato Harpsichord, Solo Violin, Bass for Viola da Gamba, accompanying, if desired . . .
* Henle edition, p. 89; see original version of the movement, NBA VI/1, pp. 195-196.


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On the evidence of sources E and G, Gerber suggests that the gamba (or cello) be used, ''since this brings out the
bass-line as the foundation of the whole structure . . . whenever the keyboard part is played on a harpsichordand
there is no doubt that this does more justice to the transparent texture of the sonatas than the modern grand piano."
96 As far as the relative merits of piano and harpsichord are concerned (questions of faithfulness to the original
performance practise aside), much depends on the skill of the keyboard player. The writer has heard, and
participated in, Bach performances with each of these instruments; the piano can be used, tastefully and
effectively. This is not to deny that the harpsichord should certainly be used if available and if well played.
Even then, however, we do not share Gerber's enthusiasm for the inclusion of the cello. The bass "accompaniment"
is not specifically called for in the other sources, including F, which in its keyboard part bears titles written in the
hand of the composer's son, C. P. E. Bach.97 True, contemporary practice ordinarily used a low-voiced melodic
instrument to reinforce the harpsichord bass line in the trio sonata, as well as in continuo-supported compositions
in general. The very fact, however, that these sonatas are, after all, not trio sonatas, but apply trio-sonata texture in
a new way, changes the situation significantly. The harpsichord is not acting as a background support to the
melodic upper lines; it is itself a member of the melodic duo. With keyboard and violin lines so closely intertwined
with one another, the gambist-cellist is bound to give the impressionboth visually and aurallyof a "me-too"
participant. Nonetheless, a well-contrived gamba part is included with the Bärenreiter edition for those who want
to use the full treatment in the performance of these sonatas.
Eppstein, again, points to the fact that the Bach sonatas for melodic instrument (whether flute, gamba, or violin)
with obbligato keyboard are in general a move away from the continuo principle in composition. Further, he points
out that the stipulation, "for obbligato [certato] keyboard and violin solo accompanied by bass for viola da gamba,
if desired," occurs only in that early copy of the sonatas which presents the movement for "violin solo with
accompanying bass"the penultimate movement of the six-movement version of the sixth sonata. From this he
deduces that the suggestion applies most specifically to that movement, with the intent that it be performed as a
string duo, without keyboard, reflecting and balancing the two-part writing of the movement for keyboard alone in
the third movement of the same version.* Here again, the reader is at
* Eppstein, "Problematik," pp. 234-236.


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liberty to try this suggestion for the interesting sonority contrast it affords the sonata.
The following is a list of suggested metronome marks for each movement in the six sonatas; and it is only
thatsuggestions. To me, the metronome indications given here seem, in each case, to be the ''swing" that best suits
the requirements of clarity of melodic detail, temper of the movement, and motion of the bar unit and its important
subdivisions. Each duo will have to argue the tempi afresh, finding those that best accommodate their own way of
playing the music. Be neither unduly self-charitable, seeking a slowish tempo that favors the fingers, nor, on the
other hand, uncontrollably virtuosic, electing a tempo that casts a bravura smoke screen over leaden insensitivity.
Let the composer be party to your decisions; that is, consider the music first and foremost.
Let us now turn to one sonata among these six, to show what kind of thinking at least one player finds necessary in
dealing with these works. Other performers elect other ways; but all must agree that something more than vigorous
playthrough is needed with these works. Where the artifice of the composer is so subtle, the perception of the
performer must be equally well exercised.
Sonata Number 3, in E (BWV 1016)

To approach the Adagio movement through the violin part (which has the solo role here) the thirty-four measures
can be divided into two major sections, measures 1 to 19 and measures 20 to 34. Each of these large divisions ends
with an extended passage of thirty-second note couplets in


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the violin; the first of these can be seen in Figures 7-6 and 7-7, below (measures 18 and 19). The second is given
here:
Figure 7-4
Violin, mm. 31-34
There are subdivisions within these two large sections. Each such subunit opens with an eighth-sixteenth sequence,
beginning on an offbeat. Using this rhythm as our landmark, we find that phrases begin in measures 1, 6, 11, 15, 20
and 25 (to the end, 34). The first four phrases are balanced by the two concluding phrases; and these, though there
is an implicit breathing point after the first eighth of measure 25, actually are welded together to constitute the
long, climactic running out of the movement. The player should also note an additional turning point after the first
quarter of measure 31; here the harmony has settled, but the music goes on in codetta (complete with the thirty-
second-note flare) to end the movement.
Bach is extraordinarily uniform in his general rhythmic procedure. Each phrase stores energy, so to speak, by
pushing through the eighth-sixteenth pattern. The direction of the pattern can be either up or down. From the
terminal point of this pattern, the line takes off. It follows a rather consistent procedure in each measure of its
flight: a long note (either half or quarter), with a suspension of at least a thirty-second-note duration, or a
combination of quiet glide and further storage of energy, and then a release of that energy, most often through a
streamer of thirty-seconds.
The center of melodic attention in this movement is in the violin part; but the keyboard is no mere accompaniment.
The motive force it supplies is indispensable to the musical web; and the rhythmic distribution of the keyboard line
is a subtle counterpoint to the flight of the violin part. In the first phrase, for example, the peak of the motion lies
in measure 3. Here the violin reaches the sustained high point (C sharp) of its first trajectory; this is also the longest
note in the phrase. And it is precisely here that the keyboard plays through the measure, in contrast to the half-
measure units it has observed in the first two bars. Compare measures 1 and 3:


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Figure 7-5
a. M. 1
b. M. 3
In measure 4, the keyboard reverts to half-measure progress again, to mark the descent of the violin line; and in
measure 5, plays quite through the bar, bridging the pause of the violin (after its cadence) and carrying us into the
second phrase. To diagram the process of the entire phrase:
The left hand of the keyboard has the simplest task: to toll the half measures throughout. It first becomes slightly
more involved in measure 14. In measure 18, where the violin has its first long thirty-second-note couplet passage,
the bass line is more active still, providing an eighth-note counter-point to the violin, while the right hand
signalizes the moment by replacing its familiar pacing with a sustained chord.
Figure 7-6
Mm. 18-19

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There are several points of highest musical density in this movement. One is found precisely in measures 16 to 19,
where the violin arcs quickly upward from B sharp to D sharp, then works its way tortuously down to low E, and
just as complexly up again to C sharp:
Figure 7-7
Violin, mm. 15-19
I must digress here, for a moment, to turn the spotlight on the second half of measure 17. Many a violinist has
wrestled passionately with this bit of melody, trying to live up to the instructions of the composer. It may give
pause to see, arrayed one above the other, several ways in which editions and manuscripts have notated this
passage; the experience will shake or confirm the convictions of the performer, depending on his temperament.
Figure 7-8
a. Bach-Gesellschaft:*
b. Henle edition: **
c. Source C: ***
d. Source D: ****
Another area of concentration is the passage from measure 21 to measure 24, where the frequency of thirty-
second-note streamers, and their con-
* Bach-Gesellschaft, vol. 9, p. 99.
** Henle edition, violin, m. 17.
***Kritischer Bericht, p. 167.
****Kritischer Bericht, p. 167.


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volution, is more tightly spaced than elsewhere in the movement. Playing this passage is like flying, or gliding; one
has to swoop and turn with the line, and ease onto resting points of varying duration, only to take off in free flight
again.
Figure 7-9
Violin, mm. 21-24
Throughout, both in the violin and the keyboard parts, the emphasis must be on legato touch (in the case of the
piano, with a minimum of muddying pedal), smoothness of flow, and nobility of effect. Yet there are some points
where clear-cut articulation must be blended with the larger line. Refer again to Figure 7-7, and note the rather
spiky off-center couplets in measure 17 and the slurred couplets in measure 18. The successive pairs of notes
should be marked off from each other by a slight stopping of the bow between strokes, slight stress on the first note
of the couplet, slight added stress again on the first note of each quarter beatall most discreetlyand a move toward
greater smoothness as the bar progresses, so that a sense of cumulative motion is given.
Above all, do not play each note with unyielding energy. This approach is fatal, making the lines stiff, overblown,
pedantic; the anatomy of the piece becomes fossilized. Keep your eye constantly on the musical scaffolding of the
movement, so that the ornamental drapery may become what it is: an integral fleshing out of the design of the
work.
If the danger in the first movement is to play everything with equal intensity, the pitfall in the second movement,
Allegro, is to take the piece at such a dead run that the music is glossed over, flattened, with nicety of detail lost in
the shuffle. The first vaccine against such an attack is a play through of the first couple of lines of the bass:
Figure 7-10
Bass, mm. 1-11

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Anyone who can try these measures without falling into the easy saunter of a tempo hovering around just
hasn't listened to enough jazz lately. (A vision of this line being slapped out on a double bass is not without its
attractions.) The second inoculation is given by the treble line in the keyboard:
Figure 7-11
Treble, mm. 1-5
The advantage of an easy tempo is seen immediately. There is time to take a short breath after the third beat of
measure 1 and again in measure 3, and to set off the more stable from the more moving part of the line.
The keyboard is alone for the first eight measures; only then does the violin enter with its response to the ongoing
proceedings. The movement is a duet between violin and the keyboard treble, with the active support of the bass
line. And, because that bass is drawn from time to time into the motion of the upper parts, as in measures 47 to 50,
Figure 7-12
Mm. 47-50
one really has to speak of a trio. Bach reinforces the idea of trio by deliberately avoiding any use of the chordal
possibilities of the keyboard. Throughout the movement, right and left hand play only single-line writing. If
suggestion of chordal or contrapuntal functions is required within the single part, Bach bends that one line so that it
can weave together the elements of two voices (cf. treble, measures 61 to 62). The violin, too, gets none of the
double-stopping so dear to the North German violin school (and so thoroughly explored in Bach's own sonatas for
violin alone). The emphasis throughout is on the cooperation of three equal lines of melody.
If the keyboard treble gets a ''hot lick," as in measures 63 ff., with the violin standing by on a sustained note line,
then the score is evened a bit later when the violin gets its turn, the keyboard now taking over the role of onlooker:


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Figure 7-13
Mm. 80-83
A general hint for phrasing in this movement is that a quarter note at the end of a melodic fragment should be
shortened slightly and followed by a very brief comma, to set off the inset of the succeeding note. This is
especially important, for rhythmic clarity, where the following note is of the same pitch as the quarter note. These
observations apply, of course, to the thematic rhythmic patterns,
as seen in the passage quoted in Figure 7-11. They also apply in later extensions of these patterns, as in measures
39 to 40 of the keyboard treble:
Figure 7-14
Treble, mm. 39-40
A breath of suitable length may also be used to set off one figure in a sequence from the next. These phrasing
suggestions must be applied with some discretion. As an illustration, I cite here an excerpt from the violin line,
marked as I would want to play it:
Figure 7-15
Violin, mm. 42-58
The reader may wonder why there should be breath points in measures 49 to 51, but none in 52 to 54. My
reasoning is that the breaks in the earlier measures trace back to the corresponding break that seems man-


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datory at the end of measure 2 in this movement (see Figure 7-11); to continue the pauses into measures 52 ff.
would mean to cut the melodic line too often in too short a space of time. Moreover, the two-eighths-quarter
pattern in these measures moves from weak to strong beat, so that the nature of the detail has changed from the
preceding measures. Finally, the keyboard treble in measure 51 ff. has launched into a continuous stream of eighth
notes; this motion can well support a similar continuity in the violin part at this point; and in any event, the bass
line, with its strong rhythmic figure, , is supplying enough clear-cut pauses to aerate the entire
musical fabric of the moment without need for ventilation in the upper lines.
In Figure 7-15, we indicated not only breaths, but some dynamic gradations. According to the early sources of this
music, there is only one dynamic indication in the entire sonata: a piano at measure 79 of the present Allegro. The
presence of this marking implies that there is contrasting dynamic color, in either direction, just preceding.
Certainly it is unthinkable to have a movement of this length and general consistency of texture proceed without a
fair degree of dynamic variation. The performer must feel free to experiment for the most convincing effect.
A suggested dynamic plan for this particular movement is given below. The crescendi and decrescendi are in order
even when the harpsichord is used as the keyboard, because the violin can always effect such gradation, while the
harpsichord can reinforce the effect by contrasting registration (if it has two manuals). If piano is the keyboard,
then it, also, can take an active part in the swells and diminishings. The following are still only suggestions in
block; many subtle gradations must be imposed in the playing to bring out momentary thematic details in the
measure-to-measure sequence of the music.
Measures
1-23 forte
24-34 piano
35-39 crescendo
40-46 mezzo-forte
47-48 decrescendo to piano
49-57 piano
Measures
58-62 crescendo to mezzo-forte
63-71 mezzo-forte
71-78 decrescendo to piano
79-110 piano
111-120 crescendo to mezzo-forte
121-128 crescendo to forte
129-144 forte
The third movement, Adagio ma non tanto, is a duet throughout: violin and keyboard treble, with the bass line
supplying a harmonic floor of support. That support generally consists of steady descents, scalewise, through an
octave, propelled forward by an upward octave leap at the


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start of each of the first three bars in every four. The resulting tonality-defining outlinea four-measure unitis treated
as an ostinato, recurring constantly (but in shifting placements) in the bass line throughout the movement. Here is
the opening bass phrase:
Figure 7-16
Bass, mm. 1-5
There is a further element of accompaniment, chordally stated, that is carried either in the treble of the keyboard or
in the violin, whichever is not occupied with soloistic duties at the moment. Measures 6 and 14 display the ''trio" at
work on their several roles:
Figure 7-17
Mm. 6, 14
The four opening measures of the movement (for keyboard only) present the accompaniment alone, as introduction
to the first melodic entry. And there are several extended passages where the accompaniment function is left to the
bass line only, both upper parts being then active as duet.
Figure 7-18
Mm. 27-28
Two principal elements make up the melodic material of this movement. One is a scalewise arch made up of
sixteenth-triplet figures; the other is a convoluted line built of a series of sixteenth couplets. These two elements
are so much and so distinctly used in the movement that, in those brief moments when one pattern overlaps the
other, they should be kept distinct, without the assimilation of couplet rhythm to triplet (or vice versa) that is
otherwise characteristic of the music of this period:


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Figure 7-19
Mm. 23-25
Both the triplet and the couplet units are ''packaged" by slurs, though not consistently so throughout. Slurred units
should be articulate, one from the next, but the separation should not be overemphasized. The treatment should be
compliant to the musical context. Several measures from the violin part (similar spots will be found in the
keyboard), with our performance indications, show one way to shape the sequence of figures:
Figure 7-20
Violin, mm. 1-13
As we have shown, the dynamic gradation will supplement rubato in delineating the melody. One thing we cannot
indicate is moderation; neither the swells nor the time stresses should be carried to heroic excesswe are speaking
only of appropriate nuance and inflection.
One facet of the Adagio is not clear from the notation: the fact that the movement does not end. There is a double
bar; but, harmonically, the true ending of the movement occurs at the downbeat of measure 63. The last three
measures continue the melodic triplet motion and erase the sense of finality, carrying us from the tonic (C sharp
minor) to the dominant (G sharp). There we are left poised; and this delicate balance must be


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maintained by quick and unobtrusive transition to the final movement. We must drop into the pace and tonality (E
major) of the final Allegro in order to resolve the question raised by the transitory measures of the Adagio's close.
The Allegro is a three-part movement. The first and last sections (measures 1 to 34, 120 to 154) are identical,
completely oriented to E major, and in thoroughgoing trio texture: the violin, treble, and bass are given equal
melodic rights. A brief excerpt will show the center of interest passing from the upper voices to the bass line.
Figure 7-21
Mm. 14-16
Precise ensemble is required throughout, and especially in passages of maximum activity, such as measure 15.
A middle section, extending from measures 35 through 119, is divided into two subsections. The first of these,
ending in measure 77, is a duet episode; here the bass line, using a rhythmic figure already familiar from the first
part of the movement, supports the dialogue of the two upper lines. That conversation deals mostly in a broad
triplet line, which can be viewed as an alter ego of the rapid-fire sixteenth line of the movement's opening; and
indeed, the episode is shot through with interjections of the sixteenth-note patter, as if to verify the musical
parentage of the new material.
Figure 7-22
Mm. 42-44
The next subsection, from measure 78 onward, returns to the material and trio texture of the end sections, but
without the dominating alle-


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giance to E major. In fact, the vigorous modulatory trail that Bach traces here might, except for the fact that the
subject matter of the movement is preserved intact rather than broken down into its molecular constituents, make
us think that we are in a typical, late-eighteenth-century development section. The ultimate goal and return,
however, are clearly before us from measure 103 on, so that the literal return, from measure 120, comes as a
welcome confirmation, not a surprise.
Because of the intertwining of the sixteenth-note and the eighth-note triplet figures in the second episode of this
movement, the choice of tempo is a matter of some nicety. The triplets must flow with unhurried grandeur and
nobility; but the sixteenths have to move at a pace that will suit the brilliance of such writing. This puts the tempo
choice within fairly narrow limits. Our own preference, already given, is No matter what the tempo, there
must be recognition that the sixteenth-note line often contains two elements: a moving line, and a constant drone.
Look at the opening of the violin part.
Figure 7-23
Violin, mm. 1-5
Even when the line is folded into so active a profile that each note seems to call for attention, some will demand
more emphasis than others. Here is a typical sequence, again from the violin part.
Figure 7-24
Violin, mm. 12-14
Similar selective stress must be observed in playing the triplet measures, of course. Note our suggestions for the
violin part from measures 39 to 51.
Figure 7-25
Violin, mm. 39-51

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The rhythm of the bass line, incidentally, should be made compatible with the triplet rhythm of the violin part in
those measures where the two run simultaneously. For example, measure 46, though printed as in Figure 7-26a,
should sound as in Figure 7-26b.
Figure 7-26
Mm. 46-47
a.
b.
Here the mandatory eighteenth-century practice sounds well, combining with the mid-measure rest in this passage
to produce a nice, forward-moving lilt. The same treatment, of course, applies in similar relationship between bass
and keyboard treble.
Some Other Bach Sonata Movements

Here are some observations about a number of movements from other sonatas in this set of six; some of the
comment applies to a point of interest peculiar to the given movement, while others are relevant also to situations
that occur in works not discussed here.
Inspection of the opening two measures of sonata 2, as written and as played, will also suggest the way of
interpreting the trill, and the Schleifer (or ''slide"), the two-note ornament that glides into the D of the violin part in
measure 2:


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Figure 7-27
a. Mm. 1-2, as written
b. Mm. 1-2, as played
As played, the rhythms of the music take on the lilt and snap they should have. A later excerpt, shown here as
played, realizes the bite and glitter of the successive trills, with the upper tone of each trill properly emphasized.
Figure 7-28
Mm. 24-26
In the second movement of sonata 2, note especially the tremendously energetic quality of the passage beginning in
measure 58: alternate fortes and pianos, indicated by Bach himself, lend high relief to a texture made up of
vigorous and constant sixteenths in the left hand, sustained trills resolving into short groups of eighths in the right,
and bar-by-bar arpeggio ascents in the violin. All this unfolds finally into a yet more vigorous skirmish, the left
hand insisting on a pedal-point E, the right carrying out thematic spinnings out, and the violin improvising rolling
arpeggio figures in accord with the chordal instructions set down by Bach. In measures 81 ff., of course, the violin
should still be performing arpeggio maneuvers in alternate bars (where a simple, sustained chord is written), the
more


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so because a sequence of four consecutive such measures is again found in measures 88 to 91.
In the third movement of number 2, Bach indicates staccato sempre for the bass line. The articulate, note by note
playing this calls for gives a delicate, almost muted quality to the continuous stream of sixteenths in this part. The
harmonic organization of these notes calls for phrasing by the half-measure unit. The upper voices, in continuous
canon, are set in relief against the bass line; and, though they are not marked staccato, they cannot help but be
affected by the character of the bass. These upper lines should be played flowingly, yet with careful articulation of
the slurred couplets, as indicated. There should be a hushed, hovering quality about the whole movement, right up
to the suspenseful ending, on the dominant.
The fourth movement of sonata 2 is a Presto, but take it on the easy side. There is a marchlike swing to the
movement; it should not degenerate into a rout. There must be enough holding back so that the affable strut and
swagger of the music can have its way.
In the first movement of sonata 4, the tears must flow from the instruments, if not from the players. It is in this
kind of movement that one feels the eye growing moist. Special care is needed to sustain the long, sighing lines in
such continuously winding passages as measures 1 to 16 (the entire first section!), 17 to 24, and 25 to 32 (which,
except for the five-measure codetta that continues to the double bar, gives us the entire movement).
The second movement of sonata 4 partakes of the sober tone of the entire work. Nevertheless, it has that insidious
swing and snap that Bach so well knows how to sustain even in his darker moments. Note especially a passage
such as that from measures 16 to 25, where the violin and keyboard treble wind arm in arm with one another. The
whole movement, indeed, is a long (109 measures), shadowy, graceful dance. Forte outbursts must be sparingly
usedmeasures 95 ff. is one passage where a landing on familiar thematic shores calls for some festive jubilationand
a sense of delicacy must let the polyphonic details of the movement stand out with all due transparency.
In the third movement of sonata 4, keep in mind that the practice of Bach's time was that a dotted-eighth-sixteenth
pattern must be converted into a triplet rhythm if it runs parallel to a triplet-rhythm line (or vice versa). The
dictates in this regard are unequivocal:
. . . assimilate all dotted rhythms to the dominant rhythm of the movement. 98
. . . throughout baroque music proper, ternary rhythm must be assimi-


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lated to binary, or binary to ternary, wherever the notation shows them apparently in simultaneous
combination. 99
One yearns for an exception in the case of this movement, however. What is the ''dominant rhythm" of the
movement: the duple figures of the violin and bass line, or the triplet rhythm of the keyboard treble?
Figure 7-29
Mm. 1-4
If duple wins, and one changes the treble to sound , then that line has an uncomfortably peg-
legged gait, to be maintained throughout the movement. If, on the other hand, triplet wins, then the violin part will
sound too affable and easygoing, a little lacking in decisiveness. To this ear, the friction of dotted rhythm against
triplet, and of triplet against the bass line's two-eighth rhythm lends distinctness and separation to the several parts.
Anti-authentic, no doubt; but can one be sure that Bach himself did not play the movement just this way?
The evidence may indicate just such a possibility. Sources C and F, both of the eighteenth century, give the treble
of the keyboard part in 9/8. Source D gives the 9/8 signature to both keyboard lines. The violin line, on the other
hand, is never written in anything other than 3/4. Further, in sources C and D, and despite the 9/8 signature of the
bass part in the latter manuscript, the bass line is always written in the dotted, rather than triplet, fashion.100 In the
case of source D, would it not have been graphically easier to write rather than ? In any event, the
way seems clear to defy the usual rule of interpretation in the case of this movement; let triplet and duple figure
confront each other!
Much of what was said about the second movement applies to the fourth movement of sonata 4 as well. A
particular detail to watch for in this finale, however, is the variety of ways Bach handles the group of four
sixteenth-notes:
The slurrings and attendant articulations must be faithfully observed; otherwise, the neatly calculated rhythmic
textures of the movement are


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degraded into a nondescript run of unrelieved sixteenths. Moments of particular pleasure come from the
telescoping rhythms of (violin part) measures 85 and 86, 104 and 105, and the like. Here again, clear-cut playing of
the printed slurs is essential to bring out the insistent, cross-grained sequence of three sixteenths, three sixteenths,
and so on.
It is interesting to note that in source D, the first movement of number 5 is entitled, Lamento. Influenced by this
fact, one may imagine a certain kinship in mood between this movement and the first movement of sonata 4. In the
latter, there is a more poignant grief; here, a more tranquil, resigned temper. The problem in sonata 5 is one of
perspective. In the violin part, many of the phrases are separated from one another by several measures of rest, the
interval made the longer by the slow (largo) pace of the movement. As in slow-motion photography, one must be
able to view the scene so that the spread-out motion merges into one continuous flow of action. The situation is
not so different when the violin plays continuously; for then, there are long strands of melody, including one giant
of twenty-five measures (measures 64 to 88). For the keyboard also, there are long webs to be spun; the bass is
fairly constant, and the right hand, dealing though it does in two voices that alternate rather steadily with one
another, is in effect drawing out one long, continuous line, built of the intertwining and overlapping of the two
component parts.
In addition to the familiar set of six sonatas for violin and keyboard obbligato, there are also two other sonatas by
Bach for this ensemble. These are Sonata in G for Violin and Continuo, BWV 1021, and Sonata in E minor for
Violin and Continuo, BWV 1023. The bass line for the G major sonata was also used in the Trio Sonata in G for
Flute, Violin, and Continuo, BWV 1038, and in the Sonata in F for Violin and Keyboard, BWV 1022. 101 The
authenticity of BWV 1021, a work preserved in the hand of Anna Magdalena Bach (Bach's second wife), is
undebated; the sonata is thought to have been composed around 1720, after the solo violin sonatas and before the
sonatas for violin and obbligato keyboard. On stylistic grounds, it is thought that the trio-sonata version is a later
work by a younger hand, possibly one of the sons or students of Bach. A similar attribution is suggested for the F
major piece, wherein the keyboard is given the predominant role. The E minor sonata, BWV 1023, again accepted
as authentic, is attributed by the NBA editors to Bach's later Weimar years, from about 1714 to 1717.
In the two sonatas in question, the keyboard does not assume the prominent role it plays in the six obbligato
sonatas. Here it carries out a continuo function throughout, and must indeed be joined by a cello in the playing of
the given bass line. And where, in the obbligato pieces, the


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keyboard had to supply ''missing" voices only in the occasional brief passage where composed lines leave a hole in
the texture of the music (these improvised passages are indicated in small-print notes by the Bärenreiter editors),
the two continuo sonatas rely on the keyboard player to realize the composer's indications (given in figured-bass
shorthand) throughout the work. About Bach's own taste in such matters, Spitta maintains:
We must imagine that Bach, when accompanying, often gave the reins to his talent for improvisation, and
adorned the accompaniment in a wonderfully charming way, with freely inverted counter-melodies. . . . and
yet, if he had considered this kind of accompaniment essential to the full effect, he would assuredly have
fixed it in all his works by an obbligato clavier part. . . . We may hope that an accompaniment of quite
simple form would not be contrary to his intentions. 102
This point is emphasized in a study by George J. Buelow, who supports Spitta's view by the evidence of
eighteenth-century sources, particularly Johann David Heinichen's Der General-Bass in der Composition (first
version, Hamburg, 1711).103 He counsels moderation in the improvisation of the thorough bass, lest the solo voice
be obscured and overshadowed by the accompaniment.
For an example of accompaniment as approved by Bach himself, the reader is referred to the reprint, in Supplement
VI of Spitta,* of the Albinoni sonata with a figured-bass realization "corrected throughout by Sebastian Bach" (cf.
also separate edition, Bibliography). Significantly, most of the activity in the accompaniment lies in the bass line
where it had been specifically indicated by the composer; the improvised right-hand part is less obtrusive. Note that
it doubles the violin line at the unison, at the beginning of some movement sections, in order to amplify the lone
part entry of the stringed instrument.
In the two continuo sonatas, there is no doubt where the solo interest lies. The opening Adagio of the G major
work presents the violin in a rather ornate, strongly profiled melodic line, against a more regularly paced bass line.
So also for the third movement, Largo. In both cases, the violin line is written out with apparent completeness; no
further ornamentation of consequence is needed. In the second movement, Vivace, in the manner of a courante,
and especially in the concluding Presto, in imitative two-part writing, there is more equality between the solo and
the bass.
The E minor sonata begins with a linked pair of movements; first, a bravura sixteenth-note violin solo, obviously in
rather fast tempo (though
* Dover ed., II, pp. 388-98.


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unmarked) and reminiscent both of the opening of Vivaldi's Concerto Grosso in E minor for four violins (''L'estro
armonico," op. 3, no. 4) andin its use of bariolage (i.e., the rapid alternating of stopped and open string)of Bach's
own Prelude to the Third Partita for Violin Alone. In the view of the NBA editors, the fact that the bass line for this
movement is a pedal-point, E, held for twenty-nine measures, reflects Bach's intention that the organ be used as the
continuo instrument in this work. This movement proceeds without pause into the ensuing Adagio. In this, in the
Allemande third movement, and the concluding Gigue, the violin continues to hold the spotlight, moving with
incisive rhythms against the simpler background of the bass.
These two sonatas do not offer the satisfactions of playing Bach's own three-way textures (as in the obbligato
pieces); but they give pleasures of their own and should be in the arsenal of the well-read duo.
When Bach died in 1750, his music was already out of fashion. It remained so for the rest of the eighteenth century
and on into the early nineteenth. For that matter, there was precious little opportunity to hear his music until
Mendelssohn, with his revival of the Saint Matthew Passion in 1829, set the vogue that has persisted, with good
cause, to our own day.
They [Bach's works] were fairly well recognized in their day; practically forgotten by the generations
following his; rediscovered and revived; and finally accorded an eminence far beyond the recognition they
had originally achieved. 104
If Bach was at one time neglected, he is now sometimes in danger of being overvenerated. More than one concert
artist and many an amateur approaches his music as though entering a shrine. The result is a starched and
restrained, if not downright cold, interpretation of his music that is false to the vibrant life and energy of the
writing. Lush, overromantic treatment of Bach is not in order, whether in a "straight" performance or in the bloated
transcriptions that have enjoyed some popularity. But a willingness to let Bach's music move and breathe is
certainly desirable.
The human approach is right for the pieces discussed in this chapter. Even so imposing a work as the Art of Fugue,
written when Bach was in his very last days, has verve as well as solemnity. The violin sonatas represent Bach in
his thirties; even in the eighteenth century, that is not a decrepit age. The vigor of the man's personality must show
in the performance.


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8
Some Lesser Sonatas of the Bach Era
Musicians have spent yearsmusical lifetimeson the Bach sonatas. They are absorbing and endlessly challenging
works, not closely approached, let alone equaled, by other sonatas of that era. Nevertheless, to steep oneself in
Bach's sonatas to the exclusion of the surrounding musical terrain is to lose perspective; and what is worse,
enjoyment. Here, in mixed bouquet, are some composersof varied provenancewho lived and worked while Bach
was still flourishing. None of them have anything like his grasp of musical logic or his radical inventiveness. They
are easier to play (certainly in the musical sense), less consequential, but in some cases quite interesting in their
own right.
Johann Christoph Pepusch

Johann Christoph Pepusch, who was born in Berlin in 1667, moved to England in 1700, and died there in 1752.
''Dr." Pepusch, by virtue of his deification at Oxford in 1713, composed the music for (among other stage works)
The Beggar's Opera of John Gay and also wrote a quantity of instrumental music. The six sonatas published by
Schott in 1940 will serve as moderately interesting, easily played music for the novice duo. The full score of the
edition bears a realized keyboard part, unfigured. The figures are given in the cello part (labeled basso continuo),
but without the inclusion of the violin part to guide the continuo player desiring to improvise


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his own realization. But the harmonic schemes are so simple that the keyboard should have little trouble in feeling
his way to his own version of the continuo.
Gottfried Kirchoff
Gottfried Kirchoff (16851746) was contemporary with J. S. Bach. Like Handel (also born the same year), he
studied with Zachau in Halle; he took up the post of organist at the Liebfrauenkirche there after Zachau's death in
1712. Here any comparison with Handel (and Bach) ends, if we may judge from the set of twelve violin sonatas
included in Kirchoff's catalogue of compositions. These pieces are classed by the composer as sonatas (the first six
pieces of the set) and sonatinas (the remaining six), though for no apparent distinction. Most of the pieces are in
five movements, slow-fast-slow-fast-fast.
The sonatas were known in Kirchoff's time only in manuscript copies, though there was enough circulation of the
music to make it possible for Leopold Mozart to include sonata 10along with instrumental pieces by Telemann, C.
P. E. Bach, Hasse, and Balthasar Schmidt 105in the instructive collection of works he presented to young
Wolfgang on his name day in 1762. The editor of the modern issue of the Kirchoff sonatas speaks in praise of
them, as representing ''probably the acme of his talent as a composer," and cites Mozart's use of the example as a
sign of esteem.106
However, as Alfred Einstein points out, Mozart was trying to impress his son with "models of a style of melodic
solidity." Solidity is the word that comes to mind for the Kirchoff pieces: they are craftsmanlike, carefully
constructedand a little dull. Along with "serious" titles, and dance titles, there are such character inscriptions as
affettuoso, spirituoso, and amoroso. Too often, however, the composer overplays a sequential rhythm, wanders in
search of line and motion, marks time (even though in quickmarch tempo), overextends a line, and so on. There are
some effective movements: for example, the Allegro of sonata 2, a well-paced perpetual motion with nicely
calculated breathing points; the peppy Vivace of the fourth sonata; the Gavotte of the same sonata, one of the best
movements in the entire set; and the concise and spirited Vivace of the sixth sonata. The sonatas are well suited to
the violin, of moderate difficulty, and usefulif not terribly stimulatingfare for the instruction of the duo. For
performance, I would seek elsewhere.


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Christoph Graupner
More interesting to me than Kirchoff is another close contemporary of his, Christoph Graupner (16831757), for
many years director of music at the court of Darmstadt and one of the preferred candidates for the cantorial post at
the Leipzig Thomaskirche before J. S. Bach actually succeeded to the job. In two sonatas, offered in first edition by
Hortus musicus in 1955, Graupner follows exactly the same tack that Bach chose in his six sonatas with obbligato
keyboard: the figuring of the bass is abandoned, the treble line of the keyboard is specifically written. Again, in
effect, we have a duo sonata (with the two instruments as equals) or a trio sonata with the violin and keyboard
treble regarded as the duetting solo lines. Graupner's musical fabric, however, is much thinner than Bach's. He
writes a much less convoluted line, for one thing, and adheres almost throughout to single-line writing (as against
chordal) for each of the three strands of the music. Coupled with this are clear, rather simple and driving rhythms.
The result is music of charm, of nervous energy, entertaining and pleasant, and offering neither the challenge nor
the difficulty of Bach's work. One cannot live by Bach alone, however, and these pieces (as the editor himself
points out), are ''an enrichment of our domestic players' estate."
Johann Georg Pisendel

It would perhaps be poetic justice, in memory of the fracas between Johann Georg Pisendel and Veracini (see
chapter 9), to have a sonata by Pisendel be considered at the end of the Veracini chapter. The trick that Pisendel
played on Veracini may be supposed to have been brought on by Veracini's arrogance, for Pisendel's life was
otherwise characterized by industry, seriousness, and dedication to his work, and by thoughtfulness in his dealings
with others. Born in 1687 in Cadolzburg, he studied with the castrato singer and composer, Francesco Antonio
Pistocchi, and with the violinist-composer, Giuseppe Torelli, at the court of Ansbach. Later, at Venice, he studied
with Vivaldi and, at Dresden, with the court composer, Johann David Heinichen. Pisendel was violinist in the court
chapel at Ansbach, and from 1712, violinist and later concertmaster of the court orchestra in Dresden. Telemann
and other musical luminaries of his time knew and respected Pisendel's ability. As teacher and player andto a lesser
extent, owing to his busy schedule of dutiesas composer, he was renowned in the Europe of his time.
Pisendel's compositions are solely for instruments; in addition to con-


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certi, a sinfonia, and ensemble works, there are three sonatas for violin: one, for violin alone; and two, in E minor
and D major, for violin and basso continuo. Of these two, that in E minor has been issued in modern publication. It
is in three movements, Largo, Moderato, and Scherzando. The Largo integrates the violin and bass in a consistent
dialogue on the dotted-figure theme that dominates the movement. The recurrent figure is kept from palling on the
ear by flexible and carefully contrived rhythmic groupings; as an example, the arrangement of the closing
measures, where for the first time Pisendel uses a concentrated spurt of faster-moving notes to push the line toward
the cadence:
Figure 8-1
The Moderato, again, is full of little twists and surprises that keep its constant stream of energetic rhythms from
growing dull. The first measure is foursquare, but pushing toward the third beat; the second measure turns on a
burst of triplets to carry it forward. The third measure accentuates its drive with trills on first and third beats; and
so on. The melodic line is compact, brilliantly written for the instrument, but of only moderate difficulty, using
double-stops only once and concentrating for its effects on alternation of linear writing and arpeggiated and
bariolage textures. The continuo is sturdy, and cast in a supporting role except for the passage from measures 47 to
51, where the dialogue with the violin part is more active.
The Scherzando, a flashing and high-tension movement bordering on the tarantella temper, is quite duo-oriented in
the close interweaving of violin and bass line. The sonata as a whole gives the impression of being tightly knit,
bristling with imagination. It belongs in the living repertoire and will arouse regret that Pisendel did not leave a
larger body of sonata literature to posterity.
Johann Gottlieb Graun

August Friedrich, Johann Gottlieb, and Carl Heinrich Graun were three musical brothers active in Germany in the
eighteenth century. Of the three, the most famous was the youngest, Carl, born in 1704, who became kapell-


Page 142
meister to Frederick the Great, and is known for his operas (ranging all the way from Cleopatra to Montezuma)
and church music. The longest lived of the siblings was Johann Gottlieb, who was born in 1702 or 1703 at the
family seat in Wahrenbrück, near Dresden, and who died in Berlin in 1771. Johann preceded his brother in the
service of Frederick, entering the then crown prince's employ in 1732. Johann had studied with Pisendel at
Dresden, and briefly with Tartini in Italy.
Before coming to Frederick's court at Ruppin, Graun served for some years at the ducal court in Merseburg. There,
in the late 1720s, he wrote the Six Sonatas for Violin and Harpsichord that have been brought out in modern
edition by Gottfried Müller (Sikorski). These pieces are quite deserving of the editor's prefatory comment: ''their re-
discovery must be regarded as a stroke of fortune of the first order for the violin repertoire."
There are some weak spots in these pieces, as in the Allegro second movement of the first sonata, where
overextension and digression are apparent; or in the finale of the same work, where the composer's infatuation with
the sound of his own rhythmics makes for pleasant, rather than exciting, writing. But in the main, these sonatas are
exciting. They are the work of a man completely conversant with the style of his time, bringing to his musical
awareness the ear and hand of the thoroughly accomplished violinist. Add to this a zany willingness to try anything
and everything implied by the current idiom and instrumental technique, and you have a surprising set of sonatas.
In the same sonata, in D, the rhapsodic warmth of the opening Adagio is immediately arresting. The final Allegro
offers (to atone for its rhythmic flaws) some exuberant harmonic turns, as in this passage from around letter 60,
which suggests the willfullness of J. S. Bach in the cello suites:
Figure 8-2
Violin, second Allegro, mm. 56-69

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Other suggestions of a Bach gone slightly wild are contained in such movements as the Adagio of sonata 2, or the
fugal Allegro second movement of sonata 3.
Figure 8-3
Score, first Allegro, mm. 93-98
One is constantly struck by the strength and imagination of the composer, as in the abrupt texture alternations of
the first Allegro of sonata 4; the excited voicing of the violin part in the Andante of sonata 6, the ecstatic leaping
and bariolage writing of the fast movements in the same sonata; or the brilliant virtuosity of the Allegro of sonata
2.
It is the freewheeling harmonic maneuvers of Graun that give the most pleasure in these pieces, though. The
Adagio of sonata 3 offers the following passage:
Figure 8-4
Adagio, mm. 9-13
In the third movement, Affettuoso, Graun, beginning in E major, tries to throw us off the track. E is touched on
obliquely in measures 13 to 16, again in measures 29 to 32, and finally at the end of the movement. What with the
dotted, gliding rhythms and the rather slow 3/8 meter, the total effect is enigmatic, quietly mysterious. See also the
last four measures of the opening Adagio of sonata 4, or, at last, the strange passage from the Siziliano (sic) of
sonata 5, measures 10 ff.
As a sample of the technical requirements, here are just two excerpts from the second and fourth movements, both
Allegro, of sonata 5, in G minor:


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Figure 8-5
a. Violin, first Allegro, mm. 27-29
b. Violin, second Allegro, mm. 91-96
The duo who will play through these sonatas will find work enough to keep them busy; and at the same time, music
that brings the eighteenth century very much alive in our own day. Highly recommended.
Johann Adam Birkenstock

Johann Adam Birkenstock (Darmstadt, 1687Eisenach, 1733), court musician at Kassel and Eisenach, published a
dozen sonatas for violin and basso continuo, opus 1, in 1722, in Amsterdam. The second of these, issued in modern
edition by NMA (number 25), is distinguished largely by the excellent short Preface, ''On Thorough-Bass
Realization," by the editor, Waldemar Woehl. The piece itself reveals Birkenstock to be a competent musical
craftsman of the Bach era, but a little on the long-winded side.
Two other sonatas by this composer, in E minor (presumably from opus 1), and E major, op. 1, no. 4, have also
been published in modern edition. The second of these is more demanding than the first, especially in its final
Allegro. Birkenstock is the Carl Friedrich Abel of his time, so far as difficulty and congeniality are concerned. This
is pleasant music, and not very important.
Michael Festing
Michael Festing, the London violinist of German descent (ca. 16801752), was among those who, with Handel and
others, established the Fund for the Support of Decayed Musicians and their Familiessoon to be known as the
Royal Society for Musicians. Of the more than twenty sonatas he composed, I have seen the modern edition of the
Sonata in D, op. 8, no. 5.


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In much of the piece, Festing is all over the fingerboard (in low positions), as though he is trying to simulate
several parts without knowing quite how to execute the effect. The result is strange, a fluttering from one register
to another, with disjointed air. The piece is brittle, distracting, unsatisfying.
Willem De Fesch
Willem De Fesch was born in Alkmaar, north of Haarlem and near the North Sea coast, in the Netherlands, in
1687. He was trained in Antwerp, and was Belgian enough to have been included in the roster of composers in the
monograph, Voorname Belgische Toonkunstenaars uit de 18de, 19de, en 20ste eeuw. 107 After serving as organist
and choirmaster in Antwerp, he went to London, where he was active as composer and orchestral violinist. Six of
his sonatas for violin and basso continuo, from a set of twelve (variously for violin, cello, and flute) published in
London about 1725, are available in modern edition. These are good pieces, of moderate difficulty. The
organization of each movement is concise, balanced, easy moving; the melodic ideas and phrases are appealing,
well shaped. De Fesch tends to brevity and does not bother with extended codettas or cadential patterns. The effect
in his music, then, is sometimes one of abruptness and slight disappointment. Nevertheless, these sonatas are fun to
play, good training for the duo, and modest, though not inappropriate candidates for the concert program.
The editor, Waldemar Woehl, again offers Preface and performance note refreshing in its mixture of directness,
scholarship, and practicality, its reflection of his desire to have the pieces performed correctly, effectively, but
performed.
Jacobus Nozeman
Jacobus Nozeman, 16931745, was born in Hamburg, during the stay there of the Dutch acting troupe of his parents.
He served at The Hague, Leyden, and after 1705 at Amsterdam. In that city he worked successively as theater
violinist and, from 1720, as organist at the Remonstrant Church. Nozeman wrote two sets of violin sonatas: opus 1,
six sonatas, all in minor keys; opus 2, also six, all in major. A modern edition of three sonatas from opus 1, in C, E,
and F minor, shows them to be solid works, not beyond intermediate difficulty, with a lively violin line and often
an interesting bass. They are worth study, and might even take a place in a suitably balanced concert program.


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Johann Stamitz
The Bohemian-born Johann Stamitz (Jan Václav Stamic17171757), violin virtuoso, orchestra leader, composer,
member of the court music at Mannheim from 1741, and founder and a prime figure of the so-called Mannheim
school of orchestral playing and composition, may be studies in a recent reissue of an early twentieth-century
edition of his Sonata in G, op. 6, no. 1. One of a set of six sonatas, the work begins with an Adagio that is more a
vignette than a movement, unfolding constantly but briefly and suggesting toward its end a return to first
statements; it culminates instead in a cadenza, written out at rather elaborate length by the editor (the reader will
want to substitute a better one of his own). This raises expectations for the second movement, Allegro. To a
degree, these are fulfilled; the Allegro is lively and moving. As is sometimes the case in the Mannheim type of
composition, however, the motion and energy takes the place of any truly arresting musical ideas. The final
movement, Minuetto, is graceful, easygoing, smacking more of the social life of the town rather than the court. It is
here, if anywhere, that Bohemian melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic flavor enters the work, the first two movements
reflecting more of the Italianate style of instrumental composition of the earlier eighteenth century.
The trio section of this movement is most congenial, what with its constant flow of up-and-down triplets against a
more sedate harmonic background. As a finale, however (and minuet, or tempo di minuetto, finales were not
infrequent in the music of Stamitz and his era), the movement is engaging rather than electric.
On the whole, indeed, the sonata is pleasant, of moderate difficulty, and well suited to the intermediate ensemble.
Jan Racek, in an introduction to the edition, says that ''Stamitz's instrumental . . . compositions are characterised by
a merry creative atmosphere, optimistic cheerfulness and a warm lyrical melodic line . . ." This is certainly true of
the present work, without enough admixture of the energy and propulsion that marks other works of this composer.
Even so, the sonata may sustain the interest of the modern duo. And it does have some of those dynamic gradations
that form one of the characteristic traits of the Mannheim style (see, for example, the Allegro, measures 7 to 9).
Franz Xaver Richter

In the Hortus musicus series, three sonatas from opus 2 of Franz Xaver Richter (17091789) are available. The
Moravian-born Richter was em-


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ployed in the court music at Mannheim from the late 1740s and, with his fellow-Bohemian, Johann Stamitz, is
counted one of the most significant members of the Mannheim school. The pieces in question are ''for keyboard
obligato, flute or violin concertato [i.e., soloistic or importantly treated, the term applying equally to the flute or
violin], and cello." Each work is in three sizable movements, moderate-slow-fast, with predominance clearly but
not overwhelmingly in the keyboard part. Small portions of the writing are in continuo style, with figured bass
supporting the flute/violin line. For the rest, the treble of the keyboard duets with the secondary instrument. At
times the active role extends to include the bass of the keyboard in a kind of trio texture. The cello is an acoustic
aid to the bass line (sometimes dropping out to leave the keyboard writing unobscured), but otherwise a
superfluous element in the music. In sum, these are among the liveliest and most interesting examples of
accompanied keyboard writing available in performing edition.
Vaclav Vodicka
Not much is known about our next figure, the Bohemian-born Vaclav (Wenzeslaus) Vodicka. He died in Munich
in 1774, upward of fifty years of age, having served as a courtorchestra member (and for many years as
concertmaster) since the 1730s or '40s. He was obviously a composer of ability; the set of Six Solos for a Violin
and Bass, op. 1, published first in Paris (1739) and in a London edition in 1745, is one of the assets of the duo
repertoire from the eighteenth century. These are not examples of musical profundity; but they are fresh, energetic,
clean-cut works, with scarcely a tiresome movement or passage anywhere. No performer need be ashamed to offer
one of these compositions, minor masterpieces by one of music's little-known figures.
Surveying the six sonatas in order, one finds many things to enjoy. In the first sonata, in B flat, the middle
movement, Allegro ma non troppo, has Corellian clarity and vigor; its theme is reminiscent, actually, of the melody
of the famous Gavotta from Corelli's sonata op. 5, no. 10. Vodicka expects crisp, supple bow-handling of his
performer; there are tight-knit crossing patterns, few but snappy ornaments and trills, up-bow staccato in
moderation. The movement is economical in outline, just long enough for its ideas.
Sonata 2, in C, has three short movements, beautifully proportioned, unpretentious. The Menuetto carries a set of
variations of moderate difficulty. This sonata is feasible for the intermediate player and student.


Page 148
Sonata 3, in D minor, offers in its middle movement, Allegro, the only tedious chapter in the opus: the dotted-
figure pattern is pursued with dogged determination. To atone, however, the Giga finale of the sonata is the most
challenging so far encountered, for the constant string-crossing it demands.
Sonata 4, in G, has a handsome, if unsurprising opening Adagio. The second movement, however, is a charmer. It
opens with a short Grave passage; an Allegro breaks in to finish the first half of the movement in lively fashion.
The second half of the movement plays on the Grave-Allegro contrast, with two sets of alternations to begin. The
revisiting of the opening of the movement, of course, provides another such pair of opposites. The result is a
movement that is clever without cuteness, strong yet flexible. The third movement, a double Menuetto with da
capo, is introduced without pause (the entire sonata is played straight through); a pleasant, unpretentious close to a
gratifying work.
Sonata 5, in A, has its center of gravity in the middle movement, Allegro assai; here we find brilliant exploitation
of violin sound and technique, without going above third position. This Allegro is the closest to a virtuoso
movement thus far in the opus, without ever making music that is shallow or insipid. The third movement is
another Allegro, demanding, but somewhat less brilliant than the second. There is a Menuetto finale.
Sonata 6, in F, is possibly the best of the entire set. It has an opening Siciliana that is simple, clear, subtly shaded,
perfect. The Allegro is the virtuoso piece of the six sonatas; violinists will certainly notice especially the long
passage of dotted figures with trills. There is a concluding Menuetto with variations; in the second variation, where
the violin has double-stops throughout, the editor wisely suggests leaving the treble unfilled, so that the violin part
can stand out in duet with the bass line. By contrast, in the last variation, with at least a triple stop and in many
cases quadruple stops on each chord, the harpsichord part is fully realised, contributing the massive effect that the
composer obviously wants for the last finale of the opus.
Franz Benda
The two most famous members of the musical Benda family of Bohemia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
were Franz (Frantisek) and Georg (Jiri). Georg (17221795) was one of the important, though lesser, composers of
opera in the eighteenth century. Wolfgang Mozart, speaking about Benda's two most famous works, Medea and
Ariadne auf Naxos,


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which he came to know during his Mannheim visits, says of these melodramas or duodramasstaged music dramas
in which the speaking voice is set against the continuing flow of the orchestral musical commentarythat ''both are
really excellent" (letter of November 12, 1778). But it is violin sonatas that we are interested in here. And in this
category, it is Franz (17091786)the eldest brother, a student of the Graun brothers, an important "German" violinist
of his time (it was he who brought the clan to Prussia from Bohemia), and long a favored court musician to
Frederick the Greatwho wrote sonatas for violin and basso continuo.
Franz is represented in a convenient modern edition in a set of four sonatas published by Artia. The edition is
"convenient" because it brings together works from several other published sources. The most appealing of the four
pieces is the first, in A major, reproducing essentially unchanged the earlier edition by Alfred Moffat (Simrock,
1908). Its three movements, fast-slow-fast, are concise and unpretentious, of moderate difficulty (there are in the
first movement some intricate ornamental patterns and trill figures, as well as string crossings calling for some
dexterity). The Sonata in A minor, reproduced from Jensen's edition (Schott, 1911), is disappointing. The opening
Larghetto is expressive and suitably pathetic, owing some of its impact to the ornamental turnswhich may well be
Jensen's own contribution. The Allegro agitato second movement, however, is tedious, substituting a driving
motion (a constant stream of eighth-note couplets) for any real purpose in an overlong movement. The Tempo di
minuetto finale is banal. The Sonata in B major, based on manuscript and recent Czech edition sources, is scarcely
better.
The Sonata in A, the last in this publication, is drawn from the facsimile given in Hans-Peter Schmitz's Die Kunst
der Verzierung im 18.Jahrhundert, drawn in turn from a manuscript volume in the Öffentlichen Wissenschaftlichen
Bibliothek, Berlin. This sonata, aside from the attractiveness of its three brief movements, is interesting because it
shows the violin part in two (and in the first section of the opening movement, in three) different versions: original,
or simple version; moderately ornamented; and (in the first portion of the opening Adagio) in a still more ornate
setting. The fact that both the second and third fast movements, Allegretto and Presto scherzando, also offer
decorated versions of the melodyto be used, presumably, in the repeat of the respective sections of the
movementsis instructive to the modern player. Things are seldom what they seem with older pieces in the sonata
repertoire: the trite may be decorated into some show of liveliness; and the adroit movement may take on added
luster from inventive decoration. The Adagio, incidentally,


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is reprinted, with all versions, as example number 35 in the volume,Improvisation in Nine Centuries of Western
Music, edited by Ernest T. Ferand, in the Anthology of Music series edited by Karl G. Fellerer.
The short sonata of Franz Benda offered by Arnold Schering in his Alte Meister set is worth playing for its opening
Andante and its perky Polonaise. The concluding fast movement, however, suffers again from the walking sickness
of the finale of the A minor sonata, described above.


