Becoming Heinrich Schenker

Much controversy surrounds Schenker’s mature theory and its

attempt to explain musical pitch motion. Becoming Heinrich
Schenker brings a new perspective to Schenker’s theoretical work,
showing that ideas characteristic of his mature theory, although
in many respects fundamentally different, developed logically out
of his earlier ideas. Robert P. Morgan provides an introduction to
Schenker’s mature theory and traces its development through all of his
major publications, considering each in detail and with numerous
music examples. Morgan also explores the relationship between
Schenker’s theory and his troubled ideology, which crucially
influenced the evolution of his ideas and was heavily dependent
upon both the empirical and idealist strains of contemporary
German philosophical thought. Relying where possible on quotations
from Schenker’s own words, this book offers a balanced approach
to his theory and a unique overview of this central music figure,
generally considered to be the most prominent music theorist of
the twentieth century.

robert p. morgan is Professor Emeritus of Music at Yale

University. He is active as both a theorist and historian, and his
book Twentieth-Century Music (1991) has been a standard text for
over twenty years. He has published numerous other books as
editor, including Alban Berg: Historical and Analytical Perspectives
(1991), Modern Times (1993), and Hearing and Knowing Music:
The Unpublished Essays of Edward T. Cone (2009). He has served as
Chair of the Music Departments at both the University of Chicago and
Yale University and was a recipient of grants from the German
Government and the National Endowment for the Humanities,
plus a Burlington Northern Achievement Award for distinction in
graduate teaching in Humanities at the University of Chicago. He
has been a member of numerous advisory, executive, and editorial
boards and was Chair of the Visiting Committee of the Music
Department at Harvard University and twice a faculty member
of the Mannes Institute for Advanced Studies in Music Theory.
Becoming Heinrich Schenker
Music Theory and Ideology

robert p. morgan
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Morgan, Robert P., author.
Becoming Heinrich Schenker : music theory and ideology / Robert P. Morgan.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-107-06769-1 (hardback)
1. Schenker, Heinrich, 1868–1935 – Criticism and interpretation. 2. Music
theory. I. Title.
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 Contents

List of music examples [page vi]

Acknowledgements [x]
Preface [xiii]

part i theory [1]

1 Introduction [3]
2 Schenker’s final theory [14]
part ii development [39]
3 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” [41]

4 Die Harmonielehre [60]

5 Kontrapunkt I and II [77]
6 The monographs [98]

7 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik [117]

8 Der freie Satz [156]
part iii reconsideration [181]
9 Critical assessment: ideology [183]

10 Critical assessment: theory [204]

11 Conclusion [219]

German originals [230]

Works cited [264]
Index [272]

v
 Music examples

2.1 The three forms of the Ursatz [page 17]

2.2 Two forms of a fifth-Zug in C major [20]
2.3 A C-major Urlinie with 4̂ , temporarily converted into a
consonance, as endtone of a fifth-Zug [21]
2.4 A linear third as initial ascent to the first tone of an
Ursatz [22]
2.5 Reaching over and reaching under [22]
2.6 Two forms of unfolding, both also with linear
progressions [22]
2.7 Two voice exchanges, the second with a linear
progression [22]
2.8 C-major Zug with mixture [23]
2.9 C-major Urlinie with linear progressions from 5̂ and 2̂ [23]
2.10 Auxiliary cadence with an incomplete transference [23]
2.11 Arpeggiation on ii in C major as part of transferred
Ursatz [24]
2.12 Dividers on fifth degree and third degree [24]
2.13 Two initial ascents by arpeggiation, the second with a
linear progression [25]
2.14 Interrupted Ursatz with Urlinie on 5̂ [26]
2.15 Coupling with interrupted Ursatz and linear
progression [27]
2.16 Stufe as representation of a larger harmonic progression [28]
2.17 J. S Bach: Prelude no. 1 in C major, graph (Schenker 1932/
1969b, pp. 36–37) [34]
4.1 Harmonic system generated from C, plus subdominant
(Schenker 1906/1954, example 39/34, p. 54/39) [63]
4.2 Diatonic harmonic system in scalar form from C (Schenker
1906/1954, example 40/35, p. 55/41) [63]
4.3 Contrapuntal relationships in strict vs free composition
(Schenker 1906/1954, diagram, p. 204, German edition
only) [69]
vi
 List of music examples vii

4.4(a) J. S. Bach, C-minor organ prelude and fugue (Schenker 1906/

1954, example 154/120, p. 188/145) [74]
4.4(b) Chopin, Prelude, op. 28 no. 4 (Schenker 1906/1954, example
158/124, p. 192/148) [75]
4.5(a), (b) (a) J. S. Bach, E-minor organ prelude; (b) Contrapuntal
reduction (Schenker 1906/1954, examples 148, 149/114,
115, p. 185/142–43) [75]
5.1 Handel: G-major chaconne, variation II (Schenker 1910a/
1987, example 357, p. 314/241) [84]
5.2 Implied tones in Handel G-major chaconne, variation II
(Schenker 1910a/1987, example 358, p. 314/241) [84]
5.3 Handel: Suites de pièces no. 1, Air with variations, variation
I (Schenker 1910a/1987, example 48, p. 86/59) [85]
5.4 Handel: Suites de pièces, no. 1, Air with variations, variation
I: reduction with implied tone (Schenker 1910a/1987,
example 49 p. 86/59) [85]
5.5(a), (b) (a) J. S. Bach: English Suite no. 6: prelude; (b) Reduction
(Schenker 1910a/1987, example 76, p. 101/71) [86]
5.6(a) Strauss: Ein Heldenleben, op. 40; (b) Reduction (Schenker
1910a/1987, examples 65 and 66, p. 95/66) [86]
5.7 Mozart: Symphony no. 36, I, end of development (Schenker
1910a/1987, example 200, p. 204/148) [87]
5.8 Mozart: Symphony no. 36, I, layered reduction (Schenker
(1910a/1987), example 201, p. 205/149) [88]
5.9 J. S. Bach: English Suite no. 6, prelude: linear reduction
(Schenker 1910a/1987, example 120, p. 136/96) [90]
5.10(a), (b) Fux: strict-counterpoint exercises (Schenker 1922/1987,
examples 334 and 335, p. 214/219) [94]
5.11(a), (b) Fux: exercises with whole-note voice deleted (Schenker
1922/1987, example 395, p. 259/269) [95]
6.1 J. S. Bach, Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue: reduction of
fugue subject (Schenker 1910b/1984, example 33,
p. 32/45) [108]
6.2 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, I: harmonic reduction of
mm. 12–19 (Schenker 1914, figure 7, p. 21) [108]
6.3 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, III, recitative: linear
reduction (Schenker 1914/1972a, figure 74, p. 62) [109]
6.4 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, II: reduction of mm.
41–72 (Schenker 1914/1972a, figure 70, p. 56) [110]
viii List of music examples

6.5 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, II: reduction of top-voice

figuration, mm. 41–48 (Schenker 1914/1972a, figure 64,
p. 54) [111]
6.6 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 101, II: reduction of mm. 11–37
(Schenker 1921/1972b, figure 29, pp. 37–38) [113]
7.1 J. S. Bach: Little Prelude no. 5: reduction (Schenker 1921–24/
2004–05, issue 5, figure 1, p. 8/180.2) [122]
7.2 Chord of nature transformations (Schenker 1921–24/
2004–05, issue 8/9, figures 1, 2, 3, p. 49/117.1) [124]
7.3(a), (b) Passing-tone and arpeggiation conversions (Schenker
1921–24/2004–05, issue 8/9, figures 4c and 7,
pp. 49–50/117.2) [125]
7.4 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 10 no. 1: reduction of mm. 1–21
(Schenker 1925/1994, figure 2, pp. 189–90/106.1) [128]
7.5 Haydn: Piano Sonata in C, Hob. XVI:48, IV, mm. 123–29
(Schenker 1925/1994, figure 7, p. 124/108.2) [129]
7.6 Chopin: Berceuse, op. 57: reduction of mm. 1–5 (Schenker
1926/1996, figure 2, p. 13/2.2) [131]
7.7 Chopin: Nocturne, op. 9 no. 2: reduction (Schenker 1926/
1996, figure 8, p. 17/5.1) [132]
7.8 Elaborations of bass arpeggiation (Schenker 1926/1996,
figure 14, p. 21/8.1) [133]
7.9 J. S. Bach: B-flat-minor fugue from The Well-Tempered
Clavier I, mm. 55–63 and reduction (Schenker 1926/1996,
figure 29, p. 33/14.2) [134]
7.10 C. P. E. Bach: C-major Piano Sonata, I: Urlinie-Tafel
(Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 4, Beilage/150–51) [139]
7.11 C. P. E. Bach: C-major Piano Sonata, I: reduction of mm.
44–51 (Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 4, figure 1,
p. 37/152.2) [141]
7.12 Mendelssohn: “Lied ohne Worte,” op. 67 no. 6: reduction
(Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 10, figure 1,
p. 30/150.1) [142]
7.13 Mozart: Piano Sonata K 310, I: reduction of development
(Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 2, figure 1,
p. 10/57.2) [143]
7.14 Beethoven: Symphony no. 5, II: reduction of mm. 123–76
(Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 5, figure 6,
p. 37/205.2) [144]
 List of music examples ix

7.15 Mozart: Symphony no. 40 in G minor, I: middleground

analysis of development section (Schenker 1926/1996,
figure 1d, fragment, Anhang/60–61) [148]
7.16 Beethoven: Symphony no. 3: middleground analysis of
scherzo, first half (Schenker 1930/1997, figure 33,
Anhang/42–43) [150]
8.1 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 10 no. 3, II: analysis (Schenker
1935/1979, example 39.2, p. 13) [166]
 Acknowledgements

This study was many years in planning, originally beginning as an article

that was gradually expanded until it reached book-length proportions.
I am no longer sure when early work began, but certainly well over a decade
ago. At its outset, Schenker’s theory was but one of several topics that
concerned me; but during several subsequent periods, particularly
immediately preceding this publication, it occupied me especially.
A sizeable body of literature on Schenker’s theory and its conceptual
foundations already exists, and I have relied heavily upon the work of
many colleagues in writing this book. Some are friends with whom I have
discussed Schenker at length, while others I know primarily through
publications; and much of their work is cited during the course of this
book. But since I have not been able to mention them all, I want to
thank them here collectively for contributing to my view of Schenker,
which would otherwise have been altogether different. Although this
book takes a path of its own, it repeats many points covered by other
scholars; and to them, particularly those who have dealt with Schenker’s
history and his work’s meaning – a list including (to name only some) Ian
Bent, David Berry, William Drabkin, Stephen Hinton, William Pastille,
Hedi Siegel, and William Rothstein – I acknowledge my great indebtedness.
In addition, a number of books and dissertations on Schenker have
appeared in the relatively recent past, by such eminent scholars as Leslie
David Blasius, Matthew Brown, Nicholas Cook, Martin Eybl, Nicolas
Meeùs, Eugene Narmour, William Pastille, and Robert Snarrenberg.1
Although these books inevitably overlap in part with this one, none shares
its concentration on Schenker’s overall theoretical development; and
those that deal with his ideology do so in very different ways. I nevertheless
want to acknowledge Nicholas Cook’s The Schenker Project for its
treatment of Schenker as a social, political, and philosophical force,
who can be understood only in relation to contemporary (especially
Viennese) Germanic and German-Jewish thought. This book had a

1
Brown (2006), Blasius (1996), Cook (2007), Eybl (1995), Meeùs (1993), Narmour (1977), Pastille
x (1985), and Snarrenberg (1997).
 Acknowledgements xi

significant influence on my own, and brought about one important alter-

ation: the brief discussion of ornamentation originally included in the
section on synthesis in Chapter 6 (pp. 98–116) has been replaced by a
much longer one with a section of its own.
Of the countless articles on Schenker that have been published during
the same period, many covering some aspect of his work relevant to the
present book have been cited within the text. But one that played a
particularly important role in its preparation should be noted here: William
Rothstein’s extended article/review of the Schenker-related entries in the
second edition of The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians.2
Despite its stated purpose, this article provides an unusually knowledgeable
and wide-ranging treatment of many of Schenker’s theoretical ideas; and
I benefited greatly from it.
Joseph Auner and Peter Smith, two former students of mine, now
distinguished professors (one specializing in musicology, the other in
music theory), read an earlier draft of the entire book and made numerous
valuable suggestions for improvement. In writing this final version, I have
relied heavily on their advice and owe both my deepest thanks; without
their input this book would have been completely different. The three
outside anonymous reader reports also had a significant effect on the
book, especially on its manner of presentation. I also want to thank
those at Cambridge University Press who assisted me, especially Vicki
Cooper, the Press’s Senior Commissioning Editor for Music and Theater
(whom I first met during her graduate-school days at the University
of Chicago), who worked long and diligently on my manuscript; and
Fleur Jones, for invaluable assistance with various publishing issues. Also
to be thanked is Guillermo Brachetta, who provided excellent copies for all
of the examples, most of which (including without exception the more
complex ones) first appeared in Schenker’s own publications.
Most of the earlier work on this book took place at Yale University,
where I had the luxury of constant contact with both students and faculty
who knew a great deal about Schenker. I especially want to thank several
colleagues there: Allen Forte, Daniel Harrison, James Hepokoski, Patrick
McCreless, and Richard Cohn. All played an important part – though no
doubt largely unknown to themselves – in shaping my ideas on the theorist.
The students with whom I worked at Yale, as well as those at the University
of Chicago and Temple University, also influenced me immeasurably, especi-
ally through participation in numerous classes and seminars on Schenker.

2
Rothstein (2001).
xii Acknowledgements

While at Yale I also had the advantage of working in its wonderful

research library, which contained virtually all of Schenker’s works in
both original editions and translation. I benefited incalculably from this
sympathetic environment, where all questions were answered instan-
taneously by helpful staff members. Among those who assisted me, Susan
Eggleston Lovejoy and Karl Schrom deserve particular thanks.
I also want to acknowledge the following publishers and individuals
who own copyrights for the various Schenker works and have allowed
me to quote copyrighted texts and examples from their lists: Columbia
University Press, Georg Olms Verlag, Hellmut Federhofer, Musicalia
Press, Pendragon Press, Theoria, The University of Chicago Press,
William Drabkin, Yale University Press, and especially Universal Edition.
Finally, I thank my wife Carole Morgan, to whom this book is dedicated.
Herself a flutist, she has shared my professional career for many
years, holding positions in the music departments at the last three univer-
sities with which I was associated. She has also supported me over many
years, including those in which this book took form, and has done so
in more ways than I can possibly express.
Preface

Heinrich Schenker’s mature theory of music occupies a unique position

in the history of tonal music. It attempts to explain the pitch structure of
a limited portion of this music (a portion that Schenker believed was
the only music worth considering) totally and with complete rationality.
Nevertheless, there are some distinct peculiarities to the theory, one of
the most telling being that it contains an ideological paradox consisting
of two apparently independent and opposed philosophical strains: a
nineteenth-century Idealist one and a twentieth-century Modernist one.
Although both influenced the theory’s formation in a critical way, the
Idealist one should be considered the dominant one, for it supplied
the theory with its basic core – the spirituality of tone. This belief deter-
mined not only Schenker’s general view of music but his overall theoretical
development; and it is probably not too much to say that his mature
theory was created largely as an effort to explain how individual composi-
tions could express their spiritual basis and acquire such fundamental
Schenkerian concepts as the notion of compositional unfolding, the
Ursatz (and its components, the Urlinie and bass arpeggiation), and all
the other transformational operations.
This idealist influence was evident in Schenker’s earliest theoretical
writings, which dated from the opening years of the twentieth century.
He initially expressed the idea of tone’s spirituality in his first fully theor-
etical work, the Harmonielehre of 1906 (its influence limited, however,
to music’s harmonic domain); and it was even presaged – if somewhat
contrarily – in the earlier “pre-theoretic” article “Der Geist der musika-
lischen Technik” of 1895. Schenker was not, however, simply content to
state that tone was spiritual; he was equally committed to explaining
it theoretically. And for that his theory required significant modernist
additions, above all the hierarchical and notational features and basic
compositional orientation, for all of which it also became famous. In
addition, the theory needed a substantial amount of time to reach full
development, a span essentially covering the rest of Schenker’s life.
Schenker’s mature theory, then, including the unusual idealist–modernist
mix that underlay it, was completed during his final years and reached full xiii
xiv Preface

maturity only in his last publication, Der freie Satz. Nevertheless, Schenker
seems to have realized – certainly unconsciously but at times with consid-
erable foresight – that his overall development pointed in some sense
toward this theory. Although his work always provoked great interest,
evident at various points of his development, it can thus be beneficially
viewed as evolving toward the final theory. Of course most commentators,
myself included, do not view his final theory as the perfect culmination
of his entire previous development; yet, as seen in Part II, devoted entirely
to his theoretical evolution, there are aspects of this development, and
arguably the most important ones, that gain clarity when looked at from
the perspective of its completion.
This book was written, then, in the belief that Schenker can be under-
stood only when considered in a dual light: in terms of his overall theoretical
development, and also in terms of the peculiar mixture of ideological
elements that contributed to his work’s character. Both factors, the evolu-
tion through which it acquired final shape and the ideology that supplied
its necessary background – played essential roles in its development and
are absolutely critical if we are to understand it adequately. Indeed, it is
difficult if not impossible to see how the theory could have come into
existence at all without the presence of both ingredients, its development
and ideology.1
The conflicted nature of Schenker’s theory must thus be stressed even
in these brief introductory remarks. On the one hand, it was based on the
empirical assumption that musical understanding is derived from close
musical observation, and that it depends upon contrapuntal principles
that were put together during the tonal period itself. On the other hand,
it did not simply accept these contrapuntal categories but extended them
to cover ever larger expanses of music, eventually entire compositions.
And this necessitated considering music idealistically: as natural, organic,
and derived from the “chord of nature,” and as consisting of goal-directed

1
Other Schenker commentators have of course been aware of this ideological split in his work; but
while their writings have certainly influenced my own, their tendency has been to emphasize one
side of his philosophical position at the expense of the other, as if only one had been adopted or a
permanent shift was made from one to the other. This is the case, for example, in Blasius (1996),
Karnes (2008), and Korsyn (1993) and (2009), all of whom write about Schenker’s philosophical
background, though they disagree as to whether it was determined by a change (Karnes and
Blasius) or not (Korsyn), by his turn to a more empirical (Karnes or Korsyn) or critical approach
(Blasius), or whether it was primarily defined in the later pre-theoretical articles (Karnes), in
“Geist” (Korsyn), or in Kontrapunkt I (Blasius). I prefer, on the other hand, to see both idealism
and empiricism as consistently present throughout Schenker’s entire theoretical career, and thus
evident in all of his professional writings.
 Preface xv

tones with “egos” that allowed for long-range prolongations. For Schenker,
then, music depended upon both contrapuntal operations originally
established in the eighteenth century, such as basic voice-leading types
like passing motion, neighbor relationships, and arpeggiated leaps, as well
as listener-oriented psychological processes primarily developed in the
nineteenth century, such as mental retention, musical depth, and substit-
ution, all of which incorporated “invisible” features located beneath music’s
surface.
Schenker’s life itself was rather uneventful. He was born in 1868 in
Galicia of a Jewish family in the outer reaches of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire; and he died in 1935 in Vienna, a prominent but still largely
unknown figure, even in musical circles. Yet he was, and remains, a
central – if controversial – figure in music theory, both because of the
nature of his theory and because of his opinions concerning other general
matters, especially music history but including all sorts of things. As for his
theory, he claimed that music was totally explicable if its interpretation
was directed toward a single dimension, pitch, which he believed – though
with some inconsistency – was the sole parameter that could be logically
explained once and for all. As for music history, prior to Bach and Handel
it represented only a long preparation for the relatively few eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century compositions he considered masterpieces, while
after Brahms it experienced a sudden decline in a search for new methods
that proved hopelessly beyond its true nature.
For Schenker, then, music history revealed a “grand narrative” in develo-
ping from relatively primitive beginnings until it attained the tools capable
of producing great works, a period lasting only two centuries, after which
it underwent precipitous decline. The controversy that surrounded him is
thus partly attributable to this attainment–loss view, in support of which
his theory could be said to have developed. But this view leaves open two
important questions: why this concentration on a small group of works,
and why attention to only a single musical parameter? One answer, perhaps,
is that, despite obvious disadvantages, both enabled him to say something
essential that would otherwise have been missing about the small body of
eighteenth- and nineteenth-century music to which his attention was
directed. Though the theory does not of course tell us everything we
would like to know about this music, it does attempt to explain one of
its most critical features: how its pitches operate.
This book, then, offers a conceptual overview of Schenker’s theoretical
development and ideological position, and it attempts to tell how his
work aimed to fulfill its admittedly limited yet important role. Despite a
xvi Preface

certain amount of information about the theorist’s life and character, the
focus is thus primarily on the theory itself and on the Schenkerian
“mentalité” that supported it (even though it was largely inherited from
thinkers outside of the music field itself ).
Schenker’s specifically theoretical development can be conveniently
divided chronologically into two parts, a first phase, beginning in 1903
and leading up to the final theory in about 1920, and a second phase
during which the final theory itself took shape, beginning about 1920 and
extending until Schenker’s death in 1935. The first phase is of great
interest in itself, not only because of its relation to the final theory but due
to its own particular quality. In fact, many actually prefer it to the later
one, not least because it contains an informal attitude toward how music is
organized. But since my own interest is primarily with the close ties
linking the two phases, this book concentrates mainly on ideas from
the first phase that lead to those in the second.
As for the book’s readership, it was not conceived for experts alone
but also for those musically literate who have only a general interest in
the current state of music theory. Three segments warrant particular
attention in this regard, all of them containing relatively detailed descrip-
tions of Schenker graphs: Section 7 of Chapter 2 (pp. 33–36), Section 3 of
Chapter 7 (pp. 145–53), and Section 4 of Chapter 8 (pp. 165–71) – the
first and last treating one graph, the second two. While these pose more
technical difficulties than other parts and require a degree of specialized
knowledge, they can nevertheless be skimmed over without unduly
compromising the larger argument.
A word is in order about the concept of “final theory,” which I have
used – and will continue to use – with reference to the culmination of
Schenker’s second phase of development. This began to assume concrete
shape only during the 1920s, in the successive issues of Der Tonwille
and volumes of Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, and took on final form only
in 1926, when Schenker was in his late fifties and had less than a decade to
live. Even at that point, the theory had to await absolute completion until the
final volume of Meisterwerk in 1930, and its complete presentation did not
appear until Der freie Satz, published shortly following his death. Moreover,
“final,” as well as its complement “mature,” relates not just to the theory itself
but to the highly systematic and self-contained character of the later work,
giving it both a chronological and theoretical meaning. For only in the last
five or six years of his life, the period for which he is now primarily known, did
Schenker’s musical vision reach full maturity and the previously mentioned
“grand historical narrative” acquire explicitly musical form.
 Preface xvii

Though the eighty years since Schenker died have left us in a better
position to understand the long-range implications of his work, his role in
today’s musical life remains much contested. This primarily results from
three reasons, all stressed in this book: his later theory’s overall character,
its limited reach, and its ideological underpinnings. For some the mature
theory simply tries to do too much and for the wrong reasons, so that
they would prefer to ignore it; while others feel that another book on
Schenker is unnecessary at this time, when the main focus of musical
thought has shifted away from “music itself,” Schenker’s main interest,
to its function within the larger social and political framework, something
about which he said relatively little. My own feeling, however, is that both
these opinions are short-sighted. Whatever Schenker’s limitations, his final
theory is important both because it tells us much about what music
theory can and cannot be and because it succeeds so well in saying some-
thing important about the music it addresses.
Regarding organization, Part I contains two chapters that provide the
base for what follows: Chapter 1, a general introduction to Schenker; and
Chapter 2, an in-advance view of the mature theory as a whole. Part II, the
book’s heart, contains six chapters surveying Schenker’s major theoretical
publications in essentially chronological order. The first of these, Chapter 3,
deals with a critical early article, “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik”
(“The Spirit of Musical Technique”), written in 1895 before Schenker
turned to music theory proper but essential for understanding his theor-
etical development. The following three chapters, 4–6, address Schenker’s
first phase as a theorist, treating works published between 1903 and 1922.
The first two, Chapters 4 and 5, cover the opening two treatises of his basic
theoretical trilogy, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien: Die
Harmonielehre of 1906, Schenker’s initial publication devoted solely to
theoretical matters; and the two volumes of Kontrapunkt, published in
1910 and 1922. Chapter 6 follows with the seven monographs on individual
composers (and with one exception, individual compositions), which
appeared irregularly between 1903 and 1921, and thus cover roughly
the same period as the two previous chapters.
Chapters 7 and 8 of Part II, overlapping slightly with the preceding
two, deal with the second developmental phase, from 1921 to 1935. The
first treats the two periodical series, Der Tonwille (ten issues between 1921
and 1924) and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik (three volumes dating
from 1925, 1926, and 1930), both of which stem from the decade in
which the elements of the final theory were solidified. The second,
Chapter 8, deals with Schenker’s last publication, Der freie Satz, the final
xviii Preface

volume in his theoretical trilogy and the culmination of his mature theory,
which appeared shortly after his death in 1935.
Part III, containing the final three chapters, drops the relatively neutral
perspective of Parts I and II for a more critical tone, giving attention to both
the theory’s advantages and disadvantages. All three chapters emphasize
the final theory, the first, Chapter 9, its ideological issues and the second,
Chapter 10, its musical-technical ones, while the final one, Chapter 11,
comments more generally on Schenker’s position in intellectual history
and takes a final look at the mature theory.
The volume’s main segment, Part II, thus consists of a historical survey of
all of Schenker’s main works. It has been shaped by two assumptions
that may require some explanation: that Schenker’s evolution can be
understood as basically consistent and unidirectional, and that it moves
toward the final theory. Both are controversial and necessitate simplifying
his development, which was by no means entirely undeviating. Indeed, I do
not myself feel that a direct line can be drawn between all the ideas
expressed in Schenker’s early works and those in the later ones, nor that
they are in any way equivalent. But I do feel that some concepts expressed
in the early works anticipate later ones in a way that seems both powerful
and inevitable. It is not, then, that the earlier works completely predict the
subsequent ones, but that some ideas introduced there can be viewed as both
related to later ones and providing them a sort of prior foundation.2 These
assumptions do, moreover, enable the book to assume a more integrated
and straightforward course. And though they cannot be said to tell us the
entire Schenkerian story (whatever that might be), they do allow this book
to unfold as smoothly as possible by concentrating on the theory’s teleology.
Nothing essential, moreover, is omitted from Schenker’s development; and
the result produced, though necessarily incomplete, is not misleading.
An additional advantage to the assumption of goal-directedness is that it
facilitates a picture that is consistent with Schenker’s own. The theorist
always considered that his work – above all when he looked at it in retro-
spect – was aimed at a definite result. This is not to say that his formulations

2
Among those who have attacked a teleological approach, Keiler (1989, pp. 273–74) notes the
presence of a general “straightjacket” attitude in Schenker studies, prone to accept not only
connections between ideas encountered in his early theoretical works and those in the mature
ones, but equivalences and identities. In particular he faults Oswald Jonas, who, in editing the
English translation of Schenker’s Harmonielehre, seems to adopt such a teleological point of view,
noting the anticipation there of such mature techniques as Auskomponierung, Schichten, and
Entfaltung, as well as middleground and background. I avoid this detailed and specific notion of
anticipation, however, confining myself to more general concepts readily understood as related to,
while not completely anticipating, the final theory.
 Preface xix

were preordained, or necessary, or that they resulted in theoretical progress

(though he himself obviously thought they did). But if Schenker’s own
assumptions are accepted, even temporarily, his final theory can emerge as
an accomplishment of major, if only partial, musical vision.
An organizational feature requiring comment is the relationship between
Schenker’s ideological-aesthetic position and his theoretical formulations.
Although the entire volume assumes that the two interact closely, this
becomes evident only gradually. Thus Part I’s general introduction and
“in-advance” view of Schenker’s final theory almost entirely avoids their
interconnection; while Part II’s first chapter is devoted largely to ideology,
as it treats an article that deals almost exclusively with that topic. Part II’s
Chapters 4 and 5, however, switch focus by concentrating on the
specifically musical-theoretical concepts that resulted from the aesthetic
topics presented in the previous one. Ideological matters having been
downplayed, they reappear at length in Part II’s Chapter 6 (especially
Sections 1 [pp. 99–101] and 2 [pp. 101–02] and Chapter 8 (Sections 5
[pp. 171–75], 6 [pp. 175–78], and the close of 7 [pp. 178–80]). The three
chapters of Part III use their more critical approach to treat first extramusi-
cal issues in Chapter 9, and then musical ones in Chapter 10, while the final
one, Chapter 11, deals with both in roughly equal measure.
It should be clear, then, that this book is not a “how-to” treatise on
Schenkerian analysis. Several Schenker primers are available for those
who wish them, but little information is offered here about how an
analysis should be undertaken or notated. In addition, the book was not
written by a dyed-in-the-wool Schenkerian. I have been aware of the
theorist since undergraduate days, have studied, admired, and taught his
analytical approach many times, and published numerous articles related
to him both directly and indirectly, but I am by no measure one of his
true disciples. I admire Schenker, but I do not think his analytical
approach is the only valid one, or that the compositions in his canon are
the only ones worthy of theoretical attention. This is not, then, an account
from within, but an attempt to provide a sympathetic and even-handed
consideration of his work. There are disadvantages, obviously, to being an
outsider in Schenkerian scholarship; but in my view these are more than
outweighed by the advantages of relative objectivity.
Two features above all distinguish this book. First, it treats Schenker’s
entire theoretical development as presented in all of the major published
works; and second, it examines the impact on his theory of more
general, non-musical ideas. It also quotes Schenker frequently. Although
this is space-consuming (Schenker was not one always to express himself
xx Preface

succinctly, or stay on a single path), its benefits should be evident, as it

allows him to speak of his own work in his own voice. Though this also
comes with a downside (Schenker’s tendency to view his own theory in a
rosy light), I have tried to counter this by taking a skeptical view with
regard to much that he says.
Schenker quotations are cited first by their original German page
number (in some cases from the second edition), then by page number
for the English translation. Italicized passages always correspond with
the original; and in cases where translations were not available, I have
provided my own. Since the German originals are in some cases more
complete than the translations used here, these are all included in an
appendix.
One disadvantage of relying so heavily upon Schenker’s own words is
that there is relatively limited information concerning the relationship of
his work to that of other Western theorists, since he was not overly
generous in conferring credit on others. I have also restricted the primary
sources I have used mainly to those that appeared in works that were
published during Schenker’s lifetime: the three treatises “by an artist”: Die
Harmonielehre, Kontrapunkt I and II, and Der freie Satz; the seven mono-
graphs; and the ten issues of Der Tonwille and three volumes of Das
Meisterwerk in der Musik. This may seem problematic, as Schenker
also published numerous articles; and a significant body of previously
unpublished material has become available since his death. None of the
articles (excepting the one considered in Chapter 3), however, contains
information that is vital to Schenker’s overall development; and while
I do not doubt the significance of the posthumous material, I prefer to
treat Schenker essentially as he presented himself: through works made
publicly available during his own lifetime and cited in his own writings.
Moreover, no recently published material (some of which is nevertheless
cited) contains information that would significantly alter the argument
presented here.
part i

Theory
1 Introduction

The highest triumph, the proudest joy in hearing a work of Art is to raise
and enhance the ear, as it were, to the power of the eye. Think of a
broad and beautiful landscape surrounded by mountains and hills, full of
fields and meadows and forests and streams, full of everything that Nature
brings forth in beauty and variety. And then climb up to a spot that makes
accessible to the eye the entire landscape in one instant: how there,
encompassed by the wandering gaze, the joyful, tiny paths and rivers and
villages and forests and everything that lives and does not live are
interconnected! So too, located somewhere high above the work of art,
there is a point from which the spirit clearly overlooks and overhears the
entire work, all of its paths and goals, the lingering and rushing, all variety
and boundedness, all dimensions and proportions. Only he who has found
this high point – and from such a perspective also the composer must
unfold his work – can honestly say that he has “heard” the work. But there
exist, in truth, only a few such hearers.