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9
Italian Virtuoso/Composers in the Mid-Eighteenth Century:
Veracini, Tartini, Locatelli
Before taking up the first principal of this chapter, Francesco Maria Veracini, a brief word for his uncle and
teacher, the Florentine musician, Antonio Veracini (ca. 16501696) is in order. The latter composed his sonatas for
violin and continuo, opera 2 and 3, in the mid-1690s. The later set is made up of ten sonate da camera, of which I
have seen the second (in C major). The work is cast in four movements, slow-fast-slow-fast; the third movement is
itself a complex of slow and fast sections. Greatest interest attaches to the second movement, Vivace, where the
cello part is made active in its polyphonic responses to the violin line. The movement is good, but a little tedious
by the time it spins itself out. This sonata is agreeable, especially so for the novice or intermediate duo. For real
musical stimulus, though, the work of degli Antonii, or to be sure, that of the younger contemporary, Corelli, is
much to be preferred.
Francesco Maria Veracini

Francesco Maria Veracini (16851768) was born and died in Florence and was proud to name himself Fiorentino
throughout a career that took him to several lands. He came of a family that numbered as musicians before him his
grandfather, Francesco di Niccolo Veracini, and his uncle, Antonio. Francesco Maria studied with Antonio; then, in
1699 in Rome,


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with G. A. Bernabei and Francesco Gasparini. His professional travel began in 1711. In 1714 he made successful
appearances in London; in 1716, he was heard in Venice by the elector of Saxony, Friedrich August, and was
engaged by him for the musical retinue of the electoral court in Dresden.
Veracini took up this post in 1717 and was installed both as violinist and as chamber composer, at good salary.
There was considerable rivalry at the court between the native German musicians and the Italian imports. Veracini
had already, by the fire and artistry of his playing, cowed so brilliant a contemporary as Tartini. (After hearing
Veracini in Venice, Tartini had withdrawn for a time from public musical life in order to perfect in himself the
kind of bowing style he had observed in his compatriot's playing.) Despite, or perhaps because of, his notorious
confidence and self-esteem, Veracini now became the target of the German musicians at Dresden, led by the
concertmaster, Johann Georg Pisendel. Conflicting reports attribute Veracini's eventual discomfiture variously to
inner psychological stress and to loss of face in a musical frame-up contrived by Pisendel and his associates in the
orchestra. 108
The latter story has it that Veracini was asked to perform, at sight, a Pisendel concerto in the presence of the court.
Pisendel, however, had already secretly coached one of the back-stand orchestral members in the same work.
Immediately after Veracini's effort, the other violinist performed the concerto, to the approbation of the court and
to the intense annoyance of the Italian virtuoso. In any event, Veracini took the extraordinary measure of leaping
(in 1722) from a third-floor window, with resulting hip and leg fractures that left him lame for life.
A short sojourn in Bohemia in 1723 was followed by a return to Florence. In 1735 he went again to London where
he was active, with varying success, as opera composer and as performer (though standing now in the shadow of
Geminiani, who had also come to England in 1714, but who, unlike Veracini, had remained there). In 1744 or
1745, he returned to Italy, where, in the course of the 1750s, he gradually grew less active in concert life.
A composer of some versatility, Veracini produced a number of operas as well as other choral and instrumental
works. He is remembered, however, for his violin sonatas. Of these, there are three principal sets.
Opus 1, Twelve Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo, published in 1721 by the composer in Dresden and
Amsterdam and dedicated to the electoral prince of Saxony.
Opus 2, Sonate accademiche, twelve sonatas for violin and basso con-


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tinuo, published by the composer in London and Florence in 1744, dedicated again to the elector of Saxony
(who was now also King August III of Poland).
Twelve Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo, constituting a reworking of the twelve sonatas of Corelli's
epochal opus 5, contained in Veracini's ''Dissertazioni . . . sopra l'opera quinta del Corelli," a manuscript in the
Biblioteca Comunale of Bologna.
The last set is particularly interesting to the player already familiar with the Corelli sonatas. For him, the
experience of playing these pieces is one of recognition and surprise: the melodic turns altered; registration shifted;
bass line changed or extended, or removed from passages to give greater exposure to the violin line; phrases or an
entire movement expanded beyond the original format; a chromatic progression substituted for a simpler way in the
Corelli original; and occasionally, the surprise upon surprise of finding a movement almost unchanged from its
model. We mentioned in the Corelli chapter the Geminiani version of sonata 9, and the opportunity of "hearing"
Corelli and Geminiani literally side by side in successive statements of the section of a movement (see page 61).
With Veracini the process is more far-reaching: from the outset, one must remember the Corelli through the
changes; for presumably the repetitions, where they occur, will require elaborations in turn, thus removing us yet
further from the original.
These are indeed fascinating compositions, akin (as the editor of the set points out) to the kind of transcription that
J. S. Bach carried out, for example, on works of Vivaldi. Veracini's modifications of Corelli are stimulating;
sometimes, however, the changes are more startling than convincing. With Bach, the reworking seems to shed new
light on the original, makes it better than it was. With Veracini, the operation does not always lead to improvement.
No duo, though, should miss the opportunity of making themselves acquainted with the Corelli-Veracini opus.
Turning to Veracini in his own right, and without any shadow of another's music hovering over him, one is
thoroughly convinced. So it is for Veracini's first collection of works, Sonatas for Violin or Flute, dedicated to the
electoral prince of Saxony, issued in July, 1716. In such examples as the first movement of the first of these pieces
(in F), Veracini already shows a feeling for lyric beauty, combined with an economy of frame and the ability to
construct a taut, expressive phrase.
These three sonatas are entirely acceptable, though not as intensely conceived as those of opus 1, 1721. Also,
because the flute is listed as the


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alternate instrument to the violin, there are no double-stops. These sonatas are admirable for study by the novice or
intermediate duo. For program building, the choice should be made from opus 1 or the Sonate Accademiche. As for
the difficulty of these early works, the duo must keep in mind that the addition of ornamentation will call for more
than novice musicianship and will increase the technical requirements of the music somewhat.
As was true of performer-composers in earlier years (and today) Veracini wrote his pieces to show off his own
powers as player; and it is immediately clear from the sonatas of opus 1 that his powers were most impressive.
'' . . . his bowing was so free and full of fire, his finger-technique on the violin so vital and precise, that as a result
his tone dominated every orchestra." 109 The sonatas of this set are characterized by warmth and beauty
throughout; and, though these pieces are generally easier than Veracini's later output, they still challenge the more
accomplished player.
A look at the twelfth sonata of op. 1 shows the player what is expected of him; in the very first measures of the
piece, one moves from quiet, sustained bowing to more sprightly figures; from a sense of restful, almost
complacent, on-the-beat play, to more forward leaning, accented drive; from long note values to short, piquant
figures; from unornamented melody to that in which trills and snappy rhythms control the flow of sound; from
harmonically simple to measures in which chromatics color and enrich the line.
The warmth of the harmonic treatment, the sinuous grace of the melodic line both call for a clinging, supple use of
the bow, especially in playing the quick, dotted figures. A suppleness of mind is required, too; the phrases are not
predictable. The melodic line bids fair to shape itself into regular lengths, only to follow a rhythmic figure in an
extension that breaks the expected symmetry. A melodic leap is used twice or more, leading us to expect continued
sequential treatment; the interval is suddenly abandoned, only to pop up once more before the line turns to other
business.
The second movement, Larghetto, begins strongly, but with deceptively slow-moving lyricism. From the seventh
measure on, there are runs, both short and long, melodic statements in parallel thirds, chordal thickenings of the
rhythm, and rolling, cross-string figurations that make the movement fast-moving and exciting. The Intermedio
that follows is marked affettuoso, and lives up to its title with especially poignant chromatic encrustations of the
melodic line; delicately articulated, palpitating playing of short groups of slurred, short notes, and so on.


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Veracini's enthusiasm for the violin can be seen in the following excerpt from the fourth movement, Aria. Only an
ear and hand intimately acquainted with the instrument could have produced lines and textures exploiting so well
its sonority and its pliant grace.
Figure 9-1
Mm. 16-19
The Capriccio finale of this sonata is a preview of the sonatas that Veracini was to write a generation later; for in
opus 2, a number of the sonatas are marked by the inclusion of at least one such movement. In the present case, the
length of the movement (277 measures) is relieved by the alternation of stately and running-work passages, by the
frequent liveliness and thematic reflections of the continuo part, and by refreshing use of the various register colors
of the violin, as in this example:
Figure 9-2
Violin, mm. 226-229
Long bariolage passages, as well as rapid-fire sixteenth-note passage-work in general in this movement will test
the player's mettle. Graceful bowing is one matter in a short phrase; in a long movement, flexibility must be
combined with endurance.
The Academic sonatas of 1744 are so titled not, as the modern reader would suppose, to indicate a conservative
tendency in the work, but, on the contrary, to show that they are the fruit of the composer's full professional
acumen, and worthy of the most initiated players and audiences. The opus holds additional interest because the
composer has provided, as part of his Preface, a table of notation signs. By these signs, sparingly applied, Veracini
governs matters of sonority, texture, dynamics, and even the choice of up- and down-bow in the playing of these
pieces. As we shall


Page 156
see, the symbols for swelling and diminishing of sound, especially, sometimes make for manners of phrasing that
we would not otherwise expect.
Sonata in D, op. 2, no. 1. The Veracini Sonata in D opens very like the Handel sonata in the same key (number
13):
Figure 9-3
Handel:
Veracini:
But where Handel, as we have seen (page 100), takes pleasure in landingnot only in his opening phrase, but often
in the course of the first movementon foreign tones, Veracini does not torment us with harmonic clashes. Nor does
he want the player to muddy his waters for him; he asks him to stick to the notes, without arbitrary
embellishments: ''Adagio, and [play it] as it stands."
He has other excitements on hand for us. The Adagio is a toccata, so labeled, and has all the fire and high spirits
that befit such a "touch-piece" (literally, a piece that touches or feels out the keyboard, that reveals the capacities
of the keyed instrument, andby extensionof any instrument for which such a composition is written). In a sense, he
is demonstrating a twofold virtuosity here: he carries off the feat of translating a keyboardidiom piece to the violin,
with all the ponderous chordal passages, running-work, polyphonic episodes, tremolando passages, arpeggiated
fretwork, and contrasting textures typical of such a movement. Yet, it all seems to lie perfectly comfortably on the
Veracini fingerboard, a tribute to his own command of his instrument.
We have compared the opening to Handel; but the movement as a whole seems to parallel the first movement of
Corelli's sonata, op. 5, no. 1. Corelli displays some of the toccata temperament, though without the title; but he
does not take the plunge with quite the bravura of Veracini. Indeed, where the older master performs his elegant
arabesques against the background of an accompanying pedal point, the younger man brushes aside all competition
for his acrobatics; in the Veracini movement, fully thirty-two and one-half measures out of a total of fifty-six are
without bass of any kind. The movement is almost entirely for violin alone. This movement, then, is not for the
bashful bowman. The Presto outbursts must be crisp, brilliant:


Page 157
Figure 9-4
Violin, mm. 17-20
The playful Adagio vignettes must be all quiet sparkle, the lyric portions of the movement, liquid grace, and the
players, always on the alert for the kind of intensity evoked by passages such as that in measure 33, below:
Figure 9-5
Violin, mm. 28-34
For all its seeming whimsicality, the opening movement has a clear-cut format: opening fanfare, measures 1 to 17;
first complexPresto-Adagio-Adagiomeasures 18 to 37; second complexPresto-Adagio-Adagiomeasures 38 to 56.
Looking ahead into the sonata, we find that the branches of the opening movement bear fruit in the work to come:
1. Toccata
2. Capriccio Primo
3. Allegro
4. Epilogo della Toccata
5. Capriccio Secondo
The Epilogo combines and elaborates on the several ideas of the opening Toccata: the slow opening, now rendered
largo, e nobile, the quiet and mischievous Adagio theme, and the Presto theme outline, which is now combined
with the rhythm of the quiet Adagio. From measure 25 on, the Presto idea takes over more nearly in its original
form, but now in lively repartee between violin and bass, rather than in solitary presentation by the violin.
The Capriccio Primo, marked Allegro ma non presto, isfor all its protesting to the contraryrather a reflection of the
Presto of the opening, steadied in tempo perhaps, but enlivened in revenge by snapped rhythms


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and by flashing sequences of triplets, sets of double-stop thirds, triple-stop chords, and so on. It is a more sober,
yet more assured and elaborated, sequel to the Toccata. In a respectable length of 111 measures, crowding its ideas
lavishly one upon the other, it nevertheless gives a sense of order. The opening fanfare
Figure 9-6
Violin, mm. 1-4
appears, in whole or in part, as a marker buoy in the flood of music, charting our course, sometimes tantalizing us
with a premature sense of return to beginnings (cf. measures 63 and 64), then rushing us past the return almost
before we are aware (measures 86 ff.). The Capriccio is a violinist's holiday, with some flexing of muscle, and with
enough display of wit to intrigue the musical sensibilities of both the bow and the basso.
The Allegro (number 3 in our table) is absolutely no fun for the basso unless the violinist can deserve to play the
movement. Then, however, the continuo will have the pleasure of knowing that his sturdy, quarter-note pacing is
supporting a stunning display of agility. The violin line is mordant with occasional snapped ryhthms and with a
steady flow of triplets that is set with flashing articulations (indicated by the wedge-marks ):
Figure 9-7
Violin, mm. 4-7
In measure 7, above, the articulations are achieved by almost (but not quite) stopping the bow in its course, and by
delivering a slight sting to the marked note of the triplet as the bow resumes its speed. Again, the composer's sense
of structure is revealed: the snapped rhythm figure, appearing twice, and briefly, in the first part of the movement
(measures 5 and 12), surfaces toward the end of the Allegro in more aggressive fashion.
Figure 9-8
Violin, mm. 44-49

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The closing Capriccio balances the preceding events neatly. Again, the violin opens alone, reserving the first
twenty-seven measures to itself in the presentation of two successively entering voices. The continuo provides a
real answer (measures 28 ff.). There is a fairly even interchange between violin and basso continuo through the first
half of the movement. But at the più Allegro (measure 135) the violin really takes off, soaring above the thematic
statements in the bass with figurations such as the following:
Figure 9-9
c. Violin, mm. 169-170
d. Violin, mm. 182-183
This kind of sonata offers the duo a nice combination of values: the violinist can preen himself without having to
be a Paganinithough he must certainly be a Veracini; the keyboard partner can humor the vanity of his colleague
without feeling quite deprived of a specified and important participation in the musical proceedings; both can feel
assured that they are playing a worthwhile piece of music, not simply a vehicle for violinistic display; and, they can
have the fun of playing a work that is serious without being sobersided.
Sonata in B flat, op. 2, no. 2. Cast in five movements, the sonata opens with a Polonaise; its eight-measure first
section is not without interest, but it is a ''quiet" forte, and rather low flying and circuitous in its round. As the
movement progresses, we realize that this unit is its structural home, with wilder fancies interspersed between its
reappearances (at measures 73, 101, 149cast an octave up). The Polonaise section is a kind of tutti, setting off the
display of the virtuoso player in the intervening sections.


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Note the deliberate force and brilliance of the soloist's ''bow" before the first return:
Figure 9-10
Violin, mm. 68-73
The cadence of this passage becomes a jocular mannerism the next time round, for there the exit promises to be set
in G minor, only to blare forth suddenly, again, in the dominant seventh of the fundamental, B flat.
Figure 9-11
Violin, mm. 97-101
In the Largo e staccato second movement, the brisk, detached bowing applies to the end sections of the movement
(measures 1 to 7 and 26 to 33here, mostly for the bass, because the violin sustains broad tonesand measures 16 and
17). For the rest, the violin sings a cantabile, though courtly line.
Capriccio Terzo con Due Soggetti is the "third capriccio," because there were two in the first sonata. Veracini
keeps count, for there are a number of such movements in the entire opus, and he does not want his listeners to
forget it. The two subjects of the present movement are, of course, the broad fanfare opening and its recurrences.
The two closing movements, an Aria Schiavona ("Slavic air") and Giga, are simple essays, but require grace and
lightness.
Sonata in C, op. 2, no. 3. Here we shall single out the last two movements for mention. The Capriccio Quarto con
Tre Soggetti (Veracini still playing the numbers game) is longas befits its use of three subjectsand energetic, with
fairly even distribution of activity between the violin and the basso continuo. There are places where the simplicity
of the violin and bass line, as well as the musical context, obviously calls for the improvisation of thematically
active solos in the treble part of the keyboard. The editor has properly supplied these (cf. measures 140 to 150).
The finale, an Aria rustica, may have started on the farm, what with the bouncy squareness of its cut, but it moves
quickly to the concert room. Consider that the violin has to do turns like this:


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Figure 9-12
Violin, mm. 37-41
This may have been country-fiddle style, at that.

Sonata in G minor, op. 2, no. 5. The opening movement of this sonata is marked Adagio assai. But the entry of the
violin part, after a solemn introduction by the keyboard, has its own character marking: Con grandissima Gravita.
The ''extreme seriousness" of the violin line is emphasized by the performance-instruction signs provided by the
composer; rising and falling dynamics on the long, sustained tones, soblike, successive swells on each of the
quarter-notes in later measures:
Figure 9-13
a. Violin, mm. 1-10 as written
b. As Played
It is well that the composer himself has shown the way, for otherwise the present-day performer would find such
an approach overdramatic (if, indeed, it occurred to him at all). The intensity of effect sought by Veracini is
reflected in later events in the movement, as in the angular leaps, harsh intervals, and chromaticism of these
measures:
Figure 9-14
Mm. 32-37

Page 162
The remaining movements of this sonata: a Capriccio, an Allegro assai, and Giga, seem a bit overdrawn, as though
Veracini is straining to wring the last drop of intensity and of musical possibility out of his material. All very well,
but not up to the peak established in the first movement.
Sonata in D minor, op. 2, no. 12. The composer asks that the opening movement, a Passagallo, or passacaglia, be
played come sta, ''as it stands," and without ornamentation invented by the performer; further, that the bass line for
the first thirty-two measures by played as given, without super-imposition of any chordal filling (actually, no
figures are given in these measures). The result is that the sonata begins with an extended duet between violin and
the cello of the basso continuo (at least, if we follow the editor's "recommendation," footnote on page 4 of the
score, that the cello alone perform the bass line in these passages), simple and clean in its effect, "but," as the
composer instructs, to be played "with grace." The duet texture is resumed twice more in the course of the
movement (measures 61 to 68, 73 to 76, 81 to 84). The alternation between thin and thicker textures, coupled with
the changing embroideries of the violin's successive variations, makes for an interesting and subtly colored
movement.
Up through measure 40, this melodic treatment of the ostinato (in upper and lower voices) holds true. In measure
41, an Andante breaks in; and now the bass line, for three statements, reverts to a harmonic (i.e., stripped down)
version of the recurrent figure. From here to the end of the movement, the obstinacy, whether expressed in sparse
outline or in varied guise, belongs to the bass. The violin is left free to cavort in a modest but interesting range of
figurations.
The second movement is again (as often encountered in these sonatas) a Capriccio; here it is cromatico, harking
back to the Passagallo theme; and, as if to emphasize the half-step progression of the opening subject, the
composer uses the sign for a dynamic swell on each of the opening quarters, so that the played effect is as follows:
Figure 9-15
Violin, mm. 1-8, as played

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Though Veracini does not write thus throughout the movement, one would think that each recurrence of the
subject, as well as of its inversion, should be so treated by the player.
The Adagio that begins the third and last movement of the sonata suggests a recitative in its opening measures,
then continues chromatically in a fashion reminiscent of the first subject of the Passagallo. We are again dealing
with an ostinato movement; a Ciacona soon takes over and continues to a double bar fully 215 measures distant.
And it becomes apparent that we have been hearing the ostinato since the beginning of the Adagio. There, the
pattern is made into crushing ''amen" sequences to open the movement. These first measures have exceeding
intensity because of the pulling between violin line and bass, and this continues in the manipulations of the
succeeding measures of this section.
The sombre tone of the Adagio is replaced by the major of the Ciacona, and by sprightly rhythm and tempo. The
texture of this movement is varied not only by the violin's maneuvers, but also by the change of the continuo from
rhythmic bass to sustained chordal, to bass line only, and (at one point, measures 148 to 151) to full silence. The
perpetual-motion passages (measures 160 to 193) reveal a power reminiscent of that in the Bach Chaconne. A fine
frenzy is worked up for the end of the Ciacona, but not before a Largo assai has reestablished both the tempo and
the subject of the opening Passagallo as a floor upon which to build the closing pyrotechnics.
The Largo assai is really the end of this sonata. What appears to be attached to the work, a Canone that follows in
the score, would seem actually to be a swan song for the entire set of twelve sonatas. The canon is in C minor (not
D), for two singing voices, on the (Latin) text, "May he relieve miserable Fate, and the unceasing round of labor."
The editor, Walter Kolneder, quite reasonably ties the canon in with the dedication of the opus, viewing it as a not-
too-veiled plea to Veracini's sometime patron for renewed assistance. 110 It may well be that Friedrich August
(like the margrave of Brandenburg and his Bach concerti), paid no attention to the musical gift that had been
bestowed upon him. In any event, there is no further mention of contact between prince and musician.
To return, however, to sonata number 12, we find that the entire composition is bound, either by literal restatement
or by derivative subject, to the musical idea of its opening; the result is variety within cohesiveness, and a most
interesting sonata. One would not think that this particular work lends iself to the composer's general observation
on the opus: "Since each of these 12 sonatas has 4 or 5 movements, I wish to call attention


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to the fact that this is so for the enrichment and adornment of the set, and to give increased pleasure to musical
amateurs. Of course, two or three movements from each of these sonatas, chosen at will, suffice to constitute a
sonata of proper size.'' 111 By astute choice, such procedure could result in an easier sonata than appears on paper.
On the other hand, if these are sonatas for the initiate and skilled practitioner, as the title implies, such ease could
not have been Veracini's real aim. In the case of sonata number 12, surgery is definitely not advisable; the work
must be treated as a whole.
Back in the 1920s, Andreas Moser wrote that "a complete Gesamtausgabe [of opus 1 and 2] of Veracini . . . would
acquaint a broader circle with the special place that Francesco Maria holds in the realm of Sonata composition."112
Earlier still, the Wasielewskis had praised the long-neglected composer for the traits they saw in his music: "a
freedom unusual for its time in melodic and thematic shape . . . [its] keen, truly modern harmonic procedures . . .
[its] individual use of chromaticism . . . to express the finest shadings and innuendos," its clarity, its motive
force.113 The works in question, and more, are now in print. The player can judge and enjoy for himself.
Giuseppe Tartini
Giuseppe Tartini was born in Pirano, a coastal city on the Gulf of Trieste, in 1692. In 1709, Tartini came to Padua
to enter the university for the study of law. The account of the composer's early years given by Andreas Moser is so
neatly turned that we take the liberty of quoting it, in translation, at length.114 Moser relates that Tartini's first
semester at Padua was spent mostly in the fencing ring.
Feared as the best swordsman, he toyed for a time with the idea of slashing his way through the world as a
fencing-master. Fate would have it otherwise, however: originally intended by his elders for the priestly
calling, Giuseppe first attended the schools of the churches of his native city of Capo d'Istria [Pirano lies on
the Istrian peninsula], where he also received instruction in music. Who his special teacher in violin-
playing was, we do not know, but must assume that Tartini already brought with him to Padua a
considerable skill. For first, only he who has begun early can bring truly great achievements to our
instrument; second, we are told that Tartini as [university] student gave lessons not only in fencing but,
from the very beginning, was supplementing the paternal allowance by working as a violin-teacher. It was
as such that he won the heart of one of his students,


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the niece of Cardinal Giorgio Cornaro, archbishop of Padua, andhimself barely twentymarried her. When
this came to the ears of the enraged uncle, he had Tartini prosecuted for the abduction of a minor. Clad in
pilgrim's robes, the violinist made his way, however, to Assisi, where he knew to be active at the
Franciscan monastery . . . the Bohemian, Bohuslav Czernohorsky . . . a church-composer highly prized in
his time. . . . It was chiefly the intercession of this prominent man that seems to have won Tartini the
protection of the monks of Assisi, who granted him the sanctuary of their cloister to protect him from the
wrath of his pursuer. Czernohorsky also became Tartini's teacher in composition, and as such no doubt had
most to do with the fact that the fugitive foreswore law and fencing and finally devoted himself exclusively
to music. With fiery zeal he took up again the violin playing that he had somewhat neglected during the
unsettling distractions and had the satisfaction of seeing his participation in the Sunday Masses of his hosts
soon make them into small music-festivals for Assisi and the vicinity.
When the archbishop's anger subsided, Tartini returned to Padua. His fame as a violinist was spreading, but he
enforced upon himself a cold self-appraisal as a result of his meeting, at about the age of twenty-four, with
Veracini. He withdrew to Ancona and a life of intense study for two years, until he brought his bowing to a level
he thought the equal of Veracini's.
At the age of twenty-nine, Tartini was appointed music director at Saint Anthony's in Padua. Except for concert
tours and sojourns abroad, including longer stays at Prague and Parma, Padua was the residence of Tartini until his
death (in 1770). The remaining decades of his life saw Tartini at the head of his own school of violin playing,
whose influence remained widespread far beyond his lifetime.
Of the numerous Tartini sonatas written for violin and continuoupwards of 130 authenticated worksonly a few are
readily available to the player today. 115 Some forty sonatas of Tartini have been issued in editions dating from the
twentieth century. These editions, listed in the exhaustive bibliography of Paul Brainard's article on Tartini in
MGG, and in the thematic catalog forming part of his invaluable dissertation on the sonatas, are unfortunately not
all easy to find. Some are already out of print; others can only be obtained on order. I have in my library the
Ricordi edition of six sonatas edited by Enrico Polo (1921, reprinted 1953), the Bonelli edition of the six sonatas of
opus 5, the Peters issue of seven sonatas edited by Hermann, the Fischer publication of the Sonata in G minor,
Didone abbandonata, edited by Auer, and the Schering edition (contained in his Alte Meister set), published by
Peters, of a sonata that


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is described by Brainard as ''of uncertain authenticity." Together, these comprisenot counting duplicationsseventeen
sonatas, dating from about 1728 to the early 1740s, and including the famed Devil's Trill sonata as well as that of
the jilted Dido.
The Devil's Trill was composed by Tartini at about the age of fifty, the aftermath of a dream in which Tartini heard
the devil play a sonata whose ineffable beauty (as Luther pointed out, the devil does seem to get many of the good
tunes) he tried to recapture in his own composition. Grappling with the famous "trill," many a violinist will want to
consign both composer and work to the original source of inspiration. In any event, the sonata was first published
in the treatise, L'Art du Violon, in Paris, 1798, by the violinist and composer, Jean Baptiste Cartier. It was Cartier
who reintroduced the music of the old Italian masters of the violin into the French school of violin playing in the
later eighteenth century.
The Devil's Trill remains a favorite of the concert platform and teaching studio because, in addition to the
handsome sounds normally afforded by a Tartini work, this particular sonata offers the challenge of the famous trill
passages in the final movement: one "voice" constantly trilling, the other "part" presenting a simultaneous, also
constant and more actively moving countermelody:
Figure 9-16
Violin, Trillo del diavolo
Leopold Mozart, in his treatise on violin playing, says of this "accompanied trill" that "no little industry is
demanded" in the playing thereof. He quotes the entire passage and gives detailed fingerings designed "not to
interrupt the trill in the upper note." 116 One such nicety is the shift from second to first finger and back, in mid-
trill, in measures 3 and 4, above. To carry this interchange off without bobbling the trill calls for a hand that is at
once relaxed and carefully schooled. What is not as readily shown in the notation is the handling of the bow. For,
with the repeated tones in the counter-voice (as in measure 2), it is only by gently and briefly re-


Page 167
leasing the contact of the bow with the lower string that the desired articulation can be effected.
Friedrich Hermann slurs the phrase as shown above; Mozart shows shorter slurs, and sometimes none, showing as
well syncope figures where Hermann gives the constant eighths (cf. measure 4):
Figure 9-17
Leopold Mozart, Treatise, p. 202, Fig. 2, mm. 1-5
I cannot believe that Mozart meant literally to have the repeated eighths (measure 2) taken on separate strokes,
because this would be bound to produce a more choppy effect than is implied by the continuity of the trill. It needs
scarcely be added that the passage must be carried off with a display of ease. Contortions will show that the devil
has indeed not received his due in the practice room. As Joseph Szigeti warns, ''There is no shortcut; the trill has to
be 'earned' by patient training, by using the different rhythmic variants applied in all trill practice, and the difficulty
of the superimposed stabbed moving notes (this is a bowing prowess) has to be conquered separately before
attempting the passage as a whole." 117
While the trill passages may be the most spectacular in the movement, there are other niceties to be met, in the
various ways of simulating the effect of poly-voiced writing. Here is one example:
Figure 9-18
Violin, Allegro assai, p. 6, staff 5
And, shortly after, there is this more complex instance:

Figure 9-19
Violin, Allegro assai, p. 6, staff 8
Also to be mastered in this movement are the alternation of smooth-flowing Grave sections and the martial-toned
Allegro episodes. Some of the lyricism


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of the Grave, paradoxically, must carry over into the playing of the triplestop chords (cf. measures 12 and 14 of the
Allegro assai); for, rather than sounding like brusque attacks on the strings, these should be played as though
smoothly uttered by each of three simultaneous voices; a horizontally approached, gliding stroke onto the three
strings, either with three successive downstrokes, slowly drawn, but with quick recoil between, or in down-and-up
fashion; but in either event, with as little ''roll" as possible.
This combination of the bold and gracious will be most needed at the beginning of the closing episode, Adagio,
where the violin is left alone to sound two measures of double-stops. A scratchy tone here would undo all the
thought and good works expended earlier upon the devil's passage.
There are three movements in this sonata (Tartini favors this kind of grouping). For the opening Larghetto, little
advice need be offered the sensitive player, except for a word of caution. The climatic points of both halves of this
movement come just before the respective double bars, in double-stops marked for strongly accentuated playing.
These must not be rasped in sound. Their harmonic color gives them sufficient prominence without forcing of tone.
In the Allegro second movement, the many graces must be fitted in with spark and ease. So also, the alternation of
slurred groups and separately stroked notes must be carried out without fuss; save the bow in the slurred group so
that no great gulping of bow will be needed in the first note following thereafter:
Figure 9-20
Violin, Allegro, letter C, mm. 1-2
This little example also shows another point of difficulty: notes played all on one string, followed by a set of notes
on adjacent strings. The crossing between the pair of strings must be as much like the effortless playing of the
single-string tones as possible. The player has to use the bow as though playing double-stops, articulating the two
strings by the slightest possible tilting of the hand from the wrist. The elbow of the bow-arm must be raised or
lowered easily, economically, and with foresight to smooth the way of the lower arm and hand as they carry the
bow to the appropriate strings, especially in passages where the string crossing is of the more athletic variety:


Page 169
Figure 9-21
Violin, Allegro, letter F, mm. 3-11
The keyboard player will have to exert at least one caution in dealing with the Hermann edition of this and other
Tartini sonatas: the editor has a penchant for doubling the bass at the octave in many a forte passage. This kind of
strengthening is not often necessary if the piano is used and can result only in a bloated and grandiose sound. The
intensity of the writing will transmit itself without such padding.
The Sonata in G minor, published by Peters in company with the Devil's Trill sonata, is identified simply as
number 2 in the score; this is a ''house" number of Peters, similar to the Peters numbering of the Haydn quartets. In
the index of the edition, the sonata is labeled Number 10; it is the tenth of opus "1" of Tartini. That opus number
was assigned severally to a set of six sonatas for violin and continuo, published by Witvogel in Amsterdam in
1732, and to a set of twelve sonatas and a pastorale for the same ensemble, published by Le Cène in Amsterdam in
1734. The sonata in question is from the latter set. It is also known by the title Didone abbandonata ("Dido
abandoned"; Tartini was partial to the use of poetic and scenic inspirations or parallels for his compositions).
Tartini wrote the piece as a three-movement work, and it is so published in the Polo edition of Ricordi. The Auer
and Hermann editions have, inserted as a penultimate movement in this sonata, the opening Largo from the fifth
sonata of this set. According to Moser, it was L. A. Zellner, member of the Vienna Conservatory faculty, who
carried out this surgical graft in 1862, fitting the borrowed movement with double-step voicings and with a new
cadence, and transposing it to G minor to serve as curtain raiser to Tartini's finale. 118 The tradition is continued
by Auer and Hermann verbatim.
With or without its added movement, this sonata well deserves its popularity. It does not seem to have a
superfluous note in any of its meas-


Page 170
ures; each phrase is vital, balanced; each answer, justly proportioned; the relationship between movements, one of
perfect balance. From the warmth and poignance of the opening movement (untitled; Leopold Auer's ''Adagio" is
too lugubrious a marking for this kind of writing), we move to the impetuous brilliance of the Presto. The Allegro
comodo, with its blend of the qualities of both opening movementsand its clear reminiscence of the theme of the
firstis an ideal sequel to them. Zellner's Largo is, after all, essentially Tartini's work; and though its presence in the
sonata may be gratuitous, it functions well in its new placement. The player who cannot give it up may at least
choose to restore it to Tartini's single-line voicing.
Above all, the G minor sonata gives the players contact with the beauty and richness of the Tartini style without
their having to brave the torrent of the full-scale Tartini technique. The artistry of the accomplished musician is
amply used; the dexterity of the less skilled player can successfully cope with the problems at hand.
Sonata in C (Peters 1099c; Brainard, C12). The three movements of this sonata proceed in a continuous sweep:
from a broad, majestically paced Largo andante, to a more forward, more brilliant Moderato; and finally into a
Presto assai that swings easily and jauntily. This tempo relationship gives a feeling of coherence to the work,
reinforced by a sense of thematic relationship between the movements as well. The thread is not literal, but the
subjects of the several movements are subtly evocative of each other.
Figure 9-22
a. Largo andante, mm. 1-3
b. Moderato, mm. 1-4
c. Presto assai, mm. 1-8

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The first section of the Largo is only six measures long. It gives the impression of being longer, for it does not
''peak" until the beginning of the fifth measure. From there it subsides to the double bar. On the way to the peak, it
begins with a low-lying melodic arch, over the first two measures; continues with repeated, intermediate phraselets
in the third and fourth measures; then rises immediately to the high-point already mentioned. The beat is steady,
but around this the shifting phrase length, the nicely contrived topography of the melody, the off-center climax of
the line, all combine to add interest to stability.
The reflection of the opening, later in the movement (cf. letter A, measures 1 to 4) is shorter; it cannot have the
same kind of climax, for to rise to the same high note would lead the melody back through the initial harmonic
journey instead of bringing the melody to rest; but the lower trajectory is compensated by a more actively rising
and falling profile. These measures are preceded by four bars that carry us, in steady ascent, measure by measure
from the double bar. The movement closes with four measures of peroration: each of the first two seems ready to
drowse; the third is ushered in with a sudden leap of an octave, a chromatic descent (the first such in the
movement) and yet another, smaller leap before the closing slope off is allowed to occur. A short, assured, very
strategically arranged movement, it has that subtle artistry that knows how to conceal itself behind a cloak of
simplicity.
The six sonatas published as opus 5 have been listed as issued in Paris either in 1748 (so described, though with a
question mark as to date, by Brainard), or in 1745. The latter date is offered by the publisher, Zanibon, of the
modern edition of these pieces. The Foreword to that publication states that it is based on the first printed edition,
published by Louis Huë in Paris, and specifically on a copy thereof at the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana in
Venice.
The six works show variety in the ordering of movements: fast-slow-fast; slow-fast-slow-fast; slow-fast-
variations; slow-fast-fast; fast-slow-fast; and slow-fast-slow-variations. (In the seven sonatas published by Peters
a similar flexibility of grouping is found.) Here are some player's points about the sonatas in the opus 5 set.
In the Allegro of sonata 1, the offbeat trills used at the beginning, middle, and end of the movement are countered
by the on-beat trills, used only in the passage after letter 4 (i.e., just before the final return of the subject).
In the Allegro ma non presto of sonata 2, the double- and triple-stop chords on closely spaced beats of the melody
reflect Tartini's skill with


Page 172
the bow; he could not have had a rough sound in mind; and smooth playing of the chords calls for a clinging bow
stroke, a supple wrist.
In the third of the Variations of sonata 3, the violin melody of the opening section is somewhat strange in itself,
because it seems to pause in the second, fourth, and sixth measures, not on the expected note, but a second above.
The effect of surprise is heightened when heard against the bass line, wherein the expected note is used. The
resulting clash of the ninth or the sixteenth lends bizarre and sprightly sound to the line as it unfolds. Also the
rhythm of the violin partrunning and poised, heard measure by measuregives an infectious bounce to the line.
Regarded in sum, these variations offer a useful primer, of intermediate difficulty, of violin technique.
Sonata 4 is noteworthy because of the exceptionally ornate opening movement, the Grave. Tartini could not have
written a more highly decorated piece if he had set out to demonstrate the ''method" of ornamentation (à la
Telemann). The following pair of measures show the density of writing here, such that an additional, improvised
ornament by the player is not to be thought of:
Figure 9-23
Violin, Grave, letter 2, mm. 1-2
The second (especially) and third movements show a similar compactness; the ornament becomes an inherent part
of the line, or rather, the line is made up of a solid stream of ornamentation. The violinist picks his way through the
foliage at top speed, sending up showers of melodic leaves and twigs, given essential support by the clear, slower-
moving basso continuo.
Figure 9-24
Violin, Allegro, letter 3, mm. 1-3
Sonata 5 displays in its second and third movements a density similar to that of the preceding sonata. The first
movement of this piece, a Moderato, is full of sixteenths, a fast and almost flashily brilliant piece. Particu-


Page 173
larly interesting is its use of leaps across two and three strings as the basis of a melodic pattern that stands out with
thematic force in the movement:
Figure 9-25
a. Violin, Moderato, mm. 1-5
b. Letter 2, mm. 7-12
c. Letter 6, mm. 12-15
Sonata 6 is in some ways the most difficult of the set, especially in the second movement, loaded with ornate detail
and requiring a great deal of high-position playing, close-grained trill figures, and the most delicate kind of
bowing, including up-bow staccato figures of varying andin one instanceconsiderable length.
The Polo edition of Tartini sonatas, published by Ricordi under its catalog number, 177, contains four of the opus 1
set (originally published in Amsterdam in 1734 by Le Cène). Of the twelve sonatas and pastorale of that opus, Polo
offers sonatas numbers 1, 3, 4, and 5, in A, C, G major, and E minor, respectively. (The G major is also included
in the sonatas of Peters 1099a.) Each of these sonatas has, as the second of its three slow-fast-fast movements, a
fugue, so labeled. It is curious that Peters does not so title the movement.
Any one of these sonatas is worthy of study and performance. My own preference, owing to the sonorous brilliance
achieved therein by the composer, is the Sonata in A, op. 1, no. 1. Tartini exploits the free resonance of the A major
key on the violin in splendid fashion. In the Presto finale, especially, the open A and E are touched frequently and
incisively, as part of the thematic workings of the movement. The opening Grave is a short, lyric invocation for the
sonata. The Fugue (Allegro moderato) is


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like a gayer, shorter reminiscence of the fugue in Bach's first sonata for violin alone; shorter and easier. The entire
sonata is a joy to play.
The fifth sonata in the Polo set is that in G, op. 2, no. 12 (first published by Cleton in Paris in 1745). It has a
middle movement that is rather difficult, owing to the great number of three-string chord successions, and a finale
Presto that drives its walking rhythm to unnecessary length. An attractive sonata, nonetheless. The sixth and last
sonata in the set is the Didone abbandonata, already discussed as part of the Peters edition.
Pietro Antonio Locatelli

Pietro Antonio Locatelli was born in Bergamo in 1695 and died in Amsterdam in 1764. He was almost exactly
contemporary with the famed French violinist, Leclair (16971764); they knew each otherhaving performed in each
other's presence in Kassel in 1728and Leclair is thought to have studied with Locatelli during his years in Holland
in the early 1740s. Locatelli himself studied with Corelli in Rome at the close of that master's life.
Locatelli's Amsterdam years began as early as 1721, when his first publication was brought out by Estienne Roger,
of that city. Court service and travels in Italy and Germany occupied him through much of that decade. Beginning
in 1729, Amsterdam became his permanent residence. As teacher, performer, composer, publisher, music editor
and proofreader, music director and impresario, even as a dealer in violin strings, he contributed notably to the
musical life of the city. 119
For the violinist, Locatelli is certainly more difficult, technically, than such predecessors and contemporaries as
Corelli, Vivaldi, Handel, and even J. S. Bach. He is a violinist, a virtuoso, without the patrician restraint of Corelli
(or what Bukofzer calls the ''pallid" restraint of Locatelli's fellow Corelli student, Geminiani), with more up-to-the-
minute pyrotechnics than Vivaldi, more determined to shine as violinist than Handel chooses to require of his
performers. If Locatelli stands behind Bach in the order of musical difficulty, it is because Bach outdoes him in the
contrapuntal textures and chordal massiveness that he weaves into the violin line (leaving aside, of course, demands
of expression and interpretation, in which Bach outstrips all).
Locatelli published two sets of violin sonatas: XII Sonate a Violino Solo e Basso, da Camera, op. 6, Amsterdam,
1737; and X Sonate, VI a Violino Solo e Basso, e IV a tre, op. 8, Amsterdam, 1744. The degree of difficulty in the
Locatelli sonatas of opus 6 is revealed in these samples.
1. Double-stopping in the performance of a melodic line:


Page 175
Figure 9-26
Sonata 1, violin, Andante, mm. 1-2
2. Staccato in wide string-crossing pattern:

Figure 9-27
Sonata 1, violin, Allegro, mm. 11-12
3. Staccato also in narrower compass, and even in the playing of double-stops:

Figure 9-28
Sonata 2, violin, Aria, mm. 58-60
4. High-register playing, in sustained, melodic vein (see also sonata 6, Minuetto, variation 5):
Figure 9-29
Sonata 1, violin, Cantabile, mm. 93-96
5. Lyric, rapid passage-work involving string crossing:

Figure 9-30
Sonata 2, violin, Andante, m. 6
6. Playing in a difficult key (in the present instance, B major), with the addition of double-stops and the attendant
danger of hard, coarse tone:
Figure 9-31
Sonata 3, violin, Andante, mm. 1-2

Page 176
7. Extended passages of arpeggiation (in the example shown here, fully four pages of score of the texturesurely a
track recordmade more difficult by the need of grading and varying the sweep thereof in dynamics, harmonic
emphasis, and so on):
Figure 9-32
Sonata 4, violin, Allegro, mm. 19-24
8. Double-stop trills:
Figure 9-33
Sonata 6, violin, Largo, mm. 1-4
Does all this smoke mask a true flame? Yes, for these Locatelli sonatas have an amplitude, a gracefulness and
sweetness coupled with intensity, an air of sincerity that quite justifies the technical demands made upon the player.
They are bravura pieces, with artistic purpose.
Sonata in C minor, op. 6, No. 5. A closer look at sonata 5 will bear this out. Consider the start of the opening
Andante:
Figure 9-34
Sonata 5, Andante, mm. 1-4
Note how quickly the line moves to a point of intensity (beat three), with the ''foreign" neighboring tone (D flat,
over the subdominant, F, con-


Page 177
stituting the so-called Neapolitan sixth) warming the stressed beat. See how the second measure, easier in flow,
balances and releases the tension of the opening bar. Yet note also that the short note at the beginning of beats two
and three of the measure lend rhythmic intensity of their own to the running off of the line. Measures 3 and 4 are a
reflection, a repetition of sorts, without the twitches of measure 2. Thus, they balance in a larger frame the total
shape of measures 1 and 2. However, the stream is not entirely placid, for in measure 4 the composer specifically
asks for a grace (the two-note ''slide") on beat two, a trill on beat three. Moving ahead, we find the entire sectional
outline sparked to its close by the poignant catches of musical breath at the end of measure 6 and the middle of
measure 7:
Figure 9-35
Sonata 5, Andante, mm. 6-7
Note also the gradation of intensity, the sustaining power needed to carry the melodic line that Locatelli spins in
measures 21 to 24:
Figure 9-36
Violin, Andante, mm. 21-24
The second movement, Allegro, calls for great nicety of attack, and for rhythmic precision on the part of both
players. See the mordant pattern of the violin opening, the motoric impulse of the keyboard entry:
Figure 9-37
Sonata 5, Allegro, mm. 1-3

Page 178
The greatest challenge in the movement, a veritable hornet's nest of ornamental writing for the violin comes in
these measures, midway through the second section:
Figure 9-38
Sonata 5, Allegro, mm. 37-41
The incisive rhythmic sense we have already noted is raised to highest power in the Ariawith variationsthat
concludes the sonata. (Each of the sonatas ends with a variation movement.) The theme has a jaunty air that calls
for a surgeon's deftness in the handling of the bow (with no less delicacy on the part of the continuo player as he
matches his step to that of his partner):
Figure 9-39
Sonata 5, Aria, mm. 1-2
The bass line remains constant throughout the movement. Above it, the violin spins three variations; because the
tune itself is already well starched and ruffled in its rhythmic turnings, there is not unlimited scope for the further
inventiveness of the composer. And yet we shall come upon such exuberant bits of topography as this, surrounded
by verdant double-stops in the final measures of the movement:
Figure 9-40
Sonata 5, violin, Aria, mm. 71-72

Page 179
Sonata in B flat, op. 6, no. 1. The entire opus begins with an Andante that combines grace, mobility, and strength.
The first measure is propelled by the dotted figure of the second eighth, rebounds in upward leap immediately
afterward, resting in the second half of the bar while the strongly outlined bass takes over the motion; the second
measure reflects the rhythmic pattern of the first, tighening the motion on the third beat (again with the supporting
motion of the bass) to clear the way for the continuation of the melodic business forecast by the final beat of the
measure (see Figure 9-26).
Balance is established in the flow of melody by the use of phrase or motive repetition, as needed. Though there is
no clear-cut ''contrasting" idea, all seeming to flow naturally from the opening statement, there are nevertheless
clear divisions of the first section of the movement into opening, secondary, and closing portions, the division
reinforced by dynamic indications provided by the composer himself.
As can be seen in the measures quoted earlier, the composer begins immediately with double-stopping in the violin
part. This texture is maintained almost constantly in the movement, not with the intent of simulating polyphonic
writing, but rather out of desire to enrich the sound of the string part through harmonic amplification of the
melodic line. In one specific case, shortly before the return of the opening strain in the second section of the
movement, Locatelli suggests two parts in one,
Figure 9-41
Andante, mm. 21-22
and highlights the special activity in the violin part by asking the continuo player to play only the given bass line,
without chordal padding.
As the musicologist; Claudio Sartori, points out in his Appendix to the Locatelli volume, 120 the ornaments in the
slow (Andante) movements of these sonatas are written into the melodic line by the composer himself, removing
the option from the improvisatory judgment of the performer. Locatelli places ornamental detail in a precise
fashion, contributing to the preconceived extension of the melody, as in this passage from the closing lines of the
movement under discussion:


Page 180
Figure 9-42
Violin, Andante, mm. 30-34
The second movement, Allegro, opens brilliantly, with a brief flight of staccato, followed by tight flourishes and
expansive string crossings, and culminates in impressively long staccato flights (see the small portion of one such,
Figure 9-27). Transparent in texture, very clean in structural format, this Allegro is a bravura piece of the first
order.
The third movement closes the work with an appealing set of variations. The theme, Cantabile, is gently lyric, its
innocent pacing heightened in color by a sinuous passage that leads tantalizingly into the final cadence:
Figure 9-43
Cantabile, mm. 21-28
The third variation is entirely in double-stops; but most interesting is the fourth of the five sections of the
movement, an almost unaltered version of the original theme, simply transposed up an octave, taking the violinist
as far as the seventh-position stratosphere:
Figure 9-44
Cantabile, mm. 85-88
Staccato, coupled with arpeggiation, returns in the final variation to bring the movement to a brilliant close.
We have been talking about the easiest sonata in the six at hand in


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this edition of opus 6. It may be that Locatelli, composer-publisher that he was, placed the most approachable work
at the beginning in order to lure the purchaser. The later pieces in the group offer ever greater challenge to the
would-be performer. Sonata 2, in F, has a quite extensive and very ornately decorated first movement. A second
Allegro is in three-part form: first and last sections completely in double-stops (mostly thirds); middle section, a
fiery Vivace in F minor. The concluding variations movement has a long staccato section, offering as its chief
treasure the passage quoted in Figure 9-28.
Sonata 3 is cast in the difficult key of B major. In the second movement, Allegro, the player has to manage five
sharps in figures such as these:
Figure 9-45
a. Violin, Allegro, Mm. 1-2
b. Mm. 23-24
Sonata 6, in D, is the largest and most challenging in all the ICMI edition. It flings down the gauntlet of a sustained
double trill in thirds, then moves into an Andante sequel that alternates between double-stop and highly ornate,
single-line writing. The same combination of textures holds for the bravura Allegro second movement, with the
added sauce of staccato passage to lend flavor. To offer just one plum, how about this conga-line rhythm?
Figure 9-46
Allegro, mm. 1-2
Aside from all other fascinations of this movement, let the player be impressed by the fact that, ifas he shouldhe
repeats both sections of


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the movement, he will play no less than eighty-eight lengthy up-bow staccato groupings. Locatelli may not have
been a show-off, but he certainly makes his performers behave that way.
Each of the six sonatas in this edition has three movements: slow-fast-variations. The Minuetto with which sonata
6 closes has, among its seven variations, such entertainments as the following rocketry from section three:
Figure 9-47
Minuetto, mm. 33-36
Then there are the further fireworks of the final cadence:

Figure 9-48
Minuetto, mm. 124-128
It is well to mentionwith cautionthat this sonata is available in an edition ''elaborated" by Cesare Barison and
published by Carisch in 1964. It is puzzling that, in an Italian publication of a work by an important Italian
composer, some unexplained license should be taken with the work. For one, the opus identification is not given.
Second, the order of the movements is changed: in the ICMI edition, the Minuetto comes last; in the Carisch
version, it is printed as the middle movement. In the first movement, some of the violin chords are more fully
voiced than in the full edition, and some ornamental details are notated differently (with possible effect on the
placement and length of grace notes). Finally, and most difficult to understand, the Minuetto, a variations
movement (and as such entitled to stand in the final slot of the sonata, corresponding to the arrangement of the
other sonatas in the set), has only four variations in the Carisch publication; in the older edition, it has seven. As if
in atonement,


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however, the abridged Minuetto offers us the instruction to play the Minuetto proper, da capo, as a closing strain.
Can it be that the publisher wanted to save paper and have the entire violin part fit neatly, full title page and all, on
eight pages? If so, the decision was ill taken, for the omitted variations include one (section five) thatmarked an
octave upis noteworthy for the striking color contrast it lends the movement, as well as for its demonstration again
of Locatelli's high-position playing.
Locatelli's Sonata in D minor, op. 6, no. 12, in separate edition, is introduced by its editor, Michelangelo Abbado,
with the comment that, ''at the end of the sonata, Locatelli has added a Capriccio in D entitled, 'Prova
del'Intonatione' [literally, "test of intonation"], almost entirely for solo violin, which has been omitted in this
edition because its virtuoso character did not seem in keeping with the other movements of this work." This is not
right. Locatelli must have known what he was doing (he may have been imitating Corelli's use of a "test piece" as
the finale of his opus). Also, if virtuosity be at question, how can it go unnoticed in the first movement, Adagio, of
this same sonata, with its dense runs and ornamentaton?
This Adagio itself seems removed from the simpler writing of the middle movements of the work. These are all, it
is true, in D minor, except for the Andante (third movement), in G minor. But D major is not more foreign, as the
key of the intended finale, than G minor. The omitted finale (as described by Abbado), would provide a balancing
element against the opening movement of the sonata.
Also available in separate edition is the Sonata in G minor. By reference to old manuscript source, the work has
been cleansed of various improvements grafted onto it by the nineteenth-century virtuoso, Ferdinand David. The
sonata is itself a reworking by Locatelli from his flute sonata, Opus 2, Number 6. As it now stands, the sonata has
four good movements, slow-fast-slow-fast. Only the second movement has a dance title (Allemanda). But the third
movement, a Largo, still has a nice swing to it, and is written densely enough so that a modest amount of
ornamentation would suffice in the performance. The finale, Allegro, has a giguelike flavor.
All of these Locatelli sonatas offer the student excellent violinistic training material. To the concert artist, they
offer music of considerable virtuoso demands without surrendering intrinsic interest to technical acrobatics. To the
public, they offer the chance of hearing the too infrequently played works of a significant figure in eighteenth-
century composition. The duo will find itself well rewarded, especially if it seeks out the largest available collection
of Locatelli sonatas, in the ICMI edition. 121


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Niccolo Porpora
Niccolo Porpora, 16861766, was a Neapolitan-born composer of opera, oratorio, and other choral, vocal, and
church music in profuse measure, and of a lesser quantity of instrumental music. One among a number of lesser
rivals to Handel in London opera, he was a teacher who, in his late years, gave musical instruction to the young
Haydn (who served Porpora for some months as accompanist-valet in the middle 1750s). He was also the composer
of twelve violin sonatas, published in 1754. Of these, I have seen two in modern edition: one, in G minor, was
edited by Alfred Moffat, for Simrock, in 1932. It is spoiled by its fast movements; the Fuga (second movement)
has a foursquare subject; the whole movement feels the same way, and is tedious. The finale, Allegro, is more
concise, but nonetheless dull in rhythm and idea.
The Sonata in A, offered by Schering in his collection, Alte Meister, has a Praeludium, alternately slow and fast
and ending with a longer Adagio section, that is a good curtain raiser; let the pianist beware though, in playing the
continuous bass tremolos indicated by Schering; softly does it, or there will be a horrendous clatter. The second
movement, Allegro, is just as determinedly fugal as the finale of Moffat's edition, but there is, despite many
double-stops, a lightness and lift that make it entirely palatable in this sonata. The finale, Allegro, is a rattling good
one, jigging away in brisk fashion.


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10
Some Violinist/Composers in Paris in the Eighteenth Century:
Leclair, Mondonville, Others
Violin and keyboard, in France, figure in bizarre fashion in the vagaries of musicians' guild affairs in the
seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. The acrimonious jockeying for professional advantage, during the reign
of Louis XIV, between such factions as the Grande Bande of twenty-four violins of the court, the free-lance string-
and wind-players, the harpsichordists and organists of the court and of Paris, the dancing-masters of the Académie
de Danse, the operatic monopoly of the Royal Academy of Music (dominated by the Italian-born crony of the king,
the composer Jean-Baptiste Lully), and the officers of the centuries-old Corporation of Minstrels makes an
interesting study in the workings of taxation, graft, and privilege. Harmonious relations between string and
keyboard in France did prevail, however, certainly in the ensemble of violin and continuo, whose repertoire there
began in the early decades of the eighteenth century.
Michele Mascitti
Neapolitan-born, a student of Corelli, and one among the significant number of Italian musical imports into France
in the early eighteenth century, Michele Mascitti (16641760) is represented here by one of his products for the duo
(all were first published in Paris), the six works forming the Sonate da camera a Violino solo col Violone o
Cembalo, op. 2. The editor, Walter Kolneder, says of Mascitti's pieces that they ''were apparently intended less for
his own use than for the chamber music


Page 186
of his distinguished patrons and pupils.'' This fact, plus the limited technical demands of the violin part are cited by
him as the reason that the pieces are suited for study and amateur music making. In my view, the sedate expressive
qualities of the sonatas now confine them exclusively to such function. For concert purposes they are neither
brilliant enough for virtuoso display nor strong enough in musical content to warrant inclusion in serious
programming.
Even so, the duo will enjoy the Allemande of sonata 1; the Adagio and first Allegro of sonata 2, in D minor; the
concluding Giga of sonata 4; the opening Largo of sonata 5; and the harmonically interesting slow movements of
sonata 6.
François Couperin
An early example of native French writing for the violin and continuo comes to hand in the recent edition of the
Concerts royaux (numbers 1 through 4) of François Couperin (16681733), the renowned composer and
harpsichordist to King Louis XIV. The pieces date from about 1714 and were published in 1722. My (and the
publisher's) attribution of the pieces to violin and continuo is rather free. As Couperin himself implies in his
introduction to the works, the music is first designed for the harpsichord, but can be played according to the forces
at hand, with "violin, oboe, viol or bassoon" taking appropriate part in the festivities, the keyboard transferring to
continuo function as needed. The editor has cast several appropriate movements into violin-with-continuo mold,
others in the trio-sonata format, in accord with the composer's suggestions.
Clearly these are hybrid works from the point of view of the duo, but they offer accessible and interesting contact
with the work of a great French master. Couperin, it should be pointed out, was greatly interested in the Italian
style so popular in the France of his day and had long been writing pieces on the model of the Italian trio sonata.
The crowning evidence of his interest is the large trio-sonata cycle, the Apotheosis of Corelli, following upon a
similar cycle he had written in honor of Lully, both written several years after the publication of the Concerts
royaux.
François Duval
One of the first important native figures in French violin music is François Duval (ca. 16731728). He was a
member of the "24 Violins of the King" (Louis XIV), was one of the first French violinists to perform the Corelli


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sonatas, and was also the first Frenchman to compose sonatas for violin and basso continuo. From one of the late
sets, Amusements for the Chamber, Sonatas for Violin solo with bass, Book VI, published in Paris in 1718, Schott
has reprinted two sonatas, in D and G.
These pieces show Duval's competence as a violinist and his delight in the capacities of the instrument. The delight
is a limited one; the technical requirements of these pieces approaches, but does not match, those of the Corelli
examples. The textures are thinner, even with the ''trills, mordents, . . . and other little adornments" that the
performer is urged to supply "without stint" (editor's Preface). The formal outlines of the movements are less
clearly and solidly marked. Duval's pieces are light-hearted and of only moderate difficulty, making them of
definite use to the student duo. For real challenge and musical nourishment, the ensemble will do better, in the
French sphere, with Leclair and Mondonville.
Jean-Baptiste Senallié
Jean-Baptiste Senallié (16871730), violinist to the French court under the aged Louis XIV and eventually in the
court of Louis XV, is represented in modern reissue by one of his many violin sonatas, that in D minor, Book 4,
No. 4, originally published in 1721. The four movements of the work, all in the home key except for the third, in
major, follows the sonata da camera pattern, the two middle movements bearing Corrente and Saraband titles, the
overall sequence, slow-fast-slow-fast. There is a certain amount of melodic interrelationship between the four
chapters. The tone of the work is a combination of the brisk and (I must say it) the courtly, and offers moderate to
difficult technical assignments to the violinist. A pleasant work.
Jean Marie Leclair

Jean Marie Leclair was born in Lyons in 1697; on October 23, 1764, Leclair, then long recognized as one of
France's outstanding violin virtuosos and composers for that instrument, was found assassinated in his Paris home.
An eminent theorist of our day has facetiously suggested that Leclair was done in by a contemporary violinist who
had tried to play some of the composer's more taxing pages. Even for the iron-fingered performer of today, such a
theory holds some appeal; but the facts of the case are stranger still, constituting the most bizarre episode in recent
music history.


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Contemporary records (scrutinized by the French musicologist, Lionel de la Laurencie, and recounted by his
equally distinguished disciple, Marc Pincherle) 122 reveal that on the morning of the twenty-third, two gardeners
noticed that the front door of Leclair's house was ajar, and that his hat and wig were lying on the ground in the
garden. Sensing something amiss, they summoned witnesses; all entered the house, to find Leclair's body stretched
out on its back in the entry hall, the clothing stained with blood from three stab wounds. Bruises on the body
indicated that a struggle had preceded the slaying. The murder weapon was not at hand, unless it was the hunting
knifeunmarked by bloodthat lay next to the body, along with a hat, a book entitled The Cream of Bon Mots, and
(worn by the body itself) the scabbard of the knife. Suspicion attached to Leclair's gardenerone of the
aforementioned pairand also to a nephew of the composer. The matter went unsolved, however, and remains a
mystery to this day.
All of this is most intriguing. But one cannot play a Leclair sonata midst visions of the corpus delicti. More to the
point are details from a lifetime of distinguished service in the cause of French music. Leclair was the oldest of
eight children of Antoine Leclair, of Lyons, a master lace maker and also something of a cellist and dancing
master. Of the five boys and three girls in the family, six were violinists. The only important musician among them,
however, was our Jean Marie, called the Elder (l'Ainé) to distinguish him from a younger brother and namesake,
born in 1703. Whereas the younger man spent almost his entire life in Lyons, the firstbornafter a term of service as
violinist and dancer in the Lyons operawas already in Turin in 1722 as first dancer and ballet master of the opera
there. At least by 1726, he was studying there with the Italian violinist, Giovanni Battista Somis.
Leclair's stay in Turin had been interrupted once by a trip to Paris. In 1728, he went again to Paris, which was
thereafter his home. That same year he gave a triumphal debut there and became a performer in the Concert
Spirituel, the famed Paris concert series that had been established in 1725 by M. Anne Danican-Philidor, of the
celebrated French family of musicians. This distinction was followed, in 1734, by appointment to the Chapel Royal.
In both these posts, Leclair had as colleague Jean-Pierre Guignon, the Italian-born violinist, and also a Somis
alumnus, who was later to become the last king of the Minstrels' Guild of France. For reasons that are unclear, but
which may have included a resentment of Guignon's rivalry, Leclair withdrew from both positions around 1736.


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Leclair had married a young Lyonnaise widow (a dancer at the opera) in 1716; but in 1730, his first wife having
died, Leclair was wed to an accomplished music engraver, Louise Roussel. The couple separated in 1758, when
Leclairwho had revealed cantankerous, misanthropic traitsmoved to the house in a seedy part of Paris where, six
years later, he met his strange demise.
In the intervening years, Leclair had been in Amsterdam (from about 1737 to 1742), where he had opportunity for
renewed contact with the Italian virtuoso, Pietro Locatelli, whom he had met in concert collaboration in Kassel as
early as 1728. In mid-1743, Leclair was for a short time back in Paris, then entered the service of the court of
Prince Philip of Spain, at Chambéry, in the southeastern, Savoy region of France. Late in 1744 or early in 1745,
Leclair returned to Paris, taking up residence there on a modest annuity. About 1748 or 1749, the duke de Gramont
appointed Leclair principal violinist and director of his orchestra.
Aside from an opera, Scylla and Glaucus, and lesser theatrical and occasional music written for the duke de
Gramont and others in Leclair's later years, the composer's concentration was in the field of instrumental music.
Here the works include sets of pieces for violin duet, trio sonatas for two violins and basso continuo, a dozen
concerti for violin and orchestra, andof central concern to usforty-nine sonatas for violin and continuo.
These sonatas were issued as follows:
Opus 1, Paris, 1723. Twelve sonatas, Book One, dedicated to M. Joseph Bonnier, Leclair's first Paris patron.
According to the title of the opus, ''Some of these sonatas can be played on the flute . . ." Works so intended, in
this and in the later opera, eschew double-stops, which are otherwise frequently encountered in the Leclair
pieces. 123
This set was published by Eschig, Paris, 1905, edited by A. Guilmantthe well-known French organist-
composerand J. Debroux, in Les Maîtres violinistes de l'école française du XVIII siècle.
Opus 2, Paris, around 1728. Twelve sonatas, Book Two, "for the violin and for the flute . . ." Dedicated to M.
Bonnier de la Mosson, the son of the late dedicatee of opus 1. In his Foreword, Leclair declares that "I have
been careful to compose sonatas for people of greater or less skill, since the majority of these pieces can be
played on the flute. Those which will be found to be too difficult will nevertheless reveal their merit when they
are well performed, and will serve as study for


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those who have need thereof.'' 124 Leclair himself specifically designates sonatas 3, 5, and 11 as playable on
the flute.
This opus is available in an edition (full score only) published by Broude Brothers, New York, 1966, a reprint
of Volume XVII of the Publikation Älterer Praktischer und Theoretischer Musikwerke, edited by Robert Eitner,
Leipzig, Breitkopf & Härtel, 1903.
Note that the title of the Eitner edition states, "twelve Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo along with a trio
for violin, cello, and basso continuo." This is confusing, since the trio referred to is actually one (number 8) of
the twelve sonatas. The title page of the original French edition, reproduced in facsimile by Eitner, mentions
only the solo sonatas, letting the trio sonata in the collection manifest itself to the reader in due course.
Opus 5, Paris, around 1734. Twelve sonatas, Book Three, "for solo violin and basso continuo." There is no
mention of the flute, though here again some of the pieces are meant for performance by either instrument.125
This set was dedicated to Leclair's new employer, King Louis XV.
Opus 5, entire, is available in an excellent modern edition by Robert E. Preston, Recent Researches in the Music
of the Baroque Era (Madison: A-R Editions, Inc.), volume IV (1968) and volume V (1969). This edition is
provided with separately engraved violin and cello (continuo) parts, and with a most illuminating introduction
in which the editor discussesbriefly and clearlyLeclair, his sonatas, and important aspects of the performance-
practice to be observed in the interpretation of these pieces and related literature of the eighteenth century.
Sonatas 5 and 7 of this set are published individually by Bärenreiter (catalog numbers 3414 and 3415,
respectively), edited by Hugo Ruf. These editions offer a violin part engraved together with the bass line (two
such parts are included with the score, for the convenience of the players in performance) so that each player
can observe the simultaneous doings of the other's part. Also available from the same publisher and editor are
the sonatas in: A, opus 1, number 5; in F, opus 2, number 2; G, opus 2, number 5 (catalog numbers 3411, 3412,
3413).
Opus 9, Paris, 1738. Twelve sonatas, Book Four, for solo violin and basso continuo. Dedicated to the
Netherlandish patroness of the composer, the princess of Orange.


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All twelve sonatas of this opus (as well as opus 15, below) are now published in the Preston edition, Recent
Researches in the Music of the Baroque Era (Madison: A-R Editions, Inc.), volume X (1970) and volume XI
(1971).
Opus 15, Paris, 1767. A single sonata, posthumous, engraved by Leclair's widow (who had, indeed, engraved all
of his compositions from the year 1728 on), and bearing no dedication.
A complete edition of the works of Leclair (in all media) is now in preparation for the publishing house of Heugel,
Paris, under the general editorship of Marc Pincherle. Six of the Leclair violin sonatas, edited by Pincherle, were
published by L'Oiseau-Lyre (see the Music Bibliography for a detailed listing). And isolated sonatas from Leclair's
violin repertoire have been published both in Europe and America over the years, including a number of works
under the editorship of Pincherle himself (see Editions Used). At present, however, the Preston edition of opera 5,
9, and 15, a standard in its own right, is the largest body of Leclair sonatas available in readily usable form, and we
shall confine our comment on specific works to pieces contained in that edition. The illustrations shown are drawn
from that edition.
Sonata in E, op. 5, no. 9. The Andante theme (opening movement) has great rhythmic swagger, plus the touch of
brilliance that is added by the composer's indicated embellishments. These last are of two kinds: those shown by
sign, and those written out by the composer:
Figure 10-1
Violin, mm. 1-2
The ''shakes" or trills, marked +, lend intensity; the slower graces offer a glint of foreign-tone tartness (see the
sixth eighth of measure 1) or a rhythmic fillip and harmonic enrichment to the line (as in measure 2, first eighth,
where the grace provides two triad tones in the place of one, and the flavor of the passing tone, C sharp). The fine-
line, etched quality of the melodic thread is broadened into a bluffer texture by the arpeggiated figures of measures
7 to 10:
Figure 10-2
Violin, mm. 7-10

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The basso continuo, throughout, is cast in an eighth-note swing, apparent to the ear, but unobtrusive and
nonthematic. The ''return" in the second section of the movement (measures 18 ff.) is cast in minor, and, after a
truncated, reminiscent overview of first-section happenings, releases us to the major again for the close. The tempo
of this movement seems to settle comfortably at slower is pedantic; faster makes the ornaments muddy.
Leclair himself asks the player to be careful to find the "true tempo" of each movement, and to hold to it
consistently throughout. 126
For the Allegro, the tempo should be about to evoke the hunting-scene atmosphere that the writing
suggests. With only occasional bare spots, the violin is written throughout in double-stop setting, in effect very like
a horn duet.
Written in three sections, all repeated, the movement alternates a refrain with two contrasting episodes, the second
longer than the first. The impulse in playing this movement with the modern bow is to use a mild spiccato stroke in
the lower part of the bow. Leclair's own indication throughout much of the movement is as follows:
Figure 10-3
Violin, mm. 25-27
The editor interprets this to mean "slightly separated notes under one bow"127 and goes on to point out that this
would also suit the interpretation of the lines in the continuo part, where string and harpsichord player would be
guided toward a similar moderate separation. The difficulty for the violinist lies in achieving the same clarity of
articulation, without dryness or hardness of sound, that is attainable with the older, more resiliently clinging bow.
The problem is greatest in the passages that combine this bowing sign with a call for forte dynamics, for here the
effect can be either messy or anemic, depending on the failings of the particular performer. Let the player
experiment, in terms of his own technique, to decide whether he can achieve the desired effect with the linked bow
strokes in the upper part of the bow, or whether he is better advised to be faithful to the sound intent rather than to
the noted instruction. In this event, he can give good account of the music in a lower-bow spiccato.


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The assignment for the left hand in the third movement, Gavotta: Grazioso, continues to be double-stopping,
throughout. For the right hand, though, the stroke must now be in the upper half or middle of the bow, to suit the
pointed, delicate articulation this kind of movement requires. One difficulty in this kind of piece is to retain,
despite such concerns as clarity in fingering the series of parallel thirds, a sense of ease and of dance-like grace. As
part of this gracefulness, the shaping of the phrase, complete with dynamic shading, is not to be lost from view. As
an example, we may cite (with suggested dynamics and breath points), the longest and hardest span in the Gavotta:
Figure 10-4
Violin, mm. 9-17
The breathing points (and the dynamics too, if the keyboard is the piano) hold true, of course, for the continuo as
well. Above all, there must be no forcing of the tone by the violinist.
The Tempo Menuetto ma non troppo is a theme with two variations. The high point of the theme, and of the
Menuetto and its altered forms, is the expansive passage where the bow leaps two strings to weave bass and
melody together:
Figure 10-5
b. Mm. 55-58
c. Mm. 90-92
The players will note Leclair's sense of showmanship. When, in the florid version of the tune, the violin is
barreling through the sixteenth-note roller coaster, the continuo is confined to a very sparse, punctuating
commentary, to leave the way clear for the soloist.
Let us proceed now to sonata 12, where Leclair gives himself broadest


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scope in this opus for display of his technical resources. We must pause en route, however, to point to an
interesting spot in the opening Largo of sonata 10, where, in a double-stop setting, both lines retain their identities
to the extent of having, each its own, a decorative preceding and succeeding grace to adorn the interval. Here is the
measure in question, shown in its indicative, notated form, and in prosaic translation for performance:
Figure 10-6
a. Violin, m. 5, notated
b. As sounded
Sonata in G, op. 5, no. 12. This is the longest sonata in Leclair's opus 5; initially, there is some pretense at
polyphony in the violin part:
Figure 10-7
Mm. 1-2
As you note, however, once the violin and continuo have bandied the opening upward-leap interval, the violin
immediately settles down to the parallel, simultaneous sixths (and thirds) familiar from the other Leclair
movements we have seen. At two points in this Adagio, however, the ''second" violin breaks into some decorative
frivolities on its own:
Figure 10-8
Violin, mm. 18-19
Leclair knew what he was doing; the passage looks difficult (and it is certainly not easy to play), but is quite
feasible.
There are also moments of unabashedly linear flourishes in the violin, to which the continuo responds with more
sedate bursts of notes:


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Figure 10-9
Mm. 14-15
The second movement, Allegro ma non troppo, is clearly a simulation of a violin concerto, orchestra and all. A
brief tutti fills the first four measures, with the violinist called on to represent the successive entries (in lines of
composed acceleration) of two violin ''sections." From measures 5 through 8, the violin takes on a solo role, moving
now in more brilliant sixteenths, and in bold arcs of sound, as befits a bravura "soloist." The movement is a series
of such alternations in role, with the solo segments putting the violinist through a fair roster of musical-technical
maneuvers. The most spectacular feat is that of measures 70 to 75, where the violin performs a series of sustained
tones and tremolos, simultaneously:
Figure 10-10
Violin, mm. 70-75
Pincherle singles out this kind of writing as one of Leclair's distinctive violinistic-virtuosic devices.
The Largo third movement looks as though it is wide open for ornamentation, moving as it does in tones as long as
eight quarters, sustained. But the player should note that Leclair himself warns that his notated line is not to be
tampered with. 128 In the Preface of his fourth book of sonatas, he states that the loading of the melodic line with
arbitrary embellishments serves only to diminish its beauty. The fact that Leclair had to issue his warning shows
that his stand is unusual, and that free ornamentation was indeed the common practice in performance in his time.
So far as a slow movement, with long-held notes, is concerned, Leclair is known to have cultivated the technique
of the sustained bow stroke.129 With appropriate


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dynamic gradation, and the avoidance of any overdrawn quality of sound, the duo can do well to perform the
present Largo as it stands, with littleif anyornament other than the occasional trill indicated (+) by the composer
himself. This writer feels that it would be excessively courageous to play the section repeats of so ''open" a
movement without some embellishment; even a change in the pattern of dynamics for the repeat would seem little
enough in the way of needed variety of effect. The duo must judge for itself. In any event, the Largo will benefit
from a tempo that is not too solemn, to keep the line from breaking down into disjunct fragments.
On the subject of Leclair's own ornamentation, the performer will find it most interesting to refer to the facsimile
of the original engraving of the first page of this sonata, reproduced by Preston at the beginning of the first volume
of his edition of this opus. Engraved by the composer's wife, the page clearly showsby differentiation of note
sizethe distinction between principal tones and figures, on the one hand, and the embellishing streamers of sound,
on the other. There is some casualness of note value in the embellishing runs, and these errors have been
meticulously corrected by Preston in his edited version; but the Leclairs, man and wife, were quite clear in getting
their musical ideas across to their eighteenth-century reader. The more justification, then, in Leclair's claim to
control over his music and its interpretation.
The closing movement of the twelfth sonata, a Ciacona, may not partake of the "sensual and wild" quality that
Sachs and others attribute to the ancestral dance, the chacona. But this set of variations by Leclair is no funereal
round. It moves lightly through its initial statement:
Figure 10-11
Mm. 1-4
In the course of some thirty sections (there are actually thirty-one, if one counts repetitions, literal or otherwise)
there is almost as much variety for the bass as for the violin. The effect is of a three-way contest: the violinist
trying to outdo himself in feats of dexterity, and more than once


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carrying on a musical duel with the bass or even yielding an entire variation to that rival. The technical demands
may not look all that impressive to an eye that has seen the glory of Paganini, Glazounov, and the like, but they are
not negligible either, what with clusters or entire variations of double-stops (often in parallel thirds), chords,
improvised arpeggiations, wide and intricate string crossings, and a few double trills. The overall effect is one of
good humor, momentarily darkened by the minor section encompassing a number of variations in the middle of the
movement. TheCiacona is a diverting close to the sonata and to the entire opus.
To read through Leclair's sonatas of opus 9 is to realize anew that no composer makes the proficient violinist feel
so much like a great one as does Leclair. The notes lie well on the instrument, even when the left-hand reaches
seem awkward. Everything sounds well. The musical ideas are entirely appealing: opulent without seeming
pompous; gay without sounding frivolous; serious without falling into the maudlin. Here is a noble composer, if
not the ultimately affecting spirit; if Leclair is a ''lesser" composer, it is only because some of his peers are greater.
When Leclair fastens on an idea, or on a violinistic device, as in the extensive cross-string arpeggiations in the
Andante of opus 9, number 1, how expressive he makes it seem, how unlike a device, how like a fully necessary
texture. The harmonies too, are felicitous. In sonata 2, "which can be played on the transverse flute," the Andante
dolce has mildly surprising turns in harmony; shifts in register and voice. (Leclair here carries off what Festing
fails to achieve in his sonata.) The last variation of the final movement is "for violin only" (i.e., not for flute), a fine
perpetual-motion piece.
Sonata 3, in D, is the most familiar of Leclair's works in today's repertoire, having been published in inexpensive
individual editions, performed and recorded. It is an excellent piece, comprising a wide range of beauties, including
the festive Tambourin: Presto that closes the work.
Sonata 4 has an Andante spirituoso filled with runs and arpeggiations. Leclair here wins an incredibly rich effect
from the violin. The same might be said of the double-stop writing of the Allegro, though that movement is
somewhat repetitious. But the finale has a perpetual-motion Presto, a variation on the parent Allegro assai, that is a
blazer. A fine display for the duo (or at least for the violinist). Sonata 5 has wonderfully large movements, so
interestingly filled that they do not seem long. Outstanding in sonata 6, again in D, is the Allegro, very brisk, full
sounding. Again Leclair writes three-string chords to be played from the top downaccording to the composer's
instructionswith tremolo in the middle voice, the


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three strings to be sustained. Preston suggests playing over the fingerboard, to achieve the required effect with the
modern fiddle and bow.
Sonata 7 is one of those designated for flute as an optional alternate to the violin. In line with this, the writing is
single-stop throughout, except for the Aria movement, which is provided in two separate versions, one marked for
flute, the other for violin. In the flute movement, the sectional repeats are indicated, with ornamentation of the
repeated version left to the taste of the player; in the violin version, on the other hand, the repetitions are written
out, with the composer's own elaborations of the melody incorporated by him in the notation.
The duo's attention is called to the finale of sonata 8, a Tempo di Ciacona movement fully 263 measures long; to
the brilliant fast movements of sonata 9; to the Tempo Gavotta of sonata 11, an interesting and lengthy exploitation
of the texture of slurred crossing-string patterns; and to the brilliant and technically demanding posthumous sonata,
opus 15.
Jean Joseph Cassanea de Mondonville

Jean Joseph Cassanea de Mondonville was born in Narbonne, just off the Mediterranean seacoast in southeast
France, in 1711. By 1733, after early music studies with his father, he had made his way to Paris, and soon after to
Lille, in Flanders, to the north. Paris was his center of operations from 1739. His success there was earned both as
virtuoso violinist and as composer. He was one of the esteemed performers in the Concert Spirituel of Paris, and
was codirector of these concerts from 1755 until 1762. As a member of the Chapel Royal and later its
superintendent, he was prominent in court music circles. As opera composer, too, he won a measure of fame; his
Titon et L'Aurore, presented at the Académie Royale in 1753, served as the symbol of the French operatic school in
the Guerre des bouffons, the rivalry between the factions supporting traditional French opera and the new, lighter
Italian import represented by Pergolesi's La Serva Padrona.
In addition to opera, Mondonville wrote choral and solo motets, concerti and orchestral pieces, and chamber music
(principally duos) revolving around his own instrument, the violin. His duos included:
Opus 1, Sonatas for Violin with Basso Continuo, 1733, Paris.
Opus 3, Sonatas for Harpsichord, with Violin Accompaniment, ca. 1734, Lille.
Opus 4, Les sons harmoniques (''Harmonic Sounds"), Sonatas for violin with Basso Continuo, 1738, Lille.


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Of these works, I have seen examples from each of these sets. The Sonata in C, op. 1, no. 4, is cast in four
movements. Mondonville shows a thorough grasp of the sonorous possibilities of the violin: double-stopping, both
as a sound-expanding treatment of the melodic line and as a suggestion of polyphonic activity; flashing runs;
piquant rhythmic sequences. There is a Saraband in the best Corelli traditions; and a finale, perpetual-motion style,
that meets and excels the Corelli standard. This is an excellent sonata, worth considering for concert performance.
The Sonata in F, op. 3, no. 2, edited by W. Höckner, has an interesting new relationship between violin and
keyboard. We have already noted, in the Bach sonatas for violin and harpsichord, the complete equality between
the stringed instrument and at least the right hand of the keyboard. In the Mondonville sonata, the keyboard is
presented as the dominant partner in the duo, with the violin providing the supporting voice. The sonata opens with
a bravura flourish in the keyboard treble (the eighth-note rhythm of this flourish is consistently maintained
throughout the Allegro):
Figure 10-12
Allegro, mm. 1-4
In effect, the violin has the bass line, with the typical harmonic leaps characteristic of such a part; in measures 3
and 4, the violin is actually the lowest voice in the musical fabric, except for its high F. In measures 1 and 2, of
course, it could be argued that the violin sounds more important, melodically, than the keyboard; this kind of
equivocal center of attention is observed frequently in the movement and lends it part of its appeal.
The suspicion raised by the appearance of the printed page is borne out in the sound of the work as performed:
Mondonville is too much the virtuoso of his instrument to let it be submerged in the duo balance. Despite the title
of the opus, these sonatas (an excellent recording of the entire opus gives further evidence) are a pairing of two
equal protagonists. What Mondonville has done, essentially, is to set down in specific notation the role that a
competent player of the continuo would have arrogated


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to himself in an improvisatory way in the older manner of performance. And it is significant that Mondonville
returned, a year later, in the last of his sets of sonatas, to that traditional way of writing.
The second movement, Aria: Grazioso, of the Sonata in F, presents the violin in the role of a melodic garland
winding its way around the predominant line, the treble of the keyboard. The bass combines a harmonic function
with a degree of musical embroidery, reflecting the function of the violin part in a quieter fashion; here are a pair
of measures from the movement, with the bass line (and the treble in the second measure) written as played, the
actual eighth-duple notation being made to fit the triplet rhythm given to the violin part by the composer:
Figure 10-13
Aria, mm. 24-26, as played
The final Giga is curious: keyboard calls the dance to order with three chords at the beginning of each of the two
sections of the movement. The dance itself is represented by a great deal of motion (scalewise and triadic wavelets,
in triplet rhythm, most often for both hands). There is much harmony, but no melody to speak of. The rest of the
band is yet to arrive; but it never really does so. The violin is no help in this respect; it spends much of its time
scraping away (delicately, however) like some country fiddler unburdened with imagination. A sample of these
hectic maneuvers:
Figure 10-14
Giga, mm. 5-6
There are areas of slightly more inspired writing in the movement. Our dismay is misplaced, however; the noise
and motion is the stuff of this


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Gigaa boisterous, mirthfully ''simple" clean-up dance for an unpretentious and thoroughly enjoyable sonata.
A tantalizing sample from sonata number 5 of the same opus is offered by Giegling in his anthology. It is a
sparkling Allegro in D major, with fairly equal activity for violin and keyboard treble. The entire opus was
published by the Société Française de Musicologie, Paris, in 1935, edited by Pincherle, and would greatly merit a
search and secure mission by the duo.
In his Preface to the edition, Pincherle admits, to begin with, the all-important precedent of the six Bach sonatas in
the genre of the cembalo obbligato with violin (translation mine):
The sonatas of J. S. Bach represent, musically, an inestimable achievement, with which there can be no
question of comparing that of Mondonville in his opus 3. But the originality of Mondonville, from the point
of view, strictly, of the instrumental writing, remains complete. This is the first time that the two
instruments paired here express themselves, wih equal interest, in two different languages. The violin
moderates the aggressiveness that it showed in the sonatas accompanied by the basso continuo. The
harpsichord lifts itself to the plane of the sonata without abandoning the volubility, the light and brilliant
sparkle that it had hitherto shown only in the [French] pièces of its soloistic literature." 130
He goes on to maintain that one of Mondonville's prime concerns (as expressed in his own Preface to the original
edition) was to write something new for the duo, in the face of the many sets of sonatas with continuo that had
flooded the French market in the great vogue, in the first decades of the eighteenth century, of the violin sonata in
the Italian, Corelli model. Further, that in succeeding examples of this genre, the French composers, even the
violinists among them, went to the other extreme of making the keyboard entirely predominant, the violin actually
expendable, and that these Mondonville examples stand as important progenitors of the equal-duo sonata that was
to be produced by Mozart and his successors of the late eighteenth century.131
The duo whose appetite has been whetted by the Giegling and Höckner examples will find, in moving on to the
complete Pincherle edition of the opus, the assistance of a table of Mondonville ornaments (drawn from his opera 4
and 5). And in the works themselves, music that confirms the expectations raised by the separate editions. There is
much to interest both players. And if the violinist sometimes plays "second fiddle," it is almost never a really
subordinated role that he fulfills. Anyway, the last sonata in the opus sets the general tone of the entire group. For
it is a concerto


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(so termed at the beginning of the first movement), complete with ''tutti" sections and with "solo" passages for both
the violin and the keyboard in turn. So everyone, including the listener, will be happy.
The Sonata in C, op. 4, no. 2, in four movements (slow-fast-slow-fast), presents a violin part that is thickly written,
as befits its role in the traditional "solo" sonata. Also, as indicated by the title of the opus, Les sons harmoniques,
natural harmonics are written into the violin part. Mondonville himself explained that he was using the harmonics
as an easier substitute for rapid position shifts. 132 It is clear from more than one passage in the present sonata,
however, that no shifting at all is needed to accommodate the indicated tone. What the composer is after, then, is
the specific tone color of the harmonic. Certainly, no violinist worth his salt would even consider substituting a
stopped tone for the harmonics where indicated, as in the following measures:
Figure 10-15
Andantino, violin, mm. 9-10
Or this measure, from the Allegro, where the harmonics played at the end of the bar produce an ascending,
harmonically active line rather than the scalewise-seeming notation (and note how the keyboard is silent on the
offbeats, to let the harmonic punning be heard unobscured):
Figure 10-16
Allegro, mm. 6-7
Mondonville is interested not only in harmonics, but in general sonorous possibilities. In this same movement, he
tries to have his two instruments sound with orchestral fullness (if we add the two indicated parts of the violin line
to the assumed web of parts in the realized basso continuo):


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Figure 10-17
Allegro, mm. 11-13
He proceeds in similar vein in the Aria, having the violin play double-stopsand suggesting yet a fuller texture
because of the leaps in the melodic linethroughout the movement, except for brief passages of single-line writing
where the harmonics are given some of their exposure. One such measure will demonstrate the kind of technique
that made Mondonville one of the leading French players of his day; hand shifts and bow change must be precisely
coordinated, and the bow pressure nicely controlled to evoke the harmonics clearly in such rapid writing:
Figure 10-18
Aria, violin, mm. 61-65
The final Giga is a joy for all, with bass, treble, and violin all winding through a wide-arcing round. Again, the
violin is given some special chores: agile string crossing, articulate double-stop sequences, and so on. The neatest
trick is this measure, where double-stop harmonics, short runs in parallel thirds, and mercifully brief double trills
are bundled together:
Figure 10-19
Violin, Giga, m. 11
But the exuberance of the movement is best seen in the following violin excerpt; a century later, Wieniawski will
be doing much the same in his Scherzo Tarantelle:


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Figure 10-20
Violin, Giga, mm. 28-29
Three Others
For an example of more difficult (technically) writing in the French violin literature of the mid-eighteenth century,
see the Sonata in F minor by Tremais, the twelfth sonata of opus 1 (according to Moser), from the year 1736,
reprinted by Schering in his Alte Meister. Little is known about Tremais, not even his first name. The sonata,
however, represents him impressively, its three movements (slow-fast-fast) displaying fairly difficult double-stop
writing, interestingly contrived fugal textures in the second movementinvolving several simulated parts in the
violin as well as the bass line of the keyboardand a combination of rondo and variation writing in the finale.
From the French organist and composer Michel Corrette (17091795) there is a sonata, in modern edition, subtitled
Les Jeux Olympiques, for no apparent reason, and drawn from the composer's Sonates pour le Clavecin, avec un
Accompagnement de Violon, op. 25. For once, the current publisher's insistence on listing the violin first, even
though with ''obligates Cembalo," is not entirely ill taken, because the violin is given almost equal treatment with
the keyboard. The work is in three movements, Allegro, Aria, Giga, and is a bright, if not very substantial, piece
suited to the studio and domestic music making.
Any violinist who has cracked a knuckle on Pierre Gaviniès' études, the very difficult Vingt-Quatre Matinées, or
"Twenty-four Morning Constitutionals," will be impressed to know that Simon Le Duc the Elder was one of
Gaviniès outstanding pupils. Born in Paris before 1748, Le Duc died in 1777. In his scarcely thirty years, Le Duc
achieved a career worthy of his membership in one of the important musical families of France, variously active
for three centuries in music makng, instrument manufacture, and music publishing. In 1759 Le Duc began his
participation in the Concert Spirituel; by the ripe old age of twenty-five, he was associate director, with Gaviniès
and François-Joseph Gossec, of these concerts. He


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was also active as music publisher, teacher, and composer. His output, exclusively instrumental, included two sets
of sonatas (six each) for violin and continuo; opus 1, 1767, and opus 4, 1771, in addition to a single, posthumous
sonata. Of the two books of sonatas, four examples have been reprinted in recent years: opus 1, number 1; and
opus 4, numbers 1, 4, and 6.
I cannot recommend one above the other. They are all musical gems: brightly written, extremely well suited to the
violin, challenging to play (calling for a strong and meticulous left hand, able to pick out notes at speed in high and
low registers; and a bow-arm that can elicit the most incisive short notes and the most sustained of singing tones
from the violin). This is not great, soul-stirring music; it is too safe, too superficial, too noncommittal for that, even
in its darker moments. On the other hand, it is far from frivolous. Above all, it is elegant, sophisticated, neatly
turned and combed. Not a note is out of place.
Neither player nor listener is likely to have a philosophical revelation while experiencing this music; but he is
bound to give it his full attention throughout. Perhaps the highest praise we can give Le Duc is to say that he
sounds like a French Mozart who, unlike the real Mozart, did not progress beyond his years. Which is to say that
Le Duc is, on the basis of these sonatas, a minor master of the eighteenth century. The proficient duo should not
neglect these products of his art.


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11
Schobert and Contemporaries:
The Sonata for Keyboard with Violin Accompaniment in the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century
We have already seen, in the discussion of the sonatas of J. S. Bach, that he gives up the traditional basso continuo
principlewith the keyboard player improvising the parts above the given bass linein favor of a completely specified
keyboard part. The composer, not the performer, does the ''realizing." In the hands of a composer such as Bach, the
resultant part writing gives the keyboard a role at least equal to that of the violin in the duo. Matters went further
along this avenue in the later decades of the eighteenth century.
. . . a new, genuine clavier style developed in both solo and ensemble music (including the accompanied
clavier sonata), taking shape under Schobert, J. C. Bach, Rutini, and their contemporaries and culminating
in the works of Boccherini, Clementi, the great Viennese masters, and Hummel. 133
William S. Newman, elsewhere in the same very interesting article on the accompanied keyboard sonata, as well as
in his volume on the classic sonata in general, shows one reason for the popularity of this kind of sonata: it sold
well to amateur violinists who wanted to enjoy the feeling of participation in music without having to command
much in the way of


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technique or musical insight. The hard work, and the limelight, was left to the keyboard player.
To cultivate this market, ensemble music was written with an optional accompaniment part for the violin (or other
melodic instrument); also, parts might be addedwith or without the personal attention or even sanction of the
composerto broaden the sales appeal of an existing keyboard sonata. As part of the trend toward popular appeal,
there was a decline in the quality of such accompanied-keyboard sonatas as the eighteenth century drew to its
close. 134
Fortunately, excellent composers as well as hacks turned their hand to this kind of writing, and the sonatas to be
considered in these next pages will offer a (sometimes great) degree of interest to the duo. They are intriguing not
only in their own right, however, as reminders of a transition episode in the duo-sonata repertoire, but even more
so as the preparation for the mature sonatas of Mozart. And those sonatas, building upon the combined traditions
of the continuo era and the innovations of Schobert and company, will reinforce the impetus already given by the
Bach sonatas, to launch us into the modern phase of the sonata repertoire.
Today's listeners relish the sound of the harpsichord, whether played alone or as the backbone of ensemble music
intended for that instrument. The revival of interest in the harpsichord has been the fruit of combined effort by
virtuosos, scholars, and harpsichord makers over the past decades. The instrument takes us back to an earlier time,
whose graces and disadvantages we sometimes persuade ourselves we would prefer to those of our own era.
Listeners in the eighteenth century were used to the harpsichord, but were intrigued by the possibilities of the new
pianoforte; it could play ''softly" and "loudly," and also produce intermediate dynamic gradations, without
couplings, multiple sets of strings, or the other elaborate devices that the harpsichord needed to compensate for its
innate trait: that of playing one dynamic level, no matter what the force of the stroke on the key. By sounding
successive tones louder or softer than preceding ones, the effect of crescendo and decrescendo can be produced on
the piano; and, even in the use of blocklike, or "terrace," dynamics, the grading of loudness of each plane of sound
can be more subtly measured than on even the most expensively equipped harpsichord.
The piano builders of the eighteenth century were essentially reformed harpsichord makers. They were constructing
instruments whose strings, wooden frame and case, and so on, were at first little removed from the harpsichord
example. It was only with the passage of time, of trial and error, and mostly in the course of the nineteenth century,
that the piano


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developed into the instrument as we know it in its grandest form: large in range, long in length, with relatively
thick and powerful strings pulled up to pitch at great tension, the strain taken by a massive and carefully engineered
metal frame, the hammers controlled and directed by a sensitive action, and the sonorities molded by a simple, yet
effective set of three pedals. 135
A full-sized, concert-grand piano is an instrument of awesome strength, able to hold its own against the mammoth
symphony orchestra we have inherited from the nineteenth century. The violin, even with improved strings, beefed-
up bass-bar, and the strongest of Tourte bows, is no match for a robustly played grand, or even a smaller size of
piano. In picturing the sound of the sonata for keyboard accompanied by violin, we must think of the harpsichord
or the piano of the Mozart era, an instrument whose soft tone could even be overpowered by the penetrating sound
of the violin and, so much the more, paralleled and supported (that is, ''accompanied") by that instrument.
Johann Schobert
Those who recall the movie, some years ago, by Sacha Guitry entitled,Story of a Cheat, will remember that the
hero, as a child, was punished for some transgression by not being allowed to join the family in a supper of
mushrooms. Ironically, he was thus spared the fate that befell every other member of the householdto die of
mushroom poisoning. Confirmed in a suspicion that the wages of sin were after all not always predictably paid, the
child went on to a lifetime of cheating.
The movie scenario seemed a wry, Gallic confection, scarcely to be encountered in real life. An actual event of this
kind, however, befell a musician in eighteenth-century France. And it is all the more strange because the victim in
this case, a man of undeniably strong willpower, himself courted death with heedless persistence.
An account of the baleful event was given by the contemporary observer of Parisian culture, the German Baron
Melchior von Grimm:
The day of Saint-Louis was marked this year [1767] by a truly unfortunate occurrence. Mr. Schobert,
known to lovers of music as one of the best harpsichordists of Paris, had arranged a pleasure outing with
his wife, one of his children (four or five years old), and several friends, including a doctor. A party of
seven, they went walking in the woods of Saint Germain-en-Laye. Schobert loved mushrooms with a
passion; he gathered some in the forest at one point in their hike. Toward evening, the group came to
Marly, entered a tavern and asked


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that the mushrooms be prepared. The chef, upon examining the mushrooms, declared that they were a
poisonous variety and refused to cook them. Annoyed with the refusal, the group left the tavern and went to
another one in the Bois de Boulogne, where the maître d'hotel told them the same thing and also refused to
prepare the mushrooms for them. An ill-fated obstinacy, based on the doctor's repeated assurance to the
company that the mushrooms were safe, made them leave this inn to go to their doom. They all went back
to Paris to Schobert's home, where he served supper with these mushrooms, and all seven of them,
including Schobert's servant, who had cooked the mushrooms, and the doctor who claimed to be such an
expert in the matter, all died of poisoning. Since they all fell ill together, they were without aid from eleven
in the evening until noon of the next day. They were found collapsed on the floor, seized in grievous
convulsions and struggling against death. All measures were useless. The child died first. Schobert lived
from Tuesday to Friday. His wife did not die until the following Monday. Some of the wretched lot lived
for ten days after the accident; but none escaped. Schobert left a nursing infant, who remained without
support. 136
Johann Schobert is of interest, however, to the musician, not the mycologist. He is remembered primarily because
of the impact of his work on the child Mozart. The relation between Schobert and Mozart stems from the year
1763. The seven-year-old Salzburg lad was living in Paris in the first winter of the long tour the Mozart family was
then making. The Silesian-born Schobert, though well established in Parisian musical society, was not happy about
the visit of the Mozart prodigies. Leopold Mozart wrote, in a letter of February 1, 1764, that his daughter's precise
playing of the works of Schobert and of Johann Gottfried Eckardt (also German, and a keyboard artist prominent in
Paris) had made it impossible for Schobert to ''conceal his envy and jealousy . . . making himself a laughing-
stock."137 In 1778, during his second trip to Paris, Wolfgang, now a grown composer in his own right, wrote to his
father that he had bought "a collection of sonatas by Schobert for a pupil," and promised to send a detailed report
on the works.138
Surely not, however, for the purposeat so late a dateof finding inspiration in the predecessor's work. Mozart was, in
that very year, producing sonatas that quite justified the early and premonitory jealousy of Schobert. Though
Mozart had clearly, in his childhood sonatas for keyboard and violin, adopted the Schobert sonatas as a model for
the treatment of such an ensemble, his own mature sonatas far outstrip those of the older composer in flexibility of
voicing, of dramatic contrast, of temper and mood.


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As Hugo Riemann points out, the catalog of Schobert publications includes the following categories of
composition: six concerti, six sinfonies, four quartets, seven trios, thirty-two duos. There are only four sonatas for
keyboard alone. Other than this, Schobert produced works only for ensembles of two or more players. The
harpsichord (or piano, as a presumed alternate) figures in every one of these categories as the featured instrument;
even the sinfonies are ''for the Clavecin with the accompaniment of violin and horns." As if to highlight the
keyboard even more, Schobert often adds to the description of the additional instrumentation in his titles the words,
ad libitum. Riemann specifically observes in the case of the sonatas with violin, however, that the part of the
stringed instrument is too much involved in the fabric of the music to be omitted without loss. It is his guess that
Schobert was trying to assure the largest possible sale of the publications by hinting that the purchaser could
satisfactorily play them through on keyboard alone. 139
The sonatas of Schobert do favor his own instrument, the harpsichord or piano. In at least one instance, the Sonata
in C minor, op. 14, no. 3, the first movement is entirely for keyboard alone (this is not without precedentrecall the
similar instance in the Sixth Sonata for Violin and Keyboard of J. S. Bach). For the rest, the violin is a secondary
partner; however, the string line sometimes joins the prominent voice in the keyboard part, or responds to it, or
parallels it from above or below. There is variety enough in the function of the violin part to sustain the interest of
the player.
One sometimes hears a suggestion of orchestral massing of sound in works specifically titled sonata by Schobert
himself; these are, however, as a rule more flexibly written, as befits the chamber style. The keyboard part itself
has lively interaction, a sense of dialogue between the treble and bass lines, and the latter is not insistently handled
as a mere support. Also, the violin part is more involved in its own right in the musical proceedings than is the case
in the symphony-"sonata."
An example of the latter is to be found in the work published as sonata 2, in A major, in Nagel's Musik-Archiv.
This piece is actually the second of the three sinfonies, opus 9. The editor selected this work because, in distinction
to the other two of the set, it accompanies the keyboard with violin only, without the addition of two horns. Even
without the winds, however, the piece sounds like a keyboard reduction of a Mannheim symphony, complete with
sunny, transparently massed texture, ebullient motoric drive, second theme of more delicate and reserved temper,
and so on.
The work is not particularly difficult for either instrument in the duo.