Schenker (1990), p. 103

These words close one of Heinrich Schenker’s earliest essays, “Das Hören
in der Musik” (“Hearing in Music”), published in 1894, some three years
after he began his Viennese musical career as composer, essayist and
reviewer. The passage is remarkably prescient, anticipating the basic idea
of Schenker’s mature theory to such an extent that one is inclined to see
his entire theoretical evolution as a response to its challenge: to find a way
of hearing and representing music like a landscape, simultaneously and
as a whole. This meant looking at it from a visual “high point,” from an
all-embracing, bird’s-eye perspective that allowed its overall pattern to be
instantaneously surveyed. Or, shifting the focus from listener to work, it
enabled compositions to display their overall coherence.1
The present book traces Schenker’s development toward this goal, focusing
on both the theoretical particulars of his theory and the key ideas, aesthetic

1
In addition to the idea of a comprehensive overview, two other points in this passage are
significant for Schenker’s development: the landscape view is obtained only through spirit (Geist)
and achieved only by a limited number of people. 3
4 Theory

and ideological, that helped shape it. It thus offers a conceptual history of
Schenker’s work in terms of the musical and extramusical concepts that
determined it. Though the quote opening this chapter is essentially visual
in nature, it encouraged Schenker to formulate principles of musical organi-
zation that were different from, and much more specific than, those found
in the visual arts. The quote, moreover, forms part of an internally consistent
ideological framework that developed before Schenker’s theory began taking
shape and helped lead him toward it.

Ideology

Since ideology, as a conceptual framework through which experience is

filtered as part of a more orderly overall picture, is often viewed with suspi-
cion, some explanation of its stress here seems appropriate. Distrust of
ideology stems mainly from the negative meaning it acquired through asso-
ciation with Marxism, within which it has consistently been understood as a
source of “false consciousness” that distorted normal conceptions of material
reality by turning them upside down, rather like a camera obscura. Yet
ideologies can also be consensual and pervasive, and they can exist in forms
that reflect general social and intellectual positions rather than specifically
political ones. In addition, they are held with various degrees of emphasis,
professed or unacknowledged, conscious or unconscious, rigid or flexible. In
this more general sense, ideology exists behind all forms of thought, including
Schenker’s.
Indeed, Schenker was surprisingly encompassing, rigid, and open in
stating the ideology behind his work, to whose underlying assumptions he
was unequivocally inclined. He seems to have been unusually conscious of
the close connections between his musical ideas and those pertaining
to other matters, as he consistently justified the former by referring to the
latter. Not surprisingly, then, a number of scholars have examined the
conceptual roots of Schenker’s musical thought; but they have also often
identified a single predecessor or intellectual movement as his primary
source.2
While I do not doubt the importance of particular intellectual currents in
shaping Schenker’s world view, I prefer to see him as someone with a wide
range of intellectual interests, unattached to any single influence. A thinker

2
For example, Clifton (1970), Barford (1975), Solie (1980), Pastille (1985), Korsyn (1988),
Pastille (1990b), and Snarrenberg (1997).
 Introduction 5

embracing a broad sphere of concerns, some conscious and others not, he

held ideological views that were also commonly held by a number of non-
musical thinkers of his time. These profoundly influenced the shape of his
musical thought, despite being drawn from a variety of different fields –
philosophical, literary, legal, and others. It thus seems difficult to me, indeed
impossible, to pinpoint a single source for his ideology, parts of which were
shared by numerous contemporaries and forerunners. Indeed, Schenker’s
ideology was for the most part set before he turned to theory proper; yet it
was essential, its aesthetic and philosophical principles providing a critical
nexus for his subsequent musical purposes.
The fact that Schenker studied law was thus clearly important in the
formulation of his musical theory.3 Yet the law of Schenker’s time shared
many basic assumptions with other disciplines and formed but one part of
a larger intellectual mix. Many of the most critical legal ideas – for example,
the significance of human interaction, a balance between unity and diver-
sity, the interrelationship of parts within a collective whole, a belief in
teleological historical development, and a single cause behind all events –
had their source in the overall intellectual tradition of his time.
As mentioned, it is difficult to imagine Schenker’s theory as having come
into existence without this larger intellectual background, which served
to encourage his development of an entirely new conception of musical
organization. No previous theorist offered such a synoptic view of music
that included both the particulars and internal workings of its construction.
Indeed, simply to have envisioned such a detailed explanation of music,
even if primarily limited to pitch alone, would count as an extraordinary
achievement; but to have realized it in such an all-encompassing manner
was truly remarkable.

Life and character

This section traces the major events in Schenker’s life, as well as his personal
manner, raising questions about his upbringing and personality relevant
to his theoretical development. Perhaps most surprising, however, is how
unlikely it was that someone with Schenker’s background could ever for-
mulate such a complex and innovative theory of music. Though he is now
widely recognized as the foremost music theorist of the twentieth century,
by both those who approve of his work and those who do not, he began life

3
The significance of Schenker’s study of law has been impressively documented in Alpern (1999).
6 Theory

as an improbable candidate for this role. Born in 1868 in Wisniowczyk,

in Galicia (now Poland), of largely non-musical Jewish parents (his mother
could play the piano, but his father was an impoverished physician), Schenker
was raised in very simple circumstances in an outlying and culturally
deprived region of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He attended school first
in Lemberg (now L’viv), then in Brzežany. He was nevertheless able to study
piano with the Chopin pupil Karol Mikuli, who at that time lived in Lemberg,
and he relocated to Vienna at 16 in 1884 (without family) and remained there
for the rest of his life. The purpose of his move to the capital city was not
to study music, however, but in conformity with his father’s wish that he
study law at the University of Vienna. He thus completed eight semesters of
law courses between 1884 and 1888 and received his law degree there in 1890.
Schenker’s shift to music theory was initially tentative. In 1887 (his twen-
tieth year, the year of his father’s death) he concurrently enrolled at the
Vienna Conservatory, where he studied piano with Ernst Ludwig, harmony
with Anton Bruckner, and composition with Johann Nepomuk Fuchs. But
he left the Conservatory without a degree in order to begin a career in Vienna
as a freelance composer, pianist, reviewer and feuilletonist. Only in the early
twentieth century, after he had given up both composing and reviewing
entirely, did his interests turn to music theory. But from this point on he
pursued it actively for the remainder of his life, teaching it, along with piano
performance and music editing (for which he became quite active), in order to
earn his living.
Significantly, then, Schenker’s theoretical concerns appeared only after
he himself no longer composed, and after the “common-practice” period of
tonality had ended (or at least could no longer be considered “common”); as
a consequence his theoretical work, while entirely devoted to tonal music,
was developed in a sense outside the world of tonality.4 In addition, he was,
and always remained, an outsider in the Viennese musical establishment.
He never held an official musical position in it, nor really belonged to it
properly in any way. Rather, he worked privately, always in difficult finan-
cial circumstances, existing through what he earned from piano lessons,
critical work, and the kindness of wealthy disciples.
With this background, Schenker hardly seemed destined for musical
fame. Yet despite his isolation from the centers of Viennese musical
power, certain aspects of his life and personality did support his theoretical
ambitions. First, he was a gifted and successful pianist, who during the 1890s
had frequently accompanied well-known soloists, including the Dutch

4
See Morgan (2002), p. 252.
 Introduction 7

baritone Johannes Messchaert. Jeanette Kornfeld Schenker (née Schiff ),

herself a musician formerly married to his friend Emil Kornfeld, also played
an essential role in Schenker’s professional life. Leaving her husband in
1910, she provided Schenker with various kinds of critical aid and, becom-
ing his wife in 1919, eventually also became, due to his failing eyesight, both
amanuensis and editor. Schenker also possessed a strong, even formidable
character, which enabled him to pursue his theoretical interests without
concern for the difficulties in his way. He was in addition extremely char-
ismatic, enjoying close association not only with students but with a number
of well-known contemporary musicians, including the conductor Wilhelm
Furtwängler.
Schenker was also fortunate in attracting a number of gifted students
committed to spreading his ideas. Several, including Hans Weisse, Oswald
Jonas, and Felix Salzer, immigrated to the United States during the 1930s,
where they established themselves as important figures who contributed
significantly to his fame. Other pupils, notably Anthony van Hoboken,
made financial contributions that helped defer expenses connected with
his publications and established an Archiv für Photogramme musikalischer
Meister-Handschriften in his name, located at the National Library in
Vienna. Yet despite his growing fame in North America and the British
Isles, Schenker remained a surprisingly marginal figure in Germany,
Austria, and elsewhere in continental Europe. He had a number of prom-
inent European students, however; and during the 1930s, Schenker insti-
tutes were established in Hamburg and Vienna, but both abruptly closed
when the Nazis came to power.5
Other personal traits help explain why Schenker was such a prominent
yet controversial figure, and perhaps also why detractors have reacted so
negatively to his work. One can accept or reject, for example, Rameau’s
basse fondamentale without doubting the importance of his idea in musical
thought or central position within Western musical history. But Schenker
is different. One reason may be, to borrow a well-known distinction, that
he was a “hedgehog” rather than a “fox”: someone who held unreservedly to
a single overriding belief.6 Like most hedgehogs, Schenker had ancillary
interests; but in our age, in which individual theoretical ideas, if united at
all, tend to be lumped together in a sort of bricolage, his single-mindedness

5
The information about Schenker’s life and character is primarily derived from Hellmut
Federhofer’s biographical essay in Schenker (1985) and Ian Bent and William Drabkin’s
“Schenker Documents Online,” both of which are extremely valuable.
6
The “hedgehog–fox” distinction was reintroduced into twentieth-century thought by the
cultural historian Isaiah Berlin (1953).
8 Theory

distinguishes him. Indeed, Schenker’s belief in his own cause amounted to a

sort of mania; and this has no doubt affected his wider acceptance.
Schenker was also remarkably polemical in nature, a trait to which he
gave expression in virtually everything he wrote. While, like many others, he
defended his right to state his opinions in whatever manner he wished, this
quality represented such a pervasive part of his personality, and assumed
such virulent forms, that it seems virtually impossible to separate it from the
work’s content. Indeed, his boldly stated opinions and negative assessments
of others seem to place his very motivation into question, and contribute as
well to his unpopularity.
In addition, this unalloyed belief in his own project formed part of
Schenker’s inability, especially in later years, to accept his work simply as a
theory rather than as verifiable fact. Yet theories, even those widely accepted,
necessarily go beyond the facts upon which they are based, making them
susceptible to future revision and even complete rejection. Yet Schenker
believed – and consistently stressed – that his final theory provided music
with ultimate truth, producing an absolutism evident not only in his musical
views but in those concerning essentially all topics about which he expressed
himself.
That Schenker lived in Vienna and did his theoretical work there is also
significant. By the time he relocated there, Vienna had become a center of
modernism, encouraging everything new in European art and ideas. This
allows us to view his work within a larger intellectual context. As Carl
E. Schorske, among many others, has shown, the city was ripe for innova-
tion as the nineteenth century waned, and enjoyed the presence of many
modernist pioneers in the creative arts, including Arnold Schoenberg in
music, Hugo von Hofmannsthal in literature, Gustav Klimt in painting,
and Otto Wagner in architecture and design.7 All contributed to the devel-
opment of modernism, altering our idea of art and what it could achieve.
Though many questions about modernism remain, there is little doubt
that it was characterized by such things as dynamic change, individualism,
innovation, and self-awareness. Schenker, despite his deeply conservative
opinions and interest in theory rather than composition, fits well within this
environment. His manner of viewing music was decidedly revolutionary,
offering a radically new conception of how the art was organized.
Perhaps the Viennese figure most resembling Schenker in total convic-
tion of his own accomplishments was neither an artist nor theorist, but the
psychiatrist Sigmund Freud. Like Schenker, he was Jewish and born outside

7
Schorske (1981).
 Introduction 9

of Vienna (in Moravia), though he moved to the city in 1859 when he was
only three years old. He too studied at the University of Vienna, in his case
medicine, graduating in 1881. And Freud was equally convinced of his own
worth: that his view of the human psyche represented a total explanation
of the human mind; that his thought, though largely intuitive, was omnis-
cient; and that his avoidance of scientific method, as normally applied in his
discipline, was completely justified.8 Both Freud and Schenker were certain
that their work was totally coherent, and that they alone, solitary figures
in disagreement with the leadership in their field, were capable of solving
puzzles that had previously been unsolvable. Brooking no opposition, they
tended to attract adherents who believed in them unquestioningly, con-
vinced that they alone had managed to transform the past.
The point here is of course not to evaluate either Freud or Schenker, but
to note the degree to which they resembled one another. Their association,
then, stems not so much from the nature of their ideas (though their
mutual concern for structure and subsurface explanation is notable), as
from the manner in which they viewed their ideas. Both were certain they
had discovered absolute truth.
There is no doubt, certainly, that Schenker’s belief in his infallibility
formed an essential part of his make-up, both as a music theorist and as
a human being. His authoritarian disposition, moreover, complicates the
holding of an unbiased view concerning his theory. Many believe that
Schenker’s disposition is in his case so exaggerated as to make the question
of objectivity beside the point: the theory simply should be rejected. Though
this is understandable, it seems highly injudicious. And that is why I have
largely reserved consideration of Schenker’s controversial aspects until
Part III of this book, focusing first upon his musico-theoretical ideas, their
development, and their sources. Schenker’s theory should not be dismissed
out of hand, but considered as far as possible in its own terms; for, in my
view, it has a decidedly positive dimension.

Schenker’s revolution

A major question about Schenker concerns the extent to which he himself

forged a radically new theory of music. The biologist Richard C. Lewontin,
among many others, has recently reminded us that scientific development

8
See Crews (2011), pp. 17–19.
10 Theory

is oversimplified when viewed solely in terms of the “great individuals” who

shaped it. Advances did not come about simply because occasional thinkers
with special ability produced epoch-making changes.9 Gravity, for example,
would have been discovered had Isaac Newton never lived; and Darwinism
(Lewontin’s main concern), or something very much like it, would have
developed even without Charles Darwin. Indeed, to stick with Darwin,
natural selection, his most central assumption, was conceived simultaneously
by his contemporary Alfred Russel Wallace. And far from being a lone
genius, Darwin was supported as much by “entrepreneurial fitness” as
scientific acumen. He belonged, moreover, to a network of evolutionary
thought that reached back to Kant’s Metaphysical Foundations of Natural
Science of 1786, and that joined together such diverse thinkers as Denis
Diderot, Erasmus Darwin (Darwin’s paternal grandfather), Herbert Spencer,
Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, and Gregor Johann Mendel.
Can something similar be said of Schenker? Certainly he did not develop
in a theoretical vacuum, for his work owes much to well-established
theoretical conventions.10 In his case, however, I think the answer must
be negative. Despite Schenker’s widely shared intellectual background,
his musical theory depends upon numerous principles that are funda-
mentally different in both general conception and procedure from those
preceding it.
It thus seems highly unlikely that Schenker’s mature theory, given his
intellectual environment, would have emerged without him, in the way
that Darwinian theory might have done in the absence of Darwin himself.
This is not to claim that Schenker had no forerunners, but only that
the particular musical solutions he developed for the problems he
confronted – the concepts of large-scale reduction, prolongation, and
graphic representation – were largely unprecedented. Even if a similar
music theory might eventually have appeared, it is difficult to imagine
anything like it emerging until well after World War II, thus well after
Schenker’s death.

9
Lewontin (2009).
10
To name a few of the most important: early diminution theory, which supplied a model for a
primitive sort of prolongation; sixteenth-century theory of musical figures, which assumed a
distinction between the musical surface and a more fundamental structure; and eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century functional tonal theory, which presented musical explanations that often
depended upon “hidden” factors (such as “implied” harmonies, tonal transformations, and
expanded conceptions of the Stufe in the work of Simon Sechter). For more on this, see
Morgan (1978).
 Introduction 11

Schenker’s theoretical position

As this chapter’s opening quotation indicates, the broad outlines of

Schenker’s project were stated in his earliest years as a writer: musical
relationships should appear as part of a single comprehensive picture. His
problem, then, was not so much to define his theoretical goal as to develop
the means for achieving it. As Schenker’s subsequent career reveals, this was
by no means easy. Although he could borrow certain ideas from previous
theory, he essentially had to reinvent the discipline for his own purposes.
And he arrived at his final theoretical synthesis, which has been the primary
focus of this chapter, only during the last decade of his life.
Schenker believed he could explain music’s absolute truth by revealing
that its pitch structure obeyed determinate laws. His realization that this
could be achieved only by restricting his theory to a single musical dimen-
sion is one of its most striking features, as was the belief that a limited body
of canonic compositions was sufficient for its demonstration. For Schenker,
this canon was distinguished not just by quality but by its unique exempli-
fication of the theory. These compositions alone allowed him to show that
their pitch regularities obeyed the ideal laws and forms ordained for all
music.
The fact that these laws existed exclusively in the realm of pitch reflects
one of the theory’s obvious shortcomings. Yet the ability to define a set of
comprehensive rules, even limited to this one area, tells us something
indispensable about the music he chose to consider: that its pitch dimension
makes sense when considered in all-inclusive, rational terms. Although the
restriction to pitch means that many musical aspects others find vital have
to be theoretically ignored, this results from the fact that in Schenker’s mind
they do not lend themselves to comparable theoretical treatment.
Like most theorists, I prefer to see music as belonging to a more general
framework: as an art accommodating a wide range of elements, both struc-
tural and non-structural, that are often in conflict with one another. Yet I
would also insist that Schenker’s formulation says something crucial about
his chosen music, distinguishing it from all other types: that it makes sense
when viewed from a positivist perspective.
Though Schenker shares with many theorists a deep commitment to
system building, he is convinced that order, consistency, and comprehen-
sibility are evident not only in this relatively small number of composi-
tions, but in critical features of the world in general. This helps explain
his lifelong determination to create a theory able to account for music’s
12 Theory

internal mechanisms in such an unprecedented manner. It caused him

to adopt the role of external observer, someone who looks at music from
the outside, as a dispassionate viewer not unlike a scientist searching for
abstractions. Yet Schenker was equally certain that his work resulted from
unique musical sensibilities that he alone possessed. He knew his canon,
after all, as an insider, and believed that this allowed him to be privy to
both its technical and expressive secrets. To that extent, then, he saw it
from a position of belonging rather than detachment, with the assurance
that he alone could recognize its truth.
Formalism, with which Schenker has always been associated, is thus
representative of only one side of his theory. Not derived from empirical
evidence and formal consistency alone, the theory is a necessary mix of
idealistic and modernistic components. For no music theory can account
for the laws of music on purely empirical grounds; that is ruled out by the
art’s human origins and human intentions.
Musical artifacts (unlike, supposedly, those of science) reflect the desires
and foibles that are always present in human endeavors. Music consequently
requires theoretical concepts that are humanly motivated, that bridge the
conceptual gap always evident in non-scientific activities. Although Schenker
may have couched his subjective elements – such as the will of tones, mental
retention, prolongation, and long-range hearing – in terms that suggested
that they were somehow scientifically sanctioned (as he himself seems to
have believed), they cannot be empirically justified, as they are linked to the
ephemerality of human hearing. The theory, characterized by a mixture of
speculative (personal) and empirical (impersonal) elements, is thus seen by
Schenker himself as the work “of an artist.”11
A puzzling question about Schenker’s development is how this side of his
work, conservative, idealist, non-scientific, and derived from nineteenth-
century beliefs, could reach musical fruition in a method that seemed so
modern and scientific. The layered, hierarchical nature of his theory and its
system of graphic notation, both instances of his modernist leanings, were
essential for realizing the prolongational conception of musical organiza-
tion his theory provided. How these two facets were reconciled is a question
that is treated in Part II of this book.
Also puzzling is Schenker’s account of pitch structure as at once fixed,
timeless, and abstract, yet derived from the highly variable surfaces of actual
musical works. His theory, that is, provides not only a general account

11
Thus he originally published the first volume of his three-part trilogy, Neue musikalische
Theorien und Phantasien, not with his own name but “von einem Künstler.”
 Introduction 13

of music as a systematic whole (something many theories had attempted),

but a method for revealing how this whole arises from the moment-to-
moment succession of given compositions (something completely unpre-
cedented). It gives the appearance, at least, of leaving nothing unsaid about
pitch organization, offering a neat package that claims to answer all ques-
tions with equal conviction. Is it any wonder, then, that many musicians
have turned against him?
 2 Schenker’s final theory

This chapter provides an overview of Schenker’s mature theory, its descrip-

tion derived primarily from his final publication, Der freie Satz. It comprises
eight sections. The first four deal with specific techniques (and to some
extent their ideological justification), the fifth with the theory’s view of
consonance–dissonance relationships, the sixth with its notation, the
seventh with the description of a Schenker graph, and the eighth with the
theory’s relation to Schenker’s general development. The concern of this
chapter, then, is Schenker’s goal, the final theory toward which his work was
directed. It thus offers a glimpse at the culmination of its development,
providing background for Part II’s focus on the development itself. To
simplify the description, only very short graphs appear in the first four
sections, plus a longer one (by Schenker himself) in Section 7 (pp. 33–36).1
There are many ways one might approach Schenker’s final theory: from
a theoretical, biographical, or historical perspective, for example. My own
concern, however, is with the theory as a complete, self-enclosed system.
This chapter thus differs from the next six, which emphasize the theory’s
growth and the aesthetic beliefs underlying it, in offering a conceptual
snapshot of the end result: the theory’s final construction and what it claims
to do. What appears here will be well known to many; but since it is framed
with an eye toward the arguments that follow, it should be useful for all
readers. No attempt has been made to criticize the theory; and the chapter
focuses entirely on pitch, a problematic feature which it simply takes for
granted. Though Schenker was deeply concerned with non-pitch factors,
especially their effect on formal and rhythmic structure, they do not (nor
could they) belong to the final theory proper.

1
For those wishing a more concrete illustration of the mature theory at this point, there are, in
addition to the description in this chapter, detailed graphic descriptions of Schenker analyses
in Section 3 of Chapter 7 (pp. 145–53) and Section 4 of Chapter 8 (pp. 165–71). Also
recommended for general orientation is Rothstein (2001), and the articles on “Analysis,”
“Heinrich Schenker,” and Schenkerian transformational procedures in the New Grove
Dictionary of Music and Musicians, second edition (2001), the first by Ian Bent and the
14 others by William Drabkin.
 Schenker’s final theory 15

Before turning to the theory itself, two preliminary matters should be

considered. The first concerns Schenker’s treatment of technical termino-
logy, much of which he invented expressly for his theory. In introducing
the terms, I normally give the German first, in italics, followed by the
standard English translation in quotation marks; but thereafter I use the
English translation exclusively, without quotation marks or italics. For a
few fundamental terms, however, I retain the German original, because it
is well known to most English-speaking musicians and has important
connotations missing from the translation. Thus “Ursatz” and “Urlinie”
are used, since their Ur prefix, missing in the English equivalents, suggests
important attributes such as primordial existence, weight, stability, and
internal coherence. Similarly, “Zug” is often (but not always) favored over
“linear progression,” since several of its German meanings suggest move-
ment: “train,” “breath,” “chess move,” “succession,” etc. Finally, “Stufe” is
preferred to “scale degree,” here however because its Schenkerian meaning
is so much at odds with the English translation.
The second matter concerns the number and location of analytical layers.
This question is largely skirted, both here and later, as Schenker, though
occasionally giving attention to the specific analytical level at which an idea
appears, does not provide a comprehensive statement on the subject.
Moreover, I feel that ignoring it does not unduly compromise understand-
ing the theory.
A final important consideration is whether the theory is generative or
reductive. Does music result from the elaboration of a tonic triad, or is it
reducible to this triad? Though this question is often argued, in general
I follow Schenker’s lead in adopting a generative perspective. He does not
claim, however, that his theory describes how music is actually composed
(generated), or that composers followed it consciously (though he believed
many did so unconsciously). The difference between generation and
reduction is essentially a “logical” one, distinguishing two different ways
of treating the same phenomenon. Nevertheless, as we shall see, there are
distinct advantages in taking the generative view.