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And, though the violin does not often escape the reinforcing role, there is no particular advantage to the keyboard
either; players and listeners alike may have the feeling that two performers are holding the fort for a larger group
of playerswho never get to the evening's festivities.
Those duos interested in adding to their repertoire of well-written pieces of intermediate difficulty would do well
to seek out the Denkmäler volume of Schobert compositions and read through the five sonatas contained therein.
The Sonata in C minor, op. 14, no. 3, which opens with an Allegro moderato for keyboard alone, and the Sonata in
D minor, op. 14, no. 4, seem most rewarding. In these sonatas, the duo will acquaint themselves with the work of a
man whothough his life was short and his output limitedis a significant contributor to the musical stream of the
mid-eighteenth century. Beyond this, they will enjoy the direct, buoyant, and fresh themes, the lyricism and sweep
of the writing (as the particular case may be). So much so, that they may not feel too much concern over the
relative importance of the two instruments in the duo.
It must be confessed however, that if the violinist is looking for a chance to display his ability as a player, for a
challenge to his technique, he will have to look elsewhere. For the duo as ensemble, moreover, these pieces provide
pleasant, rather than fully stimulating, fare.
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach

In his epochal treatise, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, second
son of J. S. (and his greatest musical offspring), writes long and expertly on the problems and techniques of
improvising an accompaniment from a figured bass. In his section on ''Performance," he speaks testily on the lot of
the accompanist, who must "support and enhance extemporaneously all the beauty on which so much time and care
have been expended by the principal performer. Yet the soloist takes all bravos to himself and gives no credit to his
accompanist." 140 Bach not only complained; he did something about the situation. Among the many compositions
he produced in his seventy-four years (17141788), there were ten in which he turned the tables on his partner.
These included five sonatas for Cembalo obligato e Violino.141 Of these, we discuss here the B minor and the D
major, W. 76 and W. 71, respectively.
The Sonata in B minor was composed in 1763, the twenty-third season of Bach's residence at the Potsdam court of
Frederick the Great, whom he served as cembalist. (The long years of accompanying a monarch who fancied
himself as both a flute virtuoso and arbiter of musical taste


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weighed heavily on Bach, and no doubt contributed to the distress given voice in the passage above. It was not
until 1767 that Bach escaped to his second and last major post, as successor to Telemann in the office of music
director for the city of Hamburg.) The Allegro moderato that begins this piece opens with nine measures for
keyboardalone, and enjoying the condition. Such measures! Four rather fast beats per bar, but each beat a wave of
thirty-seconds. The piano reverie (if so electric a display can be termed trancelike) at last falls still. Before there is
a chance for a bravo, the violin makes its entry in measure 10, to a figured-bass accompaniment. True, the violin
plays a quasi-recitative melody that lives up to the emotion of the keyboard's earlier rhapsodizing; and the bass line
is quite similar to that which has gone before. The contrast in texture is striking, however; one feels torn between
two musical eras. Bach plays on this strong contrast, alternating the two textures on the succeeding pages of score
as though, in notation, he is painting a three-dimensional sound picturethe black-note keyboard interludes in the
foreground, the paler basso continuo episodes, further off. The alternations become shorter, more equal. Finally
(measures 33 ff.), both the violin and keyboard hand the rhapsodic swirls back and forth to each other, even as
quickly as beat by beat. For a moment, both instruments take up the recitativelike line, but now in full-notated (not
figured-bass) writing.
The middle section of the movement (measures 39 ff.) begins anew, on a fresh harmonic level. For a time, the
sequence of events of the movement's opening is reflected. But the texture possibilities are extended, so that at one
point we have the two instruments playing the rapid figures simultaneously, in note-against-note fashion.
Eventually (measure 80) the movement does turn back upon itself, but altering its course harmonically so as to
move toward a final resolution. The closing measures find the violin and keyboard again trading responses, finally
settling their discourse with a simultaneous cadential statementthe keyboard in the topmost voice.
Figure 11-1
Allegro moderato, mm. 122-124

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The question of slurring the black-note figures will certainly come to mind for the violinist, and possibly the
keyboard player as well. Although some deployments of the thirty-seconds benefit by the individual-note bowing
that Bach seems to imply by his general omission of slurs, the players must feel free to introduce slurs where the
texture of the running passage-work or arpeggiated figures can benefit from it. Again, Bach's own words give the
clue to the proper approach; he is speaking here of the keyboard, but the thought reflects his musical view in
general: ''All other instruments have learned how to sing. The keyboard alone has been left behind, its sustained
style obliged to make way for countless elaborate figures." 142 Interesting suggestions for the addition of slurs can
be gained from the Sitt edition (Peters) of the B minor sonata, though the perspective of Bach's own notation
should be retained through comparison with the Ruf edition (Schott), which follows the composer's autograph of
the work.
The juxtaposing of figured-bass and explicitly composed treatment of the keyboard part continues through the
remaining two movements of the sonata. In the Poco andante, the need for figured bass is not always apparent.
There is overlapping of the violin and keyboard lines, both treated as equally prominent; it is strange that Bach
would resort to figured bass for extremely short areas (one quarter-note in measure 22, three in measure 24, and so
on). The texture of the movement is much like those in the duo sonatas of J. S. Bach: the bass line is just that, a
support for the upper part though without the occasional thematic participation allowed it by the older man; the
violin and the keyboard treble are equal partners, in the manner of the two melodic parts in a trio sonata. Where the
melodic lines of J. S. were complex and convoluted, however, those of C. P. E. tend rather to the smooth flowing
and easily singable. In all, a pleasant, sober, mildly affecting, and not particularly stirring slow movement.
The same temper, and the same reserve, now applied in the slightly faster, swaying rhythms of the Allegretto
siciliano, mark the finale of the sonata. The two instruments are again treated with such even-handed fairness that
one wonders why the composer bothered to entitle the work Sonata for Keyboard and Violin; the word order is not
reflected in the relative musical prominence of the two instruments. For duo purposes, the sonata is interesting
precisely because of the equality of the two partners. Further, because neither instrument is called upon to
contribute particularly virtuosic flights (the violin, for example, is fairly low lying, and is not assigned so much as
one double-stop in the entire work), the B minor sonata gives intermediate as well as advanced ensembles access to
the music of one of the most esteemed composers of the eighteenth century.


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Carl Philipp Emanuel was still in his student days at the Saint Thomas School (where his father was cantor, and in
charge of the musical training of the student body) when, in 1731, at the age of seventeen, he composed the first of
his works for keyboard and violin. It is the Sonata in D, for Concertante Harpsichord and Violin (W. 71). The
texture of the piece is again like that of the sonatas for keyboard and violin of the senior Bach, with the violin and
keyboard-treble lines treated as the two melodic voices in a trio-sonata ensemble, the bass line providing the
support customarily expected of it.
The temper of this sonata, though, is much more easygoing and noncomplex than in any of the six such pieces of J.
S. Bach; nor does it have the intensity and heat, for that matter, of Carl Philipp's own later composition, considered
above. There are four movements in this work. The first two (slow and fast) and the last, a complex of two
minuets, are bright, sunny, straightforward. It is the third movement, Adagio, that is the center of interest in the
sonata, with snapped rhythms and strongly modeled interplay between the two instruments. The sonata is excellent
fare for the intermediate or even the novice duo.
Johann Christian Bach

Johann Christian Bach, born in Leipzig in 1735, was the youngest son of J. S. Bach by his second wife, Anna
Magdalena Bach. He died in London in 1782. It was in 1762 that the ''London" Bach came to that city, after studies
with his brother, Carl Philipp Emanuel, in Berlin, with Padre Martini in Bologna, and after composing activity
(particularly oriented toward opera) in Italy. It was through opera that he first made his mark in London.
The Mozarts, father and son, speak in complimentary fashion of J. C. Bach in their letters to each other. When,
however, Leopold exhorts his son, in 1778, to emulate the "trifles" of the London Bach, he is arguing in the
negative.
. . . Such works are more difficult to compose than all those harmonic progressions, which the majority of
people cannot fathom, or pieces which have pleasing melodies, but which are difficult to perform. 143
After reading this lecture, we can understand the perceptive comment that Mozart "yearned for personal freedom
and artistic independence [from] the guiding hand of his father, who had only a vague conception of the spread of
wings of which his son was capable."144


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It was too late, in 1778, for Wolfgang to produce many ''trifles"; as we shall see in a forthcoming chapter, the
keyboard-violin sonatas that he had already written that year (in Mannheim and Paris) are works of mastery and
depth, much more informed with the true sense of new duo possibilities than J. C. Bach could hope to grasp.
It is only fair to ask, with H. C. Robbins-Landon, "Why is it necessary for all music to drip blood? . . . We must, if
we are to enjoy Christian Bach's music, break away from the idea that to attend a concert is to purify the soul; it
may do that but it need not." 145 So agreed, with the stipulation that today's soul does take a good deal of
purifying. In the case of the London Bach's sonatas for keyboard and violin, one may hold a less philosophical
reservation about the pieces. An examination of the Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord or Pianoforte with an
Accompagnement for a Violin, op. 10, from the year 1773, reveals one great difficulty for the present-day duo in
this music: the second-fiddle role of the violin.
I can sense the pianists rising to the challenge here. What, complaints about top billing? After all those sonatas
where the violin was prima donna? Hear me out. Second violin in a string quartet is one thing; the homogeneous
sound of the ensemble makes it possible for the second violin (or viola, or cello) to hear the total part web of the
group and to feel itself an important voice therein even when the part assigned to it is clearly subordinated to the
first violin part. Whether the keyboard is harpsichord or piano, however, the violin in the duo hears itself as clearly
set apart from the associated voice. If, as in a continuo sonata, the violin is unmistakably the "solo" voice, the
improvisatory musical statements by the continuo make the part relationships more equal than would be suggested
by the printed page. Ifeither in a sonata with continuo or in a piece where all parts are given in detailthere is
somewhat even distribution of the action between keyboard and violin, the protagonists can hear themselves as
integral parts of the whole and can relish the alternation of prominence as contributing to the sense of musical
dialogue that is so much a part of chamber writing. But if, finally, the tables are completely turned, with the violin
given a specific line that makes of it, almost without exception in the entire composition, a harmonic support and
parallel to the predominant keyboard part, the situation is really untenable. The keyboard may feel that it is
sufficient unto itself (and in many duo compositions it is), and that the violin is more an annoyance than support.
The string player, for his part, may feel so much the accessory and hanger-on as to be quite bored and discouraged
with his role.
Especially so if, as will most often be the case, the keyboard is the


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modern piano. Against so powerful an opponent, the violin can be effective, in a sonata where it takes the
consistently subordinate function, only if it overdrives its line to a ridiculous degree or if the piano holds back to
such an extent that the predominant role of the keyboard is nullified.
Such, I must say, is the case in these J. C. Bach sonatas. As graceful, innocent, enjoyable musical essays of the
later eighteenth century; as keyboard sonatas of that era, they are acceptable. As duo sonatas, they leave something
to be desired. The excitement of the rivalry, the dramatic aura surrounding the interchange between two voices of
contrasting sound and character is missing. The sonatas are sweet, safe, and a little dull in sound and concept.
A note of protest is in order against the decision of Hinrichsen and Breitkopf & Härtel to publish their editions of
these Bach works as sonatas ''for violin and keyboard." Bach and his contemporaries certainly did not name them
so. It is one thing for composers and publishers of that time to add the violin accompaniment for sales appeal; it is
quite another for our own publishers to list the violin first. This seems analogous to the current practice of listing
an old movie with a lately risen star's name in top billing, even though he plays only a bit role in the film.
In the first sonata of the opus 10 set, the initial Allegro (its theme is taken from the corresponding movement of J.
S. Bach's B flat Partita from the Clavierübung, part 1), affords the violin precious little limelight: measures 66 and
67! In sonata 2, it is not until the second movement,Tempo di Menuetto, that the violin gets a turn: the (untitled)
trio of the movement is almost entirely a solo for the stringed instrument, with the keyboard now providing
accompaniment or lower-parallel support. In sonata 3, the opening Allegro permits the violin to make an individual
response to the piano's lead announcement in each section of the movement; aside from that, measures 33 and 34,
84 and 85, and 89 and 90 are the only moments of modest prominence for the instrument. In the final Rondo, the
violin has just a couple of measures again.
In sonata 5, the closing Rondo once more offers a couple of tidbits to the violin. On balance, there is not enough
scope for the violin in these pieces to lend much weight to Karl Geiringer's statement:
It greatly contributes to the attraction of these sonatas that the violin is not always condemned to a purely
accompanying function. Little echo effects or imitations are occasionally entrusted to it . . . 146
In the Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Piano with Flute or Violin, op. 16, from about the year 1783, the situation is
somewhat improved. The Trio (or analogous section) in the first sonata of the set is a haven of identity for the
"accompanying" instrument. This entire portion of the


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movement is the province of the violin (or flute). The second subject of the opening Allegretto of sonata 2 is also
given to the secondary instrument. Sonata 4, in A, comes closest of all to the equal treatment of the two
instruments; this is true of the first movement, Allegretto, and of the second and last movement, Rondo.
The editor of the opus 16 sonatas, Albert Küster, describes them variously as being of ''graceful character and
beauty of sound . . . suitable for teaching purposes . . . no particular difficulties arise for either instrument." He also
states that "for the violinist one can scarcely think of a better preparation for the [mature] Mozart Violin Sonatas."
147 One can agree with all statements except the last. Warm up technically on these pieces, and you will still be
taken aback by the technical requirements of the Mozart sonatas; and infinitely more so by the musical-dramatic
sensitivity called forth by the work of the younger man. In my opinion, the Schobert sonatas would be better
"preparation" for the Mozart works; they are tauter, more driving, more subtly chiseled than the Bach examples.
Mozart's own childhood sonatas (written in Paris, London, and Holland) were produced in response to hearing
Schobert's works earlier, in the journeys of 17631766, as well as to the contact with J. C. Bach and his music in
London.148
When it comes to preparation for Mozart's later sonatas, the best approach is still the assiduous study, with both
mind and fingers, of the Mozart sonatas themselves, beginning with the only slightly reduced difficulties of those
from K. 296 through 306. By comparison, both the Schobert and the J. C. Bach sonatas seem to be attempts at the
medium, rather than fully realized studies therein.
Actually, the most impressive duo of J. C. Bach that I have seen is not one of the London pieces, but a sonata that
he wrote in his late teens, while still studying with his brother, Carl Phillip: the Sonate in Es-dur für Violine und
Cembalo (Klavier)again the publisher insists on reversing the proper order of instrument title, because the label
originally read,Cembalo Obbligato e Violino. The relationship is more in the direction of equality than of
predominance-subservience, however. The four sizable movements of this sonata (in slow-fast-slow-fast order)
have a spark and intensity that is not often enough found in the other works of Johann Christian that I have
discussed.
Carl Friedrich Abel

The duo will profit, also, from the sonatas of J. C. Bach's countryman and London colleague, Carl Friedrich Abel
(17231787). There is no great vitality and depth to be found in his music, but rather the reflection of an


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amiable, likable musician. He writes pleasantly, but avoids the shallow and the trite. His Sonata in G, op. 5, is a
nice keyboard piece in two movements, with the aid of a violin or flute, suitable for novice or intermediate duo.
The same applies to two sonatas in B flat (one of them is opus 13, number 3).
Luigi Boccherini
Better still, apply yourselves to the sonatas of Luigi Boccherini. He was born in Lucca, Italy, in February, 1743,
and died in Madrid in 1805. Trained at first by his father, cellist in the orchestra of the cathedral of Lucca, and then
by Domenico Vannucci, musical director of the orchestra, he was active in 1757 at Rome as composer and cellist,
and at Vienna. He returned to Lucca in 1761, joining the theater orchestra there as cellist in 1764. After being
represented in his native city as a composer by two oratorios and an opera, he set out on tour, reaching Paris in
1768. One facet of his triumphal reception there was his introduction to the circle of the harpsichordist, Madame
Brillon de Jouy. That year, he composed his opus 5, Six Sonatas for Fortepiano with Accompaniment of a Violin,
dedicating them to this virtuoso performer. 149
The opus is the only set of pieces Boccherini wrote for keyboard-violin duo. The six sonatas for violin and basso
continuo (listed, both in MGG and in Polo, ICMI, on the basis of Picquot's Catalogue raisonné of 1851), which
were printed by various French publishers in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries are arrangements,
very likely without the composer's authorization, of sonatas he wrote for cello and basso continuo.150
These sonatas (opus 5) were first published in February, 1769, in Paris. The publisher, Venier, apparently on his
own authority, added a sentence designed to attract an added market for the offering: ''Several of these pieces can
be played on the harp [i.e., one would suppose, with the harp as substitute for the keyboard; the violin would still
be required]."151 The contemporary popularity of the pieces is seen in the fact that they were published again, in
some cases on several separate occasions, from 1774 through about 1830, in Riga, London, Paris, Mannheim,
Vienna, and Amsterdam.
A hasty glance at these pieces might make the violinist feel that he should give them a wide berth. And, after what
I have said about similar works by J. C. Bach, I ought to feel disposed to such a decision. But, as


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always, it is not the role of the individual voice that carries the composition, but the musical validity of the piece
itself. In this respect, the Boccherini sonatas acquit themselves very well, offering interest and excitement enough
to intrigue both players, no matter what the relative importance of keyboard and violin. Once this is acknowledged,
we can find the sound of keyboard with violin a welcome thread of contrast and relief in our listening diet, one that
weaves nicely even into the fabric of the concert program.
The sheer good nature that shines from these pieces is in itself an inducement to performance. Consider the two
themes of the first movement of sonata 3 (this Moderato, incidentally, happens to be one of the movements where
the duo is treated most democratically):
Figure 11-2
a. Violin, mm. 1-8
At the other extreme, there are movements that carry quite forceful strains, such as this example from the finale,
Presto assai, of the fifth sonata, in G minor:
Figure 11-3
Mm. 107-111

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Most characteristic, however, is the restrained melancholy that appears especially in the slow movements, as in the
Largo of the second sonata:
Figure 11-4
Mm. 1-3
As the editor points out, Boccherini makes use not only of dynamic signs, but also of more extensive performance
indications such as dolce, sempre piano, sempre sottovoce, con anima. We might also take note of such detailed
dynamic instruction as in the following passage, from the first movement of sonata 6 (the asterisks, inserted by the
editor, indicate that the marks shown are in the original edition):
Figure 11-5
Violin, mm. 31-33
These sonatas are apparently available only in the edition shown at the end of this volume. Duo enthusiasts will be
well rewarded if they acquire the edition. The editor, the late Enrico Polo, is neither partisan nor extravagant in his
praise when he comments:
Through its delicate sweetness, this music must be treasured not only by violinists but also by those of the
keyboard [what price top billing?], since this lyric art is a delight not only for performers but for listeners.
152
Other Composers
Far less important works of the later eighteenth century that show the combination of old (continuo) and new
(keyboard as equal or predominant partner) in the sonata repertoire are the six sonatas, opus 3, of Felice Giardini,
Turinese violinist/composer (17161796), from about 1775. These pieces are published in an edition by Enrico Polo
in the ICMI series.


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The sonatas, aptly described by Polo as ''elegant, balanced, and at many points of a delicate and original
inspiration," are pleasant works, with a fair degree of evenness between the two instruments. The duo might find it
worthwhile to acquire this modern edition, if they understand that they will be rewarded by music of limited
impact.
By the time one arrives at the Sonata in D (ca. 178082) of Johann Peter Abraham Schulz (17471800), the law of
diminishing returns has set in. The Introduction to the modern edition of this sonata states that the work is a
"typical product of the transitional period, with full piano part and figured bass alternating." (This is true of the
Giardini sonatas, too.) Further, that "the fresh melodic invention displayed here and the intricate combination of the
two instruments are full of the classical spirit."
As for the first thought, the practice is rather ridiculous (as it is, after all, even in the sonatas of J. S. Bach); as soon
as the violin has some lone role, not specifically duetting with the keyboard treble, the composer reverts to the
figured bass, as though downgrading the whole affair, or at least marking it old-fashioned. When the treble has a
solo role, paralleled by a lower violin part, or duetting with the violin, then the composer buckles down to a fixed
indication of the treble line. The saving in compositional labor is minute and insignificant.
As to the second statement, what it really means (in the light of the actual sound of the sonata) is that Schulz has
given us a piece that is less difficult, and less inspired, than middle-period Mozart. The work is acceptable, but not
essential to the repertoire.
The sonatas of one of the most important of all composersHaydncan be crossed off our list. They are apparently
duo sonatas only by contrivance and transcription and should not distract the duo from the relevant and actual
repertoire for keyboard and violin. There are eight sonatas in the familiar Peters edition. As is clear to anyone
familiar with the Haydn string quartets, sonatas 7 and 8 are transcriptions of the two quartets, opus 77, numbers 1
and 2, with the omission of the Minuet movement. Even so, these transcriptions are for flute or violin; nevertheless,
the optional voice has more activity in these two sonatas than is generally true in the others, possibly because of the
quartet origin. This is especially so in the slow movement of sonata 8, where the violin part retains some of its
originally assigned quartet rhapsodizing. Sonata 6 existed in several versions, including a piano sonata, but the
parent composition was a divertimento for flute, oboe, and strings, from the late 1760s. Sonatas 2 through 4 are
piano sonatas, with a violin part added by the industrious Dr. Charles


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Burney. Sonata 5 is from the piano sonata number 43 of the collected edition. As for sonata 1, that may originally
have been a piano trio. 153
Johann Nepomuk Hummel (17781837), piano student of Mozart and himself one of the prominent virtuoso-
composer-teacher figures of the Beethovenian era, is represented by an early work, the sonata of opus 5, no. 1,
published in 1798. This same opus contained another violin sonata and the ''first" sonata for viola and piano. The
title of the set reads, "Three Sonatas for the PIANO-FORTE, the first two with the accompaniment of a violin, the
third with viola obbligato." So far as this violin sonata is concerned, there is no doubt that the piano is foremost, but
there is a generous amount of interplay as well. And even when the violin line is subordinate, it is engaging enough
to make life interesting for the string player.
The sonata is difficult, especially for the pianist, and not without demands on the violinist, particularly in the runs
and high-position flights of the finale. Should the piece be played? Yes; it is fun, it is loquacious without being
garrulous, and it has the un-self-conscious, flashy, and gay writing of an earlier and more innocent era of virtuoso
music making. No duo would be able to survive a season's tour offering of this piece: there isn't enough real
substance to warrant frequent replaying of the work. Heard not too often, and in proper context, the sonata can give
good and entertaining account of itself.


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12
Some Violin and Continuo Sonatas of the Later Eighteenth Century
The transfer of allegiance from the violin-and- to the keyboard-and- type of sonata was not carried out at once, or
by all composers in the later eighteenth century. Some writers, whether because of a personal attachment to the
violin or because of distrust of the new approach to the sonata, preferred to keep on in the old way. Here are some
examples of this preference in the closing decades of the 1700s.
Pugnani, Viotti, Nardini

One of the Italian violinist-composers in the eighteenth-century line of descent from Corelli is Gaetano Pugnani,
who studied in Turin with Corelli's pupil, Somis. Pugnani was himself Turinese, born there in 1731. Except for a
sojourn in London and for concert and opera presentations in other countries, Pugnani's entire professional career
was spent in Turin, where from 1770 to his death in 1798 he held important musical posts.
For violin and continuo, Pugnani's major output was three sets of six sonatas each, opus 3, 7, and 8. Of these, I
have seen in modern edition the Sonata in C (published as opus 6, number 3, from the same-numbered early Paris
edition; it is identical with the third sonata from opus 7, the original London publication). This is music that is
pretty, sensual, re-


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strained, rather than bold and opulent. The turn and the ornament is the essence of the line, which is soft muscled
in itself. The reflective repetition of a phrase ending or of the penultimate phrase-element is typical. This gives an
in-place, ambling, rather than forward-driving, feeling to the proceedings. There is double-stop writing that calls
for moderate playing agility. The Adagio and Menuetto (with variations) concluding movements add to the
impression of a genteel, suave musical personality.
The entire set of six sonatas of opus 7, from after 1770, has been issued in facsimile reprint. I have played through
these pieces and found Pugnani again a sunny composer. His melodic lines are bright and crisp; the rhythms are
snappy, whether literally so or by virtue of articulated couplet groupings, and the like; trills are rather often used to
spark the progress of the line. Slow movements (the slow chapter is the middle of the three-movement sequence
customarily used by Pugnani in these sonatas) are lyric and graceful, rather than pensive. In four out of the six
works, the finales are theme and variations, with the variation allotted specifically to the violin. So much so, that
the publisher did not even bother to engrave the figured bass for any but the original statement of the theme. The
succeeding variations are violinistic embroideries, with no stipulated change whatsoever in harmony or length of
the episode (though of course the improvised-realized continuo introduces some elements of change in the spelling
out of the supplied parts). The technique of the violin is rather thoroughly exploited, with the left hand required to
manage ornamental turns, double stops, brilliant passage-work, and higher-position playing; the bow is called upon
most often for nimble pattern-playing and adroit string-crossing, less so for sustained playing. The overall
impression is one of elegance, of patrician wit and polish, with little sense of deep temperamental involvement.
Ricordi has published an edition, by Michelangelo Abbado, of the Sonata no. 1, in D, from the set of six contained
in a Paris publication of 180102 (opus 8). The work is in three movements, slow-fast-fast, with the center of
gravity in the long, fairly difficult (what with fast runs, high-position playing, and some double-stop third
passages) Allegro brillante, and the somewhat lighter Rondo: Grazioso. This makes a bright and appealing concert
piece, provided that the rest of the program compensates in emotional weight for the lightness of the Pugnani style.
This composer's music is handsome rather than beautiful. But his sonatas are the work of a thorough craftsman.
They should be played.
This same general appraisal holds true for the sonatas of Pugnani's


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most prominent pupil, Giovanni Battista Viotti (17521801). In a copy of the six sonatas of opus 2, published in
Paris around 1800 (at a time when Beethoven had already written his first duo sonatas), in the collection of the
New York Public Library, I found music that can only be termed violinist's pieces. There is some participation in
the musical activity by the keyboard, though againas in the Pugnani sonatasit is possible for the publisher to omit
the repetition of the bass line in the variation sections of the final movements. Viotti's movements tend to length
rather than significance. The sonatas are fun, if you are content to enjoy the violin.
There can be few violinists (and their more or less willing pianists) who have not emoted their way through the
mildly histrionic strains of the Concerto in E minor by Pietro Nardini. It may come as a shock to teachers, pupils,
and performers in general that the work is somewhat spurious. L. A. Zellner, the same who performed musical
surgery on Tartini's Didone abbandonata (see page 169), gave similar care to Tartini's pupil, Nardini. Zellner took
the last movement of one Nardini violin sonata, the first and last movements of another, and transcribed them into
a viola sonata that he published in 1877 as Nardini's own. Michael Mischka Hauser, the Hungarian violinist and
composer who was one of the popular, but lesser, virtuoso figures of the mid-nineteenth century, issued the viola
sonata as our familiar violin concerto. 154 Along the path from Nardini's original to the concerto version, the
assembled movements took on not only new tonalities, but numerous changes in melodic detail that set them rather
far from the parent movements.
Apropos of the concerto, Schirmer's has published a set of six sonatas of Nardini, based on a manuscript in the
National Library of Vienna and a British Museum copy of an edition by the London publisher, Walsh, from the
eighteenth century, and including the parent movements of the Zellner-Hauser concoction. The coeditor (with Paul
Doktor) of the Schirmer publication, the musicologist, Mildred J. Johnson, says of the pieces (Foreword) that they
seem to be ''fairly easy works," and that the "great melodic beauty and the violinistic skill which they demand
makes them an important and long overdue addition to the violinist's repertoire."
Yes and no. These sonatas are certainly pleasant, and their melodies ingratiating. But Nardini here seems to lack
decisiveness; he does not always know how to round a melody off neatly; nor does he know when to stop. Phrases
do not quite peak; ideas repeat themselves or wander off in sequential patterns when they should not. Actually, the
three movements borrowed by Zellner seem among the most interesting of the lot.


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But, in looking at them in their original form, one somehow misses the dash and flourish that Zellner (and/or
Hauser) gave them, back in the nineteenth century.
Leopold Mozart, writing in 1763 from Ludwigsburg, one of the seats of Duke Karl Eugen of Würtemberg, tells of
hearing Nardini (17221793), who was that year made concertmaster of the ducal orchestra, and who was to
become, in 1769, the concertmaster of the archduke's court orchestra in Florence. Mozart comments that ''it would
be impossible to hear a finer player for beauty, purity, evenness of tone and singing quality. But he plays rather
lightly." 155 This is the impression one gets from the sonatas described above. They have all the elements of
beauty in their writing, and they call for Nardini's own gifts in performance. With him, however, they tread lightly,
and pull their punches.
Nardini's sonatas are among those of the later eighteenth century that mark a carry-over of the older tradition of the
violin sonata with basso continuo, as against the newer genre of the keyboard sonata accompanied by the violin, or
the still newer (and more important, in the ensemble sense) type of the duo sonata in the modern meaning of the
term. As Boris Schwarz puts it, "in an epoch of superficial virtuosity, Nardini embodies the noblest musical values
and must be regarded as the true early-Classic figure in Italian violin music."156
The sonatas published by Schirmer are a welcome addition to the readily available violin-keyboard duo literature,
but more for the instructional repertoire and the student program than for the hardened chamber music buff or the
concert. There the competition, from Nardini's own contemporaries, is too rigorous.
Mozart's esteem of Nardini can be much better understood after a reading of the Sonata in B flat, the last of seven
included by J. B. Cartier in his L'Art du Violon, and reprinted in modern edition by Ricordi; and of the Sonata in D,
no source given, published by Peters. Like the sonatas in the Schirmer set, these pieces are in three movements (the
"third" movement, Largo, in the Peters publication was inserted by the editor, Flesch, "from another sonata by the
same composer" and its omission is sanctioned by a footnote in the score). Unlike most of the movements in the
Schirmer set, these move with purpose and imagination. The opening Adagio of the B flat sonata achieves a length
of fifty-six measures by some unexpected prolongations of line and turns of harmony. The Allegro of this sonata
has a graceful, nonchalent way, touched by a modest brilliance bestowed by the recurrent waves of sixteenths and
some high-position singing on the E-string. The Allegro assai finale has the innocuous gait of


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an easy 3/8 meter and a gently trotting violin line; the forcefulness of some strong and darker moments; and clever
use of the high and low sonorities of the violin. The ending is quiet and offhand.
The D major sonata is marked by the cantabile quality of its opening Adagio, and by the considerable length and
virtuosity of its two fast movements. The finale, especially, is a bravura effort, with some interesting challenges in
the double-stop department. Yet, as befits the nature of Nardini, one is never made too conscious of violinistic
display, because the musical material carries the pyrotechnics graciously.
Dittersdorf and a Trio of Bohemians

Two sonatas by Haydn's younger contemporary, the violinist and minor composer, Karl Ditters von Dittersdorf
(17391799) are issued, in an edition based on manuscript sources, by Hofmeister. One, in G major, the other in B
flat, are both engaging, rather slight works. My own preference is for the B flat; it is the more difficult, technically,
especially in its fast second movement and the concluding variations. It is the kind of work that demands utmost
polish in the playing in order to keep the listener's mind off the thin layer of inspiration that supports the music.
Nonetheless, a good piece for study and just possibly for a light spot in the concert program.
Three lesser Bohemian composers of the mid-eighteenth century are represented in an Artia publication entitled,
slightly freely, Violin Sonatas of the Bohemian Baroque, and also freely, as being for ''violin and piano" or "violin,
harpsichord, and cello obbligato." The cello is not an independent part, but a consistent double of the given bass
line of the continuo; the editor simply means to indicate that he feels the cello to be a necessary companion to the
harpsichord if that be the keyboard used. As for "baroque," it must be meant by the publisher to refer principally to
the continuo nature of these pieces, rather than to the time of the composers themselves, for two of the three men
are contemporaries of Mozart: Anton Kimmel (17301788) and Friedrich Ludwig Benda (17441792), the oldest son
of Georg Benda. The third composer is Georg Cart, or Czarth (17081774), colleague of Franz Benda at the
Prussian court. The music of course is in the older, solo and continuo setting, but tasting (in the case of the younger
men) very much of the preclassic/early Mozart flavor. My own preference in the set is for the Benda sonata. It is
moderately difficult, on a par with the Kimmel piece; the Czarth is slightly easier.


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13
Mozart:
The Childhood Sonatas and the First Mature Sonatas (through K. 306)
It is a luxury born of necessity to devote space in this volume to not a select few, but rather the broad span, of
mature sonatas for keyboard and violin written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. These works contain the spirit and
craftsmanship of one of the greatest minds in the history of Western music (and perhaps in the history of Western
art, of whatever avenue). They are technically difficult, but not so difficult that they are beyond the reach of the
persevering amateur. At the same time, they offer endless challenge to both the amateur and the hardened
professional: to capture in performance the niceties of the Mozartian musical vocabulary; and, beyond that, to
explore the range of Mozart's musical temperament, with the gratifying certainty that one can never reach the limits
of that range.
Mozart was a virtuoso performer, certainly at the keyboard, andby his father's expert testimonyon the violin almost
as well. He knew both instruments intimately (as, for that matter, he knew every sounding device in his writing,
including above all the human voice). He does not write to make life easy for the performer, but his demands are
always in terms of the instrument's innate character and abilities. The notes lie well under the hand and under the
bow.
Both players will find themselves thoroughly employed in the large


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and intricate sonatas of the later years. It is no doubt for this reason that players tend to focus their attentions on the
''big" B flat sonata, K. 454, of 1784, and the inimitable K. 526, in A, of 1787. Among the earlier sonatas, K. 304,
the exquisitely sad E minor, and K. 378, the multi-faceted gem in B flat, are perhaps favored. But none of these
mature sonatas should be neglected, and certainly not such an infrequently heard treasure as the little set of
variations, K. 360, on "Alas, I have lost my lover." Hence, our decision to make an extensive tour of the Mozart
oeuvre.
The duo who have approached mastery of the Mozart sonatas are truly ready to take on any assignment in chamber
music. Not only because innumerable problems of ensemble will have been met and conquered, but because
Mozart's music, in a particular way, is the hardest to play: it cannot be forced. To hack away at a Mozart motive or
phrase is to reduce it instantly to dust. To pull the line every which way in an excess of interpretative zeal is to turn
the melodies into rubbery messes having nothing to do with Mozart.
On the other hand, to play these pieces timidly, flattening the dynamic range and limiting the flexibility of rhythms
in order to stay clear of trouble is self-defeating, producing a negative result that can only be ignored. Worst of all
is to prettify Mozart: to make of him a safe puppet of the courtly era, a haven of bliss and complacency before
reaching the Beethovenian badlands. Mozart is not safe; he is as dangerous a composer as they come, taking us
with him to the brink, compelling us to see things as they are, beautiful or tormented, and always in a terribly clear
light. 157
Of the seventeen years between January, 1762, and January, 1779, the Mozart familyin various groupings, but
always with the blazingly gifted Wolfgang as one of the partywas away from Salzburg a total of seven and one
half. Leopold Mozart had been employed at the archbishop's court in Salzburg since the middle 1740s. Valued for
his abilities as violinist and teacher, Leopold nevertheless had limited potential at the court and he knew it. He
gained the title of vice-kapellmeister in 1763, but there he stuck, being passed over repeatedly thereafter.158 The
successive family journeys in the years to come were, Leopold hoped, the avenues to greater glory for himself,
oreven betterthe reflected glory of big-time recognition of his children's ability.
The calendar of the family's absences from Salzburg is:159
1. Leopold and the children: January 12 to early February, 1762.
2. All four: September 18, 1762, to January 5, 1763.
3. All four: June 9, 1763, to November 30, 1766.


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4. All four: early September, 1767, to January, 1769.
5. Leopold and Wolfgang: December 12, 1769, to March 28, 1771.
6. Leopold and Wolfgang: August 13 to December 15, 1771.
7. Leopold and Wolfgang: October 24, 1772, to March 13, 1773.
8. Leopold and Wolfgang: July 14 to September 26, 1773.
9. Leopold and both children: December 6, 1774, to March 8, 1775.
10. Wolfgang and his mother: September 23, 1777, to January, 1779.
On the last of Mozart's grand tours, his mother died in Paris, in July, 1778. It was a saddened and discouraged
young man who returned to Salzburg at the beginning of 1779. But he fell to work on composition and courtly
duties there (he had been a member of the court's musical retinue since 1769), remaining at home until November,
1780. In that month he went to Munich to complete a commissioned opera for the carnival season of 1781. The
premiere of that opera, Idomeneo, took place on January 29, 1781. Mozart was still in Munich in March of that year
when he was ordered to Vienna to join the retinue of his archbishop.
Hieronymus Colloredo had ascended to the archibishopric at Salzburg in 1771. He had long been distressed at the
obvious chafing of the Mozarts, father and son, and at their repeated leaves of absence. 160 In Vienna, the conflict
between the employer and the young composer came to a head; by June, 1781, Mozart was no longer in the service
of the archibishop. Now on his own, he established permanent residence in Vienna, where he was to spend the
remaining decade of his life. His days of extensive touring were over.
The tours, while they lasted, were decidedly business trips; on the road, Wolfgang performed and composed
assiduously, to fill commissions, to display his facility and precociousness as a musician, and also from an inner
response to the many and varied musical experiences to which these journeys exposed him. A list of the places
visited in the course of these tours makes impressive reading, not only because we know of the rugged traveling
conditions in the eighteenth century, but also because the musical styles and climates suggested by these place-
names indicate the broad horizon that was opened up to the young composer. Taking the major cities roughly in the
order of their appearance, and omitting any recurrences in the several journeys, we have: Munich, Vienna,
Pressburg (now Bratislava), Augsburg, Schwetzingen, Mainz, Frankfurt, Coblenz, Aachen, Brussels, Paris, London,
The Hague, Amsterdam, Utrecht, Malines, Dijon, Lyons, Geneva, Lausanne, Berne, Zurich, Schaffhausen,
Donaueschingen, Biberach, Innsbruck, Rovereto, Verona, Milan, Parma, Bologna, Florence,


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Cremona, Mantua, Lodi, Rome, Naples, Venice, Turin, Padua, Vicenza, Mannheim, Nancy, and Strasbourg. 161
The scope of the musical horizon can be shown further by naming the major musicians with whom Mozart came
into contact during his travels: J. Christian Bach in London; Giambattista Sammartini and Johann A. Hasse in
Milan; Padre Martini at Bologna; new music of Joseph Haydn at Vienna; Ignaz Holzbauer at Mannheim; and
Johann Schobert at Paris.
It was on the third journey of the Mozarts, June of 1763 to November of 1766, that young Mozart began his career
as composer of violin-keyboard sonatas. Indeed, Leopold refers to the early sonatas as ''the beginnings of my son's
compositions."162 The first of these sonatas (K. 6) was begun in Salzburg in 1762, continued in Brussels, and
completed in Paris in 1764.163 By February of 1764, three more (K. 7, 8, and 9) had been written. Leopold wrote
home to his landlord's wife, stating (February 1, 1764): "At present four sonatas of M. Wolfgang Mozart are being
engraved. Picture to yourself the furor they will make in the world when people read on the title-page that they
have been composed by a seven-year-old child . . ."164 The four pieces were published as opus 1, and opus 2, in
Paris, the dedications of the respective pairs being written with some care by young Mozart's Paris champion,
Baron Friedrich Melchior Grimm, German-born secretary to the Duc d'Orléans, and addressed with the customary
flowery verbiage to the Princess Victoire, second daughter of the French king, and to the Comtesse de Tessé, sister
of the Duc d'Ayen, who had engineered the dedication to the princess. We can enjoy the elaborate phrasing of the
dedications, for example: " . . . as long as the Nature that has made me a musician as it did the nightingales,
inspires me, the name of Victoire will remain engraved on my memory with the same ineradicable lines which
inscribe it in the hearts of all the French."165
But the titles of the published sonatas are of greater significance to us; opus 1 and opus 2 read: "Sonatas for
harpsichord which can be played with the accompaniment of a violin." The same holds true for the set of six
sonatas composed by Mozart in London in 1764 (K. 10 through 15), dedicated to the queen of England, and
published there in January, 1765, as opus 3: "Six Sonatas for Harpsichord, which may be played with the
accompaniment of violin or traverse flute." So also for the further set of six (K. 26 through 31), composed for the
festival of the Prince of Orange at The Hague in March, 1766: "Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord with the
accompaniment of a violin [opus 4]."166
In short, these are keyboard sonatas, with the distinctive secondary support of the violin (or, in some cases, the
flute), of the type that we


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have seen already as the successor to the older violin-with-continuo kind of sonata. The sonatas, K. 6 through 9, in
C, D, B and G, respectively, are each in three movements, ending with a double minuet. They are good practice
pieces for the pianist/harpsichordist; the violinist does not get in the way. The works are good for the novice duo,
but not demanding enough to carry the twosome very far along the ensemble path. 167
The six sonatas of opus 3 (K. 10 through 15) existin some copies of the first editionwith an engraved cello part.
Examination of the new collected-works edition of these sonatas shows that the cello part, printed on its own staff
in the score, is not an independent voice, but essentially duplicates the harmonically important tones of the bass
line, leaving to the keyboard the playing of the quicker, filling-in notes where they are indicated by the composer.
The editors of the set say that the cello part ''does not just double the keyboard bass throughout;"168 this view,
giving the part more importance than it has, seems designed to support the inclusion of the pieces in the piano trio
section of the complete edition. The pieces are certainly not trios; nor are they really duets. The violin (or flute)
serves only a slightly more important role than that of the cello; the sonatas can very well be performed by
keyboard alone.
There is some occasional response between the accompanying instrument and the keyboard; for example, in sonata
number 6, in B flat (K. 15), the first movement, Andante maestoso, would lose significantly in rhythmic and
motivic interest if the violin/flute were omitted. As it happens, this same movement is one of the more attractive in
the set, with sudden harmonic jabs that lend spice to the sound. Another of the movements where the added
instrument has some purpose is the first Menuetto of sonata number 4, in F: the violin alternates with the keyboard
in the chromatic runs of the treble line.
Figure 13-1
Menuetto 1, mm. 1-4

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The violin is indispensable in the Menuetto of sonata number 5, in C. The movement is entitled En carillon. The
sound of bell or chime is suggested by the pizzicato chords and runs of the stringed instrument.
Figure 13-2
Menuetto, mm. 1-5
Of course, the harpsichord, if that is the keyboard used, will have an appropriate twang and clangor in its own
right. If the violin is omitted, however, the keyboard would have to take over some of the violin part to fill out the
musical line. This would work, at that; the flute could not substitute for the violin, however, because the double-
stops and the plucked sound seem essential to the imagery of the title.
Hans-Peter Schmitz's suggestion, based on ''late Baroque practise, which is still valid for Mozart's early work," 169
that the violin/flute enhance its role by switching parts here and there with the keyboard treble is interesting. It
means that a duo of moderate proficiency can make more even-handed the activity in these not too difficult
sonatas. On the whole, these sonatas are pleasant enough, but not terribly exciting either in thought or in technical
requirement. A noticeable trait is the tendency to end the movement abruptly, almost in midstream.
As the title of opus 4 (K. 26 through 31) indicates"with the accompaniment of"the added violin is not ad lib. Nor is
it to be replaced by a flute, though there is nothing to prevent such substitution; there is, for example, less double-
stop writing in this set than in the violin part of the opus 3 sonatas. There is just enough involvement of the violin
in the fabric and repartee of the lines to make the instrument indispensable to the pieces. At the same time, there is
still no doubt that the keyboard is the prominent partner. Still, with these sonatas we are a small step closer to the
kind of sonata that Mozart was later to write. They do have a hint more of excitement and drive than the earlier
opus, as befits the fact that the composer has now advanced to the ripe old age of nine. But we want to hear
immediately the imagination and insight of the twenty-two-year-old.


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For the moment, we must be content with pretty, rather than stirring, music.
Mozart was a month short of thirty-six when he died (December, 1791); thus, the ''later" years come very quickly.
Mozart's mature sonatas begin with a group of seven, composed in Mannheim and Paris during the tenth and last
of the youthful tours. Mozart was twenty-two when he wrote these: 170
The left-hand column gives the revised Köchel catalog numbering of the works in question, in the light of
latter-day information about the chronology of the Mozart pieces. The second column gives the older
Köchel numbers, by which the pieces are traditionally identified.
Revised K. Usual K. Date of Composition Place of Key
No. No. Composition
293a 301 February, 1778 Mannheim G
293b 302 January or February, Mannheim E flat
1778
293c 303 February, 1778 Mannheim C
293d 305 1778 Mannheim A
296 296 March 11, 1778 Mannheim C
300c 304 Early Summer, 1778 Paris E
minor
300l 306 Summer, 1778 Paris D
The six sonatas, K. 301 through 306, published as opus 1 [!] by Sieber, in Paris, in November, 1778, were entitled
Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Fortepiano with Accompaniment of a Violin, and are dedicated to the electoress of
the Palatinate, Maria Elisabeth.171 It was the electoral court that Mozart had visited at Mannheim earlier that year
to try his luck (in vain) at gaining a place in the active musical establishment there. In January, 1779, Mozart, on
his way home to Salzburg, was able to carry out his desire of presenting a set of the sonatas to the electoress in
person, "which might perhaps bring me a present."172
The seventh sonata, K. 296, was dedicated to Mozart's fifteen-year-old keyboard pupil, Therese-Pierron Serrarius,
daughter of the elector's court councillor at Mannheim.173 This work was later grouped with the five sonatas, K.
376 through 380 (see chapter 14), and all of them were published as opus 2 by Artaria in Vienna in November,
1781. For that set, the title again reads, Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Pianoforte with the Accompaniment of a
Violin.174
The stress must now be placed on the word with. The violin is no


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longer, as in the early sonatas, an optional consort of the keyboard; it now has a definite and indispensable role to
play in the music, and so challenges the performer as well as the listener because of the excitement of the interplay
between the two components of the ensemble. Moreover, the titles of these sets make room for the use of the
increasingly popular fortepiano, in contrast to the exclusive specification of harpsichord in the earlier sets. Mozart's
mother, indeed, writing home in January, 1778, referred to the Mannheim sonatas as ''trios," evidently with the
thought that an optional cello could be used to expand the ensemble. 175 No such support or filling out is needed,
however, for the fabric of these sonatas is complete in the two given parts.
It was the challenge of writing for two rivaling parts that brought Mozart back to the composition of keyboard-
violin sonatas in the first place. He writes home from Munich in October, 1777, that he has played "six duets for
clavicembalo and violin by Schuster. . . . They are not bad. If I stay on I shall write six myself in the same
style."176 In Mannheim, later in the same trip, Mozart received a commission to write concerti and quartets for
flute from a Dutch amateur, De Jean. But in February, 1778, he writes his father, complaining that he is moving
slowly with this commission and that, "hence as a diversion I compose something else, such as duets [italics added]
for clavier and violin. . . . Now I am settling down seriously to the clavier duets, as I want to have them
engraved."177 Again the word is duets, and Mozart is obviously intrigued by the give-and-take that such ensemble
involves. At some point in the gestation of these works, either by throwback to the practice of his childhood
sonatas or because of his involvement with De Jean's commission, Mozart had the idea of making the second voice
violin or flute, ad lib. The autograph of the violin part for K. 301 indeed has some octave transpositions for the
flute indicated at various points in the first movement. These are crossed out, however; so also are the words or
flute at the head of the partand the word violin is underlined.178 The die was cast.
Sonata in G, K. 301
When we turn to the very opening of the first of these sonatas, K. 301, in G, we see how things are. Who leads off
with the melody? The violin. Then, measure 13, the piano takes over, while the violin picks up the rolling eighth-
note figure that had previously occupied the right hand of the piano. Immediately, perfect cooperation between the
partners.


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Figure 13-3
a. Mm. 1-4
b. Mm. 12-16
Just to even the score, be it noted, the order is reversed at the opening of the recapitulation section (measures 121
ff.), with the piano taking first lead there.
Another factor stands out at once: the characteristic, Mozartian dramatic contrast that is built into the opening
statement. The violin line, measures 1 to 12, is unbroken in its flow; but it carries two opposite characters within
itself. The first measures must be played smoothly, lyrically, steering the emphasis to the last beat of measure 3,
and on to its cadential overflow in the next two bars. A corresponding, but lesser, emphasis must be centered on
the fragment from the second beat of measure 6 through the downbeat of measure 8. Then the counterforce,
brusque and strong, moving in repeated rushes, progressively higher, that carries us up to the end of the line
(measures 9 to 12).
Figure 13-4
Violin, mm. 1-12
Each fragment must move toward its resolving downbeat, with little crescendi (graded into one larger, overall
crescendo), with slight accentuation of the downbeats, and with a very slight acceleration in each figure. It is
important that the piano not hang back in the performance of the sixteenth-note runs in measures 10 and 11.


Page 237
Mozart does not complete the full sweep of the theme in the piano statement. Instead, having completed the lyric
half, he swings into the brisk march temper, pursuing the idea in more extensive fashion now (to measure 43). The
composer calls for specific loud and soft contrasts here, and these changes should be carefully brought out.
Dynamic nuances, which Mozart took for granted but did not bother to set down, should be supplied by the
sensitive performer. For example, the violin part in measures 33 to 36 looks like an unmitigated slab of forte sound,
octave A, sustained. But the player with ears will realize that it is the sixteenth-note swirls in the piano part that
should dominate in these measures, not the bright blast of violin tone. Accordingly he will temper the sustained
note, restoring it gradually so that it lands solidly on the downbeat, B, of measure 37. And immediately after, both
players will drop the level noticeablyeven though Mozart doesn't request itso that the excitement of the fast
dialogue between piano and violin and the upward-climbing succession of statements can be underlined
dynamically (measures 37 to 40):
Figure 13-5
Mm. 36-39
Allegro con spirito is the marking for the movement, and spirited it must be, preferably at a tempo of . Both
players will find themselves consistently used as a pair in maintaining the spirit. For example, the passage where
the piano's wide-ranging clanging of bells (the left hand, leaping from bass to treble over the constant glitter of the
right-hand part) is coupled with the penetrating clarion of the violin's E-string line (measures 169 and 170):
Figure 13-6
Mm. 169-170

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A particularly tantalizing point in the movement comes midway through the development section, where violin and
piano converse in held-in, rather tense, fashion. The two parts each have distinct character (once again with the
roles switching back and forth between the two instruments), and the duet relationship must be clearly maintained.
At the same time, the left-hand tolling must maintain its own linear directions, but not so forcefully as to obscure
the upper-register dialogue (measures ures 169 and 170):
Figure 13-7
Mm. 98-103
Mozart ends the movement abruptly, but completely in keeping with the nature of the whole. As seen below, he
notes the dynamics needed to give these last measures their due of intensity. But the last two chords, even though
at the peak, should not be torn off in utterly strict tempo. Instead, there should be the slightest stretching of both
beats, and just as subtle a softening of the second quarter in order to suggest a resonant reflection of the impact on
the downbeat.
Figure 13-8
Mm. 190-194
For this writer, the high point of the second (and last) movement of this sonata is the passage from measures 75 to
114. The sudden shift from the prevailing major to minor; the soft, rather dry rustling of the piano's sixteenth-note
filigree; the cautious, narrow-compassed turnings of the violin part, spiced with recurrent trillsall this makes for a
wonderful episode of half-serious, half-mock shadow in an otherwise bright and innocent movement. And the
effectiveness of this spot is reflected in the similar dryness (and figuration) of the ending of the sonata. Mozart, the
wise old man of twenty-two!


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Sonata in E Flat, K. 302

The opening movement shows exactly how energetic a Mozart piece can be: brimful. The descending figure of the
opening measures is flung on its way by the recurrent snap of the sixteenth-note couplet. And the quiet measures
that follow float on the ebb tide of this forceful sweep:
Figure 13-9
Mm. 1-7
Mozart, enamored of the brilliant rhythmics, uses it prominently in the development section, where he has the
piano's descent answered by the ascending leaps of the violin, on the same figure (measures 89 to 92 ff).
Figure 13-10
Mm. 90-92
He urges the pace along constantly by dint of incisive trills (cf. measures 19 ff.), on-the-beat turns (measures 49
ff.), barrages of sixteenth notes in the piano (measures 41 ff.), sudden fortes and pianos, and specified crescendi.
The swing of the 3/4 meter must be essentially one to the bar, at a tempo of if you can stand the pace. Of
vital importance: when Mozart calls for piano, follow the instruction just as intensely as when reaching for the
forte; let the line relax when it should (as in measures 3 to 6, and all corresponding phrases), let the line breathe and
broaden (as when moving from measure 39 into 40; at the end of measure 7 and measure 55; especially, at the end
of measure 106, just at the brink of the recapitulation; and so on). The pace must be constant, but not so heedless
that it overrides the breaks, catches, and pauses that reflect the musical happenings. Otherwise, the energy will be
weakened by its own brashness. The responses between violin and piano from measures 141 to 149 should be just
that, a dialogue without words, but perhaps the more forceful in its implications than a texted interchange could be.


Page 240
The second movement, Rondeau: Andante grazioso, shows again how, even when the violin is cast in a rather
secondary role, it still fills a significant purpose in the duo as conceived by Mozart. For the most part, the violin
doubles the piano at the unison or the octave; when the violin appears more individually, it is often in the low G-
string or D-string register, where the instrument tends to merge with the piano rather than stand out. It is as though
the melodic line in such cases had been literally taken from the piano fabric and arbitrarily assigned, for sonority
reasons, to the violin. Curiously, when the violin doubles the piano at the octave (in the E-string register), the
effect is somewhat soloistic (and must be so treated), even though the violin is doing nothing more than giving a
silver edge to the music already complete in the keyboard part.
Sonata in C, K. 303
K. 303 is a study in scene alternation. In the first movement, two adagio sections are set off against two molto
allegro sections, in slow-fast-slow-fast sequence. The allegro episodes are vignettes of piano-concerto writing,
with the violin serving as a one-man orchestral section. In giving the accompanying figures vitality, in supporting
and following the pianist's delivery of the brilliant keyboard passage-work, the violinist must act as his own
conductor as well as orchestra. In the adagio sections, on the other hand, the two players alternate in the delivery of
a long, aria-like, melodic line. Neither is subordinate, and there should be complete assurance and even opulence in
the ''singing" of the line. The second adagio, be it noted, is an ornamented, second-time-around view of the
opening material, as can be seen from a comparison of several measures of the respective violin parts (measures 5
ff.; measures 93 ff.):
Figure 13-11
a. Mm. 5-9
b. Mm. 93-97

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The freedom of treatment, both in dynamic shading and in the pushing and stretching of the phrase, must respond
to the greater elaborateness of the second version.
The violin may feel a little foolish, in the second movement, Tempo di Menuetto, when playing drumlike
successions of monotone pulses, either in line, or in slow or fast octave:
Figure 13-12
Mm. 68-70
But the built-in, composed acceleration of this accompaniment is essential to the music and must be so considered
by the player. On the whole, there is fair distribution of musical spoils between the two partners. Together, they
unfold a movement that is wonderful in its three-dimensional handling of musical space and perspective. The
alternation of delicate, ultrasensitive melody (e.g., measures 25 to 32) and martial, bandlike flourishes (e.g.,
measures 17 to 24) gives one a feeling of being in a room whose doors open successively on contrasting scenes
and sounds. The loudness differences, indicated by Mozart himself, add a sense of depth to the music, making the
delicate strains seem far off; the militant music near and aggressive.
How deliberate this play of opposites is on Mozart's part, and consequently how deliberate must be our emphasis
of this effect in the performance, can be realized if we think of some Mozart opera scenes, notably the ballroom
episode in Don Giovanni. There the play of opposites even involves simultaneous playing of full orchestra and
stage band, simultaneous opposing rhythms, simultaneous and completely opposed lines of stage action. A similar
effect must be projected in the instrumental music when it occurs, as it does in the present sonata movement.
Sonata in E Minor, K. 304

. . . one of the miracles among Mozart's works; it springs from the most profound depths of emotion, and
goes beyond the alternating


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dialogue style to knock at those gates of the great world of drama which Beethoven was to fling wide open.
179
Thus does Alfred Einstein describe the E minor sonata of Mozart. It is possible that this work was written during
the time of Anna Maria Mozart's last illness and death in Paris. Mozart alone, of all the family, was with his
mother during the ordeal. As he wrote on the night of her passing, ''Only think of all my anxiety, the fears and
sorrows I have had to endure for the last fortnight. . . . During the last three days . . . she was constantly delirious,
and today . . . the death-agony began . . ."180 Chronology and sentiment tempt us to associate the impact, on
Mozart, of these events with the temper of the E minor sonata.
In any case, the predominant mood of the two movements of this work is so single-mindedly sad and brooding that
the work presents special challenge to the players. How to capture the subdued nature of the work without losing
the innate motive force of the piece? The Allegro marking of the first movement must be taken seriously; the
music must not drag. A tempo of seems appropriate. At this speed, the direction of the opening eight-
measure phrase can be established without falling into pedantic counting on the one hand, or flippant haste, on the
other.
Figure 13-13
Mm. 1-8
Nor must one fall into the trap of splitting this long phrase at the obvious points (indicated by the dotted lines),
measures 2, 4, and 6. Rather go through these rest places, observing them, but moving on always to the propulsive
force of the succeeding pair of eighths. The eighth notes themselves should have no suggestion of headlong thrust,
but rather a measured tread, firm, unhurried, implacable. The piano (both hands) and violin are in octave-unison
setting throughout the phrase; the need for synchronized motion, matched phrasing, impeccable intonation on the
part of the violinist, and mutual alertness from both parties, need scarcely be stressed. So also the treatment of the
succeeding four measures, wherestill in unisonboth instruments counter the opening restraint with the forward
lunge of the barely interrupted eighth-note passage.


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The entire movement seems derived from the two aspects of the opening idea: the lyric and the drumming. It will
be seen that the second theme (measures 37 ff.), which in itself bears relationship to the opening idea, is the more
obviously linked to the basic facts of the movement by the continued presence of the eighth-note pulsing:
Figure 13-14
Mm. 34-40
Another illustration of the pervasiveness of the starting idea: note that the two halves of the opening complex,
reversed in sequence at measures 108 ff., are used to new purpose. Now the eighth-note passage is heard first, and
serves to bring us to the start of the recapitulation. Then (measures 112 ff.) the lyric half takes over to begin this
final section of the movement. The violin must now present the theme alone, in more accentuated profile than
before, with the piano applying the drumming eighths in a monochordal-tattoo commentary derived from a
treatment used in the development section:
Figure 13-15
a. Mm. 114-116, recapitulation
b. Mm. 92-98, development

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The mood throughout the movement is subdued, resigned; forced accents, rough forte should be avoided. Detached
eighths in both instruments should be played on the broad, rather than the strongly pointed side; spiccato, when
used by the violinist, should be gentle, not pecky. The only flare-up that the players should allow themselves is in
measures 77 to the first double bar, and measures 183 to the second double bar, passages wherein stentorian
imitations between upper and lower voices call for bold, brassy tones. Restraint is the order of the day for the coda
again. The last two chords of the movement should be full, not ripped.
The resignation of the first movement still bears overtones of anguish, of smoldering rebellion. In the Tempo di
Menuetto, however, the initial temper is distilled, transformed into a more peaceful state. The dance is an
otherworldly one, peopled by beings of superhuman grace and felicity. It is a shadowy round through which they
move, its hoverings marked by the ostinatolike, eight-measure paths of the bass line:
Figure 13-16
Bass line of keyboard part, mm. 1-16
The melody over this is beautifully engineered, falling first away from the B in measure 2, then swinging from low
C to high C in measure 5, descending easily but swiftly from there to the end of the phrase. Both levels must be
gently stressed in the playing, the Cas the high pointmore than the B:
Figure 13-17
Mm. 1-8
The eighth-note filigree under the violin statement of the melody (measures 17 to the double bar) must also be
gently handled, with emphasis reserved for the chromatic runs in measures 19 and 27, and for other goal points as
indicated in the following excerpt:


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Figure 13-18
Mm. 19-24
In the playing of the second section of the Menuetto proper (measures 33 ff.), the temperature of the music must be
allowed to heat up as the gradual infiltration of triplet figures quickens the pulse of the piece (measures 53 to 61,
piano, cf. right-hand line), followed by the even more intense succession of trills (measures 62 to 64, both
instruments). The music overflows and pours into the sustained trill in the piano part (measure 69). Now it must be
the pianist's neat trick to come out of this trill and play the arpeggiated run, complete with built-in accelerando,
that Mozart has provided, and arrive nonchalantly at the original tempo for the return of the theme (measure 70).
The run must seem to well up continuously, as though improvised, but proceeding with computerlike control to
link up with the opening notes of the theme. It is then the easy task of the violinist to join in as though he knew all
along that everything would turn out just this way.
The middle section (measures 94 to 127) is one of Mozart's most inspired moments in this most inspired of
movements. The vision and clarity and economy of this passage were never exceeded by him, though he was still
relatively young and untempered at the time of its writing. And the congruence of these measures with passages
from some of the contemporary letters of Mozartwhere lines such as, '' . . . [I] will give you a smack behind, will
kiss your hands, my dear, shoot off a gun in the rear . . .", 181 are comparatively modestthis is something amazing
to contemplate. Perhaps the sensitivity to write the one requires the willingness to write and think the earthiness of
the other.
Certainly one can say little to guide the performance of these measures. The player must feel. Let the tone be quiet;
the shading, from piano to pianissimo. The task, if anything, will be more difficult for the pianist than for the
violinist, calling for the most sensitive touch on the most responsive of piano actions. But never will the rewards of
music making be more strongly felt than in this brief and timeless moment.
It has already been said that the Menuetto sections are peaceful. But


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the apparent passivity of the movement is belied by its ending. Mozart marks forte at measure 163. This is a fairly
cryptic instruction to cover the turbulence of the last eight measures. If we look back to the earlier part of the last
section, we find once again that triplet figures have quickened the piano bass line since measure 136. In the final
eight measures, the triplet motion invades both treble and bass, marking the peak of agitation that began as far back
as measure 148. A judicious urging of tempo and of crescendo from here to the end of the piece is essential.
Straight performance of the final passage will only result in a stodgy, unsatisfying, and inconclusive windup to the
sonata.
Mozart did not, in any way, single out this sonata in his correspondence. Having completed the set of of six, he
writes to his father (July 29, 1778) from Paris simply that, ''My sonatas will soon be engraved. . . . It is the best way
to . . . make my name known here." 182 We cannot be as blasé, but must treasure this particular sonata as one of
Mozart's finest works.
Sonata in A, K. 305
Mozart could no doubt afford to take the E minor sonata in stride, for he had, to set over against it as counterfoil, a
work that is all exuberance, scintillation, vitality. So different is K. 305, in A, from its fellow that we must think of
the composer as of two people, polar opposites in character, locked together in one human frame. At least we must
if we now contemplate the first movement of this sonata, marked Allegro molto.
Leopold Mozart, in his Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, offers a table of musical
terminology. There he lists the following, among others:
Presto, means quick . . .
Molto Allegro is slightly less [than Presto].
Allegro . . . indicates a cheerful, though not too hurried a tempo . . .183
In the movement at hand, our emphasis should be on the molto side. There is a wild, flamenco dancelike spirit to
this movement that can only be realized when the music moves along at a good clip (viz., ). It should
barely be possible to count the measure in two; actually there should be a strong feeling of one to the bar. Such a
tempo will, of course, separate the men from the boys when the duo arrives at the crucial passages (e.g., measures
36 to 42 for the piano, measures 44 to 49 for the violin):


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Figure 13-19
a. Mm. 39-40
b. Mm. 44-45
The violinist, what with string crossings, will be especially tried. And he might be much impressed, at this point,
by the advice offered by Leopold Mozart:
He [the pupil] . . . if he undertakes more difficult pieces . . . must not begin them faster than he can rely on
being able to play correctly the rapid passages which occur in the piece. 184
Much depends on our interpretation of the word correctly. If we insist on playing the above-cited passages
comfortably and sedately, then our performance of a passage such as that at measures 16 to 23 will sound
unbearably lumpy and pedantic, and very much in two to the bar:
Figure 13-20
Mm. 14-18
The answer is plain: let the hail of sixteenth notes be as clear as technique can possibly make them (for the
violinist, first position, very snug crossing through use of wrist action, very short strokes in the middle of the bow,
and placement of arm so as to put the bow equally within reach of both strings in question); but, let the sixteenths
go.
With passages such as those in Figure 13-21 now free to move at their required speed, it is important to treat the
appoggiatura in a manner appropriate to the melodic spirit. Here it must be unaccented, off the beat,


Page 248
as short and snappy as possible, and tied very closely to the eighth note that follows it. The only exceptions are the
grace notes on the downbeats of measures 17, 19, 109, 111, and 113, which should receive accent in order to
intensify the spice of sound that they add to their place in the line. Even here, the grace note should be extremely
short, so that there is no suggestion of any ''knuckle" of rhythm to mar the basic, snapped-figure construction of the
melody.
Because of the extremely energetic nature of the movement as a whole, the moments of relief, when they come,
must be made much of. What we might think of as "second subject" is actually nothing but such a moment of deep
breathing and recuperation (measures 24 to 35; 124 to 135).
Figure 13-21
Mm. 124-129
Play these passages flowingly, smoothly, floating on the waves. For, right after each of these respitesand this is
Mozart's way of setting diametric opposites next to each othercomes the spray of sixteenths we warned about
earlier. And a final note of caution: during these sixteenth-note rapids, let the player of eighths give ear to his
companion. Listen for the swing of the sixteenth-note bar and take care not to drive your partner beyond the limit
of endurance, lest both the music and his arm be fractured simultaneously.
Speaking of opposites brings us to the second movement of this sonata. For the Tema con Variazioni is as far a
contrast to the first movement as can be imagined. The theme itself is all melting lyricism and grace (except for the
slight outburst in measure 3). The variants seem to fasten on specific aspects drawn from the theme; aspects of
mood as much as of specific melodic reference. Variation one, for piano alone, emphasizes the flowing quality
through continuous garlands of treble runs, adding runs also in the left hand for richness in the second section, and
setting the right hand in relief against the bass runs toward the end of the variant. Variation two at first has the
violin elaborating on the theme opening through the addition of ornamental turns. These turns should be played as
follows:


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Figure 13-22.
The initial trill of the piano treble at the start of the theme, incidentally, should be played similarly:
Figure 13-23.
A little languishing is in order at the progression from measures 40 to 41 in the second variant. This stretching can
be compensated by the motion in the succeeding bars of this section.
Figure 13-24
Mm. 37-41
The violin can also enjoy some good stretching at the peak of the line in the second section (measures 47 to 49),
launching upward from the continuous procession of sixteenths in the piano, and ''rejoining" the partner in measure
50:
Figure 13-25
Violin, mm. 45-54
In the third variation, continuous linking of the triplet garland as it is handed back and forth between piano and
violin is essential. The concluding eighth of each strand must not be strongly attacked; and it must be sustained
and tapered just long enough for the ensuing triplet notes to


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take over. The player making entry, moreover, should avoid stress on the first offbeat triplet note, so that the join
can be smooth. When Mozart calls (via fortepiano) specifically for accentuation of the offbeat triplet note, the
effect should be highlighted (with discretionwarmth of vibrato and easy stressing with the bow).
While the pianist labors delicately in a vineyard of notes in variation four, the violinist should build his melodic
arches in spans of varied length, as shown:
Figure 13-26
Mm. 73-80
In the second section of the variant, the piano again has to make Mozart's notated version of an improvised
arabesque sound improvised (measures 87 ff.). Counting should be the least apparent procedure in these measures.
Variation five is dark and spooky, but only in fun. The music should proceed kittenishly, on tiptoe, for the first four
measures, with a shiver of notes at the fp in measures 2 and 4, then should grow quietly lavish in the remainder of
the section; in the second half of the variant, try for orchestral contrast of color; think of massed brasses trumpeting
the fortes, strings and woodwinds responding in the piano and intervening spots. The last two measures should go
trippingly, evaporating away at the end.
The scenes of the drama have now been played out. Variation six is the dance that closes the evening's happenings.
A tempo of with an easy one-to-the bar swing, should create the right, easygoing atmosphere. The touch
and dynamic level should be light, though the pianist can (and should) let himself go a bit with the surge of the line
and the resonance of the parallel tenths between hands in measures 125 to 130, and the rich setting of measures 131
to 135. An air of jubilation, courtly but not over-starched, should prevail from here to the end of the movement.
Sonata in D, K. 306
The last of Mozart's youthful sonatas (K. 31) had two movements, in contrast to all its predecessors, where three
movements had been the rule.


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Now, in the set of six sonatas comprising Sieber's Paris set, ''opus 1," all sonatas are in two movements, except for
the last, K. 306, which reverts to three (the number that will be in force in Mozart's remaining sonata output). It
should be noted that K. 296, written a few months earlier than K. 306, is also in the three-movement format, and so
will conform with its fellows of the "opus 2" set of Vienna, 1781.
The sonata, K. 306, is a large work, especially in the size of its end movements. There are many subtleties of
construction in the piece. As an example, the second subject (measures 25 ff.) in the first movement is in the
dominant (A major), as it should be, according to the usual procedure in first-movement structure. But it identifies
itself obliquely, spending more time in the harmonic periphery rather than in A proper. Emphasis on the current
tonal center comes almost as an afterthought (measures 38 ff.), when the composer is already involved with ideas
leading to the close of the exposition section.
One idea that occurs in passing in the expositionthe trilled commentary of the violin part (measures 40 and 41, 44
and 45)becomes the subject of the birdcall dialogue between violin and piano that opens the development
(measures 75 ff.):
Figure 13-27
Mm. 75-79
The trills here should be as rapid and crystalline as possible.

The development continues with a bold passage wherein great, swash-buckling loops of arpeggio in the piano are
accompanied by simpler accents in the violin part. The violinist may wish to emphasize his alternate figures to
bring out a specific detail of contrast, thus:
Figure 13-28
Violin, mm. 81-86
The coda of the movement (measures 159 ff.) can profit from a momentary broadening, to highlight the regal
splendor of the passage. Then


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(measure 168) a slight picking up of tempo will help the running passage-work in both instruments to carry the
chapter to its double bar.
The Andante cantabile (second movement) has many felicities. Let us point only to the passage at the beginning of
the second section. It seems quite prophetic of the slow movement of the Beethoven Fourth Piano Concerto (of a
generation later). Here, however, the piano takes the orchestral role, massive and glowering, while the violin plays
the imploring responses:
Figure 13-29
Mm. 35-40
One performance note: the leap of a tenth (measures 11, 62) in the violin part should be treated as though the high
C wells up out of the preceding A. The bow should come smoothly on to the C, without bump or accent; the
vibrato alone will give sufficient glow. The ornamented scale-descent in measure 63 should be played in an even
succession of thirty-seconds. Mozart's bowing should be carefully observed. The successive pairs of thirty-seconds
should be played one couplet per stroke, to lend articulate clarity and piquance to the run:
Figure 13-30
a. M. 11
b. M. 63

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In measures 26 and 77, the short staccato slur need not be taken literally (though it is not too difficult to be handled
by the proficient player). The first two notes can be bowed up-bow staccato, then the remaining four played as
spiccato notes, one per stroke. In the melodic complex that precedes this streamer of notes, the line (measures 18 to
22 ff.) should be shaped and articulated, thus:
Figure 13-31
Mm. 19-22
The violin follows suit in its turn, immediately after. At the end of this movement, in both piano and violin, each
appoggiatura in measures 83 and 84 should be unaccented, offbeat, late and fast, and closely attached to the
following note.
The last movement, Allegretto, of this sonata has already been touched on in our introductory chapter. It merits
fuller discussion hear, not only in its own right, but as a kind of synthesis of the entire 1778 opus 1 set. It has the
oppositions and alternations of sonata K. 303, first movement; the explosive rhythms of the flamenco movement of
K. 305 (cf. measures 42 ff. of the K. 306 movement), as well as the whirlwind sixteenth-note flurries of that same
work (cf. K. 306, measures 42 ff., piano part; measures 88 ff., both parts). And it has a great degree of equality
between the two partners, which is increasingly the hallmark of Mozart's keyboard-violin duo.
The studied oppositions in this Allegretto are mapped out in the alternation of Allegretto (2/4) and Allegro (6/8)
sections. The second Allegretto is a replica of the first, whereas the second Allegro serves as development and
recapitulation, culminating in the grand mock-cadenza-aria-recitativo, the Allegro assai. Here the piano leads off
with a madcap swirl of sixteenths, followed by triplets and calmer measures, easily and freely paced. Then two
great triplet dives to the lower reaches of the keyboard, with the violin simultaneously arcing upward. A stentorian
fermata from both instruments marks the end of the second dive. From this, the piano swirls upward in a run of
broken thirds. Two languorous sighs from the keyboard, followed by a flourish, abettedaria-obbligato styleby the


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violin; another grand run in the bass against sustained fanfare in the treble, poising again on a dramatic sustained
note. Now, in one of those rare passages where Mozart himself has indicated a crescendo from piano to forte to
fortissimo, a great clatter of tremolo from both instruments. A long comedy routine of the piano (as ''singer")
moving through notes short and long, through sustained and momentary trills, through flirtatious pauses, through
sudden dynamic contrasts (forte, piano, forte, piano), and finally, into an elaborate, andantino cadenceand always
followed like a leech by the violin. The ensuing Allegretto seems to return the movement to normalcy. But an
overserious adagio cadence at the end of the section warns us of further shenanigans: a concluding Allegro, which
starts trippingly in eighths, breaks into sixteenths for all hands and, at long last, dashes furiously for the double bar.
At twenty-two, Mozart was already worldly-wise in the ways of the European music of his time. This grand
musical free-for-all, the only one of its kind in his sonata literature, and matched only by some of the goings-on in
his operatic writing, is a satiric snapshot of those contemporary musical conventions. It should be played to the hilt,
and enjoyed in its full glory by performer and listener alike.


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14
Mozart:
Sonatas K. 296, 376 to 380;
Variations, K. 359 and 360
On April 8, 1781, shortly before the irrevocable break with his employer, Archbishop Hieronymus Colloredo, and
the famous episode of the farewell kick in the rear bestowed upon Mozart by the archbishop's steward, Count Arco,
the composer wrote to his father from Vienna. Mingled with complaints about his situation with the archbishop,
and the painting of a rosy picture of his (Wolfgang's) potential future in Vienna, he tells of a concert that had taken
place that day at the Tonkünstler-Societät. Several new works of his had been performed, including ''a sonata with
violin accompaniment for myself [that is, with Mozart at the piano], which I composed last night between eleven
and twelve [!] (but in order to be able to finish it, I only wrote out the accompaniment for Brunetti [Antonio
Brunetti, concertmaster of the archbishop's orchestra] and retained my own part in my head) . . ." 185 The sonata to
which Mozart refers was probably that in G, K. 379.186 The audacity of the composer's way of writing and
performing will be shown again by a similar and even more daring event in connection with the later sonata, K.
454.
For the moment, the reference highlights Mozart's continuing interest in ensemble for piano and violin. He
persisted in this interest for his usual reasons: first, he thought such products would sell (he wrote about the sonatas
to be engraved by Artaria of Vienna: "As soon as they are sold and I get some money I shall send it to you"),187
both to publishers, patrons,


Page 256
and general public; second, he found this medium, as well as others to which he turned with unparalleled
versatility, a congenial and inspiring one.
The list of keyboard-violin works stemming from, or published in, 1781 is as follows: 188
Revised K. No. Usual K. No. Date of Place of Composition Key
Composition
296 296 March 11, 1778 C
Mannheim
317d 378 Beginning of 1779 B flat
Salzburg
373a 379 April 7, 1781 G
Vienna
374a 359 June, 1781 G
Vienna
374b 360 June, 1781 G minor
Vienna
374d 376 Early Summer, 1781 F
Vienna
374e 377 Summer, 1781 F
Vienna
374f 380 Summer, 1781 E flat
Vienna
Let us take up these works in the order of their customary K. numbering (with the exception of K. 296, which will
be considered after K. 376, as originally published).
Variations in G, K. 359:
La Bergère Célimène
On June 20, 1781, Mozart closed a letter to his father with the explanation that ''I have some variations to finish for
my pupil."189 The pupil in question (his only one that first summer in Vienna), was the countess de Rumbeke; the
variations could have been either K. 359 or 360, both of them for piano and violin.190 Neither the composer nor
his first Vienna publisher, Artaria, were in a hurry to bring out these variations, preferring instead the full-fledged
sonatas that Mozart was turning out in these same months. Artaria did indeed publish the variations, but not until
1786.
Even today, these variations are not readily to be found in concert fare. They merit performance, both in the home
and on the public platform. For the players, they are certainlyas a reviewer in Speyer, Austria, wrote in 1788to be
"valued as good exercises . . . [wherein] difficulties are piled on difficulties, and quick, winged passages for the
right hand alternate with similar ones for the left."191 A reading of the variations will make the player wonder,
however, at the same reviewer's complaint that "one nevertheless misses in them, as in most of the recent musical
pieces of this kind, the ingenious inversions and imitations, and the variety of treatment in a sustained manner of
writing, whereby alone such compositions achieve a true value."


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The set of twelve variations, K. 359, was composed on the tune of the song, La Bergère Célimène (''The
shepherdess, Célimène"). A comparison of the theme with the original song from which it was drawn is of interest,
for it shows how Mozart has shortened, tightened, and rounded off the original tune for use in his own
composition. The text of the song, freely translated below, may have held added appeal for Mozart and his
audience; its lure escapes me.
The song: 192
Figure 14-1
a. Original song (translation below, mine)
b. The Mozart theme
It will not escape the reader's attention that Mozart has put a rather arch fermata in the music at that point where
the question posed by the text, as well as by the harmonic suspense of the melody, would naturally suggest such a
pause.
While these variations may not storm the very heights of Mozartian inspiration, they are by no means devoid of
imagination either. If we look only at the way in which he pulls out of the fermata mentioned above, comparing its
first appearancein the second section of the themewith


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corresponding fragments from some of the later variants, the range of treatment is apparent:
Figure 14-2
a. M. 8
b. M. 33
c. Mm. 57-58
d. Mm. 70-71
e. Mm. 84-85
f. Mm. 96-97
g. Mm. 110ff
h. Mm. 151-152
To move from the gruffness of variation seven, through the taut playfulness of variation eight, and on into the
limpid tranquillity of variation nine, all within the frame of unified thematic reference observed by the composer,
preserving consistency and emphasizing contrast at the same time, this will test any pair of performers. At the very
end, there is the problem of bringing the work to a satisfying conclusionwith an actual effect of conclusiveness, on
the rather offhand grounds provided by the composer.
Figure 14-3
Mm. 167-170

Page 259
Of course one broadens the very end of the penultimate measure, as well as the last three notes, to give some air of
finality to the work. Yet one cannot help wishing that Mozart had relieved the challenge somewhat by providing
the Coda which, in the autograph, he indicated to be forthcoming but never wrote.
Variations in G Minor, K. 360:

Hélas, j'ai Perdu Mon Amant
When we turn to the six variations, K. 360, and realize that the reviewer quoted earlier was speaking specifically
about this set, we must feel some doubt about the infallibility of critics. Without knowing the original tune or its
text, recognizing only the lamentation built into Mozart's theme and its title, Hélas, j'ai perdu mon amant (''Alas, I
have lost my lover"), we must feel that he has indeed achieved an astonishing "variety of treatment in a sustained
manner of writing." What an inspired moment in variation fivehaving cried, "Alas!" having wept and sobbed his
way through four variants in G minor, the hero of the work suddenly veers to a misty and nostalgic calm in this
oasis of G major:
Figure 14-4
Mm. 91-94
With the following episode, Mozart seekswith keen psychological insightthe angry reaction of the jilted lover. The
piano whips up a storm of ascending eighth-note waves in the bass, capped by thirty-second-note breakers in the
treble, with the violin stolidly stating its case in the teeth of the gale:
Figure 14-5
Mm. 109-110

Page 260
Again in this work, the ending is a problem. Mozart has, once more, provided not a single dynamic mark in the
entire composition. And nowhere is it more sorely missed than at the close: for, if one chooses (rightly so) to play
the final variant forcefully, then it proves awkward to charge full tilt into the double bar. Certainly on the repeat of
the final section, the last two measures should be that time of unwinding, of deflation, of sad and irrevocable
realization that ''Hélas" is the key to the mood of this piece. Despite its brevity, this work is one of Mozart's most
affecting efforts, more forceful in impact than its larger fellow, the K. 359 set.
Sonata in F, K. 376
Mozart's activities and experiences in Vienna occasioned much correspondence between father and son in the
months that followed his decision to remain there. When, on April 29, 1782, Leopold writes a brief note to
Breitkopf and Co., and Son's, the Leipzig music publishers, a cryptic pair of sentences therein cover much feeling
on the part of the father. "My son is in Vienna and is remaining there. Herr Artaria has published some of his
clavier sonatas." 193
Leopold had been thunderstruck at Wolfgang's announcement that he had left the archibishop's service and
intended to make his own way in Vienna. He was even more shocked at Wolfgang's plan to marry Constanze
Weber (a match that Wolfgang's ingenuous letters show to have been as much the fruit of machinations by
Constanze's mother and a wily guardian as it was of love, pure and simple). Leopold had resigned himself to the
former, and wouldlater that same yearhave to accept the accomplished fact of his son's marriage. Meanwhile, he
continues to blow the horn (but quietly) for Wolfgang in the above letter.
The letter refers to the set of sonatas printed by Artaria, Vienna art dealers and (since 1776) music publishers. The
works in question, published as opus 2 in November, 1781, were entitled, "Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord, or
Pianoforte with the accompaniment of a Violin."194 That Leopold should have omitted any mention of the violin
in his note to Breitkopf shows his conservative view of the keyboard-violin sonata. It certainly does not reflect the
musical facts of the sonatas themselves, as we shall see.
The published set was composed of K. 296, one of the Mannheim pieces, the sonata K. 378, which was probably
written in Salzburg after Mozart's return from the Paris trip in 1779, and four works composed in


Page 261
Vienna in 1781 (K. 376, 377, 379, 380). The entire set was dedicated to Josepha Auernhammer, one of Mozart's
keyboard students in Vienna. 195 Mozart's motives in choosing the dedicatee were not entirely musical, if we may
judge from his description of Miss Auernhammer in a letter to his father (June 27, 1781): ''The young lady is a
fright, but plays enchantingly, though in cantabile playing she has not got the real delicate singing style. She clips
everything."196 But a good pupil, with a well-to-do father, had to be cultivated.
Turning, at last, to the first sonata of the Auernhammer set, we have K. 376, in F. If we skip over the energetics of
the opening Allegro, we must not neglect mention of the wonderfully subtle and offhand way that Mozart makes a
"new" tune appear for use at the opening of the development; it is an adaptation of an idea that appears some
measures earlier, at the close of the exposition; and that, in turn, is a rhythmic application of an idea that has
already been heard still earlier in the movement, at the end of the first theme complex. Listing the three items in
the order of their occurrence gives us a glimpse of Mozart's musical invention at work:
Figure 14-6
a. Mm. 11-12
b. Mm. 38-40
c. Mm. 48-49
The Andante is quite simple in general structure, with first and last sections identical; related, yet contrasting
middle section; and brief coda to end. The fabric of the music is given life, however, by its asymmetry.
Comfortable four- and eight-measure groupings are followed by seven- then three-measure phrases, providing
(under the easy and steady flow of the Andante 3/4 melody) a subtle forward propulsion. The melodic arches
themselves lean forward, toward high, off-center peaks.
In performance, nothing must get in the way of the easy, yet irresistible propulsion of the music. The smoothness
of take-over, for example, often required between violin and piano can be seen in the two excerpts following:


Page 262
Figure 14-7
a. Mm. 10-13
b. Mm. 23-26
On the way to the first example, the piano arrives at the C, in measure 8; the succeeding sixteenths must taper
smoothly away from that note, so that the violin D, first beat of measure 9, will seem to take up the line from the
piano C. Conversely, in the second example, the violin must relax the sixteenths at the end of measure 24, after the
stress on that bar's downbeat and the slight peak on the G in the second beat. The piano here takes over, smoothly
but imperiously, with the arpeggiated downbeat in measure 25.
When addition, rather than substitution of part is needed, smooth joining must again be the rule, especially when
the merger of the two instruments is signaled by having them move hand in hand into the return of the theme (cf.
measure 54).
Figure 14-8
Mm. 51-54
In the third movement, Rondeau, the theme requires decisions about ornament treatment. To support the rustic
vigor of the tune, I feel that the


Page 263
appoggiatura in measure 1 must be light and placed before the main beat. On the other hand, those in measure 4
should be on the beat to emphasize the tartness of the grace note. The violin couplets in measures 28 and 29, shown
with the editor's slurs, should be bowed that way, each couplet separate, articulate, and distinct from the next.
Figure 14-9
Mm. 28-30
The chords in measures 36 to 38 and 40 to 42 must be smooth but bold, for the thread of the preceding melodic
line must be broken. Within the new melodic chain (measures 35 to 44), the alternately peremptory and delicate
links need contrast in the vigor of the detached notes, in the general strength of stroke, and in dynamics.
But the greatest problem in the distinct treatment of contrasting happenings in this movement occurs in measures
85 to 92. Here sedate and prim tunefulness (measures 85 to 86, 89 to 90) is actually interrupted by tripping, pushing
measures (87 to 88, 91 to 92), and vice-versa. The change of scene must be immediate and clear, as though two
contrasting slides are being flashed in instant alternation upon a screen.
Figure 14-10
Mm. 85-90
Another interesting spot is the passage in measures 114 to 118. Here the answers between piano and violin step on
each other's heel, harmonically. The first eighth of each entrance clashes (either at the interval of a seventh, or a
ninth, or both) against either the bass line or the other instrument's melodic line. The clash must be stressed, so that
the pileup of frictions and resolutions in this compressed sequence can be fully tasted.


Page 264
Figure 14-11
Mm. 114-117
The tiptoed suspense in measures 143 to 146 is quiet, but tingling with (mock) excitement. The stroke and touch
should produce an intense, resonant exhalation of sound, not a dry, short peck. To get the feeling of this line, try
saying, quietly, ''Boo!" Then imitate that effect in the playing of each note.
Figure 14-12
Mm. 141-147
The end of the movement should come quietly as Mozart indicates. Pull the tempo back very slightly and gradually
in the last three measures, let the piano's upward swirl in the last measure evaporate easily, without accent on the
last note. The final tone should trail, without a sudden, dry clipping of the sound.
Sonata in C, K. 296
The Allegro vivace first movement, bold and brilliant, starts off like a regular march. The brigade, however, end up
all over the drill field. Intriguing imbalances are built into the long complex of melodic units that makes up the
opening measures. First there are two measures answering two. In measure 9, half answers half. In measure 10, an
offbeat half-measure answers another such. In measures 15 to 18, we move from a two-measure unit to a one-
measure, and on to a last measure that moves beat by beat,one, two, three. Thus the musical field of view is
constantly being shifted from broad to less broad, from expansive to tight and driving. The play-


Page 265
ing must bring out these shifts in the rhythmic sequences, clearly and emphatically.
For the violinist one of the more difficult technical passages in the first movement comes in measures 43 ff. First
let us talk about the trill marked in measure 43. At playing speed, there will hardly be time for more than a turn at
the start of the ascending eighth-note lead-in.
Figure 14-13
M. 43
Then in the measures that follow, we find that Mozart has no slurs on the sixteenth notes.
Figure 14-14
Mm. 42-45
The player's options are:

1. Light staccato near the point (good, but difficult).
2. Spiccato, starting each three-note unit, of course, alternately with down- and up-bow.
3. Spiccato, slurring each sixteenth-note couplet. Here, the bowing must be arranged to make each eighth come up-
bow, so that the bow can be made to bounce the pair of sixteenths on the downstroke.
In any event, the eighth notes must be breathed, not poked, even though they are the resolution points for the
motion from the sixteenths. Also measures 2 and 4 of the sequence must be brought out, because at these points
they take over the center of activity from the more reposeful motion of the piano part.
The end of the exposition section (measures 63 to 68) should be stressed in half-bar units, to match the swing of
the line. A few measures later, however, in the development section, it is just as important to move the phrasing in
two-measure units (measures 79 to 87). Here again (cf. measures 79, 81, and so forth) there will be time only for a
turn, scarcely a trill, in the violin part.
The tune of the Andante sostenuto movement is quiet, easygoing, but


Page 266
by no means insipid. The snapped rhythm (heard frequently in the piano, less often in the violin) must not be
equated to the triplet in the left-hand piano part. If necessary, make the sixteenth come a bit later and faster in
order to keep the distinctionand frictionbetween sixteenth and triplet clear.
Figure 14-15
Mm. 1-4
In the third section, the violin must describe one grand arch. The turn here must be easy, not snapped. And the
sixteenths of measure 25 should be stressed in order to bring out their opposition to the triplet of measure 23.
Figure 14-16
Mm. 23-30
The half-note G, in measure 27, must be the peak of the successive half-notes, but not hard sounding. It should be
relaxed a bit after impact, for it will in effect endure until the appoggiatura G of measure 28, which is followed, in
turn, by the actual crest of the line, the three eights, A-G-F, of the same measure. Note that Mozart deliberately
calls for piano on these peak notes, to emphasize the climax by contrast and understatement. The marking should
be observed.
The more reason, because the true, overall climax is yet to come. After the double bar, there is a new buildup, to a
higher level still, leading to the B flat of measure 34. This note must flourish, glow, subside (without weakening),
and taper, all in the one fermata half-note. Performers may opt for a definite break and breath after the fermata, or
may choose to taper the long note into a very soft return of the theme.
Figure 14-17
Mm. 31-35

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Above all, there must be no rigid, insensitive counting of three in this movement. When the music wants to move,
let it (e.g., measures 63 to 68). And, on the other hand, when it wants to pause for question or punctuation, let it do
so again. For example, the seeming sequence of ''YES!" (forte), "Really?" (piano), "Yes!" (forte), "Yes." (piano,
distant), in measures 18 to 22.
The Rondo: Allegro is Mozart at his most ebullient. The tempo must move along at Nothing must stand in
the way; let the trills in measures 5 and 6 be reduced to a turn rather than inhibit the tempo. The appoggiature (as
in measure 4) should be accented, on the beat, snappy, to contribute to the festive air. One would have to vote
definitely against making the grace note a full eighth in each beat, for that would result in a flabby rhythmic effect
in this context. It is well to note that Mozart writes specifically a sixteenth-note, on-the-beat appoggiatura in
measure 12, but an eighth-note sign in measure 14. The latter should indeed be an eighth, because the resulting
ease of effect suits the running off of the entire phrase (and section) at that point.
Figure 14-18
Mm. 8-16
Similar treatment, of course, should obtain in measures 41 to 48.

In measures 78 ff., the playing, especially in the violin, should be strong and gutsy, with an echo effect in measures
80 and 81 to reflect the harmonic drop of the music. The violin can really enjoy what seems to be a subordinate
figure when in measures 86 to 91, it beats out a drummer's tattoo. And again, immediately after, when it is called
upon to sound a clarion.
Figure 14-19
Mm. 90-96
Do not miss the fun and games for both instruments as they play a kittenish follow-the-leader routine (measures
100 ff.):


Page 268
Figure 14-20
Mm. 98-102
There should be crescendi in measures 153 to 156, and again in 157 to 159; and from there to the end of the
movement, a blazing, martial fanfare for all.
Sonata in F, K. 377
This is one of the most impressive of the Mozart sonatas, and certainly so in the set of six here under
consideration. One fact immediately stands out upon inspection of the score as set down by Mozart: there is not a
single dynamic mark in the first or second movements (except for a few important indications toward the end of
the latter). The dynamic marks for the finale are derived only from the first edition. Again, Mozart did not botheror
had not the timeto set down any dynamics in the autograph of the work.
Without the composer's guidance, we are left to ponder a choice between a stealthy and quiet opening, or a
forceful, bluff treatment. Personal experience and preference makes the writer vote for the second way. In any
event, it makes for a more impressive opening for the work. The initial melody leaps to a high A, and takes off on a
downward path from there, leaping still higher, laterto B flatbefore settling to its close. To gather the energy of the
leap to the A, and to fling us onto the note, the two-note appoggiatura in measure 1 should be played unaccented
and before the beat. (The A should be warmly accented.) So also, of course, with the three-note ornament in
measure 3, and the single appoggiatura in measures 5 and 6.
Figure 14-21
Mm. 1-7

Page 269
An intriguing passage midway through the exposition has the violin and the bass line handing off a snappy
rhythmic figure to one another around a continuous series of triplet runs in the right hand of the piano:
Figure 14-22
Mm. 25-27
Then the game changes (measures 30 ff.) to the passing back and forth of the triplet run itself, ending at last with
the entire team running the triplets in octave unison. This group play on the triplets should be no louder than what
has preceded, and should not by any means give a raucous effect. The two instruments and three lines must blend
smoothly.
Immediately afterward comes a new formation; be on the alert. The piano plays triplets, proceeding downstairs beat
by beat, to the punctuation of an eighth note from the violin on each pulse of the measure. The two then join for a
measure of triplets and thereupon change sides, the violin now flaunting the triplets while the piano calls the beat.
Everything must proceed neatly, and in effortless synchronization.
Figure 14-23
Mm. 38-40
The development runs the gamut. All possible animation is called for in the delivery of the vigorous opening
measures. Then the transition must be made to the sinuous and slinky maneuverings of the two instruments in the
passage from measure 76 to measure 90. As an example, in measures 84 to 86, the force must be contained, vibrant
with restraint rather than boisterous release:
Figure 14-24
Mm. 84-86

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While we are preoccupied with the musical negotiations of these passages, we find that we have been tricked by
Mozart. For we are suddenly dumped into the middle of the recapitulation at measure 91; the ruse is compounded
by the fact that we are wrenched out of a sequential modulation pattern, are torn from a sense of minor mode into a
sudden major, from an underlying pulse in quarter notes to a broad base of whole notes. The trick for the
performers is to enact the switch with bland innocence, as though they knew it would happen all along.
Figure 14-25
Mm. 89-92
With such musical skulduggery revealed in the body of the movement, we need not be surprised to find it also in
the manner of bringing the chapter to a close. With no dynamic indications by the composer to guide us, we must
decide whether to exit quietly or boldly. The path of slyness leads us to slip past the double bar in a continuous
diminishing of sound through the last several bars, marking the final two quarters with only the faintest hint of
broadening.
Figure 14-26
Mm. 121-125
In June, 1783, Mozart composed his Quartet in D minor, K. 421. According to his wife, the work was composed
during the labor period attending the birth of the Mozart's firstborn. 197 This may well be true. We cannot help
admiring, however, the composer's presence of mind. For, despite (or because of?) the tremulous feelings that must
have occupied him at the time, he had the good sense to draw musical inspiration from his own earlier efforts. It is
our guess that the final movement of the quartet is modeled on the slow movement of the K. 377 sonata, which
preceded the quartet by two years.198


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Both movements are sets of variations; both are in D minor; the rhythm of the quartet movement (and its very
opening notes) is identical with that of the siciliana variation that closes the sonata movement:
Figure 14-27
a. K. 421, finale, theme, section 1
b. K. 377, Violin, Andante, mm. 113-120
A comparison of the two movements will reveal similarities in choice of mood and figuration in the component
variations of each. One obvious difference is that, in the quartet movement, the siciliana melody (actually the theme
of the movement) is the source from which the movement flows and to which it returns. In the sonata, the siciliana
is the focal point toward which the movement makes its way, and is revealed only at the end of the movement.
And, despite all similarities, the two movements are distinct from one another, individually rich in Mozart's
outpouring of invention.
In the sonata movement, we are at once struck by the wonderfully consistent and melodic use made of the
ornamental turn in the Thema. Almost every measure is verdant with the tendril of melody:
Figure 14-28
Mm. 1-4
The piano deals with the theme first, then the violin. When, beginning in measure 18, the two instruments continue
the theme in alternate response, measure by measure, there is still only one ornamental turn per bar, but the


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interlocking of the lines creates, by some miracle of sound, a much richer and thicker texture than the individual
threads of the musical fabric would seem able to provide.
Figure 14-29
Mm. 18-21
The dialogue seen here is in the second half of the theme. Each of the variants to come divides into two sections,
each with repeat. And the variant always reflects the procedure of the theme: the second section is denser and more
luxurious than the first. The result is a marvelous feeling of consistency governing the constantly changing series of
patterns in the movement. The range of imagination can be seen if we tabulate the successive metamorphoses of
the central idea:
Variation 1, a snapped-up version of the turn;
Figure 14-30
Mm. 33-36
Variation 2, sinuous, reedy, cool;

Figure 14-31
Mm. 49-52
Variation 3, the most luxuriant foliage of all;

Figure 14-32
Mm. 65-66

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Note that in the second section of this variation, the violin turns in measures 73 and 75 will lend an appropriate
touch of turbulence if played as follows (note lines of direction shown):
Figure 14-33
Mm. 73-74
In variation four, the forte should be electric with energy; the gauntlet, flung back and forth. Mozart makes no
dynamic indication, but anything less than forte, and anything other than a stentorian delivery is unimaginable.
Figure 14-34
Mm. 81-83
Variation five is quiet and demure. The second section, particularly, must be silken in tone, touch, and bowing.
Figure 14-35
Mm. 97-98
The siciliana melody of variation six has already been quoted above. Here let us single out measures 124 to 128,
from the second section of the variation. This is the emotional climax of the movement; here is the shriek that sinks
into surrender, resignation. The E flat of measure 126 must contain all the energy and rebelliousness of an entire
movement within itself.
Figure 14-36
Mm. 124-128

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After this, and on through the codetta section, the life-force must drain away into exhaustion. The importance that
Mozart himself attached to the sixth variation can be seen in the fact that here, alone of all the autograph, are
dynamic indications given, and most specifically in the measures just cited, even to the extent of calling for a
crescendo leading through measure 124 to the forte peak in measures 125 and 126.
After this movement, not only Beethoven but Schubert is inevitable. Not only is the temper of the movement
prescient of the genius to follow, but the very continuity and interrelationship of tempers of the successive
movements in the sonata foreshadow the ways of Beethoven and the like. In sonata K. 377, the first movement
seems to represent great energy; the second, a spirit that is outwardly melancholy and resigned, but essentially
rebellious underneath. The last movement, on the contrary, displays a quiet, almost benumbed tranquillity: a
somewhat convalescent air pervades this movement, as though in reaction to the emotional drain of the second
movement.
There are, it is true, moments of outbursts in this finale, so misleadingly (andfrom the viewpoint of
tempermeaninglessly) labeled Tempo di Menuetto, as at measures 48 to 77:
Figure 14-37
Violin, mm. 50-54
But these subside again (measure 77) into a cool and shaded region of B flat. The melody hovers here, in the wake
of the turbulence just ended.
Figure 14-38
Mm. 77-82
The shock of a sudden pair of harmonic shifts (measures 101 ff.) drops us into the dominant of F (i.e., C), and then
into the tonic, F, itself, and the final return of the menuetto theme.
In measures 155 ff. there is a last welling up of energy. This is the kind of passage that makes every pianist glad he
is a pianist: waves of lush


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sound and resonance rise from the instrument. The violin, simple, spare, rides these waves.
Figure 14-39
Mm. 163-167
Finally, both instruments join in a series of sylvan horn calls. The closing measures bring a last, crystalline, hushed
leave-taking.
Sonata in B Flat, K. 378

The Sonata in F, K. 377, as we have just seen, is one of the great ones. And that is precisely the trouble with the
sonatas of Mozart (and his peers): having said, ''Aha! this is the sonata I prefer above all others," one comes to the
next work and feels the mind beginning to formulate the same sentiment anew. The inspiration is so constant, so
fresh, so full of surprises and of details that seem inevitable in their rightness.
Thus it is with the next sonata in line, K. 378. What lazy ease, what assured nonchalance in the melting opening
strain! What surefooted progress to the climax of the line, way off to the right of center, before the rapid and deft
glide to the resolution!
Figure 14-40
Violin, mm. 9-15
(Note the shaping of the turn in measures 13 and 14; this must be so in order to let the flow of the line proceed
without twitching.) The offbeat accompaniment of the violin in the opening measures of the movement must be
folded in without disturbing the melodic wave of the piano part.
The movement abounds with ideas. A simple listing, drawn almost entirely from the violin part for compactness,
though every idea shown is used by the piano in its own turn, shows the players' feast:


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Figure 14-41
a. Mm. 28-31
b. Mm. 38-40
c. Mm. 51-52
d. Mm. 41-42
e. Mm. 70-72
f. Mm. 83-86
g. Mm. 99-102
h. Mm. 190-192
Some of these ideas are more important than others; the lesser melodies may be incidental to surrounding musical
context, or derived from related material in the movement. But the individuality of each element is not to be
denied, and the presence of all these ingredients in the one movement contributes to an incredible richness and
lavishness of effect.
There is much opportunity for close collaboration between the two performers. Let us single out only onean
especially graciousexample of this cooperation: the consummate joining of the violin and piano in the gliding
descent that lands in the recapitulation of the movement.