Fundamentals: chord of nature, composing-out, Ursatz,

transformation procedures, hierarchic space, tripartite division,
generation, long-range feature

Schenker’s theory is an attempt to explain what tonal music is and how it

works. He believed that all great music is tonal, but only a small portion of
16 Theory

tonal music is great; and consequently, he was exclusively concerned with

what he called the “masterpieces” of tonal literature. The theory, then, is not
one of music in general, though Schenker seemed to consider it so, but of
a limited body of works exclusively drawn from the eighteenth and nine-
teenth centuries.
The theory’s most basic assumption is that the pitches in these works –
which constituted the only music the mature Schenker truly cared about –
represent the horizontal expression of the major or minor triad, a vertical
event. This abstract triad is provided to music by nature’s overtone series
and referred to as the Naturklang, or “chord of nature.” On this founda-
tional point, however, Schenker already makes an important concession.
For the minor triad, despite its corresponding function to the major triad,
is unlike the major “unnatural” and must be humanly constructed. He
accounts for this anomaly by the minor triad’s preservation of the framing
perfect fifth, the only difference being that it lowers the major third by a
half-step. The two triads together, then, one major and natural and the other
minor and unnatural (or natural by analogy alone), provide music’s primary
source of coherence.
Schenker considers all tonal music as an Auskomponierung, or “composing-
out,” of one of these two consonant triads through Verwandlung, or “trans-
formation,” leading to various types of “prolongation.”2 A principal object of
the theory, then, is to present and explain the transformational procedures
responsible for composing-out the underlying triad through elaborations, and
to demonstrate how these work together to bring the underlying triad to
compositional life. Common to all transformations, however, is that they
convert something vertical and abstract (ultimately the chord of nature) into
something horizontal and concrete, a process that eventually leads to the
complete composition. In other words, music transforms a “spatial” event
borrowed from nature (or the closely analogous minor one) into a “temporal”
event produced by human interaction.
There are only two kinds of triadic transformation: arpeggiated trans-
formations, which move by leap from one triadic component to another;
and linear transformations, which move by step from one triadic compo-
nent to another in passing through one or more intervening dissonances.
Arpeggiated motion, then, directly connects two harmonic tones, while
linear motion moves between them, filling out the Raum, or “space,” that

2
The distinction between composing-out and prolongation is subtle and often confused even by
Schenkerians. Basically, composing-out is a process produced by elaboration, while prolongation
is the result of that process. Composing-out thus produces prolongation, while prolongation
results from composing-out.
 Schenker’s final theory 17

separates them. Since Schenker holds that musical space is always diatonic,
the origin of both linear and arpeggiated motion is diatonic, with chromatic
motion always resulting from elaboration of a simpler diatonic foundation.
When linear motion, considerably more common than arpeggiation,
moves through three or more tones it forms a Zug, or “linear progression,”
which has an especially prominent role in the theory. But both types of
elaboration are essential, as is evident even at the most basic level of triadic
elaboration, the Ursatz, or “fundamental structure”: the theory’s most primi-
tive construct and its driving force. Every Ursatz consists of two voices,
a linear component in the upper voice, called the Urlinie, or “fundamental
line,” and an arpeggiated one in the lower voice, called the Bassbrechung, or
“bass arpeggiation.”
Each Ursatz retains the same basic form. Its Urlinie always moves
diatonically downward through the triad within a single obligate Lage, or
“obligatory register,” from a higher triadic tone (third, fifth, or the root’s
upper octave) to the first degree; while the bass arpeggiation always moves
from the tonic of the triad to the fifth above and back again, accompanying
the Urlinie with the same motion, located at least an octave below the
Urlinie. The three possible Ursatz forms (see Example 2.1) are essentially
identical: each moves within the space of an octave from an upper triadic
Urlinie tone accompanied by the arpeggiation’s first degree, and then
descends stepwise to the second degree accompanied by the arpeggiation’s
fifth, before finally arriving on the tonic accompanied by the arpeggiation’s
return to the first degree. As the tonic triad’s most basic composing-out
operation, the Ursatz is thus common, in one of its three forms, to all tonal
compositions, and incorporates both types of transformational motion,
linear in the top voice and arpeggiation in the bass.
One of the most important of Schenker’s assumptions is that the passing
motion of the Urlinie, as well as all linear progression in general, must always
be realized in a particular way. This is acknowledged in the idealistic belief
that tones have “wills” or “egos”: a spiritual dimension that requires them to
behave in a certain way and no other. Even the greatest composers must obey
the tonal urges of tones, which are beyond all individual intention.
Also essential is that the Ursatz has two outer voices, reflecting one of the
central features of the theory: that triadic elaboration, and thus musical

Example 2.1 The three forms of the Ursatz

18 Theory

structure, is defined primarily by contrapuntal combination of its outer

voices. As we shall see, however, “outer” voices are “structural” for Schenker
and do not necessarily coincide with the music’s “actual” high notes.
The question of whether the Ursatz represents a harmonic or contra-
puntal motion is a vexed one. Since the Ursatz unfolds the tonic triad, it
obviously has an important harmonic function; yet since it transforms an
underlying vertical sonority into a horizontal Entfaltung, or “unfolding,” it
has a contrapuntal one as well. Its harmonic significance, however, arises
solely because the vertical intervals produced by its combined two voices
imply three-part (and thus triadic) harmony: tonic in its first and last
simultaneity and dominant in the penultimate one. Schenker acknowledges
this by including inner voices with these simultaneities in almost all of
his Ursatz graphs, yet he notates them with black notes so as to indicate
that they are not part of the Ursatz proper. The harmonies implied by these
inner voices nevertheless play a critical role in many transformational
processes, as will become apparent.
As the most encompassing of all Schenker’s theoretical concepts, the
Ursatz provides the key for the entire theory. Since it is relatively easily
described, however, its presentation in Der freie Satz takes up considerably
less space than its elaborations and transformations. This mirrors the
theory’s main burden, which is to show how the complexity and variety of
actual music is derived from transformational procedures applied to a
seemingly simple and rigid Ursatz. The theory’s presentation thus consists
largely of explanations of the later transformations and their realizations:
that is, of how all music – like the Ursatz itself – results from linear and
arpeggiated elaborations of simpler underlying structures. In addition, it
shows that the Stufe, or harmonic “scale degree,” is formed by larger contra-
puntal elaborations that, linked together, produce still larger Stufen.3
This relates to a critical aspect of the theory: its hierarchical structure.
Music is viewed as analytically divisible into a series of connected analytical
Schichten, or “layers” (frequently also translated as “levels”), each of which
consists of an elaboration of its predecessor and is vertically aligned with all
others. The Ursatz, the highest layer in this arrangement (from a generative
perspective, though the “deepest” from a reductive one) is thus linked
through these layers to all subsequent ones through the transformational
hierarchy they define, and ultimately to the composition itself. And since

3
The relationship of Stufen to the Ursatz is discussed in Section 4 of this chapter (pp. 25–29),
as well as at various later points, especially in connection with the contrapuntal nature of the
Ursatz in Section 3 of Chapter 10 (pp. 209–12).
 Schenker’s final theory 19

the Ursatz forms the most fundamental transformation of the chord of

nature, all additional transformations serve to elaborate it. Though the
number of layers between Ursatz and composition is variable, all have their
source in the Ursatz, which generates them and to which they owe their
ultimate meaning. And since they are notationally arranged in vertical order
from the Ursatz layer down to the lowest transformation, their interconnec-
tions are easily read. If, however, too many elaborations make alignment
unfeasible in longer compositions (as is often the case), the levels may be
presented separately and the composition itself omitted.
Schenker distinguishes among transformational layers according to three
divisions of prolongational space: Hintergrund, Mittelgrund, and Vordergrund,
or “background,” “middleground,” and “foreground.” Though the back-
ground contains only the Ursatz, the number of layers in the other two
groupings is unspecified. But as Schenker himself evidently believed, it is
rarely necessary to indicate the exact distribution; and he provides little
information on the subject. For most purposes, then, the exact number
and location of layers is less important than their tripartite division.4
We can close this first section by considering Schenker’s motto: “Semper
idem sed non eodem modo” (“Always the same, but not in the same way”).
It summarizes his belief that all great music unfolds the tonic triad through
an essentially identical underlying motion (the Ursatz), and that this gives
rise to further elaborations based upon similar musical procedures, termi-
nating in the music’s overall structure. The triad’s initial unfolding thus
serves as the basis for all additional transformations, so that each compo-
sition is derived from a relatively small number of operations that share a
common source and identical basic form. And since the Ursatz consists of
three essentially unvarying transformations and is the source of everything
else, it assures that music is always the same, yet is realized in infinitely
different ways.

Linear transformations

Of the two types of transformations, the linear ones are much more common.
They also confront us with one of the theory’s basic assumptions: that
stepwise motion forms the basis for all melodic content. Since the most

4
Proctor and Riggins (1988) suggest the following: the background contains the Ursatz alone, the
middleground contains two or more levels and is thus variable in number, and the foreground
contains two: the final analytical level (where meter is introduced) and the musical “surface”
notated in the score.
20 Theory

prominent stepwise motion is the Zug, which moves by step from one
harmonic tone to another, this transformation lies at the heart of Schenker’s
theory. It is basically contrapuntal in nature, but since all linear motion is
derived from the triad, it has a harmonic basis as well: stepwise motion, a non-
harmonic linear principle, is used to join two triadic tones, a harmonic one.
Stepwise motion carries the linear progression from one triadic compo-
nent to the next through the non-triadic tones between them, considered
by Schenker (following theoretical tradition) as “passing” dissonances
between triadic supports. All linear progressions pass through at least one
such non-triadic component. Neighbor motion, on the other hand, though
also dissonant and equally directed toward a triadic tone, differs in that it
returns to the same tone from which it departed. Despite its significance at
all layers but the Ursatz, neighbor motion is thus understood as being
derived from, and less fundamental than, passing motion.
Arpeggiation thus consists of purely harmonic motion, while passing
motion, which fills in an underlying arpeggiation, incorporates both har-
monic and non-harmonic elements. In its simplest form the Zug composes-
out a single harmony, moving through it from one chordal tone to another;
but it can also connect different triads by moving from a chordal tone in one
to a chordal tone in the other (see Example 2.2).
In the first form it demonstrates the importance of inner voices for
Schenker. Since only one triadic tone forms the analytical top voice of a
composed-out chord, the Zug composes-out the triad either by moving
from it to an inner voice, or vice versa (regardless of whether the analytical
inner voice in the music is actually positioned above or below the analytical
top voice).5
Another critical idea is Festhalten, or “mental retention.” In a Zug that
moves through a single triad, for example, the listener recalls the harmonic
tone from which it departs, keeping it in mind as the Zug continues to its
final triadic tone. The first and last triadic tones, then, are by definition
always consonant and harmonic, while the intervening motion is at least
partly dissonant, forming a transient (passing) “bridge” connecting the

Example 2.2 Two forms of a fifth-Zug in C major

5
The special role of the Zug, or linear progression, is discussed at more length in Section 3 of
Chapter 8 (pp. 162–65).
 Schenker’s final theory 21

Example 2.3 A C-major Urlinie with 4̂ , temporarily converted into a consonance, as

endtone of a fifth-Zug

principal triadic elements. Closely related is the Kopfton, or “headtone,” the

tone mentally retained in the linear progression and thus present in the
imagination even when no longer sounding; and the Endton, or “endtone,”
which forms the goal of the linear progression. Mental retention of the
headtone, then, is what makes possible the composing-out process, assuring
the triad’s identity despite its linear unfolding.
Other forms of the Zug are also possible. The single-triad type can either
rise or fall, composing-out either the headtone or endtone as the principal
top voice.
Similarly, linear progressions that move from one triad to another
compose-out the motion between the two. Especially important is that a
Zug can prolong any tone, and move through any triad, as long as its head-
tone and endtone are treated as temporarily consonant (see Example 2.3).6
Significantly, the Ursatz itself consists partly of the composition’s most
basic linear progression, the Urlinie. In this sense, then, the Ursatz may
seem to be less fundamental than the Zug, since its Urlinie represents only
one of many possible linear progressions. And not coincidentally, Schenker
conceived of the Zug well before the Ursatz and initially also referred to it as
the “Urlinie.” (The Ursatz is, in fact, one of the theory’s later formulations,
attaining its final form only in 1930, in the last volume of Das Meisterwerk.)
A Zug can also appear in the bass and inner voices. For example, a common
instance occurs if the rising fifth of the Ursatz’s bass arpeggiation is filled in
with stepwise motion to form a linear succession. But any treble or bass note,
if treated at some level as consonant, can become the headtone of a linear
progression, even if it is an inner voice or dissonant at a more background
level.
All Schenkerian transformations involving stepwise motion are related
to linear progressions, and all depend upon mental retention. An Anstieg,
or “initial ascent,” can be formed, for example, by a linear progression that
ascends to the first Urlinie tone (see Example 2.4).
Similarly Übergreifung, or “reaching over,” combines an incomplete
descending neighbor motion and superimposed inner voices in a regular

6
For more on consonance–dissonance relationships, see Section 5 below (pp. 29–31).
22 Theory

Example 2.4 A linear third as initial ascent to the first tone of an Ursatz

Example 2.5 Reaching over and reaching under

Example 2.6 Two forms of unfolding, both also with linear progressions

Example 2.7 Two voice exchanges, the second with a linear progression

pattern that often results in a rising linear progression; while Untergreifung,

or “reaching under,” results from linear motion down from an upper voice
to an inner one (see Example 2.5).
Linear progressions can also occur with Ausfaltung, or “unfolding,” if two
voices in a single chord are connected and then filled in by stepwise motion,
or when two chords combine to create a more background line forming a
linear progression (see Example 2.6).
And two simultaneous linear progressions, normally in the outer voices,
can produce in tandem a Stimmwechsel, or “voice exchange,” composing-
out a triad so that its outer voices are exchanged, as for example when a top
voice moves from a chord’s third to its root while the bass moves from its
root to its third (see Example 2.7).
At more foreground layers linear progressions can also be elaborated by
standard contrapuntal techniques such as neighbor motion, suspension, or
anticipation. And linear progressions, including the Urlinie, can be altered
by Mixtur, or “mixture,” if one or more of its components (usually the third
or second, but never the underlying fifth) is borrowed from another mode
(major, minor, and Phrygian). See Example 2.8.
 Schenker’s final theory 23

Example 2.8 C-major Zug with mixture

Example 2.9 C-major Urlinie with linear progressions from 5̂ and 2̂

Example 2.10 Auxiliary cadence with an incomplete transference

Though all of these transformations have been graphed here as background

or high middleground events, all, including the Urlinie, can also be elaborated
by more foreground linear transformations derived from, and relating back to,
this more background one. The first note of an Urlinie on the fifth degree, for
example, can be elaborated by a linear progression of a third or fifth, tempo-
rarily descending to the third or first degree as an inner voice of the underlying
tonic triad; or the next-to-last note of an Urlinie, always the second degree,
can, if temporarily converted into a consonance, descend by third to the
seventh degree as inner voice of the dominant triad (see Example 2.9).
When a more foreground linear progression – whether transposed or
not – is identical to one of the three Urlinie types and is accompanied by
the requisite bass arpeggiation, it is said to form an Übertragung, or “trans-
ference” of the Ursatz (as in Example 2.11), which is extremely common
and often associated with thematic units or complete formal sections. It is
also possible to omit the first part of an Ursatz, giving rise to a Hilfskadenz,
or “auxiliary cadence,” which may form an unvollständige Übertragung, or
“incomplete transference” (see Example 2.10).

Arpeggiated transformations

Arpeggiated transformations, being fewer in number and simpler in con-

struction, can be treated more briefly. Any pitch of the Ursatz bass
24 Theory

Example 2.11 Arpeggiation on ii in C major as part of transferred Ursatz

Example 2.12 Dividers on fifth degree and third degree

arpeggiation can be composed-out with its own bass arpeggiation, either

as part of a transferred Ursatz, or independently if the top voice does not
conform to an Urlinie. Arpeggiated elaborations also depend upon mental
retention; and they can appear on any bass note that is temporarily treated
as a consonance, whether or not it is itself part of an arpeggiation. In the
case of non-tonic arpeggiations, Schenker speaks of Tonikalizierung, or
“tonicization,” in which case the principal note is momentarily treated as a
tonic; and if it accompanies a Zug, the latter may include one or more
chromatic notes, giving rise to a transferred Ursatz. For example, since
Schenker views music as non-modulating, the arpeggiation on ii in C
major may include a Zug with F], thus tonicizing that degree (see
Example 2.11).
A bass note can also be followed by a fifth-arpeggiation that does not
return in the same phrase to the first degree, or less commonly by a third-
arpeggiation that ends before reaching the fifth, in both cases producing a
so-called “backward-related” arpeggiation. Schenker refers to a note com-
pleting only the first part of an arpeggiation as a Teiler, or “divider,” whether
it ends on the third or fifth degree (see Example 2.12).
At more foreground layers the rising fifth of a bass arpeggiation can also
be subdivided into two third-arpeggiations. And triadic arpeggiations can
be expanded beyond the octave, consisting of intervals larger than the third
and fifth (for example, from C upwards by tenth through G to E). And just
as linear motions can prolong the bass, arpeggiated motions can elaborate
upper voices, including the Urlinie.
Arpeggiations also appear in conjunction with transformational types
associated with linear progressions. An ascent to the first structural tone,
for example, can form an arpeggiation or, under certain circumstances, a
filled-in arpeggiation rather than a normal linear progression. And every
Zug implies at least one background arpeggiation (see Example 2.13).
 Schenker’s final theory 25

Example 2.13 Two initial ascents by arpeggiation, the second with a linear progression

Mixture can appear in combination with arpeggiation, but only if the

third or second is altered, not the root or fifth. Similarly, reaching over,
reaching under, and unfolding can give rise to both arpeggiation and
stepwise motion (see Examples 2.5 and 2.6).
Arpeggiated and linear motion need not appear separately, even in a
single analytical voice, but can be combined so that one transformation
elaborates the other. Thus the first Urlinie tone may be elaborated by an
arpeggiation that is filled in with a linear ascent, or a bass arpeggiation that
is filled in with a passing succession.
Due to the assumption that any tone can be treated temporarily as a
consonance, all linear motions can be elaborated at some level by arpeggia-
tion and all arpeggiations elaborated by linear motion. In the case of the
Ursatz, however, the two types of motion, linear and arpeggiated, work
together on equal terms, one not subordinate to the other.
Before closing these comments on linear and arpeggiated transformations,
it should be stressed that, despite their differences, the two types deal with
essentially the same phenomenon. Indeed, viewed more fundamentally, their
distinction disappears, for they create exactly the same result: motion from
one triadic tone to another. Since both produce composed-out triads, they are
distinguishable only by their means, not by their result. Nevertheless, the fact
that a Schenkerian analysis consists mainly of linear progressions indicates
more than a numerical difference: their presence at all structural layers, and in
both outer voices, helps explain the underlying consistency of Schenker’s
analytical method. All motions, both linear and arpeggiated, are directly
related to one another: all arpeggiations can contain linear progressions,
and all linear progressions can result in arpeggiations. The two types thus
work together in creating a consistent overall pattern.

Other assumptions: teleology, interruption, octave

equivalence, compound melody, consonance conversion,
substitution

There are numerous additional theoretical assumptions made by Schenker

to help explain how the detailed pitch motions of actual compositions
26 Theory

Example 2.14 Interrupted Ursatz with Urlinie on 5̂

project a single underlying triad (the chord of nature), elaborating both the
triad and configurations derived from it. And since all transformations have
their origin in the chord of nature, they are simultaneous agents of growth,
prolongation, and diminution (Schenker’s favored term for relatively fore-
ground melodic variation), and thus guarantors of the music’s unity.
One such assumption is teleology: the transformations not only compose-
out a more fundamental event but have a directed goal as well. The goal of
the Ursatz, for example, common to both voices, is the first scale degree,
which is approached by step in the Urlinie and by arpeggiation in the bass. In
this sense, then, the Ursatz does not simply elaborate the underlying chord
of nature but “realizes” it by completing it, the triad being fully attained only
after the two voices reach their final verticality. What matters for the theory,
then, is not simply that there is musical motion of a given type, but that this
motion is directed toward a simultaneous tonic arrival.
An especially critical elaboration of the Ursatz, developed only near the
end of Schenker’s life, is Unterbrechung, or “interruption,” which occurs
when both voices of its next-to-last component (the second scale degree in
the top voice and fifth in the bass) stop before reaching their final tonic
goal. Following Schenker’s interruption sign (two short vertical lines), there
is then a repetition of the entire Ursatz, but this time uninterrupted (see
Example 2.14).7
The interrupted component can also be composed-out further, in which
case the complete repetition does not immediately follow it.
Despite its late formulation, interruption was essential for accommodat-
ing the theory’s treatment of classical-type sonata forms, where the reca-
pitulation normally coincides with the Ursatz’s restatement. Interruption
also appears at more foreground levels in connection with a transferred
Ursatz, especially in antecedent–consequent periods. Though the bass
fifth of an interrupted Ursatz resembles those of dividers (since neither
continues to the tonic), a divider does not necessarily have to be followed by

7
Schenker states in Der freie Satz that the two outer-voice pitches opening the restatement of the
Ursatz after interruption represent a new beginning, not a resolution of the interrupted
components. The Urlinie’s first 2̂ , after descending from 3̂ (3̂ –2̂ ), does not for example function as
lower neighbor to the restatement’s opening 3̂ , nor is the bass fifth accompanying it resolved by
the tonic that accompanies the returning 3̂ . The Ursatz, in other words, is truly “interrupted.”
 Schenker’s final theory 27

Example 2.15 Coupling with interrupted Ursatz and linear progression

a completed restatement, nor must it occur with an Urlinie-like linear

succession.8
A further assumption made by Schenker, deeply rooted in Western music
theory, is octave identity, according to which the same pitch in different
octaves is represented by a single pitch class. This idea is essential for most
music theories; but in Schenker’s case it not only allows pitch space to be
organized within the octave (as normal), but enables him in addition to
distinguish between a pitch’s analytical octave and its actual one. More
generally, it allows surface melodies that exceed the restricted registral
format of the Ursatz to be analyzed in terms of stepwise or arpeggiated
motion. Octave identity also gives rise to such basic Schenkerian concepts
as Höher- and Tiefererlegung and Kopplung, or “upper and lower register
transfer” and “coupling,” all of which involve octave transfer. The restricted
format of the Urlinie, for example, can thereby be transferred to a higher
or lower octave through embellishment of one or more of its pitches; and
similarly, an inner voice can actually appear at a higher or lower position
than the one analytically specified as the top voice (see Example 2.15).
Indeed, tonal motion in the music Schenker addresses always exploits
octave transference and can only be treated in its terms.
A closely related idea, compound melody, while not invented by Schenker,
acquires special meaning in his work. As opposed to the theoretical melodies
that are specified, actual melodies more often than not elaborate multiple
triadic tones, moving freely from one to another; and this means, analytically,
that they contain more than one harmonic voice. Compound melody thus
allows Schenker to project the underlying triad throughout a wider musical
space without compromising its theoretical identity.
There is also the possibility, referred to previously, of treating a disso-
nance as a temporary consonance. The next-to-last verticality of the actual
Ursatz is always a dissonant passing tone at the Ursatz level; but when
treated as a consonance, it can be elaborated – for example by a transposed
Ursatz – to acquire the meaning of a dominant key. And since any

8
The fact that interruption seems inconsistent with other aspects of Schenker’s theory is
discussed in Section 2 of Chapter 10 (pp. 206–09).
28 Theory

Example 2.16 Stufe as representation of a larger harmonic progression

temporarily consonant chord can be treated as stable, any harmony can

serve as the basis for further compositional unfolding (see Example 2.9).
Returning to the Stufe, or scale degree, we have seen that it gives rise to
harmonic elaboration. While the labeling of chords according to a particular
scale degree in a diatonic system – say as a I, V or ii – has been common
for some two centuries, Schenker’s concept of Stufe goes well beyond this,
indicating the total span of time in which one chord functions as the primary
harmonic control for a series of prolonging harmonies (see Example 2.16).
The Stufe was introduced early in Schenker’s development, providing
an important basis for the evolution of the concept of prolongation. More
particularly, it indicated an early interest in subsuming diverse musical
elements under a single theoretical concept.
A particularly fundamental idea for Schenker is Vertretung, or “substitu-
tion”: the representation of an event not actually present by one that is.
Like the principle of pattern recognition in Gestalt psychology, to which it
is closely related, substitution assumes that once a pattern is projected, it
remains psychologically “present” even when one or more components is
omitted. This idea, whose provenance is essentially idealist, is vital for the
entire theory, helping to explain such all-important ideas as mental retention,
the use of a seventh (instead of a second) as the goal of a linear progression,
and the Stufe as representative of an entire chord progression.9 Indeed,
substitution might be called the prime generator of Schenker’s theory,
whose transformational operations, including the Ursatz, all represent sub-
stitutions of simpler configurations (and ultimately the chord of nature) for
more complex ones.
Since Schenker’s theory is characterized not just by the use of individual
techniques derived from strict contrapuntal procedures, which we have
particularly focused upon in this chapter, but the extension of these techni-
ques to cover entire compositions, this aspect should be considered as well. It
is an extremely complicated matter, variable from piece to piece, and can be
only touched upon here. The following section (pp. 29–31), however, treats
the issue of consonance–dissonance distinction that can only be discussed

9
The German Vertretung neatly incorporates the meaning of both “substitution” and
“representation.” For an especially effective treatment of the concept, see Rothstein (1991).
 Schenker’s final theory 29

with reference to different spans of time; and Section 7 (pp. 33–36) describes
a complete Schenker graph.
That contrapuntal procedures can be extended in Schenker’s theory
depends solely on its hierarchical aspect: each analytical layer contains the
contents of the previous one, so that each subsequent layer increases in
detail, a process that continues (at least in principle) until the actual piece
is reached. The Ursatz, then, is simply the first of a series of layers, all of
which relate to it and to each other through transformations similar to those
that defined its initial extension. Just how this works, however, necessarily
depends upon the nature of particular pieces.10
The theory’s purpose, then, is to account as specifically as possible for a
composition’s pitches in terms of their unfolding of the tonic triad. That
it thus relates to only a minute portion of the world’s actual music, as is
immediately evident to any musician, is the necessary result of one of
Schenker’s fundamental beliefs: that only a small canon of compositions
with a great deal in common and susceptible to detailed analytical explan-
ation can provide the complete musical truth demanded by his theory. This
is not only problematic in itself but radically restricts the theory’s scope.
One might of course take a more flexible approach, saying his canon was
chosen simply to fulfill the theory’s own particular purposes; but this was
not Schenker’s own view, which held that these compositions alone allowed
for the detailed scrutiny his theory prescribed. And it is hardly coincidental
that all of these works belonged to the “mainstream” of mid European
compositions, which formed such a significant component of the artistic
culture within which Schenker matured.

Consonance–dissonance distinctions

We now turn to one of the theory’s most striking general features, its
distinction between consonance and dissonance. As already noted, an
advantage for Schenker is that, despite innovations, his theory is grounded
in traditional contrapuntal procedures: all of his composing-out processes
and their combinations are consistent with the conventions of strict
counterpoint. And by showing that the theory conforms to the dictates of
strict counterpoint at the deeper layers of actual music (referred to as “free

10
In addition to the descriptions of complete Schenker graphs mentioned in fn. 1 of this
chapter, a more general discussion of the theory from a distant perspective is offered in the
last section of the final chapter (pp. 226–29).
30 Theory

composition”), he can explain entire compositions in terms of contrapuntal

relationships. Since the Ursatz uses strict contrapuntal procedures to resolve
its dissonant elements, and all musical motion derives from the Ursatz, it
too obeys the same contrapuntal commands that control all consonance and
dissonance relationships.
What is new in Schenker, then, is not so much the underlying conception
of consonance and dissonance, for he continues to rely upon well-defined
contrapuntal distinctions, but the temporal expanse over which they are
applied. The Urlinie progression, for example, extends over the complete
work, stretching the idea of passing motion to unprecedented lengths.
Contrapuntal rules, then, apply not just to the brief, controlled exercises
of strict counterpoint, but to spans that cover entire compositions.
The key to this expansion lies in the concept of mental retention, which,
in conjunction with the hierarchical relationships of the analytical layers,
allows dissonances at more background layers to be transformed and
composed-out as more foreground consonances. As noted, the second degree
of the Urlinie’s descent (2̂ ), supported by the fifth degree of the tonic triad
in the bass, is viewed as a dissonant passing tone at the Ursatz level before it
resolves to the tonic. But since the second degree appears as the upper part
of a perfect fifth, it can be temporarily stabilized at a lower level as part of a
quasi-independent dominant triad – tonicized, for example, as the opening
of a transferred Ursatz. Something dissonant at one level is treated as
consonant at another; and this is possible because of the listener’s ability,
due to mental retention, to mentally retain the fifth’s original function as
dissonance even though it is temporarily stabilized and thus initiates its
own linear progression. This process can be viewed, moreover, as either
generative (something unstable in the background is temporarily stabilized
in the foreground) or reductive (something stable in the foreground rep-
resents a more background dissonance).
The relationship between mental retention and strict counterpoint also
depends on the assumption that tones have egos whose spiritual tendencies
must be obeyed, as this enables Schenker to specify precisely what they do
in expanded circumstances. It also explains why dissonant intervals can
themselves be composed-out under certain conditions. Such “dissonant
prolongations” (a term Schenker does not himself use) exist in his work
only at relatively foreground levels, and only if the dissonant interval forms
a chordal dissonance whose role is sufficiently consistent to be considered
“normal” within traditional tonal harmony: the chords of a diminished
triad, diminished seventh, augmented sixth, half diminished seventh, and
dominant seventh. Though all contain at least one dissonance (diminished
 Schenker’s final theory 31

fifth, augmented fourth, minor seventh, or diminished seventh), they can be

composed-out according to strict contrapuntal procedures, since they all
are derived from, and resolve to, a more background consonance.11

Notation

Having presented the basic features of Schenker’s theory, we now consider

it from a notational perspective, in terms of its graphic presentation. The
notational problem would be a traditional one if Schenker’s analyses were
presented primarily through language: that is, with words primarily devised
for other purposes. But since the theory is largely based on conventional
contrapuntal assumptions, the problem becomes both different and more
complex. The theory’s most basic premise, for example, the unfolding of
the tonic triad, takes place according to well-understood musical opera-
tions: passing motion in the top voice and arpeggiation in the bass; and all
subsequent motions are derived from these, allowing the theory to be partly
communicated through standard musical notation. Yet since actual music is
not its primary analytical concern, but the underlying prolongational struc-
ture, conventional notation has to be significantly refashioned.
This required the development of an original graphic representation that,
while based upon traditional conventions, was intended for completely
different purposes. To some extent this problem was also found in previous
music theories, which commonly combine traditional notation with added
theoretical indications: Roman numerals for harmonic functions, words
or letters for sectional divisions, or brackets – often in combination with
letters – for thematic correspondences. But in that case notation is retained
either in its traditional form or appears in a simplified version (for example,
reduced textually to indicate the underlying harmonic structure, or to a
single staff containing the principal melody).
Since Schenker’s theory depends upon musical relationships that are
hierarchical and thus substantially different from those found in previous
theories or in “normal” musical notation (which was designed, above all,
as an aid to performers), its graphic presentation had to be rethought as
a sequence of transformational prolongations. Schenker consequently
devised a graphic form that, while adopting traditional notation, rearranged

11
Given the hierarchical relationships among layers, it follows, however, that a more background
consonance cannot be converted into a more foreground dissonance, or a more foreground
dissonance into a more background consonance.
32 Theory

its staves to form a series of structural layers beginning with the Ursatz
and descending through subsequent ones. Since these staves were aligned
hierarchically, they produced a readily-read representation of the overall
pitch structure, both simultaneous and comprehensive. Though each layer
contained one or more normal staves, it included the linear and arpeggiated
progressions that formed the prolongational operations assigned to that
level.
Schenker did not develop an absolutely fixed method of graphic notation,
and he offered little written information about how an analysis should be
notated. Refusing to commit himself to a single analytical approach, the
graphs, even in his final publication, differ widely according to purpose.
Nevertheless, he developed a manner of notation that allowed any musician
with basic theoretical information and rudimentary knowledge of his theory
to follow his sketches. And certain basic principles did become apparent,
perhaps the most important being that notes belonging together are slurred;
and the durational value of a note reflects its structural significance, with
longer values representing more important events and shorter ones less
important ones. But even this can be compromised. Stems, for example,
combine with notes in signaling greater priority (their height connecting
them to others of similar importance), or beams combine with stems in
indicating more important linear or arpeggiated units. Similarly, an eighth-
note flag can be attached to a stem to suggest its relative prominence.12
Despite being confined to pitch organization, Schenker’s theory depends
heavily upon his knowledge of overall musical structure, especially its
rhythmic and formal aspects, in determining which pitch relationships are
chosen and where they occur. In referring to such non-theoretical matters,
however, Schenker normally uses extensive verbal commentary in connec-
tion with his graphs, rather than the graphs themselves. In 1932, however,
he published five analyses that consisted of graphic notation alone, and
stated in the brief introduction – though to my knowledge uniquely there
and in letters related to its publication (which also mention in this con-
nection the graphs for Beethoven’s Third Symphony) – that his analyses had
reached a point where they could be presented solely in graphic form.13
In saying this, he seemed to suggest that the graphs contained all essential
theoretical information. As will become evident, this appears mistaken to
me, as Schenker’s graphs require constant explanation. Nor does it seem

12
A useful introduction to the evolution of this part of Schenker’s graphing technique is found
in Renwick (1988).
13
Schenker (1932/1969b), p. 9. Siegel (2006) provides a helpful introduction to the history and
significance of this publication.
 Schenker’s final theory 33

likely that he himself believed, except perhaps at this one moment, that they
could stand alone.
Like the theory itself, Schenker’s notational system developed gradually,
its growth evident primarily in the final monograph and issues of Der
Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk. The evolution from single-layered graphs
to multiple-layered ones, notated with ever more specialized indications,
reflects Schenker’s increasingly hierarchical conception of musical struc-
ture, as well as the growing number of transformational operations needed.
This development is discussed mainly in Chapters 7 and 8, as part of the
development of the final theory, which necessarily required a systematic and
innovative manner of graphic display.

A Schenker graph

The graph of the C-major Prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier I, one
of the Five Graphic Music Analyses mentioned previously, can serve as both
an example of Schenker’s notational practices and a more concrete indication
of how his theory works (see Example 2.17).14
This graph, a late, multilayered analysis of a short composition with a
relatively small number of elaborations, is not only relatively easy to read
but also representative of Schenker’s mature theory.
Of the three aligned layers, the upper two contain one staff and the third
two. The top staff has the piece’s Ursatz (so labeled), which is notated in
open notes with capped numbers in the top voice, while the chordal inner
voices are included but notated only as black notes. The middle staff, labeled
1. Schicht (“first layer”), contains a number of the most important middle-
ground elaborations of the underlying triad: an octave coupling downwards
from e2 to e1 in the top voice elaborating the first Urlinie tone (indicated by
the German abbreviation Kopp. abw., for “coupling downwards”); a lower-
neighbor chord (IV), above which e1 is suspended before resolving to d1,
anticipating the second Urlinie tone an octave lower as the bass proceeds
to G (V); an octave coupling from d1 to the Urlinie d2 (abbreviated Kopp.
aufw., for “coupling upwards”); the opening third of this coupling to f 1,
(abbreviated Brech: V 5−7, for “arpeggiation V 5−7”); the resolution of f 1 to e1
over the Ursatz bass C; the elaboration of e1 with two upper neighbors; the
continuation of the d1 coupling to d2, which appears above the second upper
neighbor; and the descent from d2 to c2, the last note of the Urlinie. (There

14
Schenker (1932/1969b), pp. 36–37.
34 Theory

Example 2.17 J. S Bach: Prelude no. 1 in C major, graph (Schenker 1932/1969b,

pp. 36–37)
 Schenker’s final theory 35

is an inconsistency in this graph: on the one hand, the Urlinie tone d2 is

suspended with f 1 over the bass C in accord with d’s octave coupling, the
bass C being anticipated four measures early; but on the other, the bass C
appears with e1 and begins an arpeggiated prolongation of e1 to c2, abbre-
viated Brech: I3−8, for “arpeggiation I3−8,” in which case d2 is only a
dissonant upper neighbor to c2.)
The third layer, 2. Schicht, contains both middleground and foreground
features and includes the original barlines. Unusually, the motion is here
reduced to whole-note chords presented in largely traditional notation, a
result of the simplicity of surface figuration and straightforwardness of
harmonic rhythm and overall prolongation. The opening octave coupling
is here shown to consist of two descending linear outer-voice spans, e2 to e1
and c1 to C, indicated by dotted slurs in mm. 1–19 and further divided into
fourth- and fifth-spans (“Quartzug” and “Quintzug”), each notated with
slurs. The word Oberdezimen over the top voice (repeated for the second
span) indicates that it is “upper tenth,” which the bass leads, since it alone
of the two outlines the underlying C-major chord (c1 to G, and G to C).
The six departures from downward stepwise motion in the outer voices of
mm. 1–19 are indicated with black notes, slurs, and eighth-note flags that
form two eight-measure phrases of three rising two-note patterns: the first
mm. 4–5, 6–7, 10–11 and the second mm. 12–13, 14–15, 18–19 (the three
pairs in each group are numbered 1, 2, and 3, with the first two beginning
the phrase and the last one closing it). The lines in mm. 6–7 and 8–9 indicate
chordal resolutions; while the arrows in mm. 11–15 indicate voice-leading,
from B down to G chromatically.15
The remainder of this layer is readily understood in relation to the two
previous ones and poses no special problems. Its relationship to the second
graph in mm. 24–31 is nevertheless notable, as the former’s d1 to f1 arpeg-
giation is elaborated with various passing and neighbor motions. The Stufen
indications beneath the second and third graphs are typical, with Roman
numerals indicating harmony and Arabic numerals voice-leading. In addi-
tion, the numbers between staves in the final layer denote four-measure
rhythmic groupings, the first measure counted four times as a result of
Dehnung (“stretching”) of the prolonged C-major chord.
This graph thus contains not only theoretical information about the
pitches but non-theoretical information about the rhythmic and phrase

15
There is obviously a typographical error in m. 15, where the arrow should indicate that the
right hand’s middle voice is g1 and its lowest voice c1 (as in Bach’s score), so that m. 15 forms a
diatonic sequence with m. 13, as does m. 14 with m. 12.
36 Theory

relationships supporting them. The latter, though not normally included

in Schenker graphs, are perhaps indicated here because of absence of an
accompanying text.

The final theory and Schenker’s development

We end this chapter by considering the final theory in relation to Schenker’s

overall development. There is a widespread tendency to think of him
mainly in terms of his mature theory, and thus as someone committed to
the ideal of universal laws completely controlling the motion of pitches. Yet
initially Schenker did not believe that music had a rational basis. This was
the position taken in his important early article “Der Geist der musikali-
schen Technik,” published in 1895 before he turned to music theory. This
article claimed that music is basically non-scientific and non-organic. The
first chapter of Part II’s survey of Schenker’s development begins with it, as
it was written before he turned to music theory as such and at a point when
he considered musical form to be essentially thematic in nature, with no
rational principle to control thematic succession. Thus all “modern” music,
he believed, was “non-organic.”
It is notable that Schenker’s subsequent theoretical development, which
is traced in the remaining chapters of Part II, came after the “anti-organic”
position expressed in this early article. But as we shall see, the ideas expressed
in it led him in fact to explain music precisely in terms of what he had
previously denied: that music possesses organic coherence. It required a
fundamental change of Schenker’s view of musical content, shifting his
conception of form from a thematic one to a contrapuntal one. It required
that music be explained primarily in terms of voice-leading, which he came
to see as solely responsible for bringing its harmonic foundation to life.
Even in his earliest theoretical works, Schenker seems to have regarded
the contrapuntal discipline as law-like; and his entire later development can
be seen as an attempt to extend the principles of the discipline to control
large-scale musical succession. As will be evident, however, this process was
a long and uncertain one, yet one that not only eventually led to his final
theory but was uncommonly interesting in its own right. The later Schenker
believed that by expanding traditional contrapuntal principles he could
explain something no previous theorist had imagined: that the detailed
pitch structure of great compositions could itself express their tonal basis.
This meant that a tonal piece was not simply in a key, but defined and
realized that key by bringing it to life through its own tonal operations.
 Schenker’s final theory 37

The final theory, above all in its presentation in Der freie Satz, is thus
devoted to showing how this is accomplished. A crucial aspect of this
explanation is that it can be achieved only through analytical means, placing
musical specificity and work-orientation among the theory’s most impor-
tant attributes. Indeed, these elements are so characteristic of the final
theory that one wonders whether its primary concern is musical ontology –
what music is – or musical analysis – how music is put together. Schenker’s
response, I suspect, would be that the two are inseparable: that what music
is can be grasped only by understanding how individual compositions
are constructed; and how individual compositions are constructed can be
grasped only by understanding what music is.
part ii

Development
3 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik”

Schenker’s earliest writings, published mainly in Vienna during the last

decade of the nineteenth century while pursuing a career as a music journal-
ist and thus before he turned to theory, were almost exclusively devoted
to concert reviews and other current musical matters. And though quite
interesting, they contain little except for isolated passages – such as the one
quoted at the opening of Chapter 1 – that relates directly to the later work.
But there is one major exception: “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik”
(“The Spirit of Musical Technique”), the longest of the group, published
in six sections in 1895, not many years after Schenker began his writing
career.1 Already mentioned briefly, this was the most extended of the early
writings and the only one that dealt at length with more general musical
issues. Since it contains the initial statement of Schenker’s ideological
position, it provides, despite its non-technical nature, a useful point of
departure for considering the theoretical work and as topic of the first
chapter of Part II. Not surprisingly, the article has attracted widespread
scholarly attention, though its relation to Schenker’s overall development
has remained something of a mystery.

The organicist background

Most puzzling is “Geist”’s treatment of musical organicism. In its aesthetic

form, organicism holds that works of art resemble living creatures in that
they are intelligently planned, self-productive, and self-regulating. And
especially important for the later Schenker is that organicism directs
attention to the artwork’s construction, and in the temporal arts to their
unfolding in time. It thus encourages the comprehension of musical
compositions as complex and indivisible wholes that consist of function-
ally differentiated parts, which are repeated, transformed and combined

1
Reprinted in Schenker (1990), pp. 135–54. In the present book, the article is normally referred
to as “Geist.” The translations are closely based on the English version by William Pastille, at times
with minor alterations, “The Spirit of Musical Technique,” Theoria 3 (1988), pp. 86–104. 41
42 Development

into a single transcendent unity. These aspects are clearly present in the
quotation opening Chapter 1, which states that the unity of music’s unfolding
is grasped only when viewed as a constructed entirety, like a landscape. How
should we account, then, for organicism’s rejection in “Geist,” such a short
time prior to the beginning of Schenker’s theoretical work?
Before focusing on the anti-organicist position in the article, it will be
helpful to view organicism first in a larger historical context. It began to
develop in its modern form during the eighteenth century, especially in the
biological sciences, and received additional impetus in Johann Wolfgang
von Goethe’s morphological studies near the century’s end. The concept’s
recasting in artistic form was anticipated by Immanuel Kant, but it was only
fully embraced in the century’s final years, when several thinkers associated
with the German Romantic circle in Jena, notably Friedrich Schegel and
Friedrich Schelling, began describing art in organic terms.
Organicism’s subsequent impact on aesthetic ideas was extensive. Art,
which had only recently achieved its autonomous status, was just beginning
to be praised for its own unique qualities. Freed from practical connections,
it was ripe for consideration in organic terms. Indeed, the idea of artistic
organicism quickly assumed such importance that Schelling, writing at the
turn of the new century, placed art at the apex of his philosophical system in
describing it as: 2

the only true and eternal organ and document of philosophy . . . Art is paramount
to the philosopher, precisely because it opens to him, as it were, the holy of holies
where it burns in eternal and original union, as if in a single flame, that which in
nature and history is rent asunder, and in life and action, no less than in thought,
must forever fly apart.

Organicism’s first comprehensive musical formulation appeared somewhat

later, in the first half of the nineteenth century in A. B. Marx; and it was
developed more philosophically in 1855 in Eduard Hanslick’s On the
Musically Beautiful. Thanks largely to Hanslick’s influence, musical organi-
cism then supplied a firm foundation for most subsequent formalist thought
about music. Nevertheless, tensions between organicism and its formalist
manifestations were always evident; and they intensified during the twen-
tieth century, when formalism largely abandoned its biological basis to be
recast in structuralist terms.
Schenker, who reached full maturity during the nineteenth century, was
heavily influenced by organicist thinking, although his theoretical works

2
Schelling (1978), p. 221.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 43

were all published in the following century. Nevertheless, it is well known

that positivist strains in later nineteenth-century thought developed an
increasingly scientific orientation that was largely opposed to this idealist
past. But at the same time, idealism itself enjoyed something of a revival
around the turn of the twentieth century, evident in the writings of such
prominent figures as the philosophers Henri Bergson, Benedetto Croce and
Francis Herbert Bradley. And it returned as well, if somewhat unexpectedly,
in branches of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century positivism,
especially in the sciences, where it continued to assert an influence well
into the new century (for example, even in the 1920s when Schenker’s final
theory began to develop).
Two points are relevant to Schenker in this connection. First, despite
the emphasis that has been correctly placed on his idealist roots, he was also
strongly influenced by scientific attitudes, especially in his later stress on
musical hierarchy, theoretical notation, and the empirical observation of
actual music. Second, and equally significant, was that the turn toward
science in the later nineteenth century was not invariably connected with
a total rejection of idealism. Thus, as has been pointed out here, Schenker’s
own idealism is associated with an interest in scientific and empirical
processes, both inclinations being readily evident throughout his theoretical
career.
It is important to recognize, then, that “post-idealist” science often
retained a metaphysical core. And many prominent scientific thinkers
around the turn of the century resembled Schenker in their belief that the
natural world was directed toward a determinate goal and held an almost
worshipful attitude toward nature (not unlike that found in Romantic
Naturphilosophie). A typical figure is Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919), a well-
known German post-Darwinian scientist whose view of nature contained
more than a hint of idealist universalism. In addition to his extremely
influential work as a scientific thinker, Haeckel founded a non-religious
“spiritual” movement called Monism; and his much-read 1899 book, Die
Welträtzel (The Riddle of the Universe), contained an at least partly ration-
alist account of existence that would no doubt have appealed to Schenker
(as it perhaps did, since Haeckel was a prominent figure at the time).3
In this book Haeckel proposed that a single universal spirit pervades

3
Haeckel (1901). In addition to being a scientist, Haeckel was also an accomplished artist. At one
point in this study I came across an article on taxonomy in the Science Times section of the New
York Times (August 11, 2009), that included reproductions of two Haeckel paintings, one of
hummingbirds and one of shells, both from his book Kunstformen der Natur. The article describes
Haeckel as “one of the most influential scientists of his day,” as well as “one of [its] most lauded
44 Development

everything, including energy and matter, lending to both organic and

inorganic properties. In addition, he believed that the highest mental
activity resulted from a union of realism and idealism; and that since all
living cells possessed psychic properties, every human soul belonged to a
“World Soul.” Haeckel’s joining of science and metaphysics was a common
feature of late nineteenth-century thought, especially in Germany, and it
provides a useful key for fully understanding Schenker.

“Geist”’s anti-organicism and Schenker’s development

Turning to the “Geist” article itself, the first thing to strike one is the
apparent anomaly of its denial that music has an organic basis. This raises
a perplexing question: if organicism is fundamental to Schenker’s theory, as
everyone seems to agree, how can this early demurral be explained? It seems
odd, given the organic implications evident in the quote from “Das Hören
in der Musik,” written shortly before, that Schenker would suddenly
adopt “Geist”’s negative position. But in fact, the idea of organicism, despite
the article’s seemingly negative take on the topic, turns out to be just as
important there as in Schenker’s later work. What is telling, then, is not
so much “Geist”’s negativism with regard to musical organicism, but the
degree to which the subject dominates its argument. Moreover, the manner
in which it is rejected proves to be conflicted at best.
One should recognize first that in “Geist” Schenker adopts a strictly
scientific position in connection with “organicism,” characterizing it as a
“scientific concept” (naturwissenschaftlicher Begriff ) rather than the loosely
metaphorical one normally found in musical discourse. For Schenker, then,
organic processes are strictly analogous to those that exist in living organ-
isms; and it is only the word’s loose application that has led to “misunder-
standings” when it is applied to music. For in musical contexts, the term is
normally used “analogically,” as a means of expressing admiration or as a
“compliment” to praise a work’s beauty:4

If we apply the scientific sense of the word “organic” only to those works which we
can listen to with uninterrupted interest, excitement, and pleasure, then it is clear
that we transfer our pleasure, which we indicate by the word “organic,” to the
content that afforded the pleasure. In this way, a beautiful piece comes to be thought
of as organically constructed.
natural history artists.” It also notes that Charles Darwin considered his naturalistic artistic
renderings as “the most magnificent works which I have ever seen.”
4
Schenker (1990/1988), p. 148/98–99.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 45

Schenker links this to his claim that music lacks the three principles he
considers essential for scientific organicism: causality, logic and necessity.
As for the first, living organisms are bound by a causal system of external
laws that always develop toward a definite and predetermined form.
Whereas “the causality inherent in the events of life determines and orders
its moods, in music, unburdened by the weight of ideas or experience, the
images of moods are determined only by a deceptive appearance of life’s
causality.”5 And as for logic, it is tied to organicism through language (“the
word”) and thus depends upon a system of referential meanings that
bind it to the external world of nature, making it immune to the arbitrary
judgments of individual persons. For whereas “the word is a sign that refers
to something, i.e., an object, or a concept that forms objects within itself, the
musical motive is a sign that refers only to itself or, better, is nothing more
and nothing less than itself.”6 Finally, “necessity” is lacking since music,
being “fundamentally ignorant of causality or logic,” is unable to “present a
whole so convincingly that it could persuade everyone’s taste and allay the
doubts of uncertain listeners.”7
“Geist”’s anti-organicism becomes fully comprehensible, however, only
when viewed in light of the article’s overall argument. Schenker denies, as
we have seen, that music has an organic basis; yet he stresses that, as a
consequence of this, composers have expressly designed “artificial musical
devices” to simulate its effects: to create an illusion of organicism. These
musical devices, designed to suggest organicism through its attributes
causality, logic, and necessity, developed gradually. At first they were evident
only in the melodic dimension. “Music became an art only when a series of
tones first claimed the right to be grasped and felt as a whole, as a thought
complete in itself.”8 Later, however, harmony joined melody to create a more
powerful simulation: 9
It seems to me that harmony . . . plays an even more important role: it helps music to
deceive both itself and the listener concerning the absence of logic and causality,
because harmony behaves as though it possessed the compulsion of logic. Tradition
and custom mistakenly accept this deception, conceding to harmony a logic that it
no more has than melody . . . Harmony and melody proclaim necessity and logic,

5
Ibid., p. 149/99–100. 6 Ibid., pp. 137–38/89.
7
Ibid., p. 137/88. It is worth noting, if only parenthetically, that in “Geist”’s scientific sense,
organicism seems to be closely linked with determinism. One can of course question this aspect of
Schenker’s thought, especially since he fails to specify rigorously the relationship among causality,
logic, and necessity. My present concern, however, is not with the consistency and coherence of
Schenker’s views, but how these views relate to his theoretical development.
8
Ibid., p. 136/88. 9 Ibid., p. 144/95.
46 Development

deceiving as they do so; and in that both do so, the deceit is that much greater, the
goal of music being reached, as it were, with a doubling of power and deceit.

And eventually other elements joined as well, furthering the deception:

“Modulation, for instance, played a very important role. It carried a melody
back and forth through so-called related keys, thereby contributing much to
length, clarity of intelligibility, and mood. One also constructed transitions
that served as transitions in the true sense of the word, leading from one
major section to another.”10
According to Schenker, these devices are all human and “artificial” in
origin rather than “natural.” Equally significant, however, is that composers
try to hide this artificiality, so as to make their music seem organic:11

Naturally, however, the artificiality was not to be displayed overtly. It had to be

masked and concealed in order to keep the listener’s perception completely in that
unconscious state in which the artificial whole would be most readily received and
heard as an apparently natural occurrence . . . Thus the appearance of intellectual
logic glimmered through all those expanded formations resulting from fanciful,
artificial choice. And soon it was even believed that these artificial constructs had the
sort of necessity possessed by a natural organism.

To which he then adds the essential point:12

In reality, no musical content is organic, for it lacks any principle of causation. An
invented melody never has a determination so resolute that it can say, only that
particular melody may follow me, none other. Rather, it belongs to the difficulties of
building content that the composer draws from his phantasy various similarities
and contrasts, from which he eventually makes the best choice.

Music, then, since it is not itself organic, can only simulate organicism. Yet
this simulation is also its most characteristic feature; for without it, music
would never have achieved its modern form and distinctive quality.

Three commentaries on “Geist”

Not surprisingly, several articles have recently examined “Geist”’s early

anti-organicism in relation to Schenker’s future theoretical beliefs; and
consideration of three of the most prominent – all published within a
single decade, from 1984 to 1993 – will help us grasp the full complexity
of his position. The earliest, William Pastille’s “Heinrich Schenker:

10 11 12
Ibid., p. 147/98. Ibid., pp. 147–48/98. Ibid., p. 148/99.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 47

Anti-Organicist?” which appeared with a partial translation of the article

in 1984, was largely responsible for bringing the work to the attention
of English readers.13 Pastille stresses the contradiction in “Geist,” arguing
that it attacks “the organic metaphor at its very roots.” More specifically,
he states that Schenker denies music “two essential characteristics of living
organisms: developmental growth and holistic unity.”14 Schenker, how-
ever, makes neither of these claims, but says only that the properties of
growth and unity in music are “artificial” rather than “organic.” Indeed,
far from denying that music has growth and unity, he stresses that these
qualities, though artificial, are what enabled the art to become “civilized.”
To understand this point, one needs to recognize that Schenker’s anti-
organicism forms part of a more general historical argument: that the
development of modern music resulted in leading it away from its “natural”
sources. Primitive music, in contrast, does not incorporate artificial devices
for artistic purposes, but remains close to music’s “true nature,” which
according to Schenker “create[s] melodies that, like folk songs, live with
one another freely and independently and which, like the first men in
Paradise, romp around naked and unadorned in the Paradise of music.”15
Thus “Geist”’s entire first half, which Pastille however considers irrelevant
to its primary argument, deals with music’s long-range development, and
thus provides the context for its primary point: distinguishing between the
natural and artificial in music. Thus:16
different factors combined to drive instrumental music towards artificiality, and
what was various and similar in it was soon brought together and distinguished
in the conceptualizations of so-called “forms” . . . Since I can think of no more
appropriate word than “artificial” to describe the opposite of the actual nature of
music, which consists, in my opinion, of creating discrete melodies, I want to use
this word in that sense here. But at the same time I ask that it be relieved of the
derogatory connotation it usually has.

Schenker consistently draws upon the natural–artificial dichotomy to sepa-

rate the world of nature from that of art and man, and repeatedly relies upon
it to deny organicism’s survival in art music.17 Yet he also seems troubled by

13
William Pastille (1984), pp. 28–36. Pastille’s full translation, referred to in fn. 1, appeared four
years after this article.
14
Pastille (1984), p. 32. 15 Schenker (1990/1988), p. 153/103. 16 Ibid., p. 147/97–98.
17
Pastille misinterprets Schenker’s natural–artificial distinction by translating the eleven
appearances of Künstlichkeit (“artificiality”) as “artifice” (completely omitting one instance),
which is not a normal translation of this word but of Künstfertigkeit, related but with very
different connotations. Three of the five appearances of the adjective künstlich, on the other
hand, are correctly translated as “artificial” (perhaps because there is no other English adjective
48 Development

the idea that art music, having acquired artificial unity, relinquishes organic
innocence and its “natural” base. He thus insists, for example, that “artificial”
is not intended to be derogatory. But most telling is that after rejecting
organicism, he immediately equivocates by introducing an exception: there
is “one aspect of the musical imagination to which the scientific notion of
the ‘organic’ seems to correspond quite strictly.” Music retains organicism:18
as long as it remains untainted by consciousness. The instant the composer directs
his imagination to seek out similarities, however, what otherwise could easily have
seemed organic devolves into the merely “thematic,” that is, into willed similarity.
Strictly speaking, then, the organic is to be treated as only hypothetical: only by
assuming the composer has not willed it, is this similarity truly organical, formed in
the phantasy.