Page 277
Figure 14-42
Mm. 111-114
The instruction, calando, is given by Mozart himself in the autograph; it has been pointed out that Mozart uses the
word to mean ''becoming softer," and not, as at a later date, also "becoming slower." 199 The present example does
indeed end in a piano (the last previous dynamic mark being a forte); a diminishing of sound is certainly in order.
But, after the active development episode, a slight broadening of tempo, to ease us into the restful strain of the
return, is equally desirable.
One added pointer: the moving sixteenths in the piano and violin lines of measures 180 to 183 should be played
detached, as indicated by Mozart, rather than slurred; the incisiveness is needed. For the same reason, the grace
notes should be strongly accented:
Figure 14-43
M. 180
The second movement, Andantino sostenuto e cantabile, does not tell the full story in its masthead. There are
actually two movements in one: the opening episode, in two sections, each repeated; a contrasting, darker episode
(measures 17 to 30); the opening strain anew (measures 31 to 38); the more sober element, again (measures 39 to
44); and then a final return of the opening, with a codetta to wind up the movement. The opposite character of the
alternate segments cannot be made sufficiently clear without some difference in speed. We suggest that the "bright"
sections be played at the shadowy passages, at
The Rondo finale is best played at about Both players will be put on their mettle to dispatch the streamers
of sixteenths in neat, sparkling fashion at this speed; and there must be no slavish stressing of beat or bar. The line
must move in one-measure or in multi-bar units, as the phrases dictate. In the theme proper, the placement of a
turn at the beginning of measures 2, 3, and 4 gives a measure by measure pace to the melody, countered by the all-
in-one flow of the next four measures. Actually the first measure serves as a grand upbeat to the melody:


Page 278
Figure 14-44
Mm. 1-8
The turns must be fast and accented, so that each measure gets a tart, strong send-off. The violinist may begin the
sixteenths in measure 5 of his theme with a slurred, up-bow couplet, or detached, with a fresh down-bow
strokewhichever is most comfortable for him.
The swift patter of the Allegro section (beginning in measure 151) should be played in a controlled but ''breathless"
hush, thinking of the line as being made up of two-measure units. There must be a sense of combined arrival and
departure at the end of each such unit. In the forte passages, special force and brilliance should be given to the
flourishes of measures 167 to 170, and so forth.
For the brilliant duo trajectory of measures 184 to 186, we suggest that the violinist use the following bowing and
fingering:
Figure 14-45
Mm. 184-186
The two string crossings occur at the beginning of the run, leaving the rest of the journey clearly exposed on the E-
string alone.
The broadening of tempo for the final cadence should be suggested in the "hunting-horn" calls of the violin,
starting in measure 222, then broaden more obviously in the last four measures of the piece. Whoever reaches this
last cadence will know that he has been through a rather short, but quite demanding, composition. Not only does it
require great control of hand, but also a constant command of the most subtle shading and nuance. The less skilled
player will find K. 378 a marvelous technical and musical training ground. And even the most accomplished player
will learn, with each performance, that this work challenges his every resource.
Sonata in G, K. 379
This sonata, alone among the full-fledged such works in Mozart's later output, has only two movements. This may
be accounted for by the possi-


Page 279
bility that it was this sonata that Mozart wrote between the hours of ''eleven and twelve" (see page 255). If it was
indeed tossed off in such rapid fashion, it could only have been by a process of spontaneous combustion, for this
sonata is one of the most dramatic.
K. 379 is the first sonata since K. 303 to open with a slow introduction; and, whereas in the earlier work the slow
section recurs in the body of the movement, here the Adagio, almost long enough to be considered a movement in
its own right, stands alone at the beginning, in opposition to the ensuing Allegro. The piano part of the Adagio is
one of the most opulent passages in all the literature. Pedalling, touch, arpeggiation of chords (as specified by
Mozart), resonant treatment of the grace notes, all should be called into play to give the greatest possible sonority,
free of excessive percussiveness, to the opening strain. The extension of the melody, measures 13 ff., must be
played by the violinist intimately, with flowing but not rapidly drawn bow. The waves in the piano part here must
be ridden freely, rhapsodically, giving emphasis to the more telling notes of the series.
Figure 14-46
Mm. 17-19
The Adagio is piano oriented, with the violin taking the role of commentator and obbligato voice. The relationship
is essentially the same in the Allegro, which replaces the rhapsodizing of the introduction with the brilliance and
dynamism of a virtuoso concerto movement. Both piano and violin contribute to the vital statements of the intense
principal subject of the Allegro. This theme, indeed, has the same kind of cumulative, rather nagging intensity that
characterizes the theme (also G minor) of the First Piano Quartet of Mozart.
Figure 14-47
Violin, mm. 62-67

Page 280
At a tempo of the forward thrust of the theme is made readily apparent. The turns of the theme are
accented, on the beat. The attacks on the eighths must be crisp; the quarters (with turn) must begin intensely, trail
resonantly but briefly.
The rhythmic drive of the theme is so unrelenting that the ending of the theme (fermata, bar 73) becomes a
performance problem. Mozart calls for a rallentando and a crescendo to a forte. But to tear off the last note, loudly,
seems too peremptory. With apologies to Mozart's shade, our vote is for a tapering of the two notes in the violin
part in measure 73, with the piano chord damped in time with the end of the violin sound.
The questioning inflection that results makes a suspenseful interruption and sets the ear up for the positive
statement of the measures that follow. Similar treatment would then have to be accorded the piano presentation of
the same pause, measure 129 (that introduces the recapitulation). On the other hand, violin and piano should end
the corresponding inflections in measures 141, 143, and 145 forcefully, in view of the later and longer
accumulation of tension in the movement.
Figure 14-48
Mm. 138-145
Also, and for similar reasons, the very end of the movement should be carried off with Beethovenian vigor.
In the face of the titanic nature of the first movement, it is curious that Mozart chose to set off against it only the
Thema: Andantino cantabile. The choice cannot have been merely the result of his busy schedule, for a number of
his sonatas do end with variations movements. He undoubtedly felt that the limpid tranquillity of this particular
movement would be the proper sequel and antidote. Besides, the second movement's G major, reflecting the same
mode of the opening Adagio, frames the tempestuous minor of the Allegro very effectively. And, where the
Allegro theme leans forward at a perilous angle, the theme of the variations walks steadily and easily in rhythm.


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The glow and resonance of the sonata's introduction is echoed in the similar tone of the theme and its variations.
But only in the first section of each; for in every case the second half is tempestuous, as if reminiscent of the
preceding Allegro (especially reminiscent is the second half of variation five, with its two hovering pauses at the
end of tumultuous upward runs in the piano). The fourth variant is entirely sober; and the concluding Allegretto
section, by compensation, is entirely bright.
One often has a feeling of bell-like sonority in this movement: in the first variation, for piano alone; in the bright
clamor of the piano part of variation three; in the violin pizzicati of variation five; in the pearly thirty-second-note
runs of the piano part in the coda. The aforesaid pizzicati, incidentally, must be delivered roundly and sonorously,
pulled out of the string with the ball of the finger, not with the thinner extreme tip, and with as much ''legato"
stroke as possible.

One cannot realistically call any of the mature Mozart sonatas easy to play. We must assume that Mozart was
writing for the amateur market, for that was the avenue where the bulk of music sales lay in his day (and in ours,
too, for that matter). But the average amateur must have been hard put to it to handle the assignments dealt him by
the composer. K. 380 is definitely among the more demanding works. The pianist must be a virtuosoor so believe
himself; the violinist too must test his mettle. And together, the two must labor devotedly to fit voices
togethermusical ideas, technical details, and all.
Perhaps the most diffcult task is to encompass the range of emotion in this work. The first and last movements are
bristling concerti a due; the finale mingles more dramatic intensity with its bravura displays. The middle chapter,
Andante con moto, is one of those moonlit, reflective episodes that only Mozart does so well, and which clearly
presages the temper of such late and great episodes as the Adagio introduction (same key, same meter) to the
finale of the G minor viola quintet, K. 516, of the year 1787.
In the opening Allegro of K. 380, the spotlight generally plays on the pianist, whose first lines are immediately
garlanded with exuberant runs of sixteenths. These are framed and punctuated with solid chordal salvos by both
instruments, which must be played boldly but without harshness. In both exposition and recapitulation, the two
instruments engage in ex-


Page 282
tended, dry, crackling repartee in triplet patterns and in sixteenth-tremolo figures. In all of this, alert mutual
listening is essential.
In the tremolo passages, slow practice will help:
Figure 14-49
Mm. 48-50
The violin should arrange to start measure 50 (and measure 148, which corresponds) up-bow; the rapid string
crossings are more natural this wayand even then are possible only if the stroke is performed largely with the wrist,
with minimal involvement of the arm. Some thought must be given to the passage from measures 67 to 79, so that
the flow of crisp triplets (violin) against the more lyric quarter-note melody of the piano can proceed neatly but
without pedantic display of carefulness. The toughest job lies in the meshing of parts in measures 84 to 93. Special
diligence will be needed for measures 91 and 92, for the negotiation of these is comparable to the feat of two
bobsleds entering a single chute at top speed, simultaneously, and emerging coalesced but unharmed:
Figure 14-50
Mm. 90-93
Let us suggest fingerings that we have found useful for the tricky violin figures in measures 88 to 91:
Figure 14-51
Mm. 88-91

Page 283
In practicing these measures ensemble, the intent must be of joining the several measures smoothly, without
excessive hammering of sixteenths and with no aurally obvious counting of beats. As the voices merge, the effect
should be of a broadening of sonority, not a raging stampede.
A similar word of caution applies to the dialogue in a whirlwind in the finale, measures 108 to 140. The tempo of
the movement should be which will surely move the sixteenths along at impressive speed. This is well,
for the swirls of tone should sound impetuous and unbridled; but the clarity (and intonation) should be preserved
against frenzy at all costs. Slow practiceeven with a metronomewill work wonders for the ensemble. But make
sure, once more, that the clockwork does not show in the final, full-speed result. The aroma of midnight oil belongs
in no performance.
Aside from the stern demands placed on the expressive and lyric powers of both players in the middle Andante, the
greatest difficulty lies in measures 34 to 41:
Figure 14-52
Mm. 40-41
The pace must be steady, yet forward driving; too steady, and the beat-by-beat rhythmic figure will be made
stodgy and unrelenting; too forward, and the fabric of the movement will begin to stretch and tear. Appraise
carefully the effect you create in this pivotal passage in the movement.
The nature of this second set of Mozart's mature sonatas for keyboard and violin may best be summed up in the
words of a contemporary review, oft cited because of its perceptiveness and aptness. Carried in Cramer's Magazin
der Musik, Hamburg, April 4, 1783, the write-up says:
These sonatas are unique in their kind. Rich in new ideas and traces of their author's great musical genius.
Very brilliant, and suited to the instrument. At the same time the violin accompaniment is so ingeniously
combined with the clavier part that both instruments are


Page 284
constantly kept in equal prominence; so that these sonatas call for as skilled a violinist as a clavier player.
However, it is impossible to give a full description of this original work. Amateurs and connoisseurs should
first play them through for themselves, and they will then perceive that we have in no way exaggerated. 200
To which this amateur and connoisseur can only cry, ''Amen!"


Page 285
15
Mozart:
The Last Sonatas, K. 402, 454, 481, 526, and 547
In this chapter, we take up the ''large" sonatas of Mozart, those that were composed in the furiously productive
years after the publication of the "Opus 2" sonatas in Vienna in 1781. The later sonatas were written individually,
either for specific occasion or because of sheer impulse, and not as part of a larger set of works. They are the three
sonatas, K. 454, K. 481, and K. 526 (1784, 1785, and 1787, respectively). Before this, we consider the curious,
short, (un) finished sonata, K. 402, from the year 1782. And at the last, there is the sonata K. 547, from 1788,
Mozart's final work for the duo.
Sonata in A, K. 402 (K. 385e)

This two-movement sonata was composed in Vienna, probably in August or September, 1782. It is presumed that
this is one of the projected set of three to six sonatas that Mozart intended to dedicate to his wife. In any event,
Mozart had time to complete only the first movement, Andante, ma un poco adagio, filled with incredibly rich
sonority for the two instruments, illumined with passages of more penetrating lyricism. It will be clear to the duo,
upon playing this movement, that it is not actually "com-


Page 286
plete'' in itself. After a full repeat of the opening section, it launches upon what promises to be a thorough-going
second area, only to grow hesitant and pensive, darken in color, and poise on the brink of some unforeseen event. It
becomes, then, an introduction to the second movement of the sonata, much in the nature of the Adagio preludes,
to fugues of J. S. Bach, all cast for string trio, that Mozart was writing in this very year, 1782 (K. 404a). As for that
second movement of the sonata, Allegro moderato, it was started by Mozart, but completed eventually (and no
doubt posthumously) by his friend, Maximilian Stadler. 218
Einstein points to the fact that at the time of beginning this finale, a fugue, Mozart was very much interested in the
music of Handel and J. S. Bach, to which he was being exposed at musicales at the home of Baron Gottfried van
Swieten (who, in turn, had himself been introduced to the music of the old Johann during his stay as Viennese
emissary at the court of Frederick the Great, a decade earlier). Einstein feels that the fact that Mozart did not
complete the fugue reflects his lack of comfort with the older ways in music.219 On the other hand, as one plays
the fugue, the flashing vigor of the subject and of the multilayered responses woven by Mozart is quite satisfying;
the more so because the boldness of this effect makes a striking contrast to the more tranquil mood of the
introductory movement. One is not even conscious of a break between whatever portion Mozart finished and the
continuation by Stadler.
There is not a single dynamic indication by Mozart in the fugue. The violin, however, starting alone, would do well
to begin with a mezzo-forte level, and a moderately detached, rather short stroke, saving more vigorous efforts
until later on. Throughout, however, even when quiet, understated treatment seems in order, the subject and its
elaborations must be delivered with point and strength. From measure 16 on, a slight broadening of initial tempo
(which should have been about ) will make possible the negotiation of the constantly thickening
polyphonic web in the remainder of the fugue. Mozart and/or Stadler has seen fit to step up the pace of the music
with a texture that moves to predominantly sixteenth-note motion for the latter half of the fugue, so breadth will
prove most beneficial.
Reflecting as it does, so strongly, the lyric and the powerful sides of Mozart's personality, this sonata is again one
of those that should be played and heard more often than past habit has afforded.


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Sonata in B Flat, K. 454

''The whole morning is taken up with pupils and almost every evening I have to play." 201 Thus, Mozart to his
father in March, 1784. And he goes on to list the dates and places on his performance schedule for the next few
weeks: five at the home of Prince Dimitri Michaelovich Galitzin, Russian ambassador to Viennanot the Galitzin
who was later to commission the first of the late quartets of Beethoven; nine at the home of Count Jean Esterhazy;
three at Georg Friedrich Richter's, keyboard player and teacher; three private concerts of Mozart's own; and two
concerts of his own in an auditorium. "Well," concludes Mozart, "haven't I enough to do? I don't think that in this
way I can possibly get out of practice."
With this kind of pace, it is understandable that Mozart was, on April 24, composing a sonata that he was to
perform only five days later in public concert with Regina Strinasacchi, a twenty-year-old Italian girl who was
presenting the second of her debut violin recitals in Vienna. Mozart considered her "a very good violinist [with a]
great deal of taste and feeling in her playing."202 Accordingly, it was a demanding work that he wrote for his
partner and himself. But, with the pressure of time, it seems that here again, as in the case of the earlier sonata, K.
379, he was able to set down on paper only the violin part of the work. On the autograph score, the violin part is
written in lighter ink than the rest, with the piano part obviously filled in later, because it often has to be crowded
into its space on the page.203
The story goes that at the concert itself, with the emperor among those attending, Mozart played the sonata with
only a blank piece of music paper on his rack, and without prior rehearsal! The duo that today undertakes this
workthe Sonata in B flat, K. 454will be filled with admiration for Mozart's skill and powers of memory, with some
horror at the reckless daring of both the composer and his young violinist, and perhaps with some misgiving about
the concert standards of the eighteenth-century Viennese audience. For the performance was apparently received
"with general applause," according to the notice in the Wiener Zeitung of July 7, 1784.204
If not before, then certainly in this sonata, the complete equality and interdependence of the two instruments is
achieved. "One cannot conceive," writes Einstein, "of any more perfect alternation of the two instruments than that
in the first Allegro, into which one enters through a proud Largo as through a triumphal arch . . ."205 The
evenhanded treatment


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applies as well to the Largo itself; the aiming of the spotlight is indicated in the following schematic table:
Both instruments Piano Both Violin
Violin Piano
Violin Piano
Violin Piano Violin Both
One of the feats of performance required of both players is found in measures 5 to 9. Piano first, then violin, play
accompanying chordal pulses that must sound similar in both instruments, and should, ideally, resemble horn tone.
In the last measures of the introduction (9 to 13), there is some delicious dialogue between the two, each
instrument topping the other in elegance and grace. The ensemble here must be instinctive: each instrumental
statement must truly be in response to the preceding utterance of the partner. The interplay is the more important
because it is reflected in corresponding dialogues placed at the end of the exposition, development, and
recapitulation of the Allegro proper. Short examples of each will demonstrate the relationship:
Figure 15-1
a. Mm. 11-13
b. Mm. 60-65
c. Mm. 79-82

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d. Mm. 146-148
Aside from their structural importance as landmarks in the movement, these passages must have been great fun for
Mozart and Strinasacchi. (Come to think of it, Mozart would probably have hooted at the idea of discussing the
structure at all, and Regina no doubt wanted only to get through the concert with a whole skin.) If the banter is not
easy and fun in today's performancepractice! The timing of the response (for example, a fraction of a second's
delay before the final fragment, second half of measure 65) and its inflection (for example, a questioning tone
achieved through a slight diminution of level and shrinking of bow stroke toward the middle of measure 63) are as
essential as literal accuracy in the execution.
Another highlight in the Allegro is the sforzando on the D flat, middle of measure 25, in the piano part. This should
not be an overly refined accent, but rather an emphatic falling onto the foreign body that has suddenly been
discovered in the musical line. The waves made by this sudden shock of sound seem to break up the line, shunting
it back and forth between violin and piano (look at the sixteenths in measures 27 to 29). Another nicety is the way
the violin hops onto the piano's express-train sixteenth-note line in measures 46 and 47. And in measures 51 to 57,
the piano's shift from rolling eighths to boiling sixteenths: the cloud of notes must support, not obscure, the singing
violin line floating above.
The short development is dramatic by understatement and delicacy: note the chain of sighs, between the two
instruments, or between the two trebles against the bass, in measures 81 to 89. As if to counter the delicacy and the
brevity of the development, there is a second, more robust development, immediately following the first theme in
the recapitulation (cf. measures 98 to 110). Though Mozart himself calls for piano dynamics in this passage, the
interpretation must be one of strength and drive within that quiet level.
Toward the end of the movement, another spot calls for intensity in quiet: measures 149 to 152, where
simultaneous chords are suddenly split, as if by aural aberration, into oom-pah oom-pah setting.


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Figure 15-2
Mm. 149-153
A general and overriding problem in the Allegro is to make it sound like an extension and fulfillment of the Largo
introduction, and not a contradiction thereof. As in the famous Dissonant Quartet, K. 465 (composed nine months
after this sonata), it is too simple to turn one's back on the introduction and launch into a totally different and
frivolous fast movement. Fast, yes; flippant, no. Dynamic, yes; raucous, no. The Allegro must sound like the other
side of the same musical character, not like some defiantly different intruder.
The Andante is such another side of Mozart: Mozart at his best. It offers us a picture of a guileless, completely
sincere, and consequently vulnerable spirit. To play this movement effectively, there can be no sham, no virtuoso
pretense, no hardness in sound or phrasing. Technical difficulties are not lacking in this movement, but they are
secondary to those of emotion and personality. ''Mozart was very liberal in giving praise to those who deserved it;
but felt a thorough contempt for insolent mediocrity," wrote the singer Michael Kelly, who was a friend of
Mozart's in Vienna. 206 Mozart was rough on his contemporaries unless he respected their ability and artistry. He
can be equally rough on his interpreters today, even from beyond the grave, for his music betrays the flashy and
superficial approach immediately. In performance, we always put ourselves on the line, and never more so than in
this kind of music.
As an example of the technical problems, we may quote at least one of those sessions of close-formation flying of
the two players: measures 15 to 21. First, an ascent in sixteenth couplets, followed by a gliding descent in dotted-
figure rhythm. Then a higher ascent in triplet-sextolet pattern, and on to a cadential pattern in easily trailing
sixteenths. The episode cries out to be counted, but should sound like a spur-of-the-moment inspiration when
played.
Immediately afterward, the violin becomes prima donna (measures 21 ff.), singing a hushed cantilena line of
ineffable beauty. This in turn is followed, as though in sudden shift of scene, by a sturdier passage, in duet
responses, that carries us through to the end of the first section of the movement. Now (measure 49) begins the
most difficult portion of the


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Andante: its B section, actually a full-fledged development of the temper of the movement. The violin and piano
must hover, revolve around each other, rhapsodize, without ever letting the passing series of vignettes or the thread
of the unwinding harmonic sequence be broken. That thread takes us from B flat, to B flat minor, slips into A
sharp on the way to B major, then bends through that to reach a more extensive excursion on C major, settles
leisurely onto B flat, and from there descends finally to E flat and the return section.
A last beneficence of this movement is the soft, haunting glow of its final cadence, deliberately placing both
instruments in their lowest register:
Figure 15-3
Mm 114-116
If one has played this most expressive of movements, it is especially affecting to read Mozart's self-appraisal,
written in jocular vein in a birthday felicitation to his father in 1777:
I cannot write in verse, for I am no poet. I cannot arrange the parts of speech with such art as to produce
effects of light and shade, for I am no painter. Even by signs and gestures, I cannot express my thoughts
and feelings, for I am no dancer. But I can do so by means of sounds, for I am a musician. 207
For it is precisely the sense of verse, of light and shade, of gesture, of thought and feeling that one hears, in
addition to the sounds, in a movement such as this Andante.
The concluding Allegretto begins where the previous movement left off: with B flat in the violin part. There, it is a
note of repose. Here, it serves as a launching pad for the upward octave leap that sets the movement under way.
Again the composer is prodigal with his melodic ideas; the refrain tune is expansive, propulsive. It brings with
itself (measures 16 ff.) a secondary tune that adds to the gaiety. This melody must be played with melting ease, in
contrast to the urgent tone of the principal melody. Note, however, that there is an echo of that urgency in the
second half of this second subject (cf. measures 18 and 19); the reflection of that temper must be made clear by the
player.


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Figure 15-4
Mm. 17-22
The various contrasting tunes that crop up in the movement are distinct from one another, yet related enough to
give continuity to the musical fabric. Compare these excerpts:
Figure 15-5
a. Mm. 28-31
b. Mm. 110-111
Or again, compare the varieties of stealth in these two avenues of return to the opening theme:
Figure 15-6
a. Mm. 86-90
b. Mm. 138-144

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The big trap in this movement lies at its very end. By the time one has arrived at measure 251, a good head of
steam will have been built up. What is more natural than for the violinist to swing gaily into the triplets of these
measures? And what more reasonable than for the pianist to move compliantly along with the quarter-note
commentary?
Figure 15-7
Mm. 250-253
Retribution falls in the frenzy of sixteenths that invades the piano part from measure 259 on. Now it is the violin's
turn to settle back into a slower accompaniment. But a beautiful friendship will have come to an abrupt end.

The same reviewer who wrote about the variations K. 360 in 1788 (see page 256), also covered the sonata K. 481
in the same critique. The writer is encouraged to see in the work signs that ''Herr M. is not so lacking in sound
principles of harmony, nor in wealth of imagination, as to be unable to serve us with stronger meat." Turning to the
second movement, Adagio, he finds it "full of gentle emotions, the true expression of languishing love, I would
say, and the change of tonality which Herr. M. twice permits himself in this movement, though not without
hardness, is also of good effect." 208
Mozart himself has nothing to say about the piece. Among other works, he had Figaro in process at the time of
composing this sonata (December 12, 1785) and was no doubt too busy to waste comment on yet another
composition. His only specific reference to the piece comes in the form of the inclusion of the incipit of the work
in a list of pieces he offers as a come-on to the prince von Fürstenberg, of Donaueschingen, in August, 1786. The
prince, ignoring the attendant proposal that Mozart become a kind of court composer in absentia, with yearly
subsidy, confines himself to ordering copies of several symphonies and piano concerti proffered by Mozart in the
same lineup. The sonata and the G minor piano quartet are passed over in silence.209


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In this sonata, it is precisely the Adagio, which the reviewer approves in such guarded terms, that constitutes an
outstanding example of Mozartian inspiration. For one thing, there are more than the two changes of tonality to
which the critic refers. The harmonic scheme of the movement is actually:
Mm. 1-42 A flat Main theme
F minor [B flatE flat] Extension and response
A flat Main theme
Mm. 43-60 D flatF minorD flat Second theme
Mm. 61-76 C sharp minorE Second theme
A Main theme
Modulatory passage Main theme
Mm. 77-94 A flat Main theme
Mm. 95-98 A flat Second theme
Mm. 99-102 G sharp minorE Second theme
Mm. 103-end E flatA flat Cadential
Exotic enough for most ears, whether attached to the eighteenth- or twentieth-century head! The second theme is
derived from the sustained violin accompaniment in a portion of the first-theme passage (cf. measures 43 ff. with
measures 9 ff.). Never will slow scale practice bear as rich fruit for the violinist as it does in this second theme:
Figure 15-8
Mm. 43-46
When played with slow, hushed bow-stroke, in the dolce manner prescribed by the first edition, the effect of these
and the following measures for player and listener is one that magically transcends the utter simplicity of the line.
For one player, at least, this moment is the closest approach to the supernal that is attainable in music. The
movement as a whole convinces us that words that Tchaikovsky once confided to his diary are not so overdrawn as
they might first seem:
Mozart was a being so angelic, so childlike, so pure; his music is so full of unapproachable, divine beauty,
that if anyone could be named


Page 295
with Christ, then it is he . . . No one has made me weep, has made me tremble with rapture, from the
consciousness of my nearness to that something which we call the ideal, as he has done. 210
First honors in the movement go to the piano, for the main theme at the opening is presented by the keyboard and
is reserved for the piano in large measure in its later recurrences. The violin, on the other hand, has the role of
respondent, beginning with the F minor passage of measures 17 ff. (a melody that is almost a theme in its own
right, even though it grows from and replies to the material of the initial passage), and including the theme quoted
above. The line presented by the piano at the start of the movement is of crystalline simplicity in its own right:
Figure 15-9
Mm. 1-4
It is just as difficult to play this with the necessary directness and tremulous clarity as it is to play the successively
more involved versions of the idea as they appear later on (cf. measures 35 ff.; 77 ff.). Among other things, the
violin is hard put to it to perform the accompanying eighth-note double-stops warmly, floatingly, without any
woodenness of bow stroke.
The playing of passages such as measures 17 ff. calls for warmth and some passion, but in proportion to the cool
and shadowy overall tone of the movement. Pianist and violinist will have to listen critically to each other, appraise
tone color and pacing, and dynamic gradations, all with the utmost sensitivity in order to sustain the mood
projected by Mozart.
Consistent with his own description of his other late sonatas, Mozart himself listed K. 481 in his personal catalog
of compositions as ''A keyboard sonata, with the accompaniment of a violin."211 This indeed seems to be an apt
description of the end movements of the composition, where the lion's share of the activity definitely belongs to the
piano. In the Adagio, howeverand Mozart himself must have realized thisthe equality of piano and violin is
complete, the merging of the two in ensemble carried to a stage never exceeded either by Mozart or his peers. A
curious manifestation of this equality, incidentally, is seen in the fact that Mozart changes key signature
independently for the two instruments (and even for right and left hand of the piano) to suit the notation
requirements


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imposed by the harmonic movings of the several lines of the piece. See measures 76 and 77, cited here, as well as
60 and 61, 98 to 100, and 102 and 103.
Figure 15-10
Mm. 76-77
Sonata in A, K. 526
This sonata is described in the Köchel-Einstein catalog as ''this most significant of the keyboard-violin sonatas of
Mozart." In view of the riches we have found in the other sonatas, such singling out seems excessive; but the A
major is a most impressive work. One fact stands outthe sonata is constantly on the move, in slow movement as
well as fast. The second movement, Andante, is very much a "going" movement, because the steady saunter of its
opening figure
Figure 15-11
Mm. 1-2
is hardly ever interrupted except to make way for even more moving sequences of sixteenths or flashes of thirty-
seconds. As for the end movements, the pace and temper of the opening Molto allegro
Figure 15-12
Mm. 1-4
is a challenge that is more than matched by the devilish demands of the constantly racing finale, Presto:


Page 297
Figure 15-13
Mm. 1-4
The complete integration of violin and piano is evident throughout this piece, even though Mozart still insists in
his work catalog that this is ''A Keyboard Sonata with accompaniment of a violin." 212 The equality of voice is to
be seen of course in such large detail as the evenhanded distribution of material between the two instruments. For
example, in the first movement, the piano presents the first theme with the violin moving below in parallel thirds
(measures 1 to 4), and immediately after that the violin takes over the top role, with the piano now moving at the
accompanying interval of a tenth below (measures 9 to 12). Also, we find the two instruments moving in tighter
repartee, as for example:
Figure 15-14
Mm. 132-135
But we can move to the smallest detail and still observe the microscopic application of the principle of equality.
Note, for instance, the almost fussy interweaving of the three parts (bass, treble, and violin) in the following spot,
to produce an effect that is at once smooth yet constantly vital in rhythm:
Figure 15-15
Mm. 151-156

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Or the tricky, high-speed interweavings of the up-hill-down-dale responses of piano and violin at the end of the
exposition and recapitulation:
Figure 15-16
Mm. 228-232
Even in such innocent passages as measures 34 ff., both instruments must be alert in the course of lilting dialogue,
maintaining rock-steady pace without inhibiting the swing of the tiny jets of melody:
Figure 15-17
Mm. 32-37
At two points in the movement, the ensemble will have to play in Schubertian manner; for here, there is an
uncanny preview of the sounds created by Schubert in the final movement of his sonatina number 1, in D major, of
the year 1816:
Figure 15-18
a. Mozart, mm. 65-69
b. Schubert, mm. 8-12

Page 299
In measures 120 to 125, the treble piano line and the violin part are literally braided together. The archings of each
line must be played with some emphasis on the peaks, to bring out the successive points of prominence that link
with each other to form a continuous composite:
Figure 15-19
Mm. 120-125
The Andante must move at a tempo of to give the swing of an easy saunter. The very easiness may at first
seem innocuous; but languourous stretches (such as measures 4 and 7), and especially the chromatic turbulences
that well up from time to time, as in measures 5 to 8, belie the surface calm, revealing, as Einstein puts it, ''the
bitter sweetness of existence":
Figure 15-20
Mm. 5-8
Several points should be singled out in the rehearsing of this movementfirst, the contrasting theme, in minor, of
measures 24 to 33, must be cast in the prevailing, unruffled smoothness of the entire movement. If Mozart's slurs
and articulations (measures 25 and 30) are used as shownand they do work wellthey must not be allowed to throw
a hitch into the progress of the line toward its high point:
Figure 15-21
Mm. 24-25
The fact incidentally, that the high point of this passage falls on the downbeat in the violin statement, but on the
third beat of the measure in the


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piano reply (cf. measure 30), is a nice illustration of Mozart's freedom from bar-line slavery; his phrases grow as
they must.
The second point is that the passage from measures 54 to 57 is replete with frictions that result from interlocking
chains of suspensions and resolutions in the several lines. Entering notes that clash with the tones already sounding
should be stressed in order to release the flavor of the harmonic spicing. Third, there must be an utterly smooth
connection between the eighths and sixteenths in measures 17 and 18 and 65 and 66. The faster descending notes
are like a reinforced resonance floating off the ascending eights.
Figure 15-22
Mm. 64-66
Similar smoothness must be sought in the interchange of the last three measures of the movement.
The Presto finale of this sonata undoubtedly helps account for the popularity the work has with players in the home
and on the concert platform. It is right up the alley of the twentieth-century performer, for there is little in our jazz
that is jazzier than this. Right at the start, the bass line and the violin part, together, make up a rhythm section,
combo style (see above, Figure 15-13). Over this, the piano treble spins a line that would be brilliant enough for a
trumpet improvisation. Against all this, the second theme stands out like a lyric oasis, but the problem is to make it
sound lyric while being borne along on the tide of the tempo. A slight broadening of tempo might be in order, but
nothing that involves surrender of the brilliance of the piece. The overall tempo, incidentally, should be
Again in measures 133 ff., the sighs must sound that way, still at full speed. Here a broadening is to some extent
composed into the line by Mozart himself.
One of the hilarious high points in this Presto is the great chromatic, upward sweep of the piano line (measures 164
to 167) that leads to a return of the opening theme. To survive this free fall through musical space and move
nonchalantly into the opening notes of the theme is one of the joys of chamber music making.
For the violinist, a couple of particularly difficult spots deserve men-


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tion. First, the exotic keening of the contrast theme in measures 183 ff. Let us suggest the following bowing for
these measures:
Figure 15-23
Mm. 183-193
The fingerings and bowings of the measures that precede the above, a tortuous passage for the violinist, are fine as
shown in the Henle edition; we find it helpful to mark the down- and up-bows rather frequently during the passage,
to help eye and arm coordinate effort, at least in rehearsal. But trickiest of all is to fit the ornamental turns of
measure 195 into the pace of the line. We suggest the following rhythm. (Note, incidentally, the similarity to the
turns in the slow movement, measure 25 and measure 73.)
Figure 15-24
Mm. 195-196
A last danger point: the main theme, when the violin finally gets it (twice, in measures 175 and 375 and following),
will tend to run away with the player because of the intricacies of bow stroke and string crossing. A focused stroke,
some snug wrist action, and judicious emphasis of certain stress points in the passage (see below), will have a
salutary effect.
Figure 15-25
Mm. 175-178
In this movement, both players will benefit from some woodshedding with a metronome.
Sonata in F, K. 547
For his last work for keyboard and violin, Mozart's catalog carries the entry, ''A small keyboard sonata for
beginners, with a violin." 213 The


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autograph of this sonata is not extant. However, an independent composition called, Five Variations for Keyboard,
and now listed as K. 547b, apparently from July, 1788, is the same as the last movement of the above sonata. Here
the autograph is extant, and seems to be that of the piano part for the last movement of K. 547, with the fourth
variant crossed out; because that particular variation casts the violin in the solo role, with the keyboard as
accompanist throughout, it could not stand in a version for keyboard alone. 214 The second movement of K. 547,
with some modifications in detail, serves as the first of two movements of K. 547a, Sonata for Keyboard.215 On
the basis of the autograph evidence for 547b, it would seem that K. 547, for keyboard and violin, preceded the
versions of the component movements for keyboard alone, and that Mozart himself undertook the transcription.216
This would contradict Einstein's view that the second and third movements of K. 547 were originally written for
keyboard alone.217
The violin is a bit of a fifth wheel in the variations, coming into its own only in the aforementioned fourth variant.
However, voicing that looks completely subordinate and unnecessary on paper has a way of making a greater
contribution in sound than might be suspected. Much depends on the performer's feeling for the personality of
even an accompanying figure, still within the bounds of proportion to the overall context. In the second movement,
Allegro, the violin has indeed been given a role of significant, if not overwhelming, import in the proceedings. And
we must keep two points in mind: first, that Mozart was, as we have seen, in the habit of emphasizing keyboard in
his catalog, even in the case of such works as K. 454 and 526, where the violin is definitely an equal partner; and
second, that Mozart is not entirely realistic in another aspect of his title for K. 547: the work is definitely not a
''beginner's" piece, at least so far as the piano part is concerned. The elaborate and flashy cadenza runs in measures
56 and 57 of the first movement; the rapid arpeggiated figures for both hands in this same movement; the brilliant
sixteenth-note passages in the Allegro; the thirty-second-note variation that winds up the sonatathese are for
beginners only if one is willing to tolerate a sloppy or lackluster interpretation.
All in all, K. 547 is a quizzically titled swan song by Mozart in this rich vein of his output, one that offers musical
gratifications in abundance, and which lays ample demands upon the pianist, more comfortable ones on the
violinist.
We must not close without mention of the great good fun at meas-


Page 303
ures 17 ff., in the first movement. There, the violin must, in a flash, assume the role of a heroic tenor, to be
answered straightaway by the piano in like fashion. Also, measures 40 ff., where some gruff, basso buffo repartee
takes place. Both are moments when an over-refined approach will lose the savor that Mozart has breathed into the
concoction.


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Postlude
The duo players who have made their way through the repertoire discussed in the preceding chaptersto say nothing
of additional music of similar age brought to light by their own researchwill already have found as much as they
can handle in the way of musical assignment. One does not easily, if ever, plumb the depths of the Bach or Mozart
sonatas; and the music of a Veracini or Tartini or Leclair is not without its individual challenge. Nevertheless, just
as these giants of an earlier time do not alone tell the musical story of their era (either in the duo sonata or in other
media), so also the music of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is not enough to fill the experience of the duo
ensemble, whether in the home circle, the conservatory studio, or the concert auditorium. Ahead lies the music for
duo of Beethoven to Bartók and beyond, building in new ways on the achievements of the earlier centuries and
especially on the plateau established by the sonatas of Mozart. The duo repertoire of the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries discussed in the second volume of this survey holds beauty, difficulty, and fascination to merit
comparison with the compositions we have already encountered in these pages.


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Notes
References to music sources are given in abridged form. For complete bibliographical listings, see Editions Used.
ABBREVIATIONS:
Cobbett's Survey = Cobbett's Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music
DdT = Denkmäler deutscher Tonkunst
DTÖ = Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich
EdM = Das Erbe deutscher Musik
Grove's Dictionary = Grove's Dictionary of Music and Musicians
HAM = Historical Anthology of Music
ICMI = I Classici Musicali Italiani
MGG = Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart
1. Henry G. Mishkin, ''Solo Violin Sonata of the Bologna School," The Musical Quarterly, XXIX (1943): 93.
2. Friedrich Cerha, ed., Fontana, Sechs Sonaten, Foreword.
3. Friedrich Cerha, ed., Schmelzer, Sonatae Unarum Fidium, pp. iv and v.
4. Guido Adler, ed., Biber, Acht Violinsonaten, DTÖ V/2, vol. 11, Introduction. Erwin Luntz, ed., Biber, Sechzehn
Violinsonaten, DTÖ XII/2, vol. 25, Introduction. Andreas Liess, "Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber (von Bibern)," MGG,
I, 18281831. Adler gives the second name as Johann; this is already corrected by Luntz.
5. Liess, "Biber," p. 1828.
6. DTÖ offers, in addition to the two volumes of violin sonatas cited above, liturgical and stage compositions by
Biber, and an edition of Biber's Harmonia Artificiosa-Ariosa, a collection of trio sonatas for violins and (in one
sonata) viola d'amore. Of these seven sonatas, incidentally, only the sixth is in normal tuning. The others are all
scordatura, or, as Biber puts it in in his subtitle for the set, Diversimode accordata.
7. Adler, Violinsonaten, p. v.
8. See Luntz, Violinsonaten, Introduction, and facsimile of dedicatory page provided in that volume.


Page 308
9. David D. Boyden, The History of Violin-Playing from its Origins to 1761 (London: Oxford University Press,
1965), pp. 31, 130.
10. Luntz, Violinsonaten, scordatura supplement, p. 14, footnote.
11. Alfred Heuss, in Preface to Biber, Fünfzehn Mysterien, ed. Robert Reitz. Excerpt quoted is translated from the
German.
12. Adler, Violinsonaten, p. xii.
13. This approach to violin notation is analogous to the tablatures used by composers of music for lute, keyboard,
guitar, and other instruments in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, and is still in use in guitar
writing today: the notation shows where to put your finger on the instrument in order to elicit the desired pitch,
rather than indicating the pitch itself. See Boyden, History, p. 250.
14. These observations are expanded paraphrases of rules given by Boyden,History, p. 250.
15. Luntz, Violinsonaten, sonata 13, normal-tuning supplement, p. 23. See also score volume, p. 50.
16. Ibid., p. 17.
17. Luntz, Violinsonaten, Introduction, p. vi.
18. Boyden, review of recording, Heinrich Franz Biber, Fifteen Sonatas for Scordatura Violin and Continuo and
Passacaglia for Solo Violin, Sonya Monosoff, violin, Melville Smith, organ and harpsichord, Janos Scholz, viola
da gamba, John Miller, bassoon, Cambridge Records, CRM 811, CRS 1811, The Musical Quarterly, XLIX (1963):
397-404. Also, see the article by Max Schneider, ''Zu Biber's Violinsonaten," in Zeitschrift der Internationalen
Musikgesellschaft, VIII, 1906/07, pp. 471-474.
19. See DTÖ V/2, pp. 36, 54, etc.
20. Ibid., pp. xv-xvi.
21. Gustav Beckmann, ed., Walther, Scherzi, p. vi.
22. Ibid.; also, Edmond van der Straeten, "Carlo Farina," Grove's Dictionary, III, 23; and his article, "Johann Paul
von Westhoff," Grove's Dictionary, IX, 269.
23. Beckmann, Scherzi, facsimile of dedication page.
24. Ibid.
25. It may have been because of his activity in the elector's expedition to, and correspondence with, Italy that
Walther chose to rededicate his Scherzi to Cosimo.
26. Giovanni Battista Vitali, Artifici Musicali, Opus XIII, prefatory note, "Friend Reader," trans. by the eds., Louise
Rood and Gertrude P. Smith.
27. See Tommaso Antonio Vitali, Concerto Di Sonate, editors' Foreword; also Boyden, History, p. 217, footnote.
28. Charles Burney, A General History of Music, ed. Frank Mercer (New York: Dover, 1957), II, 437.
29. For this and other biographical and bibliographical detail in this chapter, I am indebted to the work of the
eminent French musicologist and critic, Marc Pincherle, Corelli: His Life, His Work, trans. Hubert E. M. Russell
(New York: W. W. Norton, 1956).
30. Pincherle lists only the latter three teachers; Bernhard Paumgartner, in his

Page 309
article, ''Arcangelo Corelli," MGG, II, 1669, names the first three; and Boyden, History, p. 218, names the
middle two.
31. See Oliver Strunk's edition of François Raguenet's "A Comparison Between the French and Italian Music," The
Musical Quarterly, XXXII (1946): 411-436. The translator of the English version (1709) of this French critic's
work (1702) may have been Galliard; and Raguenet's description of Italian violinists is supplemented by the
translator's footnote description of Corelli in performance: " . . . his countenance will be distorted, his eyeballs roll
as in an agony . . ." (Strunk, "Comparison," p. 419, footnote).
32. Pincherle, Corelli, pp. 206 ff.
33. Title given in Italian, ibid., p. 209; editions listed pp. 209-210.
34. Title as given in Hans-Peter Schmitz, Die Kunst der Verzierung im 18. Jahrhundert (Kassel: Bärenreiter,
1965), p. 30. Pincherle, Corelli, p. 210, lists an earlier such Roger edition from 17101711.
35. Pincherle, Corelli, pp. 110-112.
36. Andreas Moser, Geschichte des Violinspiels (Berlin: Hesse, 1923), p. 243.
37. Robert Donington, The Interpretation of Early Music, 2nd ed. (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1963), pp. 258-
259. See also, Peter Williams,Figured-Bass Accompaniment (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1970), I, 51-
52.
38. Donington, Early Music, p. 299.
39. Thurston Dart, The Interpretation of Music (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1963), p. 76.
40. Williams, Figured-Bass, pp. 25-28.
41. Ibid., p. 103.
42. Schmitz, Verzierung, p. 30.
43. Where Corelli and contemporaries use 12/8 in the treble and 4/4 in the bass, it is to save dotted-note writing in
the bass. That is, takes the place of . . In such case, where eighth-note motion appears in the bass line, the
player should regard the part as though it were written in 12/8, so that the rhythmic division of the bass line will
match the triplet rhythms of the treble. Instances of this situation can be found in the Corelli sonatas at:
Sonata 3, Giga
mm. 21, 35-38.
Sonata 5, Giga
m. 11.
Sonata 8, Giga
mm. 22-28.
Sonata 10, Giga
mm. 38, 48, 60-61, 64-65.
La Follia, 15th
section mm. 7-8.
La Follia, 22nd
section N.B.: no conflict arises.
La Follia, 23rd
section N.B.: no conflict, since both parts revert to 3/4 in
the last three measures.
44. The entire sonata, in Geminiani's version, is reprinted in Sir John Hawkin's A General History of the Science
and Practice of Music [1776] (New York: Dover, 1963), II, 904-907. A reading of the Geminiani interpretation
will prove enlightening to players approaching the performance of Corelli's work (and of Geminiani's as well). The
entire Geminiani example is re-


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printed (from Hawkins) in Schmitz, Verzierung, pp. 62-69; and the reprint there is the more informative, in that
Corelli's original version is given with it, in score form. It is from the Schmitz reprint that our illustrations
(Figures 5-20 and 5-21) are drawn.
45. Pincherle, Corelli, pp. 94-104.
46. Franz Giegling, ed., The Solo Sonata (Cologne: Arno Volk, 1960), p. 12.
47. Cobbett's Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music, 2nd ed. (London: Oxford University Press, 1963), II, 555.
48. Pincherle, Vivaldi, Genius of the Baroque, trans. Christopher Hatch (New York: W. W. Norton, 1962), p. 27.
49. Ibid., p. 13.
50. Hawkins, History, p. 838.
51. Cf. Pincherle, Vivaldi, pp. 65-68.
52. Ibid., p. 71.
53. Vivaldi, Vier Sonaten . . . Pisendel, Foreword.
54. Ibid., footnote 3.
55. Hawkins, History, II, 847.
56. Ibid., p. 904.
57. Francesco Geminiani, The Art of Playing on the Violin, London, 1751, ed. David D. Boyden (London: Oxford
University Press, 1952), p. 8.
58. Ibid., p. 9.
59. Ibid.
60. Francesco Geminiani, Zwölf Sonaten, Preface by the editor, Walter Kolneder.
61. Geminiani, Art of Playing, p. 2.
62. Walter Kolneder, in Preface to his edition of Geminiani, Sechs Sonaten . . . Opus 5.
63. Cf. Pincherle, Corelli, p. 146.
64. Grove's Dictionary, I, vi.
65. Ibid., article, ''Georg Philipp Telemann," by A. Maczewsky, VIII, 371.
66. David Ewen, ed., Romain Rolland's Essays on Music (New York: Dover, 1959), p. 121.
67. Ibid., p. 142.
68. Georg Philipp Telemann, Sei Sonatine, ed. Willi Maertens and Walter H. Bernstein, Foreword by Maertens.
69. Translated from the facsimile of the title page, printed in Bärenreiter edition of the Tafelmusic sonata.
70. From a London poem, quoted in Otto E. Deutsch, Handel: A Documentary Biography (London: Adam and
Charles Black, 1955), p. 626.
71. The bibliographical information in this and the next two paragraphs is drawn from William C. Smith, Handel:
A Descriptive Catalogue of the Early Editions (London: Cassell, 1960), pp. 242-244.
72. Hans-Peter Schmitz, ed., Georg Friedrich Händel, Elf Sonaten für Flöte . . . [see Bibliography], Preface, p. v.
73. Johann Philipp Hinnenthal, ed., Händel, Sechs Sonaten, Foreword.
74. Ibid.
75. Schmitz, Sonaten, sonata 1, pp. 2 ff.
76. The editor of the violin part of the Henle edition, Karl Röhrig, has im-


Page 311
posed little beyond fingering and bowing suggestions in the part as found in the sources. J. P. Hinnenthal, in
the Bärenreiter edition of these sonatas, adds occasional suggestions for ornamentation. Both men would agree
with the ultimate importance of the player's own sense of phrase.
77. Georg Frederic Handel, Jephtha: An Oratorio, in The Works of George Frederic Handel, ed. Friedrich
Chrysander (Ridgewood, New Jersey: republished by Gregg Press Incorporated, 1965), v. 42, pp. 205-206.
78. Ibid., v. 74, Solomon: An Oratorio, pp. 111-141.
79. For an absorbing vindication of the successful borrowing process by Handel (as well as by older composers in
general) from self and others, see Paul H. Lang, George Frederic Handel (New York: W. W. Norton, 1966), pp.
559-569, from which (p. 566) the present quotation was borrowed.
80. Ibid., p. 646.
81. William Smith, A Handelian's Notebook (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1965), p. 147.
82. Edward Lockspeiser, Debussy: His Life and Mind (New York: Macmillan, 1965), II, 210, footnote.
83. Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps (Paris, 1932), p. 140.
84. Johann Nicolaus Forkel, On Johann Sebastian Bach's Life, Genius, and Works, 1802, trans. by Mr. Stephenson,
1808. Reprinted in The Bach Reader, ed. Hans T. David and Arthur Mendel (New York: W. W. Norton, 1945), p.
343.
85. See Bach, Sechs Sonaten, ed. Rudolf Gerber, Preface, p. vii.
86. Boyden, History, p. 336.
87. On this point, see also Philipp Spitta, Johann Sebastian Bach: His Work and Influence on the Music of
Germany, 16851750, trans. Clara Bell and J. A. Fuller-Maitland (New York: Dover Publications, 1951), II, 102.
88. Ibid., p. 114.
89. The changes are summarized, in tabular listing, in the Gerber edition, Preface, p. vii, and in the Kritischer
Bericht, VI/1, ed. Günter Hausswald and Rudolf Gerber, in J. S. Bach, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke (Kassel:
Bärenreiter, 1958), p. 201. They are also discussed in detail by Hans Eppstein in the article, ''Zur Problematik von
J. S. Bachs Sonate für Violine und Cembalo G-dur (BWV 1019)," referred to in our text.
90. Manfred Bukofzer, Music in the Baroque Era (New York: W. W. Norton, 1947), p. 289.
91. It is reprinted thus in NBA (Neue BachAusgabe), VI/1, p. 208.
92. Bach, Sechs Sonaten, Henle, pp. 120-123.
93. Ibid., pp. 126-127; the original bass line and the Clavierübung treble, in the original key of G minor.
94. Spitta, Bach, p. 116.
95. Hausswald and Gerber, Kritischer Bericht, pp. 137-141.
96. Bärenreiter edition, either volume, p. viii.
97. Hausswald and Gerber, Kritischer Bericht, p. 140.
98. Dart, Interpretation, p. 89.
99. Donington, Early Music, p. 403.
100. Information from Hausswald and Gerber, Kritischer Bericht, pp. 138-140.


Page 312
101. Ibid., pp. 118-127, containing discussion of this sonata and its background.
102. Spitta, Bach, II, 105.
103. George J. Buelow, Thorough-Bass Accompaniment According to Johann David Heinichen (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1966).
104. David and Mendel, Bach Reader, p. 358.
105. Alfred Einstein, Mozart: His Character, His Work, trans. Arthur Mendel and Nathan Broder (London: Oxford
106. Walter Serauky, Preface to Gottfried Kirchoff, Zwölf Sonaten.
107. This biographical catalog is by Victor van Hemel (Antwerp: Cupido, 4th ed., n.d.)
108. Moser, Geschichte, p. 235.
109. Ibid., p. 232.
110. Walter Kolneder, editor, in Preface to the volumes of F. M. Veracini,Zwölf Sonaten . . . Op. 1.
111. Ibid., Veracini's instruction, marked ''NB."
113. Wilhelm Josef von Wasielewski, Die Violine und ihre Meister, rev. and enl. by Waldemar von Wasielewski
(Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1927), p. 124.
114. Moser, Geschichte, p. 251. Paul Brainard, in his dissertation, Die Violinsonaten Giuseppe Tartinis, Göttingen,
1959 (typescript), gives reserved sanction to the "romanticized" details of Tartini's early life.
115. Number based on information contained in Brainard dissertation and in the same author's article, "Giuseppe
Tartini," in MGG, vol. 13, columns 130-137.
116. Leopold Mozart, A Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, ed. and trans. Editha Knocker
(London: Oxford University Press, 2nd ed., 1951), p. 202.
117. Joseph Szigeti, A Violinist's Notebook (London: Duckworth, 1964), p. 157.
119. The most important compendium of information about Locatelli is contained in the book, Pietro Antonio
Locatelli da Bergamo, Italiaans Musycqmeester tot Amsterdam, by Arend Koole, Amsterdam, 1949; a condensed
survey is given in Koole's article on Locatelli in MGG, VIII, 1075-1079.
120. Pietro Antonio Locatelli, Sei Sonate . . . Op. 6, Appendice, section IV, p. 119.
121. Other editions of opus 6 sonatas, for the most part no longer readily available, are listed by Koole in his MGG
article and by Claudio Sartori in his commentary for the Sei Sonate volume.
122. Pincherle, Jean-Marie Leclair l'Ainé (Paris: La Colombe, 1952). Biographical details in this chapter are
drawn from the Pincherle work and from the introductory material of Robert E. Preston, ed., Jean-Marie
Leclair,Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo . . . , vol. IV.
123. Robert Eitner, ed., in the edition of opus 2 cited in the text; see introductory comment, p. vii.
124. Ibid., composer's Foreword.