As will be seen in future chapters, this notion of “hypothetical organicism,”

based upon linking “naturalness” with unconscious creation and “artificia-
lity” with conscious creation, was critical in Schenker’s later work. In
“Geist,” however, it expresses only a moment of doubt, no sooner proffered
than withdrawn: “I cannot accept . . . the organic in musical content (since
the hypothetical organic ultimately does not suffice for the complete con-
struction of content).”19

for “artifice”). Of the remaining two, one is converted into the noun “artifice” and the other
omitted. Thus “artificiality” and “artificial,” appearing no less than sixteen times in the original,
virtually disappear in Pastille’s translation. Nor is this corrected in the revised version of his
translation that is included in an appendix of Cook (2007).
18
Schenker (1990/1988), p. 150/100.
19
Ibid., pp. 151–52/102. Schenker did not come upon the natural–artificial dichotomy by chance: it
is an old one with a lengthy past, repeatedly evoked in the various disputes between the “ancients
and moderns” that punctuated European thought during and after the Renaissance. In sixteenth-
century discussions accompanying the birth of opera, Greek naturalness and simplicity are
contrasted with modern artificiality and intricacy; and in the eighteenth-century “Querelle des
Bouffons,” “natural” Italian music is praised for moderation, simplicity, and its vocality, while
“unnatural” French music is damned for its instrumental conception, harmonic obscurity, and
“scientific” aura. Strunk (1998), pp. 523–54 and 895–933.
An even closer source is Friedrich von Schiller’s famous essay “On Naïve and Sentimental
Poetry” (1795), which also associates naturalness with the spontaneity, naïveté, and stability of
classical authors, and artificiality with the sentimentality, cultivation, and boundlessness of
modern ones. It even anticipates Schenker in expressing sympathy for the moderns, finding them
in some respects superior (especially in moral consciousness), yet noting modernist attempts to
regain what has been lost by being more natural (Schiller [n.d.], especially pp. 37–39, 122, 147).
A year later, Friedrich Schlegel, writing under Schiller’s influence, anticipates Schenker in
reconfiguring the natural–artificial distinction (which he previously used to disparage the
moderns) in his epoch-making reformulation of classicism and romanticism: the latter, though
still philosophically self-reflective, now contains a much-valued quality uniquely its own
(Schlegel [1970], especially p. 86). A comparison of Schiller’s and Schlegel’s views appears in
Lovejoy (1955).
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 49

We turn now to the second commentary on “Geist,” Allan Keiler’s

“The Origins of Schenker’s Thought: How Man Is Musical,” published in
1989, five years after Pastille’s.20 Since there would seem to be little doubt
that “Geist” ultimately rejects musical organicism, it is surprising that
Keiler denies this point, stating that “Geist” does not disavow organicism
“at all.” He bases his view partly on the premise, clearly stated in
Schenker’s article, that musical content takes precedent over musical
form. And according to Keiler, Schenker adopts his anti-organicist posi-
tion to attack Eduard Hanslick, whose formalism is said to be in conflict
with this premise.
The historical evidence Keiler offers for this position has partly to do with
the fact that Hanslick and Schenker knew each other personally and were
in deep disagreement. Yet whether or not that is so, there seems to be little
difference between them regarding musical form. “Geist,” for example, does
not object to form as such, but only a conception of “form” (a word
Schenker places in quotation marks) that reduces music to an abstraction
ignoring its content, that is, its very lifeblood. Yet Schenker’s resulting
conviction that “every content has its own form” is completely consistent
with Hanslick’s famous dictum from On the Musically Beautiful that “the
content of music is tonally moving forms.” Significantly, Hanslick immedi-
ately follows this statement with the following: 21

In music the concept of “form” [also in quotes!] is materialized in a specifically

musical way. The forms which construct themselves out of tones are not empty but
filled; they are not mere contours of a vacuum but mind giving shape to itself from
within.

This puts Hanslick squarely in the same camp as Schenker: both emphasize –
quoting Keiler on Schenker – “the individual fantasy of the creative artist
and the significance of individualizing content over form-type.”22 What is
more, there is no evidence to suggest that Hanslick, any more than Schenker,
considers music to be “organic” in the scientific sense (though he does
consider it organic in a less restricted one, as we shall see).
Not only are the formal views of Schenker and Hanslick grounded on
common premises, they both depend upon the standard formalist assump-
tion that, at least in autonomous music, “form” is always determined by
content. Indeed, within an organic perspective, content necessarily becomes
the focus of formal investigation, as true musical form can be grasped through
it alone. For once music is assumed to be self-determining, interpretation

20 21 22
Keiler (1989). Hanslick (1990/1986), pp. 75, 78/29, 30. Keiler (1989), p. 287.
50 Development

must shift from outward construction to individual construction of given

works: to the “form” (or “inner form,” as we would now probably say) as
defined by their unique content.
Keiler’s anti-Hanslick argument is also compromised by his idea that for
Hanslick “modulations, cadences, intervallic and harmonious progressions”
become “worn out, hackneyed with time and needing replacement.”23 For
this too is consistent with Schenker’s view. He does not say in “Geist” (as he
does in later works) that a particular musical content is eternal, which would
be in conflict with music’s artificiality, but expresses the more nuanced
position that “different means were used by different people at different
times to form a musical whole; and that is still so today.”24 In other words,
Schenker claims here that all content, once established, retains its meaning
forever, but not that one particular content is the sole creative source.25
Every content retains its original vitality; it is our responsibility to perceive this
vitality anew . . . The material [of music] never and nowhere contradicts itself; nor
do we contradict ourselves if we are delighted today by Brahms, or by some other
pre-modern composer tomorrow.

There is nothing in this that contradicts Hanslick (though Schenker

focuses on musical “reception,” Hanslick on musical “production”). Indeed,
in opening the same paragraph Schenker refers explicitly to content’s
impermanence:26
Every content that was novel at some time was obviously also endowed with a
unique personal expression. After many had discovered and internalized it, how-
ever, it degenerated into a familiar cliché, because it no longer stimulated curiosity
or commanded attention.

Keiler also errs in disputing Schenker’s anti-organicism on the basis of

“Geist”’s evolutionary argument. This stems from his misconception that
the two halves of the essay are fundamentally different, the first applying,
as he says, to “the language of organicism . . . [and] often by implication, to
the gradually evolving musical competence of man,” while the second
applies “to the creative activity of the composer.” According to Keiler,
then, when this activity is properly executed Schenker is “struck by the
compelling coherence of a work . . . [and] attributes it to the organic char-
acter of its compositional origin.”27 But in saying this he ignores the main
thrust of the first half of the article, which supports the second: that due to

23
Hanslick (1990/1986), p. 86/35. 24 Schenker (1990/1988), p. 137/88.
25
Ibid., p. 151/101. 26 Ibid., p. 150/100–01. 27 Keiler (1989), p. 289.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 51

music’s evolution it no longer has an organic basis, but only the artificiality
resulting from its “fall” from an organic state of grace. Far from claiming that
organicism is tied to man’s growing musical competence, Schenker thus
holds that music’s loss of organicism results from the very techniques that
account for his musical competence. To quote just three of many statements
in “Geist” confirming this point, the following (all dealing with polyphony)
are typical:28
Polyphony entered Western music as a purely musical principle, creating its own
devices for its own purposes . . . Apart from all the natural charm that multi-voiced
music must have dispersed, the new artificiality subtly began to introduce into
perception something truly revolutionary . . . [Musical] perception learned to follow
faithfully even the tiniest variations; it adapted itself to the new spirit of artificiality
and complexity . . .

Similarly, in a statement comparing the relationship of the composer’s

use of counterpoint to achieve fantasy and the performer’s use of finger-
dexterity to achieve mobility, Schenker associates music’s technical expan-
sion with its “subjectivity”:29
In the same way that the purely mechanical discipline of finger-dexterity prepares
the fingers for mobility, independence and strength . . . so the [composer’s] fantasy
is enabled through the discipline of counterpoint to see countless different dispo-
sitions and transformations of a theme, so as to determine the proper character
of the emotional compass of the artwork under creation. But to the same degree as
the emotional compass of the work is subjective, so too has all the contrapuntal
technique within it, once it has been irrevocably chosen, become subjective.

Finally, Keiler limits his discussion of Hanslick to the famous third chapter
of On the Musically Beautiful and thus ignores an even closer correspond-
ence with Schenker. In chapter 6, on “The Relation of Music to Nature,”
Hanslick makes the same natural–artificial distinction as “Geist”: “the
‘music’ of nature and the musical art of mankind are two separate
domains.”30 And despite other differences, he mirrors Schenker’s insistence
that this results from music’s human development: 31

When we call our tonal system “artificial,” we use this word not in the refined sense
of something fabricated at will in a conventional manner. We mean it to designate
merely something in the process of coming into being, in contrast to something

28
Schenker (1990/1988), pp, 139–40/90–1. 29 Ibid., pp. 140–41/91.
30
Hanslick (1990/1986), p. 152/72.
31
Ibid., pp. 149, 146, 149, 155/70, 69, 71, 74. (The final quote expresses a view of folk song that
differs somewhat from Schenker’s.)
52 Development

already created by God . . . [N]either [melody nor harmony] is encountered in

nature; they are creations of the human spirit . . . [Music theorists] have not
“constructed” music, but have simply established and consolidated that which the
prevailing, musically competent spirit has rationally, but not with necessity, uncon-
sciously devised . . . The folk song is not a found object, not a natural beauty, but the
first grade of genuine art, that is to say, naive art.

A difference does result from Hanslick’s view that music contains an intrinsic
“sense” and “logic” based upon “certain fundamental laws of nature govern-
ing both the human organism and the external manifestations of sound.”32
Indeed, in chapter 1 he even speaks of the “necessity,” “exclusiveness,” and
“constancy” that music must have “in order to be the basis of an aesthetical
principle.”33 And he is similarly at odds with Schenker when he later refers
to “the organic, rational coherence of a group of tones,” and contrasts this
coherence with the “absurdity and unnaturalness” of an unconvincing musi-
cal group. Yet Hanslick is unable, as is the Schenker of “Geist,” to explain
how musical “sense” and “logic” are achieved. Indeed, even while accepting
their relevance, Hanslick concedes that music’s “natural laws,” the source
of its organicism, are not “open to scientific investigation” but “reside . . .
instinctively in every cultivated ear” – which reminds one precisely of why
“Geist” rejected musical organicism.34 (One might also wonder how Hanslick
would reconcile his organic conception of music with his belief that its
technical apparatus constantly changes.)
Despite their disagreement about music’s organicism, then, Schenker and
Hanslick share the same overall conception of music. Keiler does, however,
recognize one important aspect of the historical grounding of Schenker’s
position. Trained as a linguist, he draws interesting parallels between
“Geist”’s historical and universalist account of music’s origins with similar
views in then-contemporary linguistics on the evolution of language. He
fails to mention, however, that questions about origins were not just char-
acteristic of linguistics at this time, but of many other intellectual disciplines
as well. As a consequence, the historical deliberations of both Schenker and
Hanslick were part of a well-established tradition.35

32
Ibid., p. 78/30. 33 Ibid., pp. 36–37/7. 34 Ibid., p. 79/31.
35
Music’s origin was itself debated by two of the most prominent mid-century evolutionists:
Herbert Spencer, who located its beginnings in muscular excitement and emotional speech
(anticipating Schenker); and Charles Darwin, who located them in courtship practice. Later
figures engaged with the topic included the psychologist Carl Stumpf, who wrote a lengthy review
of Spencer’s extended “Postscript” to his article on music (1890); the philosopher-physicist
Ernst Mach, who treated it in his Contributions to the Analysis of the Sensations (1886); and the
sociologist Georg Simmel, whose Habilitationschrift on “Psychologische und ethnologische
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 53

Four years after Keiler’s article a third commentary on “Geist,” Kevin

Korsyn’s “Schenker’s Organicism Reexamined” (1993),36 took exception to
its denial of Schenker’s anti-organicism. Korsyn’s claim was that, even
though Schenker’s position may seem surprising in relation to his later
work, it is fully comprehensible viewed within “Geist”’s own historical
context. Schenker’s thought was not shaped solely by Austro-German idea-
lism, as Keiler maintains, but by scientific empiricism. Though idealism was
the “official” Austrian philosophy during Schenker’s formative years, and
was fully entrenched in the Catholic Church and state school system, a
strong positivist and empiricist counter-current existed. And Schenker no
doubt came under its spell. The physicist-philosopher Ernst Mach, perhaps
the most prominent contemporary European empiricist, lived in Vienna
at this time; and his famous “anti-metaphysical” belief that absolute knowl-
edge can be acquired only through the senses would have been well known
to many of its inhabitants, including almost certainly Schenker. It was
Mach’s opinion that any scientific position worthy of the name must reject
all metaphysical entities, since “supposed unities,” such as body and ego,
are “only makeshifts, designed for provisional orientation and for definite
practical ends.”37
For Korsyn, then, Schenker’s anti-organicism represents “an extension of
this anti-metaphysical critique.” Just as Mach did not extrapolate a unified
ego, or causal law, from a bundle of sensations simply because one event
followed another, Schenker refused to extrapolate “organic” unity from the
sensations experienced in hearing music. This not only explains “Geist”’s
scientific conception of musical organicism but a number of its other
seemingly anomalous aspects. Also, it seems unlikely that Schenker would
not have been aware of the presence in his own city of such a commanding
figure as Mach. In addition to his scientific interests, Mach was also a
serious amateur musician, a prolific writer on musical topics, and the
scientific advisor of the well-known music journal Vierteljahrschrift für
Musikwissenschaft. Korsyn even believes – though on somewhat shaky
evidence – that Schenker was personally connected with Mach.
But there is no reason to doubt that empiricism represented a significant
component in Schenker’s thought at this time or that it continued to do so
throughout the remainder of his life. Nor does one need to prove personal
acquaintance to claim that Mach influenced Schenker. But as will be shown

Studien über Musik”, though rejected by Humboldt University in 1882 (one of its readers
being Hermann Helmholtz), was published independently later that same year.
36
Korsyn (1993). 37 Mach (1914 [1886]), p. 13.
54 Development

in the next section (where we return to Korsyn’s article), Schenker’s empiri-

cism provided only one part of his intellectual background; it was suffi-
ciently developed to make Mach a convincing intellectual model, but only a
partial one.

Idealism and empiricism in Schenker in “Geist”

In this section both the idealist and empirical elements of Schenker’s

thinking are examined, as well as philosophers who might have influenced
him. It deals with forerunners who fall into both camps, yet does not
attempt to identify specific influences. Schenker, as is well known, was
widely read; and there is good reason to assume that he was familiar with
many – if not all – of the figures mentioned here (some of whom he quoted
in his writings). But he was not himself a professional philosopher, com-
mitted to abstract ideas. Rather, his thought took root in prominent intel-
lectual currents that, as part of the ideological climate of the time, would
have been evident to many of his contemporaries.
Korysn’s article on “Geist,” stressing Schenker’s empiricism, provides a
useful point of entry for examining that side of his background. To begin
with Korsyn’s prime example, Ernst Mach, the connection between his
particular brand of empiricism and Schenker is undeniable, yet their rela-
tionship is more complex than the article suggests. Mach differs from
Schenker, first, in leaning heavily upon eighteenth-century British prede-
cessors, in particular David Hume’s belief that human ideas are always
derived from empirical experience. Hume does, however, resemble both
Mach and the Schenker of “Geist” in holding that causal necessity is illusory:
no necessary connection between one thing and another can be proved
empirically, no matter how often the second follows from the first. On the
contrary, he claimed that since we are “determined” solely by our experi-
ence, but not by reason, there is no firm basis for assuming that nature
“continues always uniformly the same.” Thus any “necessary connection”
between events exists only “in the mind, not in objects.”38
In this, however, the Schenker of “Geist” follows Hume (and Mach) only
so far. He does conform with them in denying that music has causal
connections, so that its themes and moods, being artificial, only “happen”
to follow one other:39

38 39
Hume (1978 [1739–40]), pp. 165–66. Schenker (1990/1988), p. 149/100.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 55

I do not think it is wise to assume that mood B follows mood A organically, simply
because it actually follows it directly at some point – whether or not this resulted
from the composer’s careful consideration. That would be to sanction the conclu-
sion that the second follows the first “organically” simply because it follows it in fact.

But he rejects one of Hume’s and Mach’s most fundamental premises: that
nature is non-organic. Unlike music, it is on the contrary through and
through organic, and thus subject to the unalterable laws of causal necessity.
This places him firmly against Mach’s and Hume’s empiricism, aligning
him instead with idealism. Empiricism, then, does not influence this aspect
of his thought, but rather rationalism; and this he inherited from the
seventeenth century, not the eighteenth.
Among possible predecessors, the seventeenth century’s leading philo-
sophical rationalist, Gottfried Leibniz, is probably Schenker’s most impor-
tant forerunner. With both scientific and mathematical interests, Leibniz
maintained, like Schenker, that the natural world is linked to causal neces-
sity, making it fully organic (which is a term he frequently employs). The
following passage from Leibniz, for example, claiming that the world not
only follows its eternal course with law-like regularity but is derived from a
“single source” that mysteriously accounts for its causality, anticipates more
than one of Schenker’s ideas: 40

And in truth we discover that everything takes place in the world according to
the laws, not only geometrical but also metaphysical, of eternal truths; that is, not
only according to material necessities but also according to formal necessities; and
this is true not only generally, with regard to reason . . . [T]his reason of things can
be sought only in a single source, because of the connection which all things have
with one another. But it is evident that it is from this source that existing things
continually emanate, that they are and have been its products . . .

The ties connecting this passage to Schenker are strong, and they link both
Leibniz and Schenker to Schelling, the nineteenth century’s leading expo-
nent of Naturphilosophie. Writing in 1800, Schelling also insists (if some-
what quizzically) upon nature’s purposive quality: 41
For the peculiarity of nature rests upon this, that in its mechanism . . . it is none-
theless purposive . . . All the magic which surrounds organic nature, for example,
and which can first be entirely penetrated only by aid of transcendental idealism,
rests upon the contradiction, that although this nature is a product of blind natural
forces, it is nevertheless purposive through and through . . . Every plant is entirely
what it should be; what is free therein is necessary, and what is necessary is free. Man

40 41
Leibniz (1951), p. 350. Schelling (1978 [1800]), pp. 215–16.
56 Development

is forever a broken fragment, for either his action is necessary, and then not free,
or free, and then not necessary and according to law. The complete appearance of
freedom and necessity unified in the external world therefore yields me organic
nature only . . . nature is itself already a producing become objective, and to that
extent therefore approximates to free action, but is nevertheless an unconscious
intuiting of producing, and hence to that extent is itself again a blind producing.

For Schelling, then, as for Leibniz and Schenker, nature is not simply an
object of detached concern; it is also subject: alive, animate, productive,
imbued with spirit, and dependent upon mind (as mind is dependent upon
nature). He even believed that this enabled him to eliminate Kant’s Ding-an-
sich, which maintains that something unknowable exists beneath nature.
As Schelling says, nature is teleological and dependent upon mind, creating
“harmony between subjective and objective”; and that is why it is compre-
hensible to the human being.
For idealists, the synthesis of mind and matter serves to make not only
nature alive and purposeful but history as well. Rather than tracing a
meaningless succession of events, history has a shape and intent of its
own. And like nature it has a goal. Thus Hegel, believing that “[r]eason
rules the world,” held it to be immanent in all existence; and consequently
that “things have happened reasonably (according to reason) in world
history.” This view also resembles Schenker’s organicism, since history’s
teleological course is achieved only unconsciously: “something else results
from the actions of men than what they attend and achieve, something else
than they know or want.”42
The Schenkerian analogies are here striking. Though the idea that both
nature and history are living organic forces is admittedly contrary to some
aspects of “Geist” (and to Mach’s and Hume’s empiricism), it will become a
critical component in Schenker’s subsequent theoretical works. For as we
shall see, Schenker’s conception of music history ultimately depends upon
historical purposefulness. Moreover, the assumption that nature is organic
is essential to his belief that tones contain “egos,” an idea introduced
in Harmonielehre that remains central to his mature theory. In “Geist,”
however, the will of tones remains unmentioned, as it must; for in the article
nature’s underlying force exists only in nature, not in music. To adopt
the terminology of Naturphilosophie, “Geist” considers nature’s coherence
organic, since it is imposed upon human thought from without, by nature
itself; while musical coherence remains inorganic, since it is imposed by
human thought, from within.

42
Hegel (1954), pp. 4, 16.
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 57

To be sure, Schenker’s final theory required that this view be altered. For
music to have an external power, such as the Ursatz, able to control all of its
successions, its behavior must be completely lawful, and thus completely
determined. By eliminating music’s “unknown,” Schenker could describe
explicitly what others (including Goethe) could only describe as a “law-like
something.”
In fact, these various philosophical components place Schenker’s “Geist”
in a tangential relationship to both the empiricism of Mach and Hume
and the idealism of Leibniz and Schelling. The article seems to lean in two
directions, as does all of Schenker’s theoretical work. And empiricism and
idealism both being central in his theoretical course, a more likely intellec-
tual model would be someone with beliefs that combined in equal measure
elements of both philosophical positions, someone like the previously
mentioned Ernst Haeckel.

The significance of “Geist”

Until Nicholas Cook’s recent book on Schenker appeared, the “Geist” article
was consistently misinterpreted as being inconsistent either because of its
anti-organicism or (in at least one case) because it supported organicism,
and thus idealism. For it harbors elements of both. And it is equally
incorrect to claim, as does Korsyn, that the article’s translation revealed
for English readers “a startling discontinuity” in Schenker’s development.
Though Pastille’s translation may have been a “revelation” for English
readers, it did not reveal Schenker to be “a man who had changed his
mind about a very fundamental issue, hence someone with a history.”43
Schenker’s development did not contain a serious “discontinuity,” but on
the contrary “Geist”’s idealism and empiricism both remained prominent
throughout his theoretical career. Even more important, the article’s ambiv-
alence toward scientific organicism actually formed a crucial moment in his
overall development. Its waffling on the issue of organicism hinges precisely
on its nature: whether it is created “consciously,” and thus produces artifi-
cial organicism; or whether it is created “unconsciously,” and thus produces
natural organicism.
“Geist” ultimately denies the possibility that organicism can be uncon-
scious, but its denial is directly related to its view that art music, in the very act
of becoming non-organic, developed techniques of variety, repetitiveness,

43
Korsyn (1993), pp. 82–83.
58 Development

relatedness, differentiation, and consistency in order to feign organicism.

And these techniques are the very ones that Schenker proposed to explain
in his theoretical work. In essence, then, “Geist” sets the stage for the later
developments by reformulating the organic/non-organic dichotomy as being
the result of two different conceptions of organicism rather than of music:
natural vs artificial.
Seeing “Geist” in these terms allows us to understand Schenker’s theo-
retical development more precisely. The article adopts virtually all of
organicism’s essential tenets; and despite its equivocation, and largely
scientific character, it lays out the ideological coordinates for the entire
final theory. There are five main points:
(1) Nature is organic and thus subject to logic, causality, and necessity.
(2) Music abandoned its natural sources through evolution, transforming
itself into an autonomous art with its own methods of construction.
(3) Because these techniques were the result of human decision, they
required music to become artificial, forgoing its original organicism.
(4) Organicism nevertheless results if music is created through uncon-
scious and spontaneous means.
(5) Music’s organization is based entirely upon its own content.
The fourth of these, concerning music’s organicism, is clearly in conflict
with the third, concerning its artificiality; so the article rejects the fourth in
order to present a more consistent picture (though one inconsistent with the
later work). Yet because of the off-handed manner of its rejection, it seems
to offer the possibility that the third point could be discarded instead of
the fourth, so as to produce an equally consistent picture (in accord with the
later theory). Music, though partly independent of nature, is nevertheless
organic.
Although “Geist” ultimately rejects this solution, the fact that it accepts
organicism, even if only temporarily, reveals the idea’s intimate relation to
Schenker’s future work. The ambivalence toward musical organicism is also
significant in that it allows Schenker to argue two seemingly contradictory
points: that music lacks organicism and is thus artificial; but that its artifi-
ciality results precisely from its simulation of organicism. Moreover, music
of a highly developed nature – and this is the only kind Schenker seems to
have cared about, even at this early stage – is solely distinguished by this fact.
The claim that unconscious creation produces organicism is, in other words,
not simply important but also places Schenker on his future course.
“Geist”’s ambivalence is nevertheless readily understandable. When
the article appeared Schenker had presumably not yet even dreamed of
 “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik” 59

developing a means for granting music organic coherence, as he did not

yet have a principle to which it could respond as if to natural law. Indeed,
judging by “Geist” alone, one is inclined to say that, at this time, he did not
even recognize this as a possibility.
Only two years later, however, in an 1897 tribute to Brahms written
shortly after the composer’s death, Schenker speaks of his “organic method
of thematic development” and the “logic” of tonal ideas in his symphonic
music.44 This may seem to indicate that he altered his position. But I suspect
that his willingness to describe music in these terms so soon after “Geist”
is not particularly significant; for the article is less formal than “Geist” and
no doubt uses “organic” and “logic” in their normal, metaphorical sense
in application to music, not in the strictly scientific one found in “Geist.”
Though it is possible, as Cook has argued, that Schenker began to change his
attitude toward musical organicism in the later 1890s, I prefer to think that a
stricter use of these words had to await his turn to theory.
In retrospect, then, “Geist” should be understood as a critical opening
gambit that, though inconsistent with Schenker’s later work, led toward it.
It held out the prospect of a responsible theory based upon both empirical
and idealist assumptions that could endow music with causality, logic, and
necessity. And as the basis for Schenker’s subsequent theoretical develop-
ment, that development can be read in its terms.45

44
Schenker (1990/1988), pp. 232, 233.
45
An interesting article on Schenker’s organicism, both beginning and ending with a discussion of
“Geist” and these three commentaries, appeared only after this chapter was completed: Duerksen
(2008). Though Duerksen’s “dialectical” view of Schenker’s position is in many respects similar
to mine, she confines herself exclusively to the article’s mechanical–organic dichotomy, avoiding
the critical historical component. I also disagree with her overstating the late Schenker’s
distinction between strict and free composition; the rules for the former and the prolongations of
the latter are based upon the identical processes. Thus her assertion seems wrong to me that the
“[a]coustical realities (physical, corporeal), [which are] sufficient for the cantus firmus pitches of
the counterpoint exercise which restrict passing-tone dissonances to just one beat, do not
maintain their force in the prolonged time and interval spans of free composition” (p. 40). On the
contrary, the reason why strict and free composition are so closely linked together in the final
theory is that the spiritual qualities of both exist in the materials themselves: in the “egos” of
tones.
 4 Die Harmonielehre

Schenker’s initial step, the first purely theoretical treatise, was Die
Harmonielehre, published in 1906.1 Though it appeared more than a decade
after “Geist,” it retains much of the article’s aesthetic apparatus. Nature
remains organic (though the word “organic” appears much less frequently
than previously), and it is subject to the laws of logic, cause, and necessity. Art,
on the other hand, is artificial. Indeed, the nature–artifice distinction is so
prominent in Harmonielehre that virtually all of the arguments are couched
in its terms. Schenker’s view of this distinction, however, was significantly
transformed during the intervening years and especially evident in two new
concepts, both idealist in provenance and fundamental to Schenker’s musical
development: tones are biological in nature, “creatures” with “egos” that have
an independent life of their own; and harmony is “spiritual.” Both ideas are
introduced in the book’s preface and treated later at length, and both mark the
first clear indication that for Schenker music is spiritual.
The first two sections of this chapter focus on the initial concept, treated
in Harmonielehre’s opening part, the first with the biological nature of tone
and the second with its role in generating the major and minor tonal system;
while the third section focuses on the second concept, harmony’s spiritual
nature, emphasizing two ideas that depend upon it: the Stufe and composing-
out. The fourth deals with additional innovations in Harmonielehre, while the
fifth treats the treatise’s impact on “Geist”’s ideological platform and its
anticipation of Schenker’s later work.

The biological life of tones

Harmonielehre’s first part applies “Geist”’s nature–art distinction to the

materials of the major-minor tonal system, something unmentioned in

1
Schenker (1906/1954 [1978]). This work has been translated into English by Elizabeth Mann
Borgese. Though the translation includes only part of the original and is at times inaccurate, the
English version used here is based on it, but with numerous additions and alterations. For a useful
article on Harmonielehre, its origins, and the various attempts at translation (including Borgese’s),
60 see Wason (2006).
 Die Harmonielehre 61

the article. Its opening segment, on “Music and Nature,” restates three of
its primary points in more detail: (1) music differs from the other arts in
that there is no “unambivalent association of ideas between it and Nature”;2
(2) that it consequently developed the “motive” as a type of internal
organization based entirely on musical associations, allowing it to become
“an art in the real sense of this word”;3 and (3) that the motive was
developed artificially, “without help from nature,” according to the principle
of formal repetition.4
In connection with motivic repetition, however, Schenker introduced an
idea foreign to “Geist,” that tones have a “biological” nature and possess
“procreative urges,” making them independent of the artist’s own desires:5
[A] series of tones becomes an individual in the world of music only by repeating
itself in its own kind; and, as in Nature in general, so music manifests a procreative
urge, which initiates this process of repetition. We should get accustomed to seeing
tones as creatures. We should learn to assume in them biological urges as are
characteristic of living beings. We are then faced with the following equation:

in Nature: procreative urge > repetition > individual type

in music: procreative urge > repetition > individual motive

The idea that tones have a life of their own, and thus “egos,” is essential for
Schenker’s future. Despite “Geist”’s claim, it suggests that there is an
intimate correspondence between the natural world and the world of
tones. Though this may seem to contradict the idea just presented, that
musical repetition, being “an innate artistic principle,” developed “without
help from Nature,” Schenker’s reasons for thinking so become clear when
he addresses the chapter’s main focus, the “creation of a tonal system within
which the finally discovered associative urge of motives could find expres-
sion.”6 For artists received a “hint” from nature through the overtone series
in producing this system, and “the power of intuition through which they
divined Nature cannot be gratefully enough recognized and admired.”7 The
hint’s instinctual implication recalls “Geist”’s rejected claim of unconscious
and instinctual organicism, but with one all-important difference: according
to “Geist,” nature was lost to music through its evolution, whereas it returns
here through the previously denied loophole of “unconscious” thought.8

It is our purpose here to interpret the instinct of the artist and to show what use he
made and is making unconsciously of Nature’s proposition [the overtone series] . . .
These pages are addressed, in the first place, to the artist, to make him consciously

2
Schenker (1906/1954), p. 3/3. 3 Ibid., p. 4/4. 4
Ibid., p. 10, 15/11. 5
Ibid., p. 6/6–7.
6
Ibid., p. 32/20. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., p. 33/21.
62 Development

aware of the instincts which so mysteriously have dominated his practice and
harmonized it with Nature. In the second place, they are addressed to all music lovers,
to clarify to them the relation between Nature and Art with regard to the tonal system.

The major and minor systems

Since nature has here acquired a role in music’s construction, Schenker,

turning to the major tonal system (Harmonielehre’s first real topic), refers to
it as the “natural system.” And to show its derivation from nature, he
remarks in a long and complex argument that its “naturalness” stems
from association with the major triad, which is present in nature’s overtone
series. Schenker acknowledges that only the first five tones of the series
actually appear in the triad, and by way of explanation says merely that this
“wonderful, strange and unexplainably secret” restriction, consistent with
“the organization of the ear,” follows nature “only to the fifth overtone.”9
The abstract triad, moreover, represents a further “conceptual abbreviation
of Nature,” for it is confined to a single octave.10
Continuing with the major system’s “natural” generation, Schenker
observes: “If the fifth-relationship [defining the triad’s limits] is the most
natural relationship between two tones, it will also remain the most natural
when applied to more than two tones.” Schenker thus derives a series of
“abbreviated” rising fifths, breaking off five fifths above the original root (for
the root of the sixth would diatonically form a tritone with the previous
one), combining this with two “natural” facts: that each tone “contains
within itself its own major triad” and also has a biological urge “to procreate
infinite generations of overtones.”11
But the major system also possesses a “purely artificial process foreign to
Nature,” so that the musician creates “an artistic counterpoint to Nature’s
proposition”: a single inverted fifth that descends to the subdominant, the
tonic’s “ancestor.”12 Yet Schenker even notes this fifth’s naturalness: “Nature
has accepted ex post facto, so to speak, this falling fifth-relationship [for it]
flows into the natural rising-fifth relationship [i.e., in C major F rises by perfect
fifth to the tonic]; and if [this] were not given a priori by Nature, the artist
would surely not have been able to create its mirrored reflection.”13 This entire
process produces a succession of major triads in C major (see Example 4.1).

9
For more on Schenker’s somewhat bizarre use of the number 5 in his theoretical writings, see
Clark (1999).
10
Schenker (1906/1954), pp. 37, 39, 41/25, 26, 28. 11 Ibid., p. 42/28–29. 12 Ibid., p. 44/31.
13
Ibid.
 Die Harmonielehre 63

Example 4.1 Harmonic system generated from C, plus subdominant (Schenker 1906/1954,
example 39/34, p. 54/39)

Example 4.2 Diatonic harmonic system in scalar form from C (Schenker 1906/1954,
example 40/35, p. 55/41)

Yet the chordal tones above the roots must occasionally be altered chro-
matically if the series is to remain diatonic (for example, the third of the chord
on the second degree “naturally” produces a raised fourth degree in C major);
as a consequence, their individual “egotism” yields to “the common interest
of the community” by alteration. And when these altered triads are placed in
scalar order, they result in the C-major diatonic system (see Example 4.2).
Although this appeal to nature departs from “Geist,” Harmonielehre’s close
connection to the article is evident both in its retention of the nature–artifice
distinction and its ambivalence toward it. Rather than now ultimately reject-
ing nature, however, Schenker at least partially accepts it. Shortly before
closing his discussion of the major system, he thus notes that the system
presented in Example 4.2 incorporates both natural and artistic features:
“I should like to urge every music lover to keep present in his mind those
amazing natural forces and artistic drives which lie hidden behind [the major
system].”14 In addition, he evokes “real-world” analogies in attributing a
natural basis to the major system: the lower fifth, which is “unnatural,”
represents “the world of morality,” and its “falseness” an “atonement for
the artificially imposed technique of inversion.”15 Artificiality, then, is still
recognized, but with a decided shift toward the natural. The major system is
“understood as a compromise between Nature and Art”; but as he now says,
the “predominant power of Nature” is “the beginning of the entire process.”16

14
Ibid., p. 55/41. He now normally avoids the word künstlich (“artificial”), which appeared so often
in “Geist,” in favor of künstlerisch (“artistic”).
15
Ibid., p. 57/42–43.
16
Ibid., p. 59/44. The relationship between what Schenker first says in applying the idea of
“procreative urges” to explain the generation of musical form and continuity through motives, and
64 Development

When Schenker turns to the minor system, however, he becomes notice-

ably more circumspect concerning the nature–artifice distinction, and even
entitles the section on it “The Artificial System” (Das künstliche System). Yet
after beginning with a forthright characterization of minor as an “impure
reflection of the more natural major system,” he begins to waver:17
It should be kept in mind, first of all, that all those principles which we have
examined in some detail with regard to the major mode – the fifth-relationship
between the system’s root tones, the laws of development [upward fifths] and
inversion [downward fifth] and all their consequences – apply with equal validity
to the minor system. In so far as those principles are concerned, the major and the
minor modes behave in absolutely identical ways. The sequence of rising fifths, for
example, is the same in A minor and A major . . . [and] is in no way disturbed by the
fact that, in contrast to the major mode, where the diminished fifth occurs only
between the VII and IV steps, the second fifth in rising order already finds itself in
the “wrong” relationship to the third fifth (B:F) . . .

Two pages later, Schenker nevertheless asserts that “the principle of step
progression in the minor mode is not at all original but has been transferred
artificially, even forcibly, from the major mode . . . whose superiority . . . is
thus not to be denied.”18 Aware of difficulties in deriving the minor triad
from nature, he even asks why a system with “unnatural” minor triads on
the tonic, dominant and subdominant degrees should exist at all:19
One can explain this only if one assumes that artistic intention rather than Nature is
the source of this system. Only melodic, that is motivic, reasons could have induced
the artist to create artificially the minor triad as foundation of the system; and in my
what he later says when applying it to the triad to explain the generation of the major tonal system,
is complex. Schenker’s pupil Oswald Jonas, editor of the English translation of Harmonielehre, says
in his introduction that in dealing with motivic repetition, Schenker understands the urge of tones
to be “psychological,” while in dealing with triadic roots, he understands it to be “natural” and
“biological.” (See his fn. 6 in chapter 1 of the English translation, p. 6.) Schenker himself, however,
does not make this distinction, even using the same terminology in both cases. (His sub-section 6,
for example, which deals with the motive, is headed Das Biologische in den Formen (“The Biological
in Forms”) and unambiguously asserts that the motive is “natural” rather than “psychological.”
And since motives, as well as triads, consist of tones, a point emphasized in discussing their “urges”
in the preface, there is no reason to separate the two conceptually. In addition, Schenker’s
motivation for linking them is apparent: the tonal system and the melodic impulse are for him
equally fundamental at this stage, so he ascribes to both a “biological” – and thus natural – source. It
is nevertheless true (as discussed later in this chapter) that he treats the overall discipline of
harmony in both psychological and biological terms.
17
Ibid., p. 61/46.
18
Ibid., p. 63/48. Nor is it coincidental that the church modes, accepted without prejudice in
“Geist” (where Schenker even refers to Palestrina’s “eternal validity”), are here described not only
as “defective” and producing “unnatural results,” but as “experiments” contributing “e contrario”
to our grasp of “the two main systems” (Schenker 1906/1954, p. 76/59).
19
Ibid., pp. 64–65/50.
 Die Harmonielehre 65

opinion it was merely the contrast to the major triad that incited him to fashion the
melos accordingly.

Further:20
. . . The minor system is in this sense the property of artists; and this places it in
contrast with the major system, which, at least in its foundations, flowed sponta-
neously as it were out of Nature . . . In relation to the major system the Aeolian thus
positions itself roughly the same as does culture to Nature in general. For centuries,
increasingly more and more, culture has multifariously distanced itself from Nature,
and yet how surely culture continues with its drives undiminished! And what is
more, Nature has, as it were, taken the entire stock and supply of culture into its own
storehouse, so that all culture has in this sense become so to speak a part of Nature.

This last point provides Schenker with a wedge showing that minor – even if
vicariously – also partakes of nature, though the rescue is conflicted. This is
evident in the following three separate, yet interconnected, statements on
minor. The first one asserts, somewhat tentatively, that minor may be
understood as even “above” nature:21
Heine speaks somewhere of poetry as a “heightening of Nature.” Without wanting
to make myself similarly guilty of a comparable lack of respect for Mother Nature,
whom I consider much greater, I would also unhesitatingly recommend considering
the Aeolian system as such a heightening of Nature.

While the second gives minor a lower status (for essentially evolutionary
reasons):22
If Art is considered as a final and correct understanding of Nature and if music is
seen moving in the direction of Art so defined, I would consider the minor mode as
a stepping stone, perhaps the ultimate one or nearly so, leading up to the real and
most solemn truth of Nature, i.e., the major mode.
But the third, referring explicitly to the other two, provides a sort of
reconciliation for them:23
Finally, I fear that one might see a contradiction in the fact that I first characterized
minor as, so to speak, a “heightening of Nature,” but then, second, as only a stepping
stone on the way to the truth of the major system. The contradiction is, however,
only apparent. While it is true that in evolution minor preceded major, so much that
is artistic and original has on the other hand been expressed in the artistic realization
of minor, in the manner of use of this stage of art, that it justifies the conception of a
“heightening of Nature,” though only to the extent that Nature has not all too
distinctly indicated the motivic necessities. The artists’ domain is the discovery of

20
Schenker (1906), p. 67, not included in the translation. 21 Ibid.
22
Schenker (1906/1954), p. 69/53. 23 Schenker (1906), pp. 69–70, not translated.
66 Development

the motive, its associative effect, and since in this discovery the heightening of Nature
undoubtedly expresses itself, so it is expressed no less in the minor system, that in
history to be sure ranks as a stepping stone to major, yet is so grown together with the
motivic life, that it must for this reason be counted with the heightening of Nature.

Even the most negative of the three statements, the second, reveals Schenker’s
altered view regarding music’s development: no longer merely introducing
artificiality, the minor system now leads to the major one. And taken
together, the three reveal that nature, instead of being irrevocably lost through
music’s development, has become the truth toward which music evolves.
The desire to attribute natural, biological powers to the modern tonal
system, encompassing both major and minor, is most fully apparent, how-
ever, only toward the end of Harmonielehre’s first main part. There, in
speaking of the tonal system as a whole, Schenker adopts an almost
Bergsonian flavor in his language (thereby underscoring both his and
Bergson’s debt to Naturphilosophie):24
What we call vitality or egotism is directly proportionate, then, to the number of
relationships and the intensity of the vital forces lavished on them . . . If the egotism
of a tone expresses itself in the desire to dominate its fellow-tones rather than be
dominated by them (in which respect the tone resembles a human being), it is the
system that offers to the tone the means to dominate and thus to satisfy its egoistic
urge . . . [T]he tone lives a more abundant life, it satisfies its vital urges more fully, if
the relationships in which it can express itself are more numerous; i.e., if it can
combine, first of all the major and the minor systems and, second, if it can express its
self-enjoyment in those two systems with the greatest possible intensity.

In summary, Harmonielehre’s entire Division I, including the three chapters

on church modes, transpositions, and modal combinations, retains “Geist”’s
obsessive concern with separating the artificial from the natural in modern
Western music, but does so with a distinctly new twist: the natural basis of
music is now partially accepted. The most significant differences with
“Geist,” moreover, stem from the treatise’s new biological conception of
tone, its primary means for determining music’s melodic and tonal nature.

The spiritual universe of harmony: the Stufe and composing-out

Harmonielehre’s second new concept, harmony’s spirituality, differs from

the first in that it is not concerned with music’s actual materials (tones,
motives, and tonal system) but with the nature of harmony itself. Schenker,

24
Schenker (1906/1954), pp. 106–07/84–85.
 Die Harmonielehre 67

departing from most of his contemporaries, separates harmony entirely

from voice-leading, which he thus bans from the volume. And what dis-
tinguishes harmony from voice-leading is precisely harmony’s spiritual
nature. It provides the foundation, moreover, for two additional ideas,
both of which do deal with specifically compositional matters: the Stufe
and composing-out. In his preface, Schenker says:25
In contrast to the theory of counterpoint, the theory of harmony presents itself to
me as a purely spiritual universe, a system of ideally striving forces, whether born of
Nature or of Art.

Harmony, then, consists not simply of chords and their combinations, but
of ideal entities that control more extended chordal successions.
This is further explained in Division II, where the Stufe is introduced, and
is described there as:
a higher and more abstract unit. At times it may comprise several harmonies, each
of which could be considered individually as an independent triad or seventh chord;
that is, even if under certain circumstances a certain number of harmonies appear to
be independent triads or seventh chords, they nonetheless add up, in their totality,
to one single triad, for example C-E-G, and would have to be subsumed under the
concept of this triad as a Stufe. The Stufe thus asserts its more general character in
that it embodies – as it were ideally – beyond the individual phenomena their inner
unity as a single triad or seventh chord.26 . . . Though this triad must be considered
as one particular aspect of the Stufe, in so far as its real fundamental coincides with
that of the Stufe, yet such a triad is subject to the whim of fantasy, whereas the triad
that attains the rank of a Stufe guides the artist with the force and compulsion of
Nature . . . Precisely in its higher, abstract Nature, the Stufe is the hallmark of the
theory of harmony, which has the task of instructing the student of Art regarding
these abstract forces, which, corresponding partly with Nature and partly with our
need for associations, are grounded in accord with the purpose of Art. Thus the
theory of harmony is an abstraction that conveys within itself the most secret
psychology of music.27

As this quote reveals, the Stufe resembles the biological nature of tones: it is
an “ideal” harmonic entity that, though represented by a normal triad, is not
identical to any actual triad in the music. Though Schenker is not yet able to
state how the musical events within the Stufe’s compass are achieved and
project its spiritual content, his ability to state this idea even in rough form
marks a critical turn. For through it he acknowledges that music cannot be
explained by relying exclusively upon what is actually present; it also

25 26 27
Ibid., p. v/xxv. Ibid., p. 181/139. Ibid., pp. 197–98/152–53.
68 Development

depends upon additional forces that are mental in origin. The Stufe, then, is
a construct independent of any actual musical entity, providing access to
what Schenker refers to as art’s “mystery” and its “most secret psychology.”
The “psychological” aspect of the Stufe, and of harmony in general, is
especially important. The fact that tones have “egos” already suggests a
mental, or psychological, conception. The Stufe, as an abstract triad, has a
definite spiritual side that consists of two interdependent dimensions, one
located in the musical materials and the other in the listener. Both depend
upon the listener’s ability to bring sufficient psychological acumen to the
musical experience to enable an abstract event only implied by what is
actually sounding to represent the music’s true, underlying unity. It is the
combination of these two psychological – and thereby extra-material –
features that for Schenker makes music so valuable.
The Stufe also represents an important part of Schenker’s emerging
explanation of how strict and free composition are related. At the time of
Harmonielehre, since free composition alone possessed Stufen, only har-
mony was susceptible to the liberties of free counterpoint. Schenker does,
however, leave the door open in explaining how the two are related:28

Free composition contains more content, more measures, more formal units, more
rhythm than strict composition; and accordingly the principle of voice-leading has
become freer. But these freedoms are justified and understood above all because the
new perspective of Stufen has been added . . . Free composition, then, appears as an
extension of strict composition: an extension with regard to both the quantity of
tone material and the principle of its motion. But all of these extensions come from
the Stufen, under whose aegis counterpoint and free composition are wedded.

This point is made near the end of Harmonielehre’s Division II, when
Schenker compares second-species dissonant passing motion in two-part
strict composition with the freedom of contrapuntal motion when disso-
nance is combined with Stufen. And he continues by stating that “the notes
consonant to the cantus firmus correspond, as it were, to Stufen in free
composition, and the passing dissonance corresponds to the freer motion of
the unfolding intermediate chords.”29 Here, then, he comes close to giving a
spiritual dimension to counterpoint, and even includes an explanatory
diagram (unfortunately omitted in the translation) to clarify the analogy
(see Example 4.3).
All this goes far in explaining the basis for connecting strict and free
composition (though not how this connection can be realized): in strict

28 29
Ibid., pp. 203–04/159. Ibid., p. 204/159.
 Die Harmonielehre 69

Example 4.3 Contrapuntal relationships in strict vs free composition (Schenker 1906/

1954, diagram, p. 204, German edition only)

composition the passing motion of second species is controlled by the

strictness of the whole-note cantus firmus, just as in free composition the
voice-leading is controlled by the underlying Stufe.30
The second idea related to harmony’s spirituality is composing-out,
which is closely tied to the Stufe. Though it is perhaps implicit earlier, it is
not formally introduced in Harmonielehre until Part II (in the “practical,” as
opposed to the “theoretical,” part), where, in the opening section on “The
psychology of content and progression of Stufen,” Schenker refers to the
“organic reciprocal effect between content and harmony”:31
To the extent that the harmonic concept uses as its interpreter the motive, which, as
we saw earlier, constitutes the primal part of content, harmony and content grow
together to such an extent that from this point on only a certain member of the total
content makes us conscious of a triad or seventh chord; and, vice versa, the laws of
the harmonic influence the birth of content. Thus each harmony is not merely
asserted, but also composed-out, and only thereby rendered perceptible; at the same
time, the bond between content and harmony awakens in us the feeling for the Stufe.

Composing-out and the Stufe thus join music’s horizontal (contrapuntal

and thematic) and vertical (harmonic) components as mutual dimensions
of a single process. Though this is consistent with “Geist”’s emphasis on
musical content, the fact that it can be composed-out indicates that the real
significance of content becomes evident only when it is connected with the
concept of Stufe – and thus with the idea that tones also exist “beneath” the

30
Ibid., p. 183/141. In a passage appearing before this one, dealing with the Stufe’s historical
anticipation during the “period of pure counterpoint,” Schenker remarks that, even in a
construction composed purely in terms of counterpoint, “what is of . . . interest to us here is the
technique which enables a tone to gather, so to speak, a larger series of counterpointing voices
into a unity, this being the proper function of the Stufe.”
31
Ibid., p. 282/212.
70 Development

actual notes. And this depends in turn upon the idea, totally foreign to
“Geist,” that there is an “organic reciprocal effect” between content and
harmony.
The concept of composing-out, then, is compositional, reversing that of
the Stufe, which is analytical; composing-out is thus generative, creating
musical content through elaboration of a vertical support, while the Stufe is
reductive, compressing content through reduction to a vertical support. The
two thus form a mental unity, one implying the other.

Additional features

Several additional ideas, some closely related to those already discussed, are
new to Harmonielehre. First, since music is not viewed simply as a physical
entity but as a mental one, dependent upon processes originating in the mind,
human hearing – the composer’s and the listener’s – becomes an active
participant in the artistic process. (Some quotations in this section have in
part previously appeared.) Thus, early in the volume Schenker states:32
The artist listens, as it were, to the soul of the tone – the tone seeking a life with the
richest content possible – and gives to it, more slave to the tone than he realizes, as
much as he possibly can.

And he bolsters this by describing music’s coherence as “hidden,” “uncon-

scious,” and “mysterious,” and the Stufe as “secretly regulating,” having
“transcendental power,” and being of “purely spiritual” significance.33
Indeed, the task of the Stufe, as the “hallmark of harmony,” is to:34
instruct the disciple of Art about those abstract forces which partly correspond to
Nature, partly are grounded in our need for mental associations, in accordance with
the purpose of art. Thus the theory of harmony is an abstraction, enclosed in the
most secret psychology of music.

The repercussions of this mental aspect on the nature–artifice distinction

are considerable. As Schenker notes near the beginning of Harmonielehre:35

It is our purpose here to attempt to show the instinct of artists, and to show what
they have unconsciously made use of from Nature’s recommendations, and what
they have left unused and perhaps must forever leave unused. These thoughts are
addressed, in the first place, to the artist, to make him consciously aware of the

32 33 34
Ibid., p. 109/86. Ibid., pp. 219, 228, 198/173, 177, 153. Ibid., p. 198/153.
35
Ibid., p. 33/21.
 Die Harmonielehre 71

instincts that, in a secret manner, have dominated his practice and have harmonized
it with Nature. In the second place, they are addressed to all music lovers, to clarify
for them the relation between Nature and Art with regard to the tonal system.

Schenker also elaborates upon the concept of “genius,” now accepting an

idea ultimately dismissed in “Geist”: that the creator, consistent with the
view of romanticism, is a clairvoyant whose unconscious vision transcends
normal human powers, uniting art and nature into an organic unity:36
A great talent or a man of genius, like a sleepwalker, often finds the right way, even
when his instinct is thwarted by one thing or another or, as in our case [the
development of church modes], by the full and conscious intention to follow the
wrong direction. It is as if the much higher force of Truth, of Nature, composed
secretly in their name behind their consciousness, without any concern for whether
the gifted artist himself wanted to do the right thing or not. For how often if things
went according to the consciousness and intentions of the artists, their works would
turn out badly, if that secret power had not happily arranged everything for the best.

As evident in numerous passages in Harmonielehre, Schenker now believes

that music is “organic” (though again, while normally avoiding the word)
and thus depends upon “laws,” “necessity” and “logic.” Organicism is
implicit, for example, in his discussion of the Stufe’s role in distinguishing
strict from free composition:37
If, on the contrary, the melody is constructed freely and displays rhythmic variety,
the postulate of equilibrium disappears. In free composition just such small musical
units are constructed and different rhythms are set against one another – and so,
correspondingly, the principle of voice-leading has become freer. But above all these
freedoms are justifiable and understandable because the new viewpoint of Stufen
has been added. It is Stufen that not only bring about the creation of free compo-
sition in that, through their immanent logic of development, they logically unfold
the full variety of such composition out of their secret laws, but also make the voice-
leading freer and more daring.

Equally important in music is:38

to pay attention to every small event, even the smallest, and to every single detail,
even the least significant, so as to hear it in terms of its own causes.

Other concepts relate to Schenker’s emerging view of the diatonic scale as

the basis of all music. Chromaticism, for example, may result from “tonic-
ization,” when chromatic tones are applied to a chord that is temporarily
treated as a tonic; or it may result from “illusory” and “simulated keys,”

36 37 38
Ibid., pp. 76–77/60. Ibid., p. 203/158. Ibid., p. 103/82.
72 Development

when such keys are implied but are structurally significant (thus resem-
bling tonicized keys, but taking place over more extended spans). Such
diatonic transformations, however, are not yet all-inclusive; for Schenker
still accepts “real” or “definitive” modulations, in which there is an actual
change of key.39
This diatonic-chromatic dichotomy is at least partly resolved when
Schenker notes (when he returns to the nature–art distinction toward the
end of Harmonielehre):40
The total content of a music composition represents fundamentally a real and
continuous conflict between System and Nature; and whichever of the two momen-
tarily gains the upper hand, it will not succeed in banning the vanquished partner
forever from our perception. Accordingly, I would like to formulate the following
principle: chromaticism is not an element that destroys diatonicism but rather
emphasizes and confirms it.

Harmonielehre, “Geist,” and Schenker’s future

Harmonielehre goes well beyond the “Geist” article, as can be appreciated

through the two general principles advanced in its preface: the biological
nature of tone and the spiritual nature of harmony, neither of which could
have been proposed by the earlier Schenker. Ultimately the two are insep-
arable: tones assert themselves biologically through self-replication, giving
rise to a wealth of motivic units and secondary triads; and these tones give
rise to the spiritual world of Stufen, whose triads similarly respond in an
“irresistible urge” to “attain the value of the tonic for themselves.”41
The concepts are also linked by Schenker’s continuing emphasis on the
form-creating function of musical content: the replicative urge of tones
leads to motivic and triadic parallelisms. Thus, in discussing the historical
evolution of the Stufe (see also footnote 30), he states: 42

39
See Schenker (1906/1954), chapters 2 and 4 of section II in division I, part II.
40
Ibid., pp. 379–80/288. 41 Ibid., p. 337/256.
42
Ibid., p. 209/163. Eybl (1995), pp. 62–64, makes an interesting distinction between Schenker’s
internal “harmonic principle of tonal development” (by which he means composing-out) and
Koch and Reicha’s “external aesthetic one.” The latter defines tonality simply as the key in which
a movement begins and ends, which it believes is sufficient to “regulate through the formula of
unity and variety the tonal course of a composition” and “guarantees its unity.” Ebyl also notes,
however, that Harmonielehre’s composing-out principle is limited to the concept of “tonal”
development alone; but, as is evident in the above passage, it is affected by both the harmonic and
thematic aspects of the compositional process.
 Die Harmonielehre 73

I may claim, therefore, that, historically speaking, the development of the Stufe
coincides with the development of content, that is, melody in the horizontal
direction. For the main problem of musical development is in what formal-technical
manner it is possible to obtain a greater sum total of content. Regardless of how this
problem in human consciousness was initially aroused and then kept alive in the
long run, whether there was simply a playful urge behind it, or whether the natural
law of growth, which we perceive everywhere in the creations of Nature as well as of
man, was expressed therein, in either case the technical means for the expansion of
content had to be discovered and thought out step by step.