Page 313
125. Preston, Leclair, Sonatas, vol. IV, p. xiii.
126. Instruction in the composer's Preface, reprinted by Preston, Sonatas, vol. IV, p. xxvii, footnote 24.
127. Ibid., vol. V, violin part, p. 22, footnote.
128. Ibid., vol. IV, Preface, footnote 24.
129. Pincherle, Leclair, p. 61.
130. Jean-Cassanea de Mondonville, Pièces de Clavecin en Sonates, Op. 3, p. 19.
131. Ibid., pp. 19-23.
132. Boyden, History, p. 384, referring to Mondonville's Preface to opus 2.
133. William S. Newman, ''Concerning the Accompanied Clavier," The Musical Quarterly, XXXIII (1947): 337.
134. Ibid., pp. 341-342, 346-347.
135. Cf. Frank Hubbard, Three Centuries of Harpsichord Making (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965);
and Arthur Loesser, Men, Women, and Pianos (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1954).
136. Translated from the French, as quoted by Hugo Riemann in his Preface to Johann Schobert, Ausgewählte
Werke, p. xiii. The quotation is from Grimms' letter of September 15, 1767, less than a month after the macabre
events recounted.
137. Emily Anderson, trans. and ed., The Letters of Mozart and His Family, 2nd ed., ed. A. H. King and M.
Carolan (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1966), I, 38.
138. Ibid., II, 544.
139. Riemann, Schobert, Werke, p. ix.
140. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments, trans. and ed. William J.
Mitchell (New York: W. W. Norton, 1949), p. 367.
141. Alfred Wotquenne, Catalogue thématique des oeuvres de Charles Philippe Emmanuel Bach (Wiesbaden:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1964), pp. 26-27.
142. Bach, Essay, p. 30.
143. Anderson, Letters, II, 599.
144. Erich Hertzmann, "Mozart's Creative Process," The Musical Quarterly, XLIII (1957): 195.
145. Charles Sanford Terry, John Christian Bach, 2nd ed., with Foreword by H. C. Robbins-Landon (London:
Oxford University Press, 1967), p. xvi.
146. Karl Geiringer (in collaboration with Irene Geiringer), The Bach Family (New York: Oxford University Press,
1954), p. 423.
147. Johann Christian Bach, Sonatas [Nagel 1, 103], Preface by the editor, Alfred Küster.
148. See W. A. Mozart, Jugendsonaten I, II, and III.
149. Germaine de Rothschild, Luigi Boccherini, His Life and Works, trans. Andreas Mayor (London: Oxford
150. Yves Gérard, comp. and ed., Thematic, Bibliographical, and Critical Catalogue of the Works of Luigi
Boccherini (London: Oxford University Press, 1969).
151. Ibid., p. 34.
152. Enrico Polo, in Luigi Boccherini, Sonate . . . Op. 5, p. 160.


Page 314
153. Cf. Karl Geiringer and Irene Geiringer, Haydn: A Creative Life in Music, 2nd, rev. and enl. ed. (London:
Allen and Unwin, 1968), pp. 341-342, from which this detail is drawn. The Geiringers have here revised an earlier
view of these sonatas, owing to more recent research presented in the definitive catalog, Anthony van Hoboken,
Joseph Haydn: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkzeichnis (Mainz: Schott, 1957), I. Van Hoboken begins his
section, ''Nebengruppe XVa, Klavierduos" with an Introduction (pp. 727 ff.) that opens with the sentence, "The
question whether Haydn wrote any piano-duos [that is, duos for piano and other instrument], cannot be answered
with an absolute affirmative." Then he proceeds to offer information that indicates, rather, an absolute negative.
155. Anderson, Letters, I, 24, letter of July 11, 1763.
156. "Pietro Nardini," MGG, IX, 1266.
157. For an interesting and highly colored exposition on this theme, see E. T. A. Hoffmann, "Don Giovanni," trans.
Abram Loft, The Musical Quarterly, XXXI (1945): 504-516.
158. Leopold Mozart, Treatise, p. xiv.
159. This calendar and attendant information was constructed from information in C. B. Oldman's article,
"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart," Grove's Dictionary, V, 923-956; and Anderson, Letters, particularly the
introductory paragraphs to the several divisions of the correspondence.
160. Einstein, Introduction to Mozart, Treatise, p. xiii.
161. Cf. Anderson, Letters, passim, for specific details and actual itineraries.
162. Leopold Mozart, letter to Padre Martini, December 22, 1777, Anderson,Letters, I, 433.
163. Ludwig R. von Köchel, Chronologisch-thematisches Verzeichnis sämtlicher Tonwerke Wolfgang Amadé
Mozarts, 6th ed., ed. F. Giegling, A. Weinmann and Gerd Sievers (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1964), p. 8.
164. Anderson, Letters, I, 37-38.
165. Dedication reprinted in Köchel, Verzeichnis, p. 8.
166. Ibid., pp. 8, 13, 38.
167. Eduard Reeser, editor of the Bärenreiter edition of these sonatas, is himself rather guarded in his prefatory
appraisal of these pieces.
168. Wolfgang Plath and Wolfgang Rehm, Mozart Jugendsonaten II, p. ii.
169. Ibid., p. v.
170. Köchel, Verzeichnis, pp. 297-299, 305, 319, 327.
171. Ibid., p. 297.
172. Letter of September 11, 1778, Anderson, Letters, II, 615.
173. Köchel, Verzeichnis, pp. 305-306.
174. Ibid., p. 297.
175. Letter of January 11, 1778, Anderson, Letters, I, 445.
176. Ibid., I, 300.
177. Ibid., I, 481-482.
178. Köchel, Verzeichnis, p. 297.
179. Einstein, Mozart, p. 255.
180. Letter of July 3, 1778, Anderson, Letters, II, 560.


Page 315
181. Letter of December 23, 1778, ibid., II, 644.
182. Letter of July 29, 1778, ibid., II, 573.
183. Leopold Mozart, Treatise, p. 50.
184. Ibid., p. 35.
186. Cf. Köchel, Verzeichnis, p. 383, commentary for K. 379. The comment seems to support K. 372 as the
composition involved in this anecdote. However, K. 372, an Allegro of a sonata for keyboard and violin, was not
completed by Mozart, but had to be finished posthumously by Abbé Stadler, Mozart's friend and musical executor
for the composer's widow. Because Mozart refers in his letter to the fact that he has finished the work, I would
assume that K. 378 or 379, both mentioned as possible candidates for the anecdote, are more likely prospects than
K. 372. Because, moreover, on the basis of stylistic evidence, K. 378 has been assigned to the early part of 1779, in
Salzburg, that would leave only K. 379 as the late-deadline work described by Mozart in his letter.
187. Letter of July 25, 1780, Anderson, Letters, II, 754.
188. Cf. Köchel, Verzeichnis, under the several K. numbers.
190. Köchel, Verzeichnis, pp. 384-385.
191. Otto E. Deutsch, Mozart: A Documentary Biography, trans. by Eric Blom, Peter Branscombe, and Jeremy
Noble (London: Adam and Charles Black, 2nd ed., 1966), p. 322.
192. Köchel, Verzeichnis, p. 385, carries this song in reprint, reproduced here.
195. Ibid.
196. Anderson, Letters, p. 452.
198. Einstein, Mozart, p. 257, has already indicated this relationship of the two sets of variations, in these words:
''Variations in D minor [in the sonata, K. 377], which, in their deep fatalistic brooding, are to be compared only
with the Finale of the D Minor String Quartet." I heartily concur, butas I try to showfeel that the relationship
between the two movements is more specific and deliberate than one of mood alone.
199. Eva and Paul Badura-Skoda, Interpreting Mozart on the Keyboard, trans. by Leo Black (London: Barrie and
Rockliff, 1962), p. 22.
200. Deutsch, Mozart, p. 214, reprint.
201. Letter of March 3, 1784, Anderson, Letters, II, 869.
202. Ibid., II, 875.
204. Deutsch, Mozart, p. 225.
205. Einstein, Mozart, pp. 258-259.
206. Michael Kelly, Irish tenor and friend of Mozart, in his Reminiscences, in quotation in Norman Demuth's An
Anthology of Musical Criticism (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1947), p. 143. For evidence to bear out Kelly's
observation, see Mozart's letters, Anderson, Letters, passim.


Page 316
207. Letter of November 8, 1777, Anderson, Letters, I, 363.
208. Deutsch, Mozart, p. 322.
209. Cf. letters of August 8, 1786, and September 30, 1786, Anderson, Letters, II, 897-901.
210. P. I. Tchaikovsky, The Diaries, ed. and trans. by Vladimir Lakond (New York: W. W. Norton, 1945), pp.
247-248.
212. Ibid., p. 589.
213. Ibid., p. 619.
214. Ibid., p. 620.
215. Ibid., pp. 619-620.
216. Ibid.
217. Einstein, Mozart, p. 259.
219. Einstein, Mozart, pp. 148-152.


Page 317
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Order. New York: W. W. Norton, 1951.
Dolmetsch, Arnold. The Interpretation of the Music of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries Revealed by
Contemporary Evidence. With an introduction by R. Alec Harman. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1969.
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Gal, Hans. Johannes Brahms: His Work and Personality. Translated by Joseph Stein. New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
1963.
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Howes, Frank. The English Musical Renaissance. New York: Stein and Day, 1966.


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Hubbard, Frank. Three Centuries of Harpsichord Making. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965.
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Lang, Paul H. George Frideric Handel. New York: W. W. Norton, 1966.
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Monrad-Johansen, David. Edvard Grieg. Translated by Madge Robertson. New York: Tudor, 1945.
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Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Streichquartette. Edited by Ludwig Finscher, in Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke,
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Myers, Rollo H. Erik Satie. London: Dobson, 1948.


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Nestyev, Israel V. Prokofiev. Translated by Florence Jonas. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1960.
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. The Sonata in the Baroque Era. Rev. ed. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1966.
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. The Sonata Since Beethoven. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1969.
Nielsen, Carl. Living Music. Translated by Reginald Spink. London: Hutchinson, 1953.
Niemann, Walter. Brahms. Translated by Catherine Alison Phillips. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1947.
Nottebohm, Gustav. Beethoveniana, Aufsätze und Mittheilungen. Leipzig: C. F. Peters, 1872.
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Perkins, Laurence, The Sonatas for Violin and Piano by Charles Ives. M.A. thesis, Eastman School of Music, The
University of Rochester, 1961.
Perle, George. Serial Composition and Atonality. 3rd ed., rev. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972.
Pincherle, Marc. Corelli: His Life, His Work. Translated by Hubert E. M. Russell. New York: W. W. Norton,
1956.
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Plantinga, Leon B. Schumann as Critic. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967.
Pleasants, Henry, trans. and ed. Eduard Hanslick, Music Criticisms 184699. Rev. ed. Baltimore: Penguin Books,
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, trans. and ed. The Musical World of Robert Schumann. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1965.
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Maurice Ravel), pp. 211-215.


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Reti, Rudolph. Thematic Patterns in Sonatas of Beethoven. Edited by Deryck Cooke. New York: Macmillan, 1967.
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Webern, Anton von. Perspectives. Compiled by Hans Moldenhauer. Edited by Demar Irvine. Seattle: University of
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1964.


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Editions Used [for Volumes I and II]

The following list tabulates the musical editions that are discussed in these volumes. While there are many items
represented, the list (as already indicated by my Preface) does not constitute a comprehensive or exhaustive survey
of the violin-keyboard sonata literature. Nor is it exclusively a compendium of preferred works. Some of these
compositions are incomparable masterpieces; many are impressive works; some are the reverse, in my estimation.
It must be emphasized that, in more than one case, the edition listed is not the only one available, but is the one
used by this writer, whether out of conviction or convenience. In those few instances where more than one edition
of a given work or set of works is listed, it is because of special interest or because specific reference is made to
each of the editions in the text.
The list is arranged as follows:
1. Alphabetically by composer (or by collection title);
2. Under composer, in numerical order by opus or subnumber, or catalog number, wherever that suits accepted
practice for a given composer, or where key identification is not a part of the published title of the edition in
question;
3. Otherwise, under composer, alphabetically by key;
4. Under key, major before minor.
Publisher's catalog numbers are given in brackets.
ABBREVIATIONS
HAM = Historical Anthology of Music
DdT = Denkmäler deutscher Tonkunst
DTÖ = Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich
EDITIONS
Abaco, Evaristo Felice dall', Sechs Sonaten aus Op. 1 für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Walter Kolneder.
Mainz: Schott, 1956. [4618] Sonatas 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 11 of opus 1.
, 6 Solosonaten aus Op. 4, Violine, Violoncell und Klavier. Leipzig:


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Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [1860b] Sonatas 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, and 11 of opus 4. Note that the first volume of this
edition (1860a) includes the same six sonatas of opus 1 offered in the Schott edition, catalog no. 4618, above.
Abel, Carl Friedrich. Sonate in A dur für Violine und Klavier, Op. 13, Nr. 3. Edited by Fritz Piersig. Leipzig:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1928. [4165] Note that the instrument listing as given by publisher contradicts prominent role
of the keyboard.
. Sonate in B dur für Violine und Klavier. Edited by Fritz Piersig. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [4164]
. Sonata in G major for Harpsichord and Violin or Flute. Edited by Frans Brüggen. Amsterdam: Broekmans &
Van Poppel, 1960. [330]
. Two Sonatinas for Violin and Piano, Violoncello ad lib. Edited by Günter Raphael. London: Hinrichsen, n.d.
[H.E.16]
Albinoni, Tommaso. Zwei Kammersonaten für Violine mit bezzifertem Bass (Klavier), Op. 6. Edited by Walter
Upmeyer. Celle: Nagel, 1928. [Nagels Musik-Archiv, Nr. 9] Sonatas 1 and 11.
. Sonate g-Moll für Violine und Basso continuo, Op. 6, Nr. 2. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. Mainz: Schott, 1967.
[5480]
. Tre Sonate per Violino, Violoncello e Cembalo (Pianoforte o Organo), Opera Sesta No. 4, 5, e 7. Edited by
Walther Reinhart. Zurich: Hug, 1959. [10 305]
. Sonate für Violine und bezifferten Bass (Violine und Klavier, Cembalo oder Orgel), Op. 6, Nr. 6. Edited by
Bernhard Paumgartner. With realization by Heinrich Nicolaus Gerber, corrected by J. S. Bach. Zurich: Hug, 1951.
[9668] Note that all of the above sonatas are from the set entitled,Trattenimenti armonici per camera divisi in
dodici sonate, 1711 (''Harmonic diversions for the chamber, devised as twelve sonatas").
Antonii, Pietro degli. Tre Sonate per Violino e Pianoforte (Cembalo, Organo). Edited by Bernhard Paumgartner.
Zurich: Hug, 1947. [9339]
Arnold, Malcolm. Sonata for Violin and Piano. London: Lengnick, 1947. [3559]
. Sonata No. 2 for Violin and Piano (in one movement), Op. 43. London: Patersons Publications, 1953.
Babajanian, A. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: Soviet Composers, 1970. [766]
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel. Sonate h-Moll für Violine und konzertierendes Cembalo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Mainz:
Schott, 1965. [5387]
. Sonate h-moll, für Klavier und Violine. Edited by Hans Sitt. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [3619a]
. Sonate, c-moll, für Klavier und Violine. Edited by Hans Sitt. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [3619b]
. Sonate D-dur (1731) für konzertierendes Cembalo und Violine. Edited by Hugo Ruf and Peter Hoffmann. Baden:
Ricordi, 1954. [Sy 570]
Bach, Johann Christian. Sonatas Nos. 1-3 for Violin and Piano. Edited by Ludwig Landshoff. From Op. X, 1773,
entitled, Six Sonatas for the Harpsi-


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chord or Piano Forte: With an Accompagnement for a Violin. London: Hinrichsen, n.d. [17a]
. Sonatas Nos. 4 and 5 for Violin and Piano. Edited by Ludwig Landshoff. London: Hinrichsen, n.d. [17b] From
opus X.
. Sonatas in D and G, Op. 16, Nos. 1 and 2, for Pianoforte, with flute or violin. Edited by Alfred Küster. Hannover:
Nagel, n.d. [Nagel Musikarchiv, 1]
. Sonate Es-dur, für Violine und Cembalo (oder Klavier). Edited by Heinz Zirnbauer. Mainz: Schott, 1951. [3710]
. Sonate D-dur für Violine und Klavier, Op. 16, Nr. 1. Edited by Fritz Piersig. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1928.
[4167]
. Sonate A-dur, Op. 16, Nr. 4, für Pianoforte, und Flöte oder Violine. Edited by Alfred Küster. Hannover: Nagel,
1933. [Nagels Musikarchiv 103]
Bach, Johann Sebastian. Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke. Sponsored by Johann-Sebastian-Bach-Institut of
Göttingen and Bach-Archiv of Leipzig. Edition now in continuing progress, published Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1954.
. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo). Edited by Hans Eppstein, Hans-Martin Theopold, and Karl
Röhrig. Munich-Duisburg: G. Henle Verlag, 1971. [223] ''According to contemporary copies and the autographs of
three movements."
. Sechs Sonaten für Violino und Cembalo, BWV 10141019. Edited by Rudolf Gerber. 2 vols. Kassel: Bärenreiter,
1967. [5118; 5119] "This is the original text based on: J. S. Bach, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke . . . Series VI:
Chamber Music Works, Vol. I: Works for violin . . ."
. Sonate G-dur für Violine und bezifferten Bass BWV 1021. Edited by Friedrich Blume and Adolf Busch.
Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, ca. 1929. [5936]
. Sonate e-moll für Violine mit beziffertem Bass, BWV 1023. Edited by Walther Davisson. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf &
Härtel, n.d. [6415]
Badings, Henk. Sonate für Violine und Klavier (1933). Mainz: Schott, 1934. [2289]
. Sonate II für Violine und Klavier. Mainz: Schott, 1940. [3650]
. Sonata for Violin and Piano No. 3. Amsterdam: Donemus, 1952.
Barbella, Emanuele. Sonata I per Violino e Pianoforte. Edited by Frederik F. Polnauer. Zurich: Hug, 1966. [10723]
Bartók, Béla. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, (1903). Edited by Denijs Dille and Andre Gertler. Mainz: Schott,
1968. [6032]
. Première Sonate (en 3 Mouvements), Violon et Piano. New York: Boosey & Hawkes, 1950 (Vienna: Universal,
1923). [U.E. 7247]
. Deuxième Sonate (en 2 Mouvements), Violon et Piano. New York: Boosey & Hawkes, 1950 (Vienna: Universal,
1923). [U.E. 7259]
Bax, Arnold. First Sonata for Violin and Piano. (Revised 1945). London. Chappell, 1943 (London: Murdoch,
1921). [37890]


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. Third Sonata for Violin & Piano. London: Chappell, 19291943. [40436]
Beethoven, Ludwig van. Sonaten für Klavier und Violine. Rev. ed. Edited by Walther Lampe and Kurt Schäffer. 2
vols. Munich-Duisburg: G. Henle, 1955. [7; 8]
Benda, Bedrich Ludwík *. Sonata in G for Violin and Piano, or Violin, Harpsichord, and Cello obbligato. See
Violinsonaten des böhmischen Barocks.
Benda, Frantisek* [Franz]. Quattro Sonate per Violino Solo e d'Archi con Accompagnamento. Edited by Jan
Stedron* and Bohumír Stedron*. Prague: Artia, 1962. [Musica Antiqua Bohemica, 57]
. Adagio un poco Andante, from Sonata in A, in simply notated, and two embellished versions of the violin part, as
provided by the composer: see Ferand, Improvisation, a volume in the Anthology of Music series. For entire
sonata, in facsimile (figured-bass unrealized), see Schmitz, Kunst der Verzierung (see Bibliography). Finally, for
the entire sonata, with realization, see the last of the Quattro Sonate of Frantisek Benda* in the Musica Antiqua
Bohemica, 57, edition, above.
. Sonata in F. See Schering, Alte Meister des Violinspiels.
Biber, Heinrich Franz. Acht Violinsonaten. Edited by Guido Adler, [DTÖ Jahrgang V/2, Band 11. Graz:
Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1959. (Unrevised reprint of the DTÖ volume that appeared in Vienna,
1898.) There are two part-supplements. One contains the violin part for all eight sonatas. The other contains the
part for sonatas IV and VI, which are entirely or in part written in scordatura. The first supplement gives these
sonatas transcribed for normal tuning; the second, in the original notation.
. Sechzehn Violinsonaten. Edited by Erwin Luntz, DTÖ Jahrgang XII/2, Band 25. Graz: Akademische Druck- u.
Verlagsanstalt, 1959. (Unrevised reprint of the DTÖ volume that appeared in Vienna in 1905.) There are three
supplementary part-books issued in this reprint: the violin part transcribed for normal tuningincluding sonata XI
''corrected" for the misread scordatura; the violin part of sonatas II to XV, in scordatura notation (as given also in
the score volume); and the violin part of sonata XI, translated to normal tuning in the light of a proper reading of
the scordatura of this piece.
. Surrexit Christus hodie, from Mysterien sonata No. XI, in translated (nonscordatura) version, in HAM II, No. 238.
. 15 Mysterien-Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo (Klavier). Edited by Gustav Lenzewski. 3 vols. Frankfurt:
Wilhelmiana, 1954. [F.F.12] Not in scordatura notation. These correspond to sonatas 1 through 15 of
Biber,Sechzehn Violinsonaten, above.
. Fünfzehn Mysterien für Violine und Klavier nach Kupferstichen biblischen Historien. Edited by Robert Reitz. 2
vols. Vienna: Universal, 1923. [7283; 7284] Not in scordatura notation. These correspond to sonatas 1 through 15
of Biber, Sechzehn Violinsonaten, above.


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Binder, Christlieb Siegmund. Sonate G-dur für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo). Edited by Günter Hausswald.
Kassel and Basel: Bärenreiter, 1950. [312]
Birkenstock, Johann Adam. Sonate E-Dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer.
Mainz: Schott, 1967. [5482] Sonata Op. 1, No. 4.
. Sonate Nr. 2 für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Waldemar Woehl. Kassel: Nagel, 1958. [Nagels Musik-
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Blackwood, Easley. Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 7. New York: G. Schirmer, 1961. [44815c]
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Copland, Aaron. Sonata for Violin and Piano. London: Boosey & Hawkes, 1944. [34-46]
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. Sonata for Violin and Basso continuo, Op. 5, No. 9. In Schering, Alte


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Meister, pp. 4 ff., with all movements, fast as well as slow, showing suggested ornamental additions.
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Couperin, François. Concerts Royaux für Violine und Basso continuo, Troisième concert. Edited by Frederick F.
Polnauer. Mainz: Schott, 1970. [5782] Nos. 1, 2, and 4 are available in Schott issues 5780, 5781, 5783. (Note that
some movements are scored in the edition as keyboard and violin, others in trio setting.)
Cowell, Henry. Sonata for Violin and Piano (1945). New York: Associated Music Publishers, 1947. [194550]
Davison, Archibald T., and Apel, Willi, eds. Baroque, Rococo, and Pre-Classical Music. Historical Anthology of
Music, vol. 2. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1950.
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Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich. Vienna: Österreichisches Bundesverlag, 1894. The series now numbers 124
volumes. Volumes 1-83 (18941938), in unchanged reprint from the original edition, and the later volumes of
newly edited material are all issued by the present publisher, Graz: Akademischer Druck- und Verlagsanstalt.
Denkmäler deutscher Tonkunst. Leipzig: Musikgeschichtliche Kommission, 18921931; revised 1960. Series of 65
volumes and critical supplements issued in reprint. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel; Graz: Akademische Druck-
und Verlagsanstalt, 19581959.
Diamond, David. Sonata for Violin and Piano. New York: Schirmer, 1950. [42150]
Dittersdorf, Carl Ditters von. Sonate für Violine und Klavier in B-dur. Edited by Hans Mlynarczyk and Ludwig
Lürman. Leipzig: Hofmeister, 1929. [1408]
. Sonata in G-dur für Violine und Klavier. Edited by H. Mlynarczyk and L. Lürman. Frankfurt: Hofmeister, 1929.
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Dohnanyi, Ernst von. Sonata, Violin and Piano, Op. 21. London and Hamburg: Simrock, 1913. [710]
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Prague: Artia, 1959. [Musica Antiqua Bohemica 41]
Dussek: see Dusík.
Duval, François. Zwei Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Mainz: Schott, 1953. [4168]
From Amusemens pour la Chambre, Livre VI.
Dvarionas, B. SonataBallade for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1968.
Dvorak*, Antonín. Sonate, F-dur, Op. 57, für Violine und Klavier. Rev. ed. London: Simrock, n.d. [Elite 685 (S.)]


Page 333
. Sonatine, G-dur, Op. 100, für Violine und Klavier. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [4272]
Einem, Gottfried. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 11. Vienna: Universal, 1950. [11992]
Elgar, Edward. Sonata Op. 82 for Violin and Piano. London: Novello, 1919, 1947. [14540]
Emborg, Jens Laurson. Sonate for Violin og Orgel (eller Cembalo), Op. 54. Copenhagen: Hansen, 1932. [23037]
Enesco, Georges, Sonate pour Piano et Violon, Op. 2. Paris: Enoch, n.d. (Bucharest: Éditions d'Etat, 1956).
. IIème-Sonate pour Piano et Violon, Op. 6. Paris: Enoch, n.d. (Bucharest: Éditions d'État, 1956).
. IIIème Sonate pour Piano et Violon, Op. 25. Paris: Enoch, n.d. (Bucharest: Éditions d'État, 1956).
Eshpay, E. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1967. [4485]
Evlakhov, O. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1964. [319]
Fauré, Gabriel. Sonate A-dur, Op. 13, für Violine und Klavier. Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [2569]
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Ferand, Ernest T. ed. Improvisation in Nine Centuries of Western Music: An Anthology with a Historical
Introduction. Cologne: Arno Volk, 1961. In the series Anthology of Music, edited by Karl G. Fellerer.
Fesch, Willem de. Sechs Sonaten für Violine (Flöte, Oboe, Viola) und Basso continuo. Edited by Waldemar Woehl.
2 vols. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1967. [Hortus musicus 127, 128] Sonatas from the set of twelve, opus 8.
Festing, Michael Christian. Sonata in D, Op. 8, No. 5, for Violin and Continuo. Edited by Walter Bergmann.
London: Schott, 1955. [10260]
Fibich, Zdenko. Sonata D-dur, Violino e Piano. Edited by Jaroslav Zich. Prague: Orbis, 1950. [122]
Fine, Irving. Sonata for Violin and Piano. New York: Witmark, 1948. [20656-41]
Finney, Ross Lee. Third Sonata in A for Violin and Piano. Northampton: Valley Music Press, 1957.
Fontana, Giovanni Battista. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Klavier. Edited by Friedrich Cerha. 3 vols. Vienna and
Munich: Doblinger, 1962. (Diletto Musicale, nos. 13, 14, 15)
. Sonata [Prima] is also reprinted in HAM II, No. 198.
. Tenth Sonata. In Giegling, Solo Sonata, pp. 26-32.
Franck, César, Sonate, A dur, für Violine und Klavier. Edited by Maxim Jacobsen. New York: Peters, n.d. [3742]


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Fricker, P. Racine. Sonata for violin and piano, Op. 12. London: Schott, 1950. [10128]
Fritz, Gaspard. Sonate en mi mineur, Op. 2, No. 4 [for violin or flute and basso continuo]. Edited by Frank Martin.
Geneva: Henn, 1931. [A. 591 592 H.]
Furtwängler, Wilhelm. Sonate für Violine und Klavier. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1938. [5668]
. Sonate D-Dur für Violine und Klavier. Edited by Georg Kulenkampff. Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1940. [20584]
Gade, Niels W. Sonate Nr. 1 in A dur für Pianoforte und Violine, Op. 6. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [1362]
Also in editions for viola and for cello.
. Sonate, D-moll, für Violine und Klavier, Op. 21. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, n.d. [1437]
Geminiani, Francesco. Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Walter Kolneder. 4 vols. Mainz:
Schott, 1961. [5191, 5192, 5193, 5194] The twelve sonatas of Opus I(a), London, 1716. As of this printing, only
Sonatas 1-3 are available in this edition [5191]. The remaining three volumes of the set [5192-4] are in preparation.
. Sonate a violino e basso, Op. 4, London, 1739. There are copies of this edition in the collections of the New York
Public Library and the Music Library of the University of California, Berkeley.
. Sonata A-Dur für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1962. [Hortus musicus
173] Sonata Op. 1, No. 1. Note that this is from the same opus called I(a) by Kolneder, editor of the Schott issue.
. Sonata D-dur für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1961. [Hortus musicus
174] Sonata Op. I, No. 4. Note this is from the same opus called I(a) by Kolneder, editor of the Schott issue.
. Sonata ''Impetuosa," D moll. Edited by Alfred Moffat. Berlin: Simrock, 1929. [1067]. Sonata Op. I, No. 12, in a
"new concert version" by Moffat.
. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo (Geminianis Bearbeitung der Sechs Sonaten für Violoncello und
Basso continuo Op. V). Edited by Walter Kolneder. Leipzig: Peters, 1965. [9042]
. 12 Compositioni (Violino e Pianoforte). Edited by Tivadar Orszagh and Laszlo Böhm. 2 vols. Budapest: Editio
Musica, 1959. [Thesaurus musicus Nr. 7, Nr. 8] These are the twelve movements included by Geminiani as part of
his The Art of Playing the Violin, 1751.
Gerhard, Roberto. Gemini: Duo Concertante for Violin and Pianoforte. London: Oxford University Press, 1970.
Giardini, Felice. Sonate per Cembalo con Violino o Flauto, Op. 3. Edited by Enrico Polo. Milan: I Classici
Musicali Italiani, 1941. [ICMI, vol. 3.] Sole agent for ICMI series is Casa Editrice Leo S. Olschki, Florence.
Giegling, Franz, ed. The Solo Sonata. Cologne: Arno Volk, 1960. In the series Anthology of Music, edited by Karl
G. Fellerer.


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Goedike, A. Sonata No. 1 for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1959. [16504]
Golubev, E. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1969. [5994]
Graun, Johann Gottlieb. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Continuo. Edited by Gottfried Müller. 6 vols. Hamburg:
Sikorski, 1957. [395a-f, one sonata per volume]
Graupner, Christoph. Zwei Sonaten für Cembalo (Klavier) und Violine oder Flöte. Edited by Adolf Hoffmann.
Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1955. [Hortus musicus 121]
Grieg, Edvard. Sonate für Klavier und Violine, F dur Op. 8. Edited by Carl Herrmann. Leipzig: Peters, 1931.
[1340]
. Sonate für Violine und Piano, G dur, Op. 13. New York: Peters, 1958. [2279]
. Sonate für Violine und Piano, C moll, Op. 45. New York: Peters, 1954. [2414]
Händel, Georg Friedrich. Sieben Sonaten für Violine und Generalbass. Edited by Stanley Sadie. MunichDuisburg:
G. Henle Verlag, 1971. In addition to the six sonatas contained in most editions, the Henle publication also
includes the sonata ''originally published as Opus 1 No. 6, for oboe," and marked in Handel's autograph for
"Violino Solo." [191]
. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und bezifferten Bass. Edited by Johann Philipp Hinnenthal. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1955.
[4004] Hallische Händel-Ausgabe, Serie IV, Instrumentalmusik, Band 4.
Hartmann, Johann Peter Emilius. Sonate Nr. 3, Op. 83 (G-moll) für Violine und Klavier (für Geigenschüler).
Copenhagen: Wilhelm Hansen, n.d. [903]
Hauptmann, Moritz. Drei leichte Sonatinen für Pianoforte & Violine, Op. 10. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [2948]
Haydn, Joseph. Sonaten für Violine und Klavier. Rev. ed. New York: C. F. Peters, n.d. [190]
Heiden, Bernard. Sonata for Violin and Piano (1954). New York: Associated Music Publishers, 1961. [95918-26]
Henriques, Fini. Sonate pour Violon et Piano, Op. 10. Copenhagen: Hansen, n.d. [3310]
Henze, Hans Werner. Sonate für Violine und Klavier (1946). Mainz: Schott, 1948. [3859]
Hindemith, Paul. Sonate in Es für Violine und Piano, Op. 11, No. 1. Mainz: Schott, 1949. [1918]
. Sonata, Violin and Piano, Op. 11, No. 2 (in D). Mainz: Schott, 1920. [1919]
. Sonata in E, Violin and Piano (1935). London: Schott, 1935. [2455]
. Sonate für Violine und Klavier (1939). Mainz: Schott, 1940. [3645]
Historical Anthology of Music: see Davison and Apel.


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Honegger, Arthur. Première Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Salabert, 1921. [E.M.S. 4398]
. Deuxième Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Salabert, 1924. [6604]
Hummel, Johann Nepomuk. Sonate B-dur für Violine und Klavier, Op. 5, Nr. 1. Edited by Franz Samohyl. Vienna:
Doblinger, 1963. [Diletto Musicale, Nr. 100]
Ibragimov, R. Sonatina. Moscow, State Music Publishers, 1967. [4402]
Imre, Vincze. Sonata per Violino e Pianoforte. Budapest: Editio Musica, 1971. [6433]
d'Indy, Vincent. Sonate (en ut) pour Violin et Piano, Op. 59. Paris: Durand, 1905. [6464]
Ives, Charles E. First Sonata for Violin and Piano. New York: Peer International, 1953. [125-35]
. Second Sonata for Violin and Piano. New York: G. Schirmer, 1951. [42051c]
. Sonata No. 3 for Violin and Piano. Edited by Sol Babitz and Ingolf Dahl. Bryn Mawr: Merion Music, 1951. [144-
40019]
. Sonata No. 4 for Violin and Piano, ''Children's Day at the Camp Meeting." New York: Associated Music, 1942.
[9638-21]
Janacek *, Leos*. Sonata, Violino e Piano. Prague: Artia, 1966. [H 4347]
Kadosa, Pál. II. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 58. Budapest: Editio Musica, 1962. [Z. 4105]
Kammel, Antonin. Sonata in Bb, for Violin and Piano, or Violin, Harpsichord, and Cello obbligato. See
Violinsonaten des böhmischen Barocks.
Khatschaturian, Karen. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 1. Hamburg: Sikorski, 1957. [2120]
Kirchhoff, Gottfried. Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Cembalo [basso continuo]. Edited by Walter Serauky and
Ludwig Bus. 2 vols. Mainz: Schott, 1960. [5060; 5061]
Kirchner, Leon. Sonata Concertante, for Violin and Piano. New York: Mercury Music, 1955.
Klebe, Giselher. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 14. Mainz: Schott, 1953. [4478]
Kleven, Arvid. Sonate No. I, Op. 10, for Violin og Piano. Copenhagen: Wilhelm Hansen, 1925. [2472]
Kliuzner, Boris. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1966. [1960]
Kuss, M. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: Soviet Composers, 1969. [765]
Laurusas*, V. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1967. [724]
Leclair, Jean-Marie. Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Generalbass nebst einem Trio für Violine, Violoncell und
Generalbass [Op. 2], 2. Buch der Sonaten, Paris circa 1732. Edited by Robert Eitner. Publikation aelterer
praktischer


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und theoretischer Musikwerke, vol. XXVII. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1903 (reprinted New York: Broude,
1966). Despite the title, there are twelve pieces in all; the trio is number 8 of the dozen.
. Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo, Op. 5, Op. 9, and Op. 15. Edited by Robert E. Preston. New Haven or
Madison (Wisconsin): A-R EditionsRecent Researches in the Music of the Baroque Era, Vol IV: Opus 5, Sonatas
I-V 1968; Vol V: Opus 5, Sonatas VI-XII 1969; Vol X: Opus 9, Sonatas I-VI 1970; Vol XI: Opus 9, Sonatas VII-
XII, Opus 15, Posthumous Sonata, 1971
. Six Sonates pour Violon et Clavecin ou Piano. Edited by Marc Pincherle and Laurence Boulay. 6 vols. L'Oiseau-
Lyre, 1952. [Book I, No. 8 (Op. 1/8), 181; Book II, No. 1 (Op. 2/1), 180; Book II, No. 12 (Op. 2/12), 184; Book III,
No. 1 (Op. 5/1), 182; Book III, No. 4 (Op. 5/4), 185; Book IV, No. 4 (Op. 9/4), 183.]
. Sonate H-Moll für Violine und Basso continuo, Op. V, Nr. 5. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1958.
[3414]
. Sonate a-Moll für Violine und Basso continuo, Op. IX, Nr. 5. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. Mainz: Schott,
1969. [5778]
Le Duc, Simon. Vier Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Elma Doflein. 2 vols. Mainz: Schott, 1964.
[Op. IV/1, IV/6, 4708; Op. I/1, IV/4, 4709]
Legrenzi, Giovanni. Sonate für Violine und Violoncello mit Basso continuo, Op. 10, 1, Nr. 4. Edited by Karl Gustav
Fellerer. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1951. [Hortus musicus 84]
Liatoshinsky, B. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: Soviet Composers, 1962. [2746]
Locatelli, Pietro. Sei Sonate da Camera per Violino e Basso dall' Op. 6. Edited by Giacomo Benvenuti, Enrico
Polo, and Michelangelo Abbado. Milan: I Classici Musicali Italiani, 1956. [ICMI, vol. 14] Includes sonatas 1
through 6 of the twelve sonatas in this opus. Sole agent for ICMI series is Casa Editrice Leo S. Olschki, Florence.
. Sonata in Re Minore, Op. VI, N. 12 per Violino e Basso. Edited by Michelangelo Abbado. Milan: Ricordi, 1970.
[131693]
. Sonata in Re maggiore per Violine e Pianoforte. Edited by Cesare Barison. Milan: Carisch, 1965. [21704]
. Sonata in Sol maggiore. Edited by A. Poltronieri. Milan: Carisch, 1946. [20333]
. Sonata da Camera g-Moll, für Violine und bezifferten Bass. Edited by J. Bachmair. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel,
1959. [3358]
Lonati, Carlo Ambrogio. Sonata Quinta. In Giegling, Solo Sonata.
Loránd, István. Sonata per violino e pianoforte. Budapest: Editio Musica, 1969. [Z.6049]
Marini, Biagio. Sonata, ''La Giardana." In Schering, Geschichte der Musik in Beispielen, No. 182. From Marini's
opus 1, 1617.


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. Sonata per il violino per sonar con due corde. In Schering, Geschichte der Musik in Beispielen, No. 183. From
Marini's opus 8, 1628.
. Sonate, D-moll, für Violine, Streich-bass (Gambe oder Violoncello) und Basso continuo. Edited by Werner
Danckert. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1955. [Hortus musicus 129]
Martin, Frank. Sonate (193132) pour Violon et Piano. Zurich: Universal, 1959. [12874 Z]
Martinon, Jean. Duo: Musique en forme de Sonate pour Violon et Piano, Op. 47. Mainz: Schott, 1959. [4791]
. 2e Sonatine pour Violon et Piano, Op. 19, No2. Paris: Braun, 1944. [2864]
Martinu, Bohuslav. Sonate [No. 1] pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Leduc, 1930. [17,688]
. Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Salabert, 1932. [R.D.7479]
. Sonatina per Violino e Piano. Edited by Victor Napp. Prague: Artia, 1970. [H.2172]
Mascitti, Michele. Sechs Kammersonaten für Violine und Klavier, Op. 2. Edited by Walter Kolneder. 2 vols.
Heidelberg: Willy Müller, 1963. [2181; 2182]
Medtner, Nikolay. Sonata Epica, Op. 57, for Violin and Piano. London: Novello, n.d. [16790]
. Sonate No. 2 für Violine und Klavier, G-dur, Op. 44. Leipzig: Zimmermann, n.d. [11213]
Mendelssohn, Felix. Sonata in F major for Violin and Piano. Edited by Yehudi Menuhin. New York: Peters, 1953.
[6075]
. Sonate (F moll) für Klavier und Violine, Op. 4. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [1732]
Mihalovici, Marcel. 2ème Sonate Op. 45, pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Heugel, 1954. [31654]
Milhaud, Darius. Sonate pour Violon et Piano (1911). Paris: Durand, 1914. [9180]
. 2e Sonate pour Violon et Piano, Paris: Durand, 1919. [9746]
Milman, M. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: Soviet Composers, 1969.
Monasipov, A. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow, Soviet Composers, 1967. [4456]
Mondonville, Jean-Joseph. Sonate D-Dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. Mainz:
Schott, 1967. [5484] Sonata Op. 1, No. 3.
. Sonate C-dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. Mainz: Schott, 1967. [5485]
Sonata Op. 1, No. 4.
. Pièces de Clavecin en Sonates [Op. 3] Edited by Marc Pincherle. Paris: Heugel, 1969. Publications de la Société
française de Musicologie, Première Série, Tome IX.
. Sonate F-dur für Violine und Cembalo. Edited by Walter Höckner. Locarno: Heinrichshofen, 1963. [Pegasus PE
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. Sonata C-dur, Op. 4, Nr. 2, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. Wilhelmshaven:
Heinrichshofen, 1970. [Pegasus, N 1256]
Montalbano, Bartolomeo. Sinfonia No. 4, ''Geloso." In Giegling, Solo Sonata, pp. 23-25.
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Jugendsonaten I: Vier Sonaten für Klavier (Cembalo) und Violine, KV 6-9. Edited by
Eduard Reeser. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1967. [4755]. "Revised separate edition, based on W. A. Mozart, Neue
Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke Series VIII, Chamber Music, Category 23, Sonatas and Variations for Pianoforte and
Violin, Vol. 1."
. Jugendsonaten II: Sechs Sonaten für Klavier (Cembalo), Violine (oder Flöte) und Violoncello, KV 10-15. Edited
by Wolfgang Plath and Wolfgang Rehm. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1969. [4756]. "Revised separate edition, based on:
W. A. Mozart, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke . . . Series VIII, Chamber Music, Category 22, Section 2:
Pianoforte Trios . . ."
. Jugendsonaten III: Sechs Sonaten für Klavier (Cembalo) und Violine, KV 26-31. Edited by Eduard Reeser.
Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1964. [4757]. "Revised separate edition, based on: W. A. Mozart, Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher
Werke . . . Series VIII, Chamber Music, Category 23, Sonatas and Variations for Pianoforte and Violin, Vol. 1."
. Sonaten für Klavier und Violine [K. 296-570]. Edited by Ernst Fritz Schmid, Walter Lampe, and Karl Röhrig. 2
vols. Munich-Duisburg: G. Henle, 1956. [78; 79]
Muffat, Georg. Sonate, D-dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Walter Kolneder. Mainz: Schott, 1969.
[Schott 5797]
Nardini, Pietro. Sonata in Si Bemolle Maggiore per Violino e Basso. Edited by Michelangelo Abbado. Milan:
Ricordi, 1970. [131694] " . . . the last of the seven [sonatas of Nardini] published by Cartier in his Anthology [L'art
du Violon, Paris, 1801]."
. Sonate D dur, Violine und Klavier. Edited by Carl Flesch. New York: C. F. Peters, 1931. [4167]
. Six Sonatas for Violin and Piano. Edited by Paul Doktor and Mildred J. Johnson. New York: G. Schirmer, 1967.
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Niaga, G. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: Soviet Composers, 1961. [2577]
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. Sonate Op. 35, Nr. 2, für Violine und Klavier. Copenhagen: Hansen, 1919. [1982]
Nozeman, Jacobus. Tre Sonate a Violino e Basso continuo, Opera Prima (ca. 1724). Edited by Willem Noske and
Hans Schouwman. Amsterdam: Broekmans & Van Poppel, 1954. [Society for old Netherlands music, Chamber
music Series No. 1] Sonatas Op. 1, Nos. 1, 3, and 4.
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. Six Sonatas for Violin and Piano, Op. 3. New York: Paragon, 1957. [21]
Pepusch, Johann Christoph. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo), Violoncello (Gambe) ad lib. Edited
by Dietz Degen and Gustav Lenzewski. Mainz: Schott, 1940. [36088]
Pijper, Willem. Sonata for Violin and Piano, No. 2. Amsterdam: Donemus, 1952.
Pisendel, Johann Georg. Sonate für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier). Edited by Günter Hausswald. Mainz: Schott,
1954. [4162]
Piston, Walter. Sonata for Violin and Piano, (1939). New York: Associated Music Publishers, 1940. [96232-30]
. Sonatina for Violin & Harpsichord (Piano). New York: Boosey and Hawkes, 1948. [16239]
Pizzetti, Ildebrando. Sonata in A major for Violin and Piano (1919). London: Chester, 1920. [327]
Pleyel, Ignatz Joseph. Duets: Piano and Violin, Op. 8. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. London, Galliard, n.d. [6042a]
. Duets: Piano and Violin, Op. 44. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. London: Augener, n.d. [9642]
Porpora, Niccolo. Sonate in G-moll für Violine mit beziffertem Bass. Edited by A. Moffat. Hamburg: Simrock,
1932.
Porter, Quincy. Second Sonata for Violin and Piano. New York: Peters, 1964 (Original copyright, 1933). [SPAM
32]
Poulenc, Francis. Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Corrected edition (violin part edited by Ginette Neveu). Paris:
Eschig, 1949. [6411]
Prokofieff, Sergei. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 80. Edited by David Oistrakh. [Sonata number 1 in F minor]
Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [4718]
. Sonata Op. 94 [and Op. 94 bis], for Flute or Violin and Piano. Edited by Joseph Szigeti. [Sonata number 1 in D]
New York: MCA Music, 19481965. [05143-024]
Pugnani, Gaetano. Sonata III, Oeuvre 6. Edited by Claude Arrieu. Paris: Ricordi, 1957. [1554] This numbering is
from the so-identified Paris edition. The sonata is identical with number 3 of Opus 7, the original London
publication.
. Sei Sonate a Violino e Basso, Opera 7. Amsterdam: A. J. Heuwekemeyer; Mechelen/Leuven: De Monte, 1970.
[Reprint edition 1970/021]. Note that this is a facsimile of the original edition, without realized basso continuo.
. Sonata in mi maggiore n. 1 per Violino e Basso. Edited by Michelangelo Abbado. Milan: Ricordi, 1972. [131798]
This is sonata Opus 8, No. 1.
Ravel, Maurice. Sonate pour Violin et Piano. Paris: Durand, 1927. [11273]
Reger, Max. 4. Sonate C-dur, Violine und Klavier, Op. 72. Rev. ed. Edited by Theodor Prusse. Berlin: Bote and
Bock, 1967. [16921 (958)]


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. 5. Sonate fis-moll, Violine und Klavier, Op. 84. Rev. ed. Edited by Theodor Prusse. Berlin: Bote and Bock, 1965.
[17057 (945)]
. Kleine Sonate d-moll, Hausmusik, Op. 103b, Nr. 1, Violine und Klavier. Berlin: Bote and Bock, 1937. [17265
(251)]
. Kleine Sonate A-dur, Hausmusik, Op. 103b, Nr. 2, Violine und Klavier. Berlin: Bote and Bock, 1965. [17266
(252)]
. Sonate e-moll, Violine und Klavier, Op. 122. Berlin: Bote and Bock, 1971. [17688 (1135)]
. Sonate c moll, für Violine und Klavier, Op. 139. Leipzig: Peters, 1915. [3985]
Respighi, Ottorino. Sonata in Si minore, per Violino e Pianoforte. Milan: Ricordi, 1919, reprinted 1967. [117619]
Richter, Franz Xaver. Sechs Kammersonaten für obligates Cembalo (Klavier), Querflöte (Violine) und Violoncello,
Op. 2. Edited by Walter Upmeyer. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1965. [Hortus musicus 86] Only this volume, with sonatas
1-3, has appeared.
Riegger, Wallingford. Sonatina for Violin and Piano. New York: Marks, 1948. [12512-20]
Ries, Ferdinand. Drei Sonatinen für Violine und Klavier, Op. 30. Berlin: Ries & Erler, 1969. [11.255]
. Grande Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 83. Berlin: Ries & Erler, 1969. [11.256]
Riisager, Knudage. Sonate, Violon et Piano (1923). Copenhagen: Wilhelm Hansen, n.d. [2456]
Roussel, Albert. 1ère Sonate en re mineur, pour piano et violon. Revised by Roussel in 1931. Paris: Salabert, 1931
(originally by Rouart-Lerolle, 1909). [4770]
. 2e Sonate pour Violon et Piano, Op. 28. Paris: Durand, 1925. [10, 757]
Rubbra, Edmund. Sonata No. 2 for Violin and Piano. London: Oxford University Press, 1937.
. Sonata No. 3 for Violin and Piano, Op. 133. London: Lengnick, 1968. [4231]
Saint-Saëns, Camille. 1ère Sonate, Op. 75, pour Piano et Violon. Paris: Durand, n.d. [3541]
. 2ème Sonate pour Violon et Piano, Op. 102. Paris: Durand, 1896. [5099]
Salmanov, V. Sonata No. 2 for Violin and Piano. Leningrad: State Music Publishers, 1967. [630]
Satie, Erik. Choses vues à Droite et à Gauche (Sans Lunettes), Piano et Violon. Paris: Rouart-Lerolle (Salabert),
1916. [R.L. 10.074]
Schering, Arnold, ed. Alte Meister des Violinspiels. Leipzig: Peters, 1909. [3226]
, comp. and ed. Geschichte der Musik in Beispielen: Leipzig, Breitkopf & Härtel, 1931 (reprinted New York:
Broude Bros., 1950).


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Schmelzer, Johann Heinrich. Sonatae Unarum Fidium. Edited by Friedrich Cerha. 2 vols. Vienna: Universal, 1960.
[13301; 13302]
. Sonatae Unarum Fidium, 1644Violinsonaten handschriftlicher Überlieferung. Edited by Erich Schenck. [DTÖ,
Band 93].
Schobert, Johann. Ausgewählte Werke. Edited by Hugo Riemann. Revised by Hans Jochim Moser [DdT, series 1,
Vol. 39].
. Sonate A-dur, für Cembalo und Violine. Edited by Walter Kramolisch. Kassel: Nagel, 1962. [Nagels Musik-
Archiv, 199]
Schoeck, Othmar. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 46. Zurich: Hug, 1934. [7719]
Schoenberg, Arnold. Phantasy for Violin with Piano Accompaniment, Op. 47. New York: C. F. Peters, 1952.
[6060]
Schubert, Franz. Sonatinen für Klavier und Violine, Op. 137. Rev. ed. Edited by Günter Henle and Karl Röhrig.
Munich-Duisburg: G. Henle, 1955. [6]
. Duos für Klavier und Violine. Edited by Carl Hermann. New York: Peters, 1934. [156b] Includes Rondeau
brillant, Op. 70; Fantaisie in C, Op. 159; Introduction and Variations, Op. 160; and Duo (Sonata) in A, Op. 162.
Schulz, Johann Abraham Peter. Sonata D-dur, für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier). Edited by Willi Hillemann.
Wilhelmshaven: Heinrich Noetzel, 1961. [Pegasus, N 3258]
Schumann, Robert. Sonaten für Klavier und Violine, Opp. 105, 121. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. Frankfurt:
Peters, 19281956. [2367]
. Sonata No. 3 in A minor, Violin and Piano. Edited by O. W. Neighbour. Mainz: Schott, 1956. [10505]
Seiber, Matyas. Sonata (1960) for Violin and Piano. London: Schott, 1963. [10747]
Senallié, Jean Baptiste. Sonata in D minor, for Violin and Keyboard. Edited by John A. Parkinson. London:
Shnaper, B. Sonata in D minor for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1966. [2902]
Shostakovich, Dmitri. Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte, Op. 134. Violin part edited by David Oistrakh. Moscow:
State Music Publishers, 1970. [6709]
Sibelius, Jean. Sonatine for Violin and Piano, Op. 80. Edited and revised by Julia A. Burt. Copenhagen: Hansen,
19211949. [17734]
Sidon, Samuel Peter. Sonate mit Suite für Violine und Generalbass. Edited by Max Seiffert. Leipzig: Kistner &
Siegel, n.d. [28340]
Sinding, Christian. Sonate (C-dur) für Violine und Pianoforte, Op. 12. Copenhagen: Hansen, n.d. [11062]
Sjnitke, A. Sonate No. 1 for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1969. [6090]
Sjögren, Emil. Sonate Nr. 2 e-moll, Op. 24, für Violine und Pianoforte. Copenhagen: Hansen, n.d. [20677]
Smith, David Stanley. Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 51. New York: G. Schirmer, 1924.