Together, then, music’s biological and spiritual dimensions support the idea
that content determines form. Tones, responding to inherent “urges,” gen-
erate both the abstract structure of the tonal system and the concrete
repetitions of thematic material; and the latter, combined into Stufen,
control the composition’s overall harmonic flow. Though Schenker still
acknowledges the artificial origin of composing-out and Stufen, both
being “human,” he also says that they are both linked to music’s biological
“law of growth,” giving them a common natural component as well.
This natural duality is also apparent in Schenker’s attempt to derive
the tonal system from the “hint” supplied by nature’s overtone series. The
combination of the “biological” nature of thematic repetition, which he
considers to be – along with tonality – “the fundamental principal of
musical form,” with the “spirituality” of harmony, through which its passive
quality is replaced by an active mental one, suggests that nature’s hint
underlies all musical events. Admittedly, this does not mean that music
simply becomes nature; but the relationship between the two is, in compar-
ison with “Geist,” significantly transformed.
At this point, Schenker was nevertheless unable to provide a convin-
cing theoretical account of how nature and artifice are musically related.
And though he states categorically that the natural dimension is the
“predominant power,” he is still unable to say whether composing-out is
a “natural law of growth” or only “a playful urge.” One consequence is that
the most significant innovations in Harmonielehre relate to harmony’s
abstract, precompositional features rather than to specific musical events.
There is no explanation for how compositional elements are actually
derived from nature, so that Stufen, for example, are analyzed as if their
length depended entirely upon aural instinct. In the harmony treatise,
only the latter, without any theoretical justification, determines how long
a Stufe remains in effect, not to mention the way it is unfolded. This is
illustrated by two examples from Harmonielehre, both analyzing Stufen
with a single Roman numeral although each progression involves more
74 Development

than one harmony (see Examples 4.4a and 4.4b). The second, for example,
opens with a Stufe on I (mm. 1–4) which moves to IV (mm. 5–9), but
without any explanation of how they are realized or, since both I and IV
have harmonies “foreign” to the key, how they can be analyzed in non-
modulatory terms.
At only one point in Harmonielehre does Schenker approach his later
analytical practice, using reduction to analyze three one-measure chords as
unfolding just one (see Example 4.5a and b).
Despite this analysis’s contrapuntal orientation, however, the unfolded
E-minor harmony is supported by a literal E–B “pedal” that distinguishes it
from later reductions that have a more literally “ideal” Stufe. Yet Schenker’s
use of reduction, a technique that would guide much of his future analytical
development, does show here – though briefly and tentatively – a multi-
chord progression that prolongs a single harmony.
An additional example of Harmonielehre’s forward-looking dimension,
though one in which reduction is only implied, does occur in a chapter in
the practical part entitled “Form on a larger scale,” where Schenker extends

Example 4.4(a) J. S. Bach, C-minor organ prelude and fugue (Schenker 1906/1954,
example 154/120, p. 188/145)
 Die Harmonielehre 75

Example 4.4(b) Chopin, Prelude, op. 28 no. 4 (Schenker 1906/1954, example 158/124,
p. 192/148)

Example 4.5 (a) J. S. Bach, E-minor organ prelude; (b) Contrapuntal reduction
(Schenker 1906/1954, examples 148, 149/114, 115, p. 185/142–43)

(a)

(b)
76 Development

the Stufe concept in commenting on what he calls “the analogy of the Stufe
progression” as an aid to the analysis of higher-order progressions and
large-scale form:43
The psychological nature of the succession of Stufen, which we have described so far
in form in the small, also manifests itself in a marvelous, mysterious way in form in
the large – on the way from thematic complex to thematic complex, from group to
group. In the form of already established key relationships, we have here simply the
same Stufe progression, but at a higher order. Thus the natural element of the
succession of the Stufen increases in correspondence with the tendency to construct
greater content.

Though framed in general terms, and without claiming that an entire

composition expresses a single key, this passage points toward the future:
the possibility of explaining the overall tonal basis of musical form.
In summary, Die Harmonielehre preserves the first three of the five basic
aesthetic positions identified at the end of the previous chapter, on “Geist”:
music is autonomous, it is based on purely musical principles, and it is
driven by content. The contradictory third and fourth tenets, however, are
no longer viewed as diametrically opposed. Music and musical construction
are no longer entirely arbitrary but are partly derived from nature, so that
the tenets affirming music’s naturalness and artificiality coexist in an
implied, if delicate, balance. And as we shall see, for Schenker this was a
critical development.

43
Schenker (1906/1954), p. 327/246.
5 Kontrapunkt I and II

Despite Harmonielehre’s innovations, it contains little about the details

of actual compositional content and how it is regulated: about how
music itself, once shifted to the natural side of the nature/art continuum,
conforms to specifically musical principles. Kontrapunkt, however, in its
two volumes on species counterpoint published in 1910, “Cantus Firmus
and Two-Voice Counterpoint,” and 1922, “Counterpoint in Three and
More Voices: Bridges to Free Composition,” makes significant strides in
that direction.1
What strikes one first about the two is how much more they contain,
especially the earlier one, than mere information about species coun-
terpoint. Since Schenker thinks of species counterpoint not as an
isolated subject but as a basis for free composition, there is consider-
able comment on the latter. And most of the musical examples in the
longer first volume (there are over 500) do not relate directly to strict
counterpoint, but to the standard music literature of Schenker’s own
time.
In dealing with Kontrapunkt, focus is placed on five topics introduced
there, all emphasizing strict voice-leading and having a lasting influence
on Schenker’s theoretical approach. The first four, developed primarily
in the initial volume, encompass counterpoint viewed as a strict disci-
pline dealing with voice-leading alone; an expanded conception of pass-
ing motion; the relationship between strict counterpoint and free
composition; and the concept of melodic fluency. The fifth, expanding
music’s “spiritual” dimension to include counterpoint as well as har-
mony, is closely related to the previous four but primarily developed
in the second volume. Although all five are interconnected, thereby
precluding their complete separation, each has been given a section of
its own.2

1
Schenker (1910a, 1922). Both volumes have been excellently translated by John Rothgeb and
Jürgen Thym in Schenker (1987). This English version is quoted here.
2
The literature on Kontrapunkt is considerable, but the treatment in Dubiel (1990) is particularly
valuable. 77
78 Development

KONTRAPUNKT I

In the preface to Kontrapunkt I, Schenker states that the two basic ingre-
dients of musical technique are “voice-leading and the progression of scale
degrees,” the former, which is “earlier and more original,” being the one
with which strict counterpoint is concerned.3 Thus Die Harmonielehre deals
exclusively with Stufen, not with voice-leading, both in its theoretical and
practical parts; whereas Kontrapunkt’s two volumes deal primarily with
voice-leading.
Already in the first volume, however, we shall see that Schenker assumes a
more encompassing view of voice-leading than was typical among his con-
temporaries. And in addition, he suggests that counterpoint, described as
“the fulfillment on the part of the artist of those demands which the subject
matter itself, far above the artist, imposes on him,” has a non-material
dimension.4 Though this aspect of voice-leading is not fully defined until
Kontrapunkt’s second volume, the idea is already present. For counterpoint,
like harmony, deals with tones; and these are (we are reminded) “living
beings with their own social laws.” No musician is able to “demand from
them something contrary to their nature,” for they “do what they must do.”5

The basic principles of voice-leading

Schenker’s conception of tones, already familiar from Harmonielehre, is

thus extended in the introductory portion of Kontrapunkt I (on contra-
puntal theory’s “nature and use”) to cover both harmony and voice-leading.
As a consequence of tones doing what they “want to do,” Schenker treats
counterpoint as a study of the “effects” created by tones when they are
contrapuntally combined. It provides a “world of fundamental musical
problems,” where students can more easily learn “the secrets of tones.”
Working under strict conditions, they discover that counterpoint, in keep-
ing with “the absolute character of the world of tones,” supplies “the
foundation for [their] first insight and conviction that there actually is a
connection between the artist’s intention with regard to tones and the effects
they produce . . . ”6
Since Schenker takes the view that the only form of counterpoint worth
considering is strict, Kontrapunkt provides a pure theory of voice-leading

3 4 5
Schenker (1910a/1987), p. xxiii/xxv. Ibid., p. xiv/xxi. Ibid., pp. 24/16; 21–22/14.
6
Ibid., p. 22/15, 14.
 Kontrapunkt I and II 79

free of Stufen, just as Harmonielehre provided a theory of Stufen free of

voice-leading. The difference is significant; for whereas Stufen are grasped
through the harmonic features of particular compositions, the more funda-
mental principles of voice-leading are grasped only in the abstract, inde-
pendent of actual musical context.
A major problem in previous contrapuntal theory was the failure to deal
with it as distinct from compositional theory and practice. In its pure form,
voice-leading is reduced to its basics, stripped of the complexities of real
music. Yet its rules remain essential: though they are not themselves sufficient
for writing music, they are nevertheless necessary when music is written.
In a famous analogy, Schenker considers four lines from Goethe’s Faust
to determine their relationship to the normal word order prescribed by
traditional grammar.7

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie,

Juristerie und Medizin,
Und, leider! auch Theologie
Durchaus studiert, mit heissem Bemühn!
(I have – alas! – studied philosophy,
Law and medicine as well,
And – unfortunately! – theology too
Thoroughly, with zealous application!)
Although grammar cannot explain the particular effects of Goethe’s
“licenses,” since they depend upon “psychological forces” that are dramatic
in nature, it can explain how the licenses are connected to effects that result
from word-order distortion. What Goethe says, then, can be fully appreci-
ated only in relation to the normal grammar behind his words, against
which their distortions can be measured.
Strict counterpoint, music’s basic grammar, performs a similar function.
Compositional particulars (music’s “licenses”) are grasped in connection
with its underlying voice-leading processes in their purest form. For this to
happen, however, the contrapuntal discipline must be performed on “a
small practice stage” and “pass through an embryonic stage of develop-
ment.”8 Strict counterpoint, then, communicates basic “principles [that]
constitute an inalienable, organic part of all theory and will retain their
validity as long as music itself dwells among humans.”9
Given Schenker’s belief that tones have a life of their own, Kontrapunkt I
continues to apply Harmonielehre’s post-“Geist” vocabulary in reference to its

7 8 9
Ibid., p. 20/12–13. Ibid., p. 16/11. Ibid., p. xxiii/xxv.
80 Development

topic: thus strict counterpoint, based on fundamental musical laws, “always

prefer[s] the natural to the artificial.”10 At one point Schenker even refers to
such laws as “organic,” a word largely avoided in Harmonielehre. Counterpoint
thus resembles harmony in being linked to nature through the triad:11
Nature as it is manifested in the overtone series represents itself not only in the
vertical dimension (the harmonic principle within the triad) but also in the hori-
zontal direction (melodic succession). Whether the octave sounds vertically or in
the melodic plane, the agreeable sound and justification of both rests in like measure
on the will of nature; and this is equally true of the fifth and third.

And though Schenker does not yet say so, this makes voice-leading at least
partly, if not wholly, “natural”; and that represents a significant innovation.

The nature of passing motion

While the preceding quotation speaks only of the “natural” harmonic

intervals, the fifth and third, Schenker also draws attention to the second
in Kontrapunkt I, describing it as “the only horizontal dissonance that
melody can use.” At the same time he emphasizes this “non-natural”
interval’s relationship to music’s harmonic foundation as a “bridge” span-
ning the natural interval of a third. Thus, in considering a Fux cantus firmus
in D minor (Schenker’s example 40), he says that “the third tone E, forming
a motion in seconds from D to F, represents in effect a bridge upon which
the latter tones meet.”12
Schenker develops this idea further in his treatment of the passing second
in second species (two notes against one). There he offers a “graduated set of
solutions” to the “problem of the dissonance on the upbeat,” noting that
passing motion can assume three different forms: (1) the “most natural”
type, in which it continues “in the same direction”; (2) a “less natural” type,
in which it “return[s] to the same consonant tone at the downbeat of the
next bar” (a neighbor relationship, “of second rank in strict counterpoint”);
and (3) the freest type, in which it is approached or left by leap, producing a
form derived from free composition and thus “completely unsuited for strict
composition.”13 By including this third, “forbidden” instance, Schenker
abstracts the concept of dissonance to encompass the entire range of “pass-
ing phenomena” in both strict and free composition, “emancipat[ing] the

10
Ibid., pp. 238–39/ 177. 11 Ibid., p. 109/78. 12
Ibid., p. 116/83.
13
Ibid., pp. 240–41/178–79.
 Kontrapunkt I and II 81

passing dissonance from the postulate of the second, so that it is possible,

as an extension of the concept, to regard as passing dissonances even a
dissonant note that leaps between two points of a given harmony.”14
Though once again Schenker refrains from saying so explicitly, this suggests
that passing motion, and thus counterpoint, shares “depth” with harmony,
thereby giving spiritual meaning to strict counterpoint (which
Harmonielehre had attributed to harmony alone), even when its rules are
contradicted by foreground events.
The importance of this is stated even more strongly in the following
section, on passing motion’s “psychological significance,” when Schenker
states that passing dissonance is “the wellspring of the countless beauties in
free composition.” As a “bridge from one consonance to another,”15 it has a
transient independence [that] increases the value and power of the unity of the two
[consonances], a unity that was intended from the beginning and is once again
asserted. Exactly in this situation we are provided a beautiful, deep insight into free
composition, which strives similarly to abstract the unity of its “Stufen” from the
independence of many voices. The aesthetic effect of this unity will be the more
complete the more richly the independence of the individual voices is constructed.

This rethinking of passing motion as a general principle applicable to all

types of tonal composition allows Schenker to formulate the connection
between strict and free composition more precisely. He also notes, in treating
fourth species, that the dissonant syncope (suspension) has much in common
with passing dissonance: “in both, the dissonant element is situated only
between two consonances,” making the syncope “a type of passing disso-
nance, a part of the general problem of dissonance altogether . . .”16 And in
considering the syncope’s historical development, Schenker recalls his posi-
tion in “Geist” on musical causality and necessity by its complete revision.
The passage warrants quoting at length:17
In the instinctive search for technical devices to expand the length of a setting within
the context of a voice-leading which – apart from its own laws – had otherwise no
compelling necessity, the artistic instinct discovered in the compulsion to prepare
and resolve a dissonance a most welcome means of feigning a kind of musical
causality and necessity at least from harmony to harmony. Considering that a seed
of such propulsion was contained even in the simplest passing motion . . . it is clear
that the compelling force of the dissonant syncope must be viewed as incomparably
stronger and more urgent.

14
Ibid., p. 248/184. 15 Ibid., p. 247/183–84. 16
Ibid., pp. 335–36/260–61.
17
Ibid., pp. 376–77/291.
82 Development

The effect of musical causality just described remained an inherent quality of the
dissonant syncope even in instrumental music. There, even in the most advanced
stage of development, harmonies appear to be linked more intimately and with
seemingly greater necessity the more drastically and obtrusively a tone of one
harmony hooks into the flesh of the following one. The higher degree of structural
necessity as well as length is then further provided by Stufen (including all that
derives from them, such as tonality, chromaticism, modulation, etc.) and form!
Considering that the artist was able to receive only the major triad from Nature’s
domain, we must marvel at the creative power of the human to erect, on a foundation
so modest, such a proud edifice of musical art and to imbue it with such strong and
compelling necessities. Through these very necessities of a completely individual
nature, music acquires “logic” no less than language or the other arts! Thus it is
obvious that there is ample reason to place music, which provides such a proud
testament to the autonomy of human creativity, highest among all the arts.

These remarkable words turn the argument from “Geist” on its head: while
Schenker continues to maintain that modern musical techniques only
“feign” necessity, he now interprets the property as positive, as allowing
music – now the “highest” of the arts – to incorporate all three of organi-
cism’s main attributes: causality, logic, and necessity.

Strict and free composition

The changes that occurred between Kontrapunkt I and “Geist” not only
caused music to be more natural but made its voice-leading principles
logical and inevitable. Yet despite Kontrapunkt I’s generalization of passing
motion, so as to make it applicable to both strict and free counterpoint,
Schenker could not yet provide a consistently concrete explanation for how
the former’s abstractions and the latter’s capriciousness are related to one
another. Except for occasional passages, Kontrapunkt I thus treats the two
types as essentially different, without any materially grounded explanation
for their connection.
This may seem odd, since in Harmonielehre Schenker had already noted –
and illustrated with a graph (reproduced in Chapter 4) – that there is a
correspondence in the way the passing dissonance in strict composition
relates to the cantus firmus as in free composition it relates to the Stufe. In
addition, his comments in Kontrapunkt I on the biological aspect of tones
and the nature of passing motion imply close parallels between the two types.
But since strict counterpoint, according to Kontrapunkt, has no Stufen, and
thus lacks free composition’s harmony-based spirituality, Schenker tends to
 Kontrapunkt I and II 83

treat them as distinct. He stresses their differences, for example, when he

discusses dissonance–consonance relationships in two-part first species:18
Free composition alone can dispense with an actual, distinct presence of the
organizing tone (as provided by the cantus firmus in the exercises of the later
species) and posit tones that are only ideal as bearers of the burden of dissonances.
Yet these ideal tones certainly are so completely present in our consciousness that
they can, in this sense, again be described as actual. First and foremost in free
composition it is the Stufen that have their own secret law of progression, and
precisely our intuitive familiarity with that law of progression makes plausible the
assumption of those ideal tones that lie outside the realm of actual voice-leading.

Yet, in Kontrapunkt I’s comments on strict and free composition, there

are occasional passages that suggest that Schenker believes that the two
do have something concrete in common. With reference to counterpoint’s
function in “accustom[ing] the ear to various effects,” he thus complains that
the earlier theorist Hans Bellermann failed to grasp that “contrapuntal
doctrine is only a preparation for free composition.”19 Yet the relationship
between strict and free counterpoint often varies. In some instances it
evidently has to do with motivic relationships in the voice-leading, as
when the “apparent incoherence” of mm. 41ff of the first movement of
Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 59 no. 3 is justified by noting that it juxta-
poses V7 in F major with V7 in C major “in service of the motivic aspect.”20
But at others it apparently has to do with the “urgent need of mixture and of
chromatic modulation,” as in Brahms’s E-flat-major Intermezzo, op. 117
no. 1 (mm. 27–28), where the cross-relations between E and E[ in m. 27 and
A and A[ in m. 28 are said to be “not merely a ‘tolerated license’ but a fully
justified necessity.”21
There are nevertheless a few analyses in Kontrapunkt I that show that an
“ideal” harmonic foundation (that is, a Stufe) is present beneath the contra-
puntal surface, and thus not incidentally reflects Schenker’s growing interest
in musical reduction as a way of expressing spirituality and depth.
(Harmonielehre, we recall, had only a single reductive analysis.) He is thus
able to treat the connection between strict and free composition in a Handel
Chaconne, in the section on third species (four notes against one), in
specifically musical terms:22
[F]ree composition is able to bring to life in our imagination not only the immedi-
ately present concrete tonal edifice, but, far more, the total complement of

18
Ibid., p. 154/112. 19 Ibid., p. 73/50. 20
Ibid., pp. 74–75/51. 21
Ibid., p. 227/166.
22
Ibid., pp. 314–15/241.
84 Development

Example 5.1 Handel: G-major chaconne, variation II (Schenker 1910a/1987,

example 357, p. 314/241)

Example 5.2 Implied tones in Handel G-major chaconne, variation II (Schenker

1910a/1987, example 358, p. 314/241)

constituents of the harmony in all their possible registers and octaves. Thus if we
find, for example, in a passage that we recognize in advance as cadential [the
progression shown in Example 5.1] we understand the second eighth note c of
the bass as first of all in the service of the expected V, as the neighboring note of the
coming fundamental D; but besides this, our imagination independently supplies,
before c, components (either B or d) of the major triad on G that is being left [see
Example 5.2].
Consequently, however – and precisely this is the result inaccessible to superficial
perception – even the second eighth note, the passing tone approached by leap,
embodies nothing but the original form of the passing tone itself ! One sees, then,
how one and the same basic phenomenon manifests itself in so many forms, yet
without losing its identity in any of them! However much a given variant may
conceal the basic form, it is still the latter alone that occasions and fructifies the new
manifestation. But to reveal the basic form together with its variants, and [thereby]
to uncover only prolongations of a fundamental law even where apparent contra-
dictions hold sway – this alone is the task of counterpoint!

Despite his distinction between imagination’s role in strict composition and

free composition, Schenker speaks of Handel’s “freedoms” as surface trans-
formations of the strict contrapuntal principles underlying them, and even
mentions two pitches that are only “ideally” present (B and D). Moreover,
the word “prolongation,” which will become much more significant in his
later work, also appears in this passage, where it refers to the extension of an
accepted rule within a larger context (a meaning thus related, though not
identical, to its later one).
 Kontrapunkt I and II 85

Example 5.3 Handel: Suites de pièces no. 1, Air with variations, variation I (Schenker
1910a/1987, example 48, p. 86/59)

Example 5.4 Handel: Suites de pièces, no. 1, Air with variations, variation I: reduction
with implied tone (Schenker 1910a/1987, example 49 p. 86/59)

With reference to a different Handel piece, the Air with variations from
the Suites de pieces, 2nd collection, no. 1, Schenker again supplies a reduc-
tion and notes that a surface augmented fourth does not form part of the
essential underlying voice-leading but is rendered by virtue of the keyboard
writing as “merely apparent” (see Example 5.3).23

It is especially the older keyboard style which, to the extent that it made less use of fuller
chordal textures (especially the kind we favor so much today), outlined its supposedly
lacking harmonies so much more thoroughly and vigorously with its figuration and
with all sorts of angular contours. By this means the older style produced polyphony.
Why should it have presented harmonies in the form of complete chords, when it was
able to express them in another way? In the preceding example we see clearly how the
figuration unites within itself several strands of voice-leading in the most artistic way. It
stands for approximately the following setting [see Example 5.4].

From this it follows, however, that the augmented fourth in the Handel example is
merely an apparent tritone: for in reality, according to example 49, the tone A does
not go to E[ at all, but rather to B[, and, moreover, simultaneously engenders a line
through G and F. Both of these continuations from the A, however, represent only
intervals of a second.

The implied presence of “the total complement of constituents of the

harmony” allows Schenker to reduce surfaces to simpler underlying

23
Ibid., p. 86/59.
86 Development

Example 5.5 (a) J. S. Bach: English Suite no. 6: prelude; (b) Reduction (Schenker
1910a/1987, example 76, p. 101/71)

(a) d. i. (b)

Example 5.6 (a) Strauss: Ein Heldenleben, op. 40; (b) Reduction (Schenker 1910a/1987,
examples 65 and 66, p. 95/66)
(a)

(b)

voice-leading structures. Thus a single line by Bach can imply several

latent voices (see Example 5.5).
And the opening of a melody from Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben, op. 40,
despite its apparent complexity, can elaborate a single E-flat-major triad
(the bracketed seventh carrying c1 to the upper octave reduces the top voice
to the neighbor motion B[–c1–B[; see Example 5.6).
In one example, from Brahms’s Variations on a theme by Handel,
Schenker even supplies a two-part contrapuntal background, noting that
“the real connection between strict composition and free composition can
 Kontrapunkt I and II 87

Example 5.7 Mozart: Symphony no. 36, I, end of development (Schenker 1910a/1987,
example 200, p. 204/148)

in general be discovered only in reductions similar to” this one.24 This

appeal to ideal, spiritual stepwise voices, hidden beneath the surface and
transcending the melody’s notated line, clearly indicates the direction in
which Schenker’s analytical method was moving.
The most revealing of Kontrapunkt I’s examples, however, is an analysis
of the passage just preceding the reprise of the first movement of Mozart’s
C-major Symphony no. 36, which contains a series of rising chromatic
thirds, forbidden in strict counterpoint, in the next-to-last measure. The
passage is first given in a complete piano reduction (see Example 5.7).
Then – uniquely in Kontrapunkt I – the example is followed by a multi-
layered graph (see Example 5.8) that traces in detail this measure’s trans-
formation of an underlying diatonic form. Layer (a), the graph’s deepest,
shows the “original” diatonic passing motion that Mozart then varied: in
thirds from dominant to tonic; layer (b), a more foreground double layer, in
which these thirds are split into two parts by chromatic elaboration, the
upper part based on major thirds, the lower one on minor thirds; and layer
(c) combines both sets of thirds from layer (b) into a single, faster surface
rhythm. An implied fourth layer, containing the “forbidden” thirds, is then
supplied by the piano reduction (see Example 5.7).
The terminology used in Schenker’s comment is telling. Layer (a) is
described as “the real background of all later occurrences – the first stage
so to speak”; layer (b) is “the second stage” and illustrates “the chromatic
filling-in of the normal diatony – at 1. in the lower voice, at 2. in the upper”;
while layer (c), the most foreground, is “the first and initially normal
attempt to introduce all of the chromatic passing tones indicated under
(b) into the two voices.”25 The composition itself then joins (c)’s chromatic
motions into a single succession. As Schenker states:26

24 25 26
Ibid., p. 268/200. Ibid., p. 205/149. Ibid., p. 204/148–49.
88 Development

Example 5.8 Mozart: Symphony no. 36, I, layered reduction (Schenker (1910a/1987),
example 201, p. 205/149)

Admittedly, the Stufe alone (here, the V), with its omnipotence, adequately justifies
the series of major thirds (bars 4–5), in that it demotes them to the status of merely
transient chromatic advancements through the space from g to c1. And yet the ear
grasps very well too the operation of the whole process that necessarily produced
this effect of transience, and we gain finally the insight that we are here dealing with
only apparent major thirds, which in fact originate simply from minor thirds
instead.

But even while limited to an isolated fragment that composes-out a single

Stufe on the dominant with a clearly stated root, this analysis hints at a more
general hierarchical conception of contrapuntally based prolongations that
distinguish between the musical surface and what lies underneath it.
Toward the volume’s end, moreover, Schenker explicitly states the all-
important inference: “The real connection between strict counterpoint
and free composition can in general be discovered only in reductions.”27
Thanks to the joint ideas of musical depth and reduction, species counter-
point thus becomes a model for musical motion.

27
Ibid., p. 268/200.
 Kontrapunkt I and II 89

To return to Schenker’s comments on the four lines from Goethe’s Faust

quoted in the first section (p. 79) of this chapter, they form an essential part
of Schenker’s argument. As he himself puts it, the lines contain “prolonga-
tions of the most ordinary grammatical laws,” whose “licenses” can be
explained only through the passage’s underlying grammar. Or as he com-
ments on music itself: 28
[T]he new forces that accompany free composition in music form an apparently
new order . . . [T]hose who have true understanding see the fundamental contra-
puntal principles profoundly and mystically at work in the background. The
phenomena of free composition, then, are invariably to be understood only as the
prolongations of those principles.

Schenker’s growing awareness of the relationship between strict and free

composition also explains the emphasis in Kontrapunkt I on eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century music. Though most of the commentaries on this
music are largely ad hoc, not yet part of a general theory, they occasionally
reveal the presence of a materially based surface–depth relationship con-
necting the two types of music.

Melodic fluency

An idea introduced in Kontrapunkt I that had an important part in the develop-

ment of both the linear progression and the Urlinie was “melodic fluency.” It
is first introduced in section 20 of chapter 2, Part I, following discussion of
minimizing leaps in the cantus firmus, where it is characterized as:29
a kind of wave-like melodic line which, as a whole, represents an animated entity,
and which, with its ascending and descending curves, appears balanced in all its
individual component parts. This kind of line manifests what is called melodic
fluency, and one may confidently state that the second – as the smallest interval and
agent of rescue in cases of emergency – is the primary ingredient.