Page 343
Somis, Giovanni Battista. Sonate (Sol majeur) arrangée pour Violon avec accompagnement de Piano. Edited by J.
Salmon. Paris: Ricordi, 1918. [378]
. Sonate, g-moll, Op. IV, Nr. 5, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Heidelberg: Willy Müller,
1966. [1828]
Stamic, Jan Václav [Johann Stamitz]. Sonata Sol maggiore, Op. 6a. Edited by Frantisek Broz *. Prague: Artia,
1956. [Musica Antiqua Bohemica 28]
Strauss, Richard. Sonate für Violine und Klavier, Op. 18, in Es-dur. Vienna: Universal, n.d. [1047]
Stravinsky, Igor. Duo Concertant pour violon et piano. Violin part with collaboration of Samuel Dushkin. London:
Boosey & Hawkes, 1947 (Paris: Edition Russe, 1933). [16373]
Tailleferre, Germaine. Sonate pour piano et violon. Paris: Durand, 1923. [10256]
Tardos, Béla. Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Budapest: Editio Musica, 1969. [Z. 6157]
Tartini, Giuseppe. Sei Sonate per Violino e Pianoforte, Op. 5. Edited by Ettore Bonelli. Padua: Zanibon, 1951.
[3829]
. 6 Sonate per Violino e Pianoforte. Edited by Enrico Polo. Milan: Ricordi, 1921. [177]
. Sonata in G minor for Violin and Piano. Edited by Leopold Auer. New York: Carl Fischer, 1919. [B 2665]
. 3 Sonaten, F dur, G dur, E moll, Violine und Klavier. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [1099a]
. Teufelstriller-Sonate, G-moll-Sonate. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [1099b]
. Sonaten, C dur, D dur. Edited by Friedrich Hermann. Leipzig: Peters, n.d. [1099c]
Telemann, Georg Philipp. Sonate, F-dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Mainz: Schott,
1965. [5477] This sonata is Solo No. 1 from the Essercizii Musici.
. Sonate A-dur, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Mainz: Schott, 1965. [5478] This sonata is
Solo No. 7 from the Essercizii Musici.
. Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Wilhelm Friedrich. Mainz: Schott, 1954. [4221] This is
the set of sonatas published by Telemann in Frankfurt in 1715.
. Zwölf Methodische Sonaten, 1-6 für Violine oder Querflöte und Basso continuo, 7-12 für Querflöte oder Violine
und Basso continuo, Hamburg 1728 und 1732. Edited by Max Seiffert. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1955. [2951]
. Sechs Sonatinen für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier). Edited by Willi Maertens and Walter Heinz Bernstein.
Leipzig: Peters, 1967. [9096]
. Tafelmusik II: Solo A-dur für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Johann Philipp Hinnenthal. Kassel:
Bärenreiter, 1966. [3542] ''Separate edi-


Page 344
tion for practical use from Volume XIII of 'Georg Philipp Telemann, Musikalische Werke,' published by the
Gesellschaft für Musikforschung.''
. Sonata IV, C-dur, für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier). Edited by Gotthold Frotscher. Leipzig: Peters/Litolff, 1951.
[5644] Source not given. This sonata, short and slight, does not duplicate any other listed here.
. Sonata, C moll, für Violine und Cembalo. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1938. [4176]
Toch, Ernst. Sonate [No. 2], Op. 44, für Violine und Piano. Mainz: Schott, 1928. [1240]
Tremais (no first name). Sonate F moll. In Schering, Alte Meister, pp. 57-68.
Ustvolskaya, G. Sonata for Violin and Piano. Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1966. [463]
Valentini, Giuseppe. Sonata d-Moll, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Hugo Ruf. Mainz: Schott, 1968.
[5784]
. Sonata in Sol, per Violino e Pianoforte. Edited by Ottorino Respighi. Milan: Ricordi, 1921. [270]
Vaughan-Williams, Ralph. Sonata in A minor for Violin and Pianoforte. London: Oxford University Press, 1956.
Antonio Veracini, Sonata da Camera Op. 3, No. 2. Edited by Frederick F. Polnauer. London: Chester, 1970. [453]
Veracini, Francesco Maria. Sonaten für Violine (Flöte) und Bass. Edited by Franz Bär. 3 vols. Kassel: Bärenreiter,
1950. [F major, 347; G major, 348; D minor, 349]
. Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo), Op. I. Edited by Walter Kolneder. 4 vols. Leipzig: Peters,
1958. [4937a-d]
. Sonate accademiche für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo), op. 2. Edited by Walter Kolneder. 12 vols. Leipzig:
Peters, 19611971. [9011 a-m] Each Sonata accademica, from no. 1 through no. 12, appears in its own volume of
this edition, from catalog suffix a through m (there is no j).
. Zwölf Sonaten nach Arcangelo Corelli Op. 5, für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Walter Kolneder. 4 vols.
Mainz: Schott, 1961. [5157; 5158; 5170; 5171]
Villa-Lobos, Heitor. Première Sonate-Fantaisie, Désespérance, pour Piano et Violon. Paris: Eschig, 1929. [2465]
. Deuxième Sonate-Fantaisie pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Eschig, 1953. [6673]
. Troisième Sonate pour Violon et Piano. Paris: Eschig, 1953. [6690]
Violinsonaten des böhmischen Barocks. Edited by Richard Tillinger. Prague: Artia, 1967. [Musica Viva Historica
18] Sonatas of Jiri Cart *, Antonin Kammel, and Bedrich Ludwík Benda*.
Viotti, Giovanni Battista. Six Sonatas à violon seul et basse, 2e Livre. Paris: Nadermann, ca. 1800. This edition is
contained in the collection of the Music Division of the New York Public Library. That same collection also
contains


Page 345
the composer's Six Sonates pour violon et basse . . . Oeuvre 4, 1er Livre de sonates, Paris: Boyer, 17_?.
Vitali, Giovanni Battista. Artifici Musicali, Op. XIII. Edited by Louise Rood and Gertrude P. Smith. Northampton:
Smith College, 1959. [Smith College Music Archives, XIV]
Vitali, Tommaso Antonio. Concerto Di Sonate, Op. 4, for Violin, Violoncello, and Continuo. Edited by Doris
Silbert, Gertrude Parker Smith, and Louise Rood. Northampton: Smith College, n.d. [Smith College Music
Archives, XII]
. Sonate für Violine/Violoncello und Cembalo, Op. 4, No. XI. Edited by J. P. Hinnenthal. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1959.
[Hortus musicus 38]
Vivaldi, Antonio. Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Basso Continuo, Op. 2. Edited by Willi Hillemann. 2 vols. Mainz:
Schott, 1953. [4212; 4213]
. XII Sonate per Violino e Basso, [Op. 2]. Edited by S. A. Luciani. Milan: Instituto di Alta Cultura, n.d. Based on
the same first edition of opus 2 as the Schott edition, above, the Luciani edition is a miniature score, showing the
violin part and the figured-bass line, unrealized.
. Vier Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo, Op. V/1-4. Edited by Walter Upmeyer. Kassel: Nagel, 1954.
[Nagels Musik-Archiv 162]
. Vier Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo, ''fatto per il Maestro Pisendel." Edited by Hans Grüss and Walter
H. Bernstein. Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1965. [8101]
. Sonata in Re per Violino e basso (F. XIII n. 6). Edited by Ottorino Respighi. Milan: Ricordi, 19211970. [128437]
. Sonata, G-moll, a Violino solo con Basso continuo. Edited by Walter Upmeyer. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1953.
[Hortus musicus 102] This sonata is not duplicated in any other edition shown here.
Vodicka *, Václav. Sei Sonate, Violino e Cembalo. Edited by Camillo Schoenbaum. Prague: Artia, 1962. [Musica
Antiqua Bohemica 54]
Vorisek, Jan Hugo. Sonata, Op. 5, Violino e Piano. Edited by Jan Stedron* and Bohumír Stedron*. Prague: Artia,
1956. [Musica Antiqua Bohemica 30]
Walter, Bruno. Sonate A-dur für Violine und Klavier. Vienna: Universal, 1910. [2598]
Walther, Johann Jakob. Scherzi da Violino solo con il Basso continuo, 1676. Edited by Gustav Beckmann. Kassel:
Nagel, 1953. [EdM, Band 17, Kammermusik 3] "Unaltered reprint of vol. 17, 1941, of Das Erbe deutscher Musik."
. Sonate mit Suite für Violine und Generalbass (Hortulus Chelicus 1688, Nr. 2). Edited by Max Seiffert. Leipzig:
Kistner & Siegel, 1930. [Organum, Dritte Reihe, Nr. 28]
. Sonate für Violine und Basso continuo. Edited by Erna Bethan. Kassel: Nagel, ca. 1931. [Nagels Musik-Archiv
89] This is sonata number 4 of the Scherzi set.
Walton, William. Sonata for Violin and Piano. London: Oxford University Press, 1950.


Page 346
Weber, Ben. Sonata da Camera for Violin and Piano, Op. 30. New York: Boosey & Hawkes, 1954. [Fromm Music
Foundation 9]
Weber, Carl Maria von. Sechs Sonaten für Klavier und Violine, Op. 10(b). Edited by Ewald Zimmermann, Hans-
Martin Theopold, and Karl Röhrig. Munich-Duisburg: G. Henle, 1965. [182]
Webern, Anton. Vier Stücke für Geige und Klavier, Op. 7. Vienna: Universal, 1922. [6642]
Wolf-Ferrari, Ermanno. Sonate a-moll, Op. 10, Violino & Piano. Hamburg: Rahter, 1902. [Elite Edition 202]
Zbinden, Julien-François. Sonata per Violino e Pianoforte, Op. 15. Milan: Zerboni, 1956. [5278]


Page 347
Acknowledgments
Music examples in this volume are reproduced by the following permissions, gratefully acknowledged.
(Publishers' catalog numbers are shown in brackets. For full bibliographic listings, see Editions Used.)
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Sonate h-Moll für Violine und konzertierendes Cembalo (Ruf) [5387]. © 1965 by
Schott & Co. Reprint permission granted by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., exclusive agents for the copyright
owner.
Johann Sebastian Bach, Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Klavier (Cembalo) (Eppstein) [223]. © 1971 by G. Henle
Verlag. Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonaten für Klavier und Violine (Lampe, Schäffer) [7, 8]. © 1955 by G. Henle Verlag.
Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
Heinrich Franz Biber, Acht Violinsonaten (Adler). Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich, Jahrgang V/2, Band 11.
Reprint permission granted by the publisher of the DTÖ series, Akademischer Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, Graz.
. Sechzehn Violinsonaten (Luntz). Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich, Jahrgang XII/2, Band 25 (1898; reprinted
1959). Reprint permission granted by the publisher of the DTÖ series, Akademischer Druck- und Verlagsanstalt,
Graz.
Luigi Boccherini, Sonate per Cembalo con Violino obbligato, Op. 5 (Polo) [ICMI 4]. © 1941 by I Classici
Musicali Italiani. Reprint permission granted by Fondazione Bravi, Milan, and by Casa Editrice Leo S. Olschki,
Florence, sole agents.
Arcangelo Corelli, Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo, Op. 5 (Paumgartner, Kehr) [4380, 4381]. ©
1953 by Schott & Co. Reprint permission granted by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., exclusive agents for the
copyright owner.
Evaristo Felice dall'Abaco, Sechs Sonaten aus Opus 1 für Violine und Basso continuo (Kolneder) [4618]. © 1956
by Schott & Co. Reprint permission granted by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., exclusive agents for the copyright
owner.


Page 348
Giovanni Battista Fontana, Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Klavier (Cerha) [Diletto musicale 13, 14, 15]. © 1962,
Doblinger Musikverlag. Reprint permission granted by the publisher and by Associated Music Publishers, New
York, agents.
Francesco Geminani, Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo (Kolneder) [5191, -2, -3, -4]. © 1961 by
owner.
Johann Gottlieb Graun, Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Continuo (Müller) [395 a-f]. © 1957, Musikverlage Hans
Sikorski. Reprint permission granted by the publisher and by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., sole agents for the
U.S.A., Canada and Mexico.
Georg Friedrich Händel, Sieben Sonaten für Violine und Generalbass (Sadie) [191]. © 1971 by G. Henle Verlag.
Ludwig R. von Köchel, Chronologisch-thematisches Verzeichnis sämtlicher Tonwerke Wolfgang Amadé Mozarts,
6th ed. [Giegling, Weinmann, and Sievers] © 1964 by Breitkopf & Härtel. Reprint permission granted by the
publisher and by Associated Music Publishers, agents.
Jean-Marie Leclair, Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo, Opus 5 (Preston) [Recent Researches in the Music of
the Baroque Era, Volume V]. © 1968 by A-R Editions, Inc. Reprinted by permission of A-R Editions, Inc. Note:
See Editions Used for full listing of the Leclair sonatas offered in the Researches series.
Pietro Locatelli, Sei Sonate da Camera per Violine e Basso, dall' Op. 6 (Benvenuti, Polo, Abbado) [ICMI 14]. ©
1956 by I Classici Musicali Italiani. Reprint permission granted by Fondazione Bravi, Milan, and by Casa Editrice
Leo S. Olschki, Florence, sole agents.
Jean-Joseph Mondonville, Sonate F-dur für Violine und Cembalo (Höckner) [Pegasus, 6057]. © 1963 by
Heinrichshofen's Verlag. Reprint permission granted by the publisher and by C. F. Peters, New York, sole agents.
, Sonate C-dur, Op. 4, 2, Violino & Basso Continuo (Polnauer) [Pegasus N1256]. © 1970 by Heinrichshofen's
Verlag. Reprint permission granted by the publisher and by C. F. Peters, New York, sole agents.
Leopold Mozart, A Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, trans. and ed. Editha Knocker, 2nd
edition. © 1951, Oxford University Press. Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Jugendsonaten II, Sechs Sonaten für Klavier (Cembalo), Violine (oder Flöte) und
Violoncello, KV 10-15 (Plath and Rehm) [4756]. © 1969 by Bärenreiter-Verlag. Reprint permission granted by the
publisher.
, Sonaten für Klavier und Violine (Schmid) [78, 79: 2 volumes, comprising sonatas K. 296-570]. © 1956 by G.
Henle Verlag. Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
Johann Georg Pisendel, Sonate für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier) (Hausswald) [4162]. © 1954 by Schott & Co.
Reprint permission granted by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., exclusive agents for the copyright owner.
Johann Heinrich Schmelzer, Sonatae Unarum Fidium (Cerha) [13301, 13302].


Page 349
© 1960 by Universal Edition. By permission of Universal Edition A.G., Vienna, and by Theodore Presser
Company, sole representative, U.S.A., Canada and Mexico.
Hans-Peter Schmitz, Die Kunst der Verzierung im 18. Jahrhundert, 2nd ed. © 1955 by Bärenreiter-Verlag. Reprint
permission granted by the publisher.
Giuseppe Tartini, Teufelstriller-Sonate, G moll Sonate (Hermann) [P1099b]. © 1906 by C. F. Peters Corp., New
York. © renewed 1934 by C. F. Peters. Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
, Sonaten, C dur, D dur (Hermann) [P1099c]. By permission of C. F. Peters Corp., New York.
, Sei Sonate per Violino e Pianoforte, Op. 5 (Bonelli) [3829]. © 1951 by G. Zanibon. Reprint permission granted
by the publisher and by C. F. Peters Corp., New York, agents for the U.S.A.
Georg Philipp Telemann, Sechs Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo (Friedrich) [4221]. © 1954 by Schott &
Co. Reprint permission granted by Belwin-Mills Publishing Corp., exclusive agents for the copyright owner.
, Zwölf Methodische Sonaten, 1-6 für Violine oder Querflöte und Basso continuo, 7-12 für Querflöte oder Violine
und Basso continuo, Hamburg 1728 und 1732 (Seiffert) [2951]. © Bärenreiter-Verlag, 1955. Reprint permission
granted by the publisher.
, Sechs Sonatinen für Violine und Cembalo (Klavier), (Maertens and Bernstein) [P9096]. © 1967 by Edition Peters.
, Tafelmusik II: Solo A-dur für Violine und Basso continuo (Hinnenthal) [3542]. © 1966 by Bärenreiter-Verlag.
Francesco Maria Veracini, Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Klavier, Opus I (Kolneder) [P4937a, b, c, d: Quotations
are from the fourth volume, P4937d]. © 1959 by Edition Peters. Reprint permission granted by the publisher.
, Sonata accademica für Violine und Klavier (Kolneder) [P9011 a-m: 12 sonatas, published one per volume.
Quotations are from sonatas 1, 2, 3, 5, and 12.] 9011a: © 1961 by Edition Peters. 9011b: © 1963 by Edition Peters.
9011c: © 1964 by Edition Peters. 9011e: © 1967 by Edition Peters. 9011m: © 1961 by Edition Peters. Reprint
permission granted by the publisher.
Antonio Vivaldi, Zwölf Sonaten für Violine und Basso continuo, Opus 2 (Hillemann) [4212, 4213]. © 1953 by
owner.
Anton Webern, Vier Stücke für Geige und Klavier, Op. 7 [6642]. © 1922, Universal Edition A.G., Vienna, and by
Theodore Presser Company, sole representative, U.S.A., Canada and Mexico.
Permission to quote various excerpts from the letters of Wolfgang and Leopold Mozart is gratefully acknowledged
(see Bibliography for full listing): Emily Anderson, ed. and trans., The Letters of Mozart and His Family, 2nd ed.
(King and Carolan), 2 vols. © 1966 by the executors of the late Miss Emily Anderson. Permission granted by St.
Martin's Press, Inc., Macmillan & Co., Ltd.


Page 351
Index
Composers whose duo sonatas are considered in this volume are shown below in bold-face type. All references to
duo sonatas are presented at the end of the listing for the given composer. The sonatas are listed numerically
according to opus or other customary catalog numbering; in numerical order within a set of works; otherwise, in
alphabetical order according to key; and, within key, major before minor.
Names of patrons, employers, dedicatees, or amateur pupils of composers are not listed in the index, with a few
special exceptions. The same holds true for publishers, other than a few who are linked to the early history of the
sonatas involved.
It need scarcely be added that many of those who are listed as ''editor" are renowned for other pursuits as well,
even though they are shown for this one special function here.
Page references are given in italics.
Abbreviations (when used): vln. = violin
b.c. = basso continuo
str. bass = string bass
A
Abbado, Michelangelo, editor of:
Locatelli, 183
Pugnani, 224
Abel, Carl Friedrich, 217218
sonata in G, op. 5, 218
sonata in B flat, op. 13, no. 3, 218
sonata in B flat (unnumbered), 218
Abnormal tuning, see Scordatura
Académie de Danse, 185
Accompanied keyboard sonata, 206222
role of violin in, 215226
Adler, Guido,
evaluation of Biber sonatas, 34
on performance freedom, 38
on scordatura in Biber sonata, 28
Albinoni, Tommaso, 8284
modern edition of sonatas, 8283
twelve violin sonatas, op. 6 (Trattenimenti Armonici per Camera Divisi in Dodici sonate), 8284
sonata in C, op. 6, no. 1, 82, 83
sonata in G min., op. 6, no. 2, 82, 83
sonata in D min., op. 6, no. 4, 82, 84
sonata in F, op. 6, no. 5, 83
sonata in A min., op. 6, no. 6, 83
J.S. Bach's continuo realization in, 136
sonata in D, op. 6, no. 7, 83, 84
sonata in A, op. 6, no. 11, 83
Arco, Count, 255


Page 352
Arnold, F. T.,
on continuo instrumentation, 5152
Auer, Leopold, editor, 165, 169170
B
Bach, Anna Magdalena, 135
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 211214
Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments, 211
teacher of J.C. Bach, 214
sonatas for Cembalo obbligato e Violino, 211214
sonata in D (W. 71), 211, 214
sonata in B min. (W. 76), 211213
Bach, Johann Christian, 206, 214217, 231
Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord or Pianoforte with an Accompagnement for a Violin, op. 10, 215216
sonatas, op. 10, nos. 1, 2, 3, and 5, 216
Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Piano with Flute or Violin, op. 16, 216217
sonata, op. 16, no. 1, 216
sonata, op. 16, no. 2, 217
sonata in E flat for vln. and b.c., 217
Bach, Johann Christoph,
teacher of J.S. Bach, 111
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 48, 109137, 206
Art of Fugue, 137
biographical data, 111
Brandenburg concerti, 112
composers contemporary with, 138145
desirable approach to, 137
duo sonatas vs. C.P.E. Bach's, 213
fluctuating vogue for, 137
instrumental compositions of the Cöthen years, 112
nature of his music, 109110
partita no. 3 for violin alone, 137
realization of continuo in Albinoni sonata, op. 6, no. 6, 136
St. Matthew Passion, 112
Mendelssohn's revival of, 137
sonata no. 1, in G min., for violin alone, 111
transcription of Vivaldi, 153
six sonatas for violin and obbligato keyboard (BWV 10141019), 112114
character of, 112
compared with Handel's sonatas, 108
compared with Mondonville's sonatas, op. 3, 201
sources used in NBA edition of, 117
tempi suggestions for, 119
treatment of melodic detail in, 110111
treatment of violin and keyboard in, 110
varied part-writing texture of, 112114
sonata in B min., no. 1, 112114
sonata in A, no. 2, 112114, 131133
similarity to Vivaldi sonata, 76
sonata in E, no. 3, 112114, 119131
sonata in C min., no. 4, 112114, 113135
sonata in F min., no. 5, 112114, 117, 135
versions of, 117
sonata in G, no. 6, 112114
transfer of sonata movements to partita no. 6, Clavierübung, part 1, 115
versions of, 114117
sonata in G, for violin and continuo (BWV 1021), 135137
sonata in F, for violin and keyboard (BWV 1022), 135
doubtful authenticity of, 135
sonata in E min., for violin and continuo (BWV 1023), 135137
organ as continuo instrument in, 137
Bariolage, 40
in Vivaldi ''Pisendel" sonata no. 2, 76
Barison, Cesare, editor of Locatelli, 182
Basso continuo, 12, 13
instrumentation, 51, 52
realization of, 12
Bassoon, in Fontana trio sonata no. 10, 18
Beckmann, Gustav, editor of Walther, 39
Beethoven, Ludwig van (see also vol. II),
Fourth Piano Concerto, 252
violin sonata in A, op. 47 (Kreutzer),
two recorded performances, 37
Benda, Franz (Frantisek), 148150
sonatas for violin and b.c., 149150
sonata in A, 149
sonata in A min., 149
sonata in B, 149
sonata in Schering, Alte Meister], 150
Benda, Friedrich Ludwig, 227
Benda, Georg (Jiri), 148149
Ariadne auf Naxos, 148149
Medea, 148149
Benevenuti, Giovanni, teacher of
Corelli, 49
Bernabei, G.A., teacher of
Veracini, 152
Biber, Heinrich Ignaz Franz, 21, 2538
use of scordatura tuning, 21, 2630
use of variation, 35
Mystery or Rosary sonatas: fifteen sona-


Page 353
tas for violin and b.c.; Passacaglia for violin alone, 2633
recording of, 38
sonata no. 11, Surrexit Christus hodie, 29
error in scordatura reading in DTO edition, 33
sonata no. 12, the Ascent of Christ to Heaven, 3132
eight sonatas for violin and basso continuo (1681), 3438
sonata no. 1, 3538
sonata no. 3, 35
sonata no. 8, 34, 35
Birkenstock, Johann Adam, 144
twelve sonatas for violin and basso continuo, op. 1, 144
sonata, op. 1, no. 2, 144
sonata in E, op. 1, no. 4, 144
sonata in E min. [op. 1], 144
Boccherini, Luigi, 206, 218220
Six Sonatas for Fortepiano with Accompaniment of a Violin, op. 5, 218220
sonatas, op. 5, nos. 2 and 6, 220
six sonatas for violin and basso continuo (arrangement of sonatas for cello and b.c.), 218
Böhm, Georg, 111
Böhm, Laszlo, and Orszagh, Tivadar, editors of Geminiani, 82
Bologna school, 43, 44
Bononcini, Giovanni Maria, 51
Boyden, David D., on Bach sonatas, 112
on continuo instrumentation, 51
The History of Violin Playing, 53
on scordatura, 29
Brade, William, 20
Brainard, Paul, 165, 166
Brugnoli, Leonardo, teacher of Corelli, 49
Brunetti, Antonio, 255
Buelow, George J.,
on realization of continuo, 136
Bukofzer, Manfred,
on J.S. Bach's sonata no. 6 for violin and obbligato keyboard, 114
on Geminiani, 174
Burney, Dr. Charles, 49
Haydn sonatas arranged by, 221222
C
Cart, Georg (Czarth), 227
Cartier, Jean Baptiste, 166
L'Art du Violon, 166, 226
Cazzati, Maurizio, 4344
sonata, op. 55, no. 1, 4344
Cello, in basso continuo, 12, 13, 52
use in J.S. Bach's sonatas for violin and obbligato keyboard, 118
use in dall'Abaco sonatas, op. 1, 85
use in Mozart's accompanied keyboard sonatas, 232
Cerba, Friedrich, editor of:
Fontana, 1718
Schmelzer, 21
Chapel Royal (France), 198
Chrysander, Friedrich, editor of
Corelli, 50
Cima, Giovanni Paolo, 14
sonata for violin and b.c., 14
Clavecin, 13
Clavicembalo, 13
Clementi, Muzio, 206
Cobbett, Walter, on Vivaldi, 65
Colloredo, Hieronymus, Archbishop of Salzburg, 230, 255
Composer's instructions to player, 2
Concert spirituel, 188, 198, 204
Continuo (basso continuo, thorough bass, figured bass), 12
C.P.E. Bach on, 211
as principle of composition, 12
Continuo instrumentation,
harpsichord vs. piano, 100
Corelli, Arcangelo, 4863
ardor in performance, 49
compositions of, 49
ornaments as played by, 50
teacher of: Geminiani, 77
Locatelli, 174
Mascitti, 185
Muffat, 42
Somis, 87
Follia, variations, see sonata, op. 5, no. 12
sonatas, op. 5, 5063
sonata in D, op. 5, no. 1, 41, 45, 5051, 5358, 156
and Vivaldi sonata no. 2, 70
sonata, op. 5, no. 2, 5063
sonata, op. 5, no. 3, 58, 59
sonata, op. 5, no. 4, 58, 60
sonata, op. 5, no. 7, 58, 60, 61
sonata, op. 5, no. 9, 58, 6062
sonata, op. 5, no. 10, 58, 61, 83, 147
sonata, op. 5, no. 11, 58, 61
sonata, op. 5, no. 12 (La Follia, variations), 6263
Corporation of minstrels (Guild of Minstrels), France, 185, 188
Corrette, Michel, 204
sonata, Les Jeux Olympiques, from op. 25, 204


Page 354
Couperin, François, 186187
Apotheosis of Corelli, 186
Concerts royaux (nos. 14), 186
D
dall'Abaco, Evaristo Felice, 8486
twelve sonatas for violin and continuo, op. 1, 8586
sonatas 2, 4, 7, and 11, 85
sonatas 5 and 6, 86
twelve sonatas for violin and continuo, op. 4, 8586
sonatas nos. 4 and 8, 86
Dart, Thurston,
The Interpretation of Music, 5253
on keyboard instrument for early music, 52
Debroux, J., editor of Leclair, 189
Debussy, Claude, on J.S. Bach, 109
degli Antonii, Pietro, 44, 4647
sonatas, op. 4, 46
sonatas, op. 5, 4647
sonata, op. 5, no. 4, 4647
Dittersdorf, Karl Ditters von, 227
sonata in B flat, 227
sonata in G, 227
Doktor, Paul, editor of Nardini, 225
Donington, Robert,
article, ''Ornamentation," 52
The Interpretation of Early Music, 52
on tasto solo performance, 51
Double-stop writing for violin,
in Marini sonatas, 15
in Schmelzer, 21
Duo egalitarianism, 89
Duo performance, factors in, 5
Duval, François, 186187
sonatas for violin solo with bass, Book VI, 187
sonata in D, 187
sonata in G, 187
E
Eckardt, Johann Gottfried, 209
Editing of older music, note values in, 17, 2223
Einstein, Alfred,
on Kirchoff, 139
on Mozart sonatas:
(K. 402) 286, (K. 454) 287, (K. 526) 299, (K. 547) 302
Eitner, Robert, editor of Leclair, 190
Electronic sounds, in new music, 27
Eppstein, Hans, on J.S. Bach's sonatas for violin and obbligato keyboard:
dating of, 115
departure from continuo principle, 118
trio sonata concept in, 112
versions of sonatas nos. 5 and 6, 114117
editor of J.S. Bach, 112
F
Farina, Carlo, in Germany, 20
Fellerer, Karl G.,
editor of Benda (Franz), 150
Ferand, Ernest T.,
editor of Benda (Franz), 150
Improvisation in Nine Centuries of Western Music, 150
Fesch, Willem De, 145
six sonatas for violin and b.c., 145
Festing, Michael, 144145
sonata in D, op. 8, no. 5, 144145
Figured bass, 12, 52
Finney, Ross Lee, editor of Geminiani, 81
Flesch, Carl, editor of Nardini, 226
Follia (folia), theme, 62
Fontana, Giovanni Battista, 1618
eighteen "Sonatas for 1, 2, 3 [players]," 1617
sonatas nos. 2, 3, 4, and 6, 18
sonata no. 10, for violin, bassoon and continuo, 18
Forkel, J. N.,
description of J.S. Bach sonatas, 110
Fund for Support of Decayed Musicians, 144
G
Gaibara, Ercole, teacher of Corelli, 49
Galliard, Johann Ernest, 49
Gasparini, Francesco,
teacher of Veracini, 152
Gaviniès, Pierre, 204205
Geiringer, Karl, on J.C. Bach, 216
Geloso, Girolamo, 16
Geminiani, Francesco Saverio, 49, 7782, 152
The Art of Playing the Violin, 78
twelve movements from, 82
editions of op. 4 and op. 5 sonatas, 81
elaboration of Corelli's sonata no. 9, 6162
pupil of Lonati, 63
sonatas for violin alone, op. 1, 78
twelve Sonate a Violino, Violone, e Cambalo, op. 1, 7881
sonata in D min., op. 1, no. 2, 7980
sonata in E min., op. 1, no. 3, 80
sonata in D min., op. 1, no. 12, Moffat version: Sonata Impetuosa, 81


Page 355
twelve Sonate a Violino e Basso, op. 4, 78
six sonatas, op. 5 (cello and continuo), 78
Gerber, Heinrich Nicolaus,
realized bass, Albinoni sonata, op. 6, no. 6, 83
Gerber, Rudolf,
on J.S. Bach sonatas for violin and obbligato keyboard, 118
editor of J.S. Bach, 110
Geschichte der Musik in Beispielen, 15
Giardini, Felice, 220221
six sonatas, op. 3, 220221
Giegling, Franz, editor of:
Mondonville, 201
Montalbano, 16
The Solo Sonata, 63
Gossec, François-Joseph, 204
Grande Bande of 24 violins of the king, 185, 187
Graun, Carl Heinrich, 141142
Graun, Johann Gottlieb, 141144
sonata no. 1, 142
sonata no. 5, 143144
Graupner, Christoph, 140
two sonatas, 140
Grimm, Baron Friedrich Melchior von, 208, 231
Guarnerius violin, 13
Guerre des bouffons, 198
Guignon, Jean-Pierre, 188
Guilmant, A., editor of Leclair, 189
H
Handel, George Frederick, 48, 97108
compositions of, 98
Messiah, 98
sonata for flute, op. 1, no. 1, 101
sonata for oboe, op. 1, no. 6 (intended as violin sonata), 100
six sonatas for violin and continuo, from op. 1, 98108
continuo instrumentation in, 99
editions of, 98, 99
evaluation of, 108
sonata in A, op. 1, no. 3, 98, 107
sonata in G min., op. 1, no. 10, 107
sonata in D, op. 1, no. 13, 100107, 156
chorus (from sonata, op. 1, no. 13) in oratorio, Solomon, 106107
sinfonia (from sonata, op. 1, no. 13) in oratorio, Jephtha, 106
sonata in A, op. 1, no. 14, 107108
sonata in E flat, op. 1, no. 15, 108
Harpsichord, nature of its sound, 13
vs. pianoforte, 207208
popularity of, 207
Hasse, Johann A., 231
Hauser, Michael Mischka, arranger, Nardini ''violin concerto," 225226
Hawkins, Sir John, on Corelli and Vivaldi, 65
on Geminiani, 77, 78
A General History of the Science and Practice of Music, 65
Haydn, Franz Joseph, 231
student of Porpora, 184
sonatas for keyboard and violin, 221
Heinichen, Johann David,
Der General-Bass in der Composition, 136
teacher of Pisendel, 140
Hermann, Friedrich,
editor of Tartini, 165, 167, 169
Heuss, Alfred, on scordatura in Biber Mystery sonatas, 28, 31
Hinnenthal, J. P.,
editor of T.A. Vitali, 45
Höckner, W., editor of Mondonville, 199
Holzbauer, Ignaz, 231
Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 206, 222
sonata for piano with violin accompaniment, op. 5, no. 1, 222
Humor in performance, 9
J
Jensen, Gustav, editor of Corelli, 50
Joachim, Joseph, editor of Corelli, 50
Johnson, Mildred J.,
editor of Nardini, 225
Jouy, Madame Brillon de,
harpsichordist, 218
K
Keiser, Reinhard, 97
Kelly, Michael, on Mozart's attitude to contemporary musicians, 290
Keyboard,
instrument in basso continuo, 1213
"and violin," top billing, 216
vs. violin, 208
Kimmel, Anton, 227
Kirchoff, Gottfried, 139
twelve sonatas for violin and b.c., 139
sonatas nos. 2, 4, 6, and 10, 139
Kolneder, Walter, editor of:
Mascitti, 185
Veracini, 163
Vivaldi, 66n.
Küster, Albert, editor of J.C. Bach, 217


Page 356
la Laurencie, Lionel de, 188
Laurenti, Bartolomeo Girolamo,
teacher of Corelli, 49
Le Duc, Simon, 204205
six sonatas for vln. and b.c., op. 1, 205
sonatas, op. 4, nos. 1, 4, and 6, 205
Leclair, Jean Marie, 174, 187198
ornamentation, 196
pupil of Somis, 87
Scylla and Glaucus, 189
twelve sonatas, op. 1, 189190
sonata in E, op. 5, no. 9, 191193
sonata, op. 5, no. 10, 194
sonata in G, op. 5, no. 12, 194197
twelve sonatas, op. 9, 190191, 197198
sonatas, op. 9, nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5, 197
sonata in D, op. 9, no. 6, 197198
sonata, op. 15, 191, 198
Legrenzi, Giovanni, 64
teacher of Albinoni, 82
sonata for vln., cello and b.c., from La Cetra (''The Lyre"), op. 10, 1, 64
Locatelli, Pietro Antonio, 49, 174183
continuator of Corelli school of violin playing, 77
teacher (?) of Leclair, 189
sonata in G min. (from flute sonata, op. 2, no. 6), 183
XII Sonate a Violino Solo e Basso, da Camera, op. 6, 174183
sonata in C min., op. 6, no. 5, 176178
sonata in D, op. 6, no. 6, 181183
VI Sonate a Violino Solo e Basso . . . , op. 8, 174
Lonati, Carlo Ambrogio, 63
teacher of Geminiani, 77
Sonata Quinta for violin and b.c., 6364
Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 185
teacher of Muffat, 42
Luntz, Erwin, editor of Biber, 31
Maelzel metronome, 3
Mannheim school, 146, 147
Marini, Biagio, 1416
in Germany, 20
sonata, La Giardana (from op. 1, Affetti musicali), for vln. or cornet and basso continuo, 15
Sonata per il violino per sonar con due corde (for vln. and b.c.), 1415
sonata in D min., for vln., str. bass (gamba or cello) and b.c., 1516
Martini, Padre, 231
teacher of J.C. Bach, 214
Mascitti, Michele, 185186
Sonate da camera a Violino solo col Violone o Cembalo, op. 2, 185186
Mendelssohn, Felix (see also vol. II), re-
vival of J.S. Bach's St. Matthew Passion, 66, 137
Moffat, Alfred, editor of:
Benda (Franz), 149
Geminiani, 184
Porpora, 184
Mondonville, Jean Joseph Cassanea de, 198204
sonatas, op. 3, as predecessors of Mozart's duo sonatas, 201
Titon et l'Aurore, 198
sonatas for vln. with b.c., op. 1, 198, 199
sonata in C, op. 1, no. 4, 199
sonatas for harpsichord with violin accompaniment, op. 3, 198, 199202
sonata in F, op. 3, no. 2, 199202
sonatas for violin with basso continuo (Les sons harmoniques), op. 4, 198, 202204
sonata in C, op. 4, no. 2, 202204
Montalbano, Bartolomeo, 16
sinfonia number 4 ("Geloso"), 16
Monteverdi, Claudio, 1112
Mortier, Pierre, publisher 4th edition Corelli sonatas, op. 5, 50, 53
Moser, Andreas, 164165
on Somis, 87
on Tartini, 164165, 169
on tasto solo performance, 51
on Tremais, 204
on Veracini, 164
Mozart, Leopold, advice on tempo, 7
on J.C. Bach, 214
on Devil's Trill, 166167
on Nardini as performer, 226
on Schobert, 209

Page 357
Treatise on the Fundamental Principles of Violin Playing, 247
view of keyboard-and-violin sonata, 260
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 228303
concept of duo relationship in the mature sonatas, 235
concert tours, 229231
contemporary musical influences on, 231
Dissonant Quartet, K. 465, 290
Don Giovanni, 241
Figaro, 293
Five Variations for Keyboard, K. 547b, 302
Idomeneo, 230
influenced by J.C. Bach, 214215
piano quartet no. 1 in G min., 279, 293
preludes to J.S. Bach's Fugues, for string trio, K. 404a, 286
quartet in G, K. 387, as example of tempo problem, 78
quartet in D min., K. 421, 270
and Schobert, 209
sonata for keyboard, K. 547a, 302
viola quintet in G min., K. 516, 281
sonatas for keyboard and violin:
and J.S. Bach's, 217
number of movements in, 251
performer's approach to, 229
preparation for, 217
and Schobert's, 217
accompanied keyboard sonatas, 231233
sonatas, K. 69: op. 1 and 2, 231, 232
sonatas, K. 1015: op. 3, 231, 232 cello role in, 232
sonatas, K. 2631: op. 4, 231
role of the accompanying instrument, 231233
sonata in C, K. 296, for keyboard and violin (see after K. 360, below)
Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Forte-
piano with Accompaniment of a
Violin: K. 301306, 234254
dating of, 234
sonata in G, K. 301, 235238
sonata in E flat, K. 302, 239240
sonata in C, K. 303, 240241, 279
sonata in E min., K. 304, 241246
sonata in A, K. 305, 246250
sonata in D, K. 306, 910, 250254
Variations in G, K. 359:
La Bergère Célimène, 256259
Variations in G min., K. 360:
Hélas, j'ai perdu mon amant, 256, 259260, 293
dating of, 256
Six Sonatas for Harpsichord or Pianoforte with the Accompaniment of a Violin:
K. 296, K. 376380, 234, 260284
contemporary review of, 283284
dating of, 256
Leopold Mozart's view of, 260
sonata in C, K. 296, 264268
sonata in F, K. 376, 260264
sonata in F, K. 377, 268275
sonata in B flat, K. 378, 275278
sonata in G, K. 379, 255, 278281
sonata in A, K. 402 (K. 385e), 285286
dating of (K. 402547), 285
sonata in B flat, K. 454, 255, 287293, 302
sonata in A, K. 526, 296301, 302
sonata in F, K. 547, 301303
Muffat, Georg, 42
sonata in D for violin and b.c., 42
Müller, Gottfried,
editor of J.G. Graun, 142
N
Nardini, Pietro, 225227
''Concerto" in E min., 225
six sonatas, 225226
sonata in B flat for vln. and b.c., 226
sonata in D for vln. and b.c., 226227
Newman, William S.,
on the accompanied keyboard sonata, 206
on the sonata idea, 53
Notation, what it tells the player, 2
Nozeman, Jacobus, 145
sonatas in C, E, and F min., op. 1, 145
O
Organ, as continuo instrument, 16, 46
Ornaments,
"as played by" Corelli, 50
in Leclair, 196
P
Paumgartner, Bernhard, editor of:
Corelli, 50
degli Antonii, 46, 47
Pepusch, Johann Christoph, 138139
The Beggar's Opera, 138
six sonatas, 137138
Performance, avenue for individuality, 10
humor in, 9
interpretative freedom in, 38
contrasting Kreutzer recordings, 37
problems of, 1
vitality of, 15, 2324


Page 358
Performer, composer's instructions to, 2
judgment in interpretation, 5
Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista,
La Serva Padrona, 198
Philidor, M. Anne Danican, 188
Piano, vs. harpsichord, 207208
role in the duo with violin, 1
Pianoforte, see Piano
Picquot, Louis,
catalog of Boccherini's works, 218
Pincherle, Marc, on Corelli, 50
on the follia theme, 6263
on Leclair, 188, 191, 195
on Mondonville sonatas, op. 3, 201
on Vivaldi sonatas, op. 2, 66
Pisendel, Johann Georg, 75, 140141, 152
teacher of Johann Graun, 142
vs. Veracini, 140
sonata in E min. for vln. and b.c., 141
Polo, Enrico, editor of:
Boccherini, 218, 220
Giardini, 220221
Tartini, 165, 169, 173
Porpora, Niccolo, 184
twelve violin sonatas, 184
sonata in A, 184
sonata in G min., 184
Preston, Robert E.,
editor of Leclair, 190, 191
Pugnani, Gaetano, 223224
pupil of Somis, 87
teacher of Viotti, 224225
six sonatas for violin and basso continuo, op. 7, 223224
sonata in C, op. 6, no. 3 (actually op. 7, no. 3), 223224
sonata in D for violin and basso continuo, op. 8, no. 1, 224
Q
Quantz, Johann Joachim, 100
R
Racek, Jan, editor of J. Stamitz, 146
Reinken, Jan Adams, 111
Reitz, Robert, violinist, 28
Richter, Franz Xaver, 146147
three sonatas from op. 2, 146147
Riemann, Hugo, editor of Schobert, 210
Robbins-Landon, H. C., 215
Roger, Estienne, publisher of:
Corelli's sonatas, op. 5, 3rd edition, 50, 53
Locatelli sonatas, 174
Roger, Jeanne,
publisher of Handel sonatas, 98
Rolland, Romain, on Telemann, 8889
Roussel, Louise, wife of Leclair, 189
Royal Academy of Music (France), 185, 198
Royal Society for Musicians, 144
Ruf, Hugo, editor of: C.P.E. Bach, 213
Leclair, 190
Rutini, Giovanni M. P., 206
S
Sadie, Stanley, editor of Handel, 100, 104
Salmon, Joseph, editor of Somis, 87
Sammartini, Giambattista, 231
Sartori, Claudio, 179
Scarlatti, Alessandro,
teacher of Geminiani, 77
Schering, Arnold, editor of:
Benda (Franz), 150
Corelli, 62
Marini, 15
Porpora, 184
Tartini, 165
Schmelzer, Johann Heinrich, 2025
teacher of Biber (?), 25
six Sonatae unarum fidium seu a violino solo (''Sonatas for one violin [and continuo]"), 2125
sonata no. 1, 21
sonata no. 5, 22, 2425
Sonate Cucu, 41
Suite in D, no. 2, 41
Schmitz, Hans-Peter, editor of:
Benda (Franz), 149
Handel, 108
Mozart, 233
Die Kunst der Verzierung im 18. Jahrhundert, 149
on treatment of the accompanying instrument, 233
Schneider, Max, on DTÖ edition of Biber's Mystery sonatas, 32
Schobert, Johann, 206, 208211, 231
compositions, 210
and Mozart, 209
sonatas as preparatory study for Mozart sonatas, 217
sonata in A, op. 9, no. 2, 210211
sonata in C min., op. 14, no. 3, 210, 211
Schubert, Franz (see also vol. II)
Sonatina no. 1, in D, relation to Mozart's K. 526, 298
Schulz, Johann Peter Abraham, 221
sonata in D for vln. and b.c., 221
Schuster, Josef, 235
six duets for clavicembalo and vln., 235
Schwarz, Boris, on Nardini, 226
Scordatura (abnormal tuning), 21
in Biber, 21, 2630


Page 359
error in reading of Sonata 11, Biber Mystery sonatas, DTÖ edition, 33
notation, 29, 30
playing, 30, 31
in Schmelzer, 41
tone-color of, 29
''translation," in DTÖ edition of Biber Mystery sonatas, 32
Seiffert, Max, editor of Telemann, 95
Senallié, Jean-Baptiste, 187
sonata in D min., Book 4, No. 4, for vln. and b.c., 187
Simpson, Thomas, 20
Sitt, Hans, editor of C.P.E. Bach, 213
Solo sonata, 14
The Solo Sonata, 16
Somis, Giovanni Battista, 87
continuator of Corelli school of violin playing, 77
teacher of:
Leclair, 188
Pugnani, 223
Spinet, 13
Spitta, Philipp,
on J.S. Bach's continuo realization, 136
on J.S. Bach's sonata no. 5, for violin and obbligato keyboard, 114
on J.S. Bach's sonata no. 6, for violin and obbligato keyboard, 116
Stadler, Maximilian,
completed K. 402 of Mozart, 286
Stamic, Jan Václav, see Stamitz, Johann
Stamitz, Johann, 146, 147
sonata in G, op. 6, no. 1, 146
Stradivarius violin, 13
Strinasacchi, Regina (violinist),
and Mozart K. 454, 287, 289
String instruments,
history and characteristics, 1114
See also Violin, Cello
Swieten, Baron Gottfried van, 286
Szigeti, Joseph, on Devil's Trill, 167
T
Tartini, Giuseppe, 164174
teacher of:
J.G. Graun, 142
Nardini, 225
and Veracini, 152, 165
sonata in A, op. 1, no. 1, 173174
sonata in E min., op. 1, no. 5, 173
six sonatas, op. 5, 171173
sonata, op. 5, no. 5, 172173
sonata in C (Peters 1099c, Brainard C12), 170171
sonata in G min., Didone abbandonata, 165, 169170
in Polo edition, 174
sonata, Devil's Trill, 166169
Tasto solo, 51
Tchaikovsky, Peter Ilyitch,
on Mozart, 294
Telemann, Georg Philipp, 48, 8897
evaluation as composer by Romain Rolland, 8889
Musical Essays, or Twelve Soli and Twelve Trios (Essercizii Musici), 97
sonata no. 1, in F, 97
sonata no. 7, in A, 97
sonata for vln. and b.c., from Musique de Table, part II, 94
Six Sonatas for Violin Solo, Accompanied by Harpsichord, 9193
sonata no. 2, in D, 92
sonata no. 3, in B min., 91, 92
sonata no. 6, 93
Sonate Metodiche, op. 13, 9597
six sonatas (1728) "for Violin Solo or
Flute," 9596
sonata no. 5, 96
sonata no. 6, 95
six sonatas (1732) "for Flute or Violin," 95
Six Sonatinas for Violin and Harpsichord, 9091
sonatinas nos. 1, 3, and 5, 91
Tempo indications, 246
Tempo judgment,
advice by Leopold Mozart, 7, 247
in Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, op. 47, 35
Thorough-bass (basso continuo, figured bass), 12
Torelli, Giuseppe, 44
teacher of:
dall'Abaco, 85
Pisendel, 140
Tremais, 204
sonata in F min., op. 1, no. 12, 204
Trio sonata, 14, 18
Tuning, see Scordatura
Valentini, Giuseppe, 63, 64
Sonate da camera, op. 8, 64
sonata in G, 64
Vannucci, Domenico,
teacher of Boccherini, 218


Page 360
Veracini, Antonio, 151
teacher of Veracini (Francesco), 151
sonata in C for violin and basso continuo, op. 3, no. 2, 151
Veracini, Francesco Maria, 151164
Twelve Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo, op. 1, 152155
sonata, op. 1, no. 12, 154155
Academic sonatas (Sonate accademiche), twelve sonatas for vln. and b.c., op. 2, 152153, 154, 155164
sonata in D, op. 2, no. 1, 156159
sonata in C, op. 2, no. 3, 160161
Canone, 163
Twelve Sonatas for Violin and Basso Continuo [on Corelli's op. 5], 153
Sonatas for Violin or Flute [and b.c.], 153
Vinquist, Mary, 53
Viola da gamba, 12, 13
Violin, in the accompanied keyboard sonata, 215216
character in 17th and 18th centuries, 13
''and keyboard," top billing, 216
vs. keyboard, 208
role in the duo with piano, 1
as "voice," 12
Viotti, Giovanni Battista, 225
six sonatas for violin and basso continuo, op. 2, 225
Virginal, 13
Vitali, Giovanni Battista, 44
Artifici Musicali, Opus XIII, 44
Vitali, Tommaso Antonio, 44, 45
teacher of dall'Abaco, 85
Concerto di Sonate, op. 4, 4546
sonata no. 4, in G, 45
sonata no. 8, in C, 45
sonata no. 9, in G min., 45
sonata no. 11, in B min., 45
Vivaldi, Antonio, 48, 6577
Concerto Grosso in E min. for four violins (L'estro armonico, op. 3, no. 4), 137
teacher of:
Pisendel, 140
Somis, 87
twelve sonatas, op. 2, for violin and basso continuo, 6675
sonata in D min., op. 2, no. 3, 6669, 7071
sonata, op. 2, no. 9, 7173
sonata in A min., op. 2, no. 12, 70, 7375
four sonatas for violin and basso continuo, from op. 5, 75
four sonatas "made for maestro Pisendel," 7576
Vodicka, Vaclav (Wenzeslaus), 147148
Six Solos for a Violin and Bass, op. 1, 147148
W
Walsh, John, publisher of Corelli, 50
publisher of Handel, 98
Walther, Johann Jakob, 20, 3842
Scherzi da Violino Solo con il Basso Continuo . . . , 3942
sonatas nos. 1, 2, and 3, 40
sonata no. 8, 41
sonata no. 10 (Imitation of the Cuckoo), 40, 41
Sonata mit Suite, no. 2, from Hortulus Chelicus, 41, 42
Wasielewski, Wilhelm Josef von,
on Veracini, 164
Weber, Constanze, 260
Webern, Anton (see also vol. II),
Four Pieces for Violin and Piano, op. 7, 23
Westhoff, Johann Paul, 39
Wieniawski, Henri,
Scherzo Tarantelle, 203
Williams, Peter,
Figured-Bass Accompaniment, 52
Woehl, Waldemar, editor of:
Birkenstock, 144
Fesch, De, 145
Z
Zachau, Friedrich Wilhelm, teacher of:
Handel, 97, 139
Kirchoff, 139
Zaslaw, Neal, 53
Zellner, L. A.,
arranger of Nardini "viola sonata," 225226
tampers with Tartini sonata, Didone abbandonata, 169170


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Page 361
The text of this book was set on the linotype in Electra by Maryland Linotype Composition Company, Baltimore,
Maryland.
The display type is Bell.
Musical autography and preparation of excerpts from editions by Wilmia Polnauer. Designed by Jacqueline
Schuman.

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Violin and Keyboard: The Duo Repertoire:

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Preface to Reprint Edition

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Giovanni Paolo Cima

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Giovanni Battista Fontana

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Johann Heinrich Schmelzer

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Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber

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In this particular sonata, the tuning is

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Johann Jakob Walther