Melodic fluency thus reflects the prominent convention in strict counter-

point that individual lines should not be overly differentiated but move
predominantly by step, following “a kind of compensating aesthetic justice

28
Ibid., p. 20/13. Once again Schenker’s language is suggestive. The word “background” – in
contrast with its use in Harmonielehre – is here associated with “fundamental contrapuntal
principles” that work “profoundly” and “mysteriously,” giving it a meaning that, while still vague,
is closer to the one acquired later. Schenker’s term “prolongation” also appears, though only in a
general sense; but, as the translators note, it is “frequently encountered from now on.”
29
Ibid., pp. 133–34/94.
90 Development

Example 5.9 J. S. Bach: English Suite no. 6, prelude: linear reduction (Schenker 1910a/
1987, example 120, p. 136/96)

vis-à-vis the overall shape, within which each individual tone is a constit-
uent part of the whole as well as an end in itself.”30 And it is also related to
the polyphonically conceived lines of free composition, which, when they
express “several latent voices in a unified fashion,” can be reduced to an
underlying motion that moves by step:31
[The line] may present the most concealed result, the ultimate product of ascending
and descending figurations, such as can be identified, for example, in the prelude of
J. S. Bach’s English Suite in D minor as follows [see Example 5.9].

The precepts of melodic fluency are at work in all these cases and remain so no less
than in the modest, simple cantus firmus itself.
Here, then, musical line is conceived as abstract, dependent on reduction to
stepwise motion as determined by the underlying harmony. Later, Schenker
relates the idea more specifically to passing motion, naming the “horizontal
interval of the second” as the “most suitable device” for establishing: 32
truly complete neutrality from tone to tone, in that it contributes just as little of
harmony to the tone that follows as to the one that precedes . . . Thus it came to pass
that long ago, in consideration of the attendant benefits for both harmonic neutral-
ity and melodic fluency, the basic principle was established: the dissonance on the
upbeat may be introduced only by step.
The concept of melodic fluency joins together three important Schenkerian
concepts, all critical predecessors for linear progressions and the Urlinie
that imply a distinction between musical surface and depth: (1) dissonant
passing motion is always stepwise; (2) “ideal” lines are preponderantly

30
Ibid., p. 134/94. 31 Ibid., pp. 135–36/96.
32
Ibid., p. 239/177–78. In Kontrapunkt II, Schenker states more definitively that, in free
composition, “the line has the last word concerning the phenomena of the composition”; and
somewhat later in this volume he even uses the word “Urlinie” in this connection (see Schenker
1922/1987, pp. 77, 111/77, 112). The latter term, however, is used in a more general sense than
later (as noted by the translators).
 Kontrapunkt I and II 91

stepwise; and (3) music consists of a single melodic whole made up of

stepwise components.33

KONTRAPUNKT II

The second volume of Kontrapunkt did not appear until 1922, twelve years
after the first. During the intervening period Schenker published all but one
of his monographs (discussed in the next chapter), as well as the first and
second issues of the Tonwille series (discussed in the chapter after that)
which appeared shortly before Kontrapunkt II. He also began work on an
eventually abandoned earlier version of Der freie Satz, then intended as the
closing section of Kontrapunkt II (which will be discussed in Chapter 8).
During the period from 1910 to 1922, Schenker’s political and social
beliefs changed significantly, partly due to the terrible losses to Europe,
material and otherwise, brought on by World War I (1914–1918). The war
seemed to encourage Schenker, who was always conservatively inclined
both musically and in general, to stress the pessimistic opinions he con-
nected with modernity: democratization of Western culture, decline in taste,
profusion of experimental tendencies in the arts, general erosion of tradi-
tional values, and so on. He became increasingly isolationist and reac-
tionary, traits already noticeable in Kontrapunkt I’s preface but even more
so in the later publications of this period.
Despite these changes in Schenker’s musical and ideological position,
however, Kontrapunkt II was in this regard an exception. Apparently real-
izing that the volume’s commercial viability depended upon closer adher-
ence to its stated topic than the first, he avoided its emphasis on cultural
matters, as well as its examples of common-practice music. The second
volume is thus considerably shorter; and while it contains little critical for
our purposes, there is one major exception.

The spiritual nature of counterpoint

Kontrapunkt II’s importance for Schenker’s future evolution lies in its

granting to counterpoint an unambiguously spiritual nature. Despite the
many comments in Kontrapunkt I that suggested the idea, it was never

33
Schenker himself was aware of the significance of “melodic fluency” for his subsequent ideas, and
he mentions it more than once in connection with the Urlinie. Its importance in this connection
has also been recognized by several commentators, especially Pastille (1990a).
92 Development

presented there as an explicit principle. And Harmonielehre, we recall, had

described harmony alone as a “spiritual universe of ideally moving forces,”
and thus as uniquely belonging to “the most secret psychology of music.”
Crucial in this respect was the role of the Stufe, which as an abstract unit was
able to bring together harmonic elements that otherwise would seem to
represent only a chaos of unrelated parts.34
So while the extension of harmony’s spiritual realm to counterpoint was
certainly implicit in Kontrapunkt I, especially in its insistence on the bio-
logical nature of tones and the psychological significance of passing motion,
its complete realization did not appear until Kontrapunkt II. But here,
though a concrete model of contrapuntal unfolding is still lacking, the entire
contrapuntal discipline is supplied with a non-material dimension.
Schenker begins discussing this extension by noting that counterpoint’s
adoption of nature’s overtone series is directly related to harmony, and
therefore free composition:35
In the sense of the overtone series, the original, natural ordering of intervals
including the octave, surely runs as follows:

3
5
8
"
Yet in strict counterpoint as in free composition, where an artistic-artificial voice
leading regulates the course of events, any other ordering is also welcome, provided
only that 8, 5, and 3 remain.

Moreover, in reviewing two-part passing motion, and drawing upon both

the first volume’s generalized conception of transient dissonance and
Harmonielehre’s concept of composing-out, Schenker observes in the sec-
ond that counterpoint “produces an intrusion of the imaginary”:36
Alongside all of the corporeality (which is always to be understood as independent)
of the intervals available in strict counterpoint, the first appearance of the dissonant
passing tone produces a curious intrusion of the imaginary: it consists in the covert
retention, by the ear, of the consonant point of departure that accompanies the
dissonant passing tone on its journey through the third-space. It is as though the

34
Schenker does state in Harmonielehre that the harmonic element “must be pursued in both
directions, horizontal and vertical”; and that free composition “appears as an extension of strict
composition,” the two being “wedded” due to “the aegis” of the Stufe (see Schenker 1906/1954,
p. 177, 204/134, 159). But such phrases, despite their seemingly prophetic content, invariably
appear without demonstration.
35
Schenker (1922/1987), p. 122/124. 36 Ibid., p. 59/57–58.
 Kontrapunkt I and II 93

dissonance would always carry along with it the impression of its consonant origin,
and thus we comprehend in the deepest sense the stipulation of strict counterpoint,
which demands of the dissonant passing tone that it always proceed only by the step
of a second and always only in the same direction.

The implications of this effect are of great importance: we recognize in the dissonant
passing tone the most dependable – indeed, the only – vehicle of melodic content.
While in the first species the melodic line still unfolds laboriously, sound by sound,
in the second species we see it move ahead within the framework of a sustaining
vertical sonority. Therefore even two-voice counterpoint shows the beginnings of
melodic composing-out – that is, the simultaneous unfolding of the same harmony in
vertical and horizontal directions . . .

Here Schenker asserts that compositional unfolding, previously confined to

harmony and free composition, applies to strict counterpoint as well; as its
tones also possess an “imaginary” dimension residing beneath the music’s
surface. As a consequence, voice-leading is connected directly to harmony
and the Stufe; and these provide it with a means of relating strict and free
composition:37
We shall see later, in the combined species as well, how the necessity of holding fast to
the harmony of the downbeat becomes all the more urgent the more the other voices
simultaneously moving in half-notes threaten to imperil the unity of the harmony of
the downbeat. Then, particularly for the dissonant passing tone in the bass, our
power of imagination must on its own carry forward the harmony of the downbeat;
and by doing so, it prepares itself most effectively to grasp that greatest spiritual
marvel which governs free composition: the Stufe, which presents in most conse-
quential manner the retention of a harmony through the duration of passing events.

This means that the Stufe can be composed-out by specifically contrapuntal

means. Later, in addressing combined three-part species (two half notes
against one whole note), composing-out is again related to counterpoint:38
The sense in which one may speak even in the second species of the concept of
composing-out was already discussed [in the two previous quotations] . . . It is clear
that the further expansion of the half-note domain, as is here provided by the second
contrapuntal voice (likewise in half-notes) must intensify the effect of composing-out.

Nevertheless, Schenker remarks that “[i]n spite of this, it remains true here
as well that any increase in composing-out, however achieved, still cannot
give the chords that final precision that they gain only in free composition
by means of Stufen.”39 Thus, while his explanation of what strict and free
composition have in common goes further than before, the two cannot be

37 38 39
Ibid., p. 60/58–59. Ibid., p. 181/185. Ibid.
94 Development

Examples 5.10(a), (b) Fux: strict-counterpoint exercises (Schenker 1922/1987,

examples 334 and 335, p. 214/219)
(a)

(b)

equated. Yet Schenker still continues to stress the mental, psychological, and
imaginative aspects of voice-leading when he treats fourth species: we hear
“a fifth arise in our imagination,” apprehend “the mental image of a third,”
assume “the right to imagine such a harmony,” or are unable to “obliterate
from our mental image the true root.”40
Schenker’s most telling move, however, occurs near the volume’s end,
when he undertakes an “experiment” on two of Fux’s three-part mixed
species exercises previously quoted in chapter 3 of Part VI (on the incor-
poration of syncopation in combined species; see Example 5.10).
The experiment takes place in the yet later section, in Part VI, “On the
elision of a voice as bridge to free composition,” and consists of removing
the cantus firmus (essentially the only pure whole-note voice) from both
exercises (see Example 5.11).
Schenker concludes by stating that, while the voice-leading produced by
this excision “exceeds the limits imposed by the strict form of the rules,” it
remains correct. It is “guaranteed not only by the fact that in this case we
know the origin, but far more by the circumstance that we are also able –
indeed compelled – to add conceptually a third voice moving in whole notes:

40
Ibid., pp. 90, 91, 95, 98/91, 93, 96, 100.
 Kontrapunkt I and II 95

Example 5.11(a), (b) Fux: exercises with whole-note voice deleted (Schenker 1922/
1987, example 395, p. 259/269)

for the treatment of the syncopes alone forces us to conclude that the setting
in this form obviously is not adjusted in a completely strict way . . . ”41
This experiment thus links strict and free counterpoint firmly together,
converting the former as a “bridge” to the latter. Schenker identifies five
factors that relate the two: (1) it is possible “to find a unifying tone of longer
value that interprets the movement and voice-leading of voices led in
various rhythms”; (2) “with this discovery a bridge is opened” that “estab-
lish[es] that free composition, despite its so extensively altered appearances,
is mysteriously bound by this elision, as though by an umbilical cord, to
strict counterpoint”; (3) that “even in free composition, a setting executed in
such a way can always be supplemented by an additional voice, which, as
though it were actually written down, accompanies the voices, in one
position or another, only in longer values”; (4) the added voice “usually
will be supplied there by our perception, precisely in keeping with the nature
of free composition, in the low register, where it provides a structure for the
upper voices and, especially, confers altered meanings upon the dissonan-
ces”; and (5) in free composition, “our guess is that it is the Stufen that
complete the setting in this way.”42

41 42
Ibid., p. 260/270. Ibid., pp. 260–61/270–71.
96 Development

In other words, here Schenker says that contrapuntal motion, the “sole
source of melodic content,” resembles harmony in that it too depends upon
a psychological principle that compels the conceptual addition of ideal tones
omitted from the musical surface. Provided with this spiritual dimension,
counterpoint attains a deeper cognitive realm where imaginary tones, which
are only implied, transcend the physical stimulus itself. This implies a new
kind of musical comprehension, extending beyond the tones themselves,
and even beyond their derivation from the chord of nature; for it depends
upon tones as perceived only in the minds of those composers and listeners
who make sense of them.
Given the importance of a psychological dimension in Schenker’s work,
his use of the term “spirit” is worth examining briefly. The word Geist,
which is arguably the most critical term in German Idealism, means both
“spirit” and “mind” in English. And it even appears in the title of Schenker’s
early article “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik,” where it is used to
designate – somewhat paradoxically – music’s organic “artificiality.” It then
recurs more rarely, but also more positively, in Harmonielehre, to designate
an extra-material domain belonging to harmony alone. In Kontrapunkt I
and, more specifically, Kontrapunkt II, this meaning is extended so that it
includes counterpoint. And finally, in Schenker’s second developmental
phase, the term appears with increasing prominence in all of the major
works. Additional words with related meanings are of course employed by
Schenker as well.43 But the essential point is that all are associated with
mental states that go beyond purely material matters by referring to musical
situations that transcend the unprocessed musical stimulus itself.
Schenker was of course not the first theorist to posit ideal tones, and thus
a spiritual dimension, as there is a rich tradition in Western theory that
incorporates “imaginary” entities in one form or another.44 But no previous
theorist examined their psychological implications in such detail, or gener-
alized the notion of ideal entities as the basis for a comprehensive theory of
pitch relationships, as did Schenker.

43
These appear throughout Schenker’s work from Harmonielehre on, and include ideell (ideal),
psychologisch (psychological), Vorstellung (conception), and Hinzudenken (to add conceptually).
Distinct meanings for such expressions, however, are difficult to pin down; and even Geist has
numerous additional meanings (including “genius,” “intellect,” and “brain”).
44
To name three earlier instances, there are: (1) the basic underlying intervallic patterns employed
by such diminution theorists as Christoph Bernhard and Adrianus Petit Coclico; (2) the basse
fondamentale (fundamental bass) proposed by Jean-Philippe Rameau; and (3) the concept of
Tonvorstellung (tone conception) proposed by Hugo Riemann. For connections tying Schenker
to these predecessors, see Morgan (1978).
 Kontrapunkt I and II 97

In virtually all of his major writings, Schenker related the spiritual nature
of music to his distinction between nature and art. This first appears in
“Geist,” which locates music on the artificial side of creation (and thus art);
while in Harmonielehre and Kontrapunkt I and II the balance shifts toward
nature. The sharp distinction between nature and art thus gradually begins
to disappear until Schenker eventually develops a balanced view of music,
enabling him to resolve (at least in his own mind) a quandary that had
plagued him for a long time: how the properties of the natural major tonal
system, derived from nature, can be extended to encompass such “non-
natural” tonal phenomena as the minor system, the unfolding of Stufen, the
principles of counterpoint, the formation of melodic content, and, finally,
the nature of musical coherence itself.
With the completion of Kontrapunkt II, Schenker still lacked a fully
fleshed-out theory that could answer such questions. That would require
the existence of two interrelated analytical procedures, both of which had
been suggested by this time but had not been fully realized: a concrete
method that would show how the idealized content of Stufen in free
composition could be derived from the actual content of musical progres-
sions; and a concrete method that would show how the idealized content of
species counterpoint could also be derived from those same progressions.
The very fact that at this stage Schenker could speak of music’s “laws,” “the
inexorable compulsion of its voice-leading,” and “musical organicism”
indicates that the conceptual framework for the theory was largely in
place; but not the theory itself.
 6 The monographs

Harmonielehre and Kontrapunkt, the first two-thirds of Schenker’s basic

theoretical trilogy, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien, are the
most important publications to appear in his first developmental phase.
These volumes, however, are primarily concerned with theoretical ground-
work; and consequently, despite many musical examples, they do not
focus primarily on analytical matters but more abstract aspects of musical
construction. Though this emphasis on underlying principles is of great
importance, it does prevent them from dealing prominently with particular
compositions.
Schenker, however, was always interested in the content and analysis of
individual works, even in his earliest years as a theorist. As a consequence, he
published seven monographs on specific musical literature that appeared
irregularly during the same period as Harmonielehre and Kontrapunkt,
the first in 1903, three years before Harmonielehre, and the last in 1921,
a year prior to Kontrapunkt II. Each contains a significant analytical
component; and each deals with a single composer and all but one with a
single composition (five by Beethoven and one by J. S. Bach). The exception
to the latter is the first monograph, on C. P. E. Bach’s music, which was
written to accompany an edition of fourteen Bach keyboard pieces edited
by Schenker for Universal Edition in the previous year. Excluding the
monograph on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which uniquely appeared
as a book, all five of the remaining ones were written to accompany
Schenker editions of individual works, and the last four were actually
referred to as Erläuterungsausgaben, or “explanatory editions.”1

1
The seven are: (1) Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik, als Einführung zu Ph. Emanuel Bachs
Klavierwerken (1903); (2) J. S. Bach, Chromatische Phantasie und Fuge D-moll: Kritische Ausgabe
mit Anhang (1910b); (3) Beethovens Neunte Symphonie (1912); and Die letzten fünf Sonaten von
Beethoven, Kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und Erläuterung: (4) Sonate E dur Op. 109 (1913);
(5) Sonate As dur Op. 110 (1914); (6) Sonate C moll Op. 111 (1915); (7) Sonate A dur Op. 101
(1921). The omitted piano sonata, op. 106, did not appear because of the absence of its autograph.
Not included in this list is the later monograph on Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (1925), which was
first published serially in Der Tonwille and is thus discussed in the next chapter. All monographs,
98 except for the one on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, have been published in second editions:
 The monographs 99

The third monograph, on Beethoven’s Ninth, contains a statement on

its function, which is described as a guide to the work of art’s essence. It
is based on three principles: (1) “to reveal the musical content of the work”;
(2) “to set forth through the new results gained through analysis the
accordingly altered manner of performance”; and (3) “to verify the result
of the analysis to forestall misunderstandings . . .”2 This description
applies equally to all seven monographs, each of which examines musical
content (the first principle) by analytical means (the remaining two).
This chapter, instead of summarizing the relevant content of all seven
publications, deals with them more or less collectively. Five of its six sections
are devoted to a central topic in Schenker’s development: (1) aesthetic issues
(pp. 99–101); (2) manuscript sources (pp. 101–02); (3) ornamentation
(pp. 102–03); (4) the analytical concept of “synthesis” (pp. 104–07); and
(5) reduction technique (pp. 107–15). All five have to do with analysis, the
first two with preparations for analysis proper, the third with a crucial aspect
of Schenker’s analytical view, and the fourth and fifth to analysis proper.3
The sixth section (pp. 115–16) offers some concluding remarks on the
monographs as a whole and touches upon an additional aesthetic position
derived from reduction: musical depth.

Aesthetics: musical law, masterpieces, genius, canon

The first monograph, on C. P. E. Bach (1903), states a belief that pervades

each of Schenker’s theoretical works: all melodies, including embellishments,
“are a manifestation of truth, artistic truth that transcends time and will

Schenker (1903), slightly revised as Schenker (1908), Schenker (1910b) as Schenker (1969a);
Schenker (1913), revised as Schenker (1971a); Schenker (1914), revised as Schenker (1972a);
Schenker (1915), revised as Schenker (1971b); and Schenker (1921), revised as Schenker (1972b).
(The late Beethoven sonata monographs were all revised, but also abridged, by Oswald Jonas.)
There are excellent English translations of the first three monographs, which have been used here
with only minor alterations: “A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation,” translated by Hedi
Siegel (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976); J. S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue,
translated by Hedi Siegel (New York: Longman, 1984); and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,
translated by John Rothgeb (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992). Since no translations of the
last four have appeared, I have translated the quotations from them myself. Bent (2005) provides a
very useful introduction to the monographs, treating their origins, Schenker’s interactions with
his publishers, his increasing commitment to the monographs as an ongoing series, and his belief
in the importance of measure-by-measure commentary.
2
Schenker (1912/1992), pp. ix, vi/8, 3–4.
3
I do not, however, discuss another significant feature (except in passing): the monographs’ long,
detailed, and vitriolic assessments of previous literature. Despite their obvious significance, they
are not illuminating with regard to Schenker’s theoretical development.
100 Development

endure to the end of time . . .”4 This belief is tied to four interrelated aesthetic
assumptions that, though evident elsewhere, are set out in the monographs
with special clarity: the importance of natural law and necessity; the centrality
of masterpieces; the significance of genius; and the need for a canon.
For all four of these the monograph on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony
(1912) is especially helpful. First, it points out that music’s laws – unlike
those controlling verbal languages or political empires – do not respond to
external conditions but rest upon what Schenker has come to view as
unalterable foundations:5

Tonal art . . . after a centuries-long evolution [is] based in its ultimate products on
laws immutable from nation to nation, from race to race, from country to
country . . . [It] will never rest on laws different from those discovered in it by the
great masters!

These laws thus are not “merely arbitrary discoveries of individual artists,
but belong to all mankind”; and their analysis requires a “full apprehension”
of “the necessities of musical content.”6
Moreover, only “in masterworks can insight into such necessities of
Nature and Art be gained.”7 This means that the quality of the work, at
least in Schenker’s view, is critical. And since masterpieces always
follow music’s laws unconsciously, their creators are not “acquainted with
the type of rational deliberation that I [Schenker] apply to music questions,
and therefore could not themselves have applied it!”8 Consequently,
composers not possessing genius, even those who are “gifted,” are obliged
to “invoke the aid of more or less well-conceived formal plans, to which they
fit the content . . .” And in that case (in words revealing how far Schenker
had progressed from “Geist”’s anti-nature view of music) “Art foregoes
Nature, so to speak – foregoes, that is, that ultimate truth which alone
carries necessity within it.”9 For the ability to write masterpieces depends
on genius. As he remarks in the op. 110 monograph: “In Art, too, all
blessing comes only from above, from the genius”; and “beneath this zone
there is absolutely neither progress, development, nor history, but for the
most part only imitation – and what is more, bad imitation of the very
same geniuses falsely understood!”10

4 5 6
Schenker (1903/1976), p. 8/23. Schenker (1912/1992), p. xxvi/19. Ibid., p. vii/5.
7 8 9
Ibid., p. xxxiii/23. Ibid., p. xxxv/25. Ibid., p. viii/5–6.
10
Schenker (1914/1972a), p. 9. Kant seems to have influenced Schenker’s view of genius, above all
in lending the word a bifurcated definition that seems to resolve the nature–art dichotomy: on
the one hand genius is “the talent (or natural gift) which gives the rule to art,” while on the other
it is an “innate mental disposition (ingenium) through which Nature gives the rule to Art” (Kant
 The monographs 101

This emphasis on masterpieces and genius indicates that Schenker does

not have all music in mind, but only a limited canon of what are in his
view great works. Moreover, almost all of the works in this canon date from
the early eighteenth to late nineteenth century, and almost all are Germanic
in origin. Thus, in the preface to the second edition of the C. P. E. Bach
monograph (1908), Schenker maintains, here limiting himself entirely
to German composers (and again relying on the concept of genius):11
If one is not aware of the thousands of crucial factors that differentiate [figures such
as] Stamitz from Bach or Haydn, then the artistic realm of genius, of talent, and of
half-talent will appear to be a realm whose uniformity reflects the uniformity of
one’s own inartistic mind . . . [But] fortunately, the power of Art and of genius is
stronger than that of the historian.

This canon is for Schenker not only the sole representative of great art;
it also contains secret truths, whose knowledge leads those capable of
grasping it toward human perfection. This explains why he understood
his theoretical mission as the revelation of features that would other-
wise remain hidden beneath the surface of music. In addition, Schenker
regarded the canon as closed, making further expansion impossible.
Brahms, the dedicatee of the monograph on Beethoven’s Ninth, is thus
referred to as “the last master of German composition.” After him, music
simply ceased to exist. The chief perpetrator of its demise was Wagner, who
“dealt . . . its deathblow by appealing to the broadest spectrum of the populace
as audience for his own ‘music dramas’ (ah, the theater!) . . . precipitat[ing]
that massive catastrophe whose witnesses we now become!”12

The role of manuscript sources

In writing the monographs, and in dealing analytically with music in

general, Schenker believed his first obligation to be the establishment of
an authentic musical text. Only then could the work’s content, already
identified in “Geist” as the sole source of music’s form, be adequately
established. Consequently, all but one of the seven monographs (the
exception again being the book on Beethoven’s Ninth) either included

2000 [1790], p. 188). This formulation, plus Kant’s notion that genius constructs “another
nature, as it were, out of the material that actual Nature gives it” (ibid., p. 198), enables Schenker
to unite three essential components of his theory within this one concept: the instinctual, the
natural, and the artistic.
11
Schenker (1903/1976), p. 2/12. 12 Schenker (1912/1992), p. xxv/18–19.
102 Development

or accompanied an edition edited by Schenker himself of the music

discussed. Schenker was, among his contemporaries, exceptional in his
belief that the primary source of musical understanding was the composer’s
own final manuscript; or, if this was no longer available (as was the case in
the first three monographs), the earliest printed source. So of the five late
Beethoven piano sonatas, all intended as subjects of monographs, only the
original manuscripts of four were known to exist at the time, the missing
one, op. 106, was simply omitted from the series; and since the manuscript
of op. 101 came to light only after the remaining three had been published,
its monograph appeared last.
The reason for Schenker’s interest in manuscripts is not difficult to
understand. His insistence that music was comprehended only through
the “desired effect of content” caused him to seek the most accurate possible
representation of the work; and this included not only the correct placement
of pitches, rhythms, dynamics, etc., but the specific form of notation as well.
Only then could a work’s true meaning be grasped. It is true, of course, that
theoretical knowledge and analysis were also necessary: “[I]n order to grasp
the way the music has been written down, and thus its desired effect, one
must have full knowledge of the laws of tonal life.”13 But manuscript studies
were of prime importance.
Since the determination of a reliable text was an essential part of Schenker’s
analytical approach, this placed him at the forefront of modern manuscript
studies.14 Indeed, even if Schenker had published no theoretical works at all,
his interest in manuscript studies would alone have made him a commanding
figure in twentieth-century musicology. As the Ninth Symphony monograph
stated: “Ignorance of the composition, and all that follows from it – mis-
understanding of the orthography as well as misrepresentation of the content –
therefore leads in music to senseless distortion through proliferation of what
may be thought of as false musical words and sentences!”15

Ornamentation

The title of Schenker’s first monograph, Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik

(A Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation), on C. P. E. Bach’s
keyboard music, underscores his conviction that ornamentation had

13
Ibid., p. xv/10.
14
And thanks to his wealthier followers, especially Anthony van Hoboken, Schenker was able to
put his beliefs into action. (See the section on Schenker’s life and character in Chapter 1.)
15
Schenker (1912/1992), p. xv/11.
 The monographs 103

an essential role in musical coherence. He considered musical embelli-

shment “an inherent part of keyboard music”16 as nothing less than (as
quoted above) a “manifestation of truth.” This conviction thus domi-
nated his thought from his early years as a theorist, and it reflected his
early analytical principle of synthesis (discussed in the next section
[pp. 104–07]): that all aspects of a composition are equally important in
establishing its meaning.
Schenker’s belief in ornamentation’s centrality also helps account for
his attacks on other music editors. He notes, for example, that Hans von
Bülow viewed the clavichord as in part responsible for Bach’s use of
keyboard textures “too meager” for modern tastes, and his belief that
music’s ornamental features were nothing more than “curlicues, purely
instrumental effects, which lack both truth and emotion”17 and were
applied simply to hide its instrumental deficiencies. Though this was a
widely accepted opinion at the turn of the century, Schenker held an
opposed view. Bach’s embellishments were “a true part of the melody and
a true contributor to its beauty,” and thus a necessary part of music’s
content.18 Indeed: “Bach sees in each embellishment a special and unique
expressiveness, almost as if it were a living individual organism that could
never be mistaken for another . . . In short, he regards every embellishment
not merely as decoration but also as actual and self-controlled expression.”19
In writing-out the ornaments, Schenker felt that von Bülow – along with
countless others – destroyed the freedom of music and its performance,
substituting a motoric manner of playing that undermined its very
lifeblood. Schenker thus quoted C. P. E. Bach’s claim that true musical
content “requires a freedom of performance that rules out everything
slavish and mechanical,”20 rejecting modern “virtuoso” playing that
replaced such freedom with “an artificial, systematized, narrow-minded,
academic kind of performance at high speed.”21
Considered in terms of Schenker’s overall theoretical development,
ornamentation eventually formed the basis for his entire mature
system. He came to view all music as being ideally an embellishment of
the tonic triad; and the final theory represented a way of showing how this
could be achieved. Ornamentation, then, stood at the very center of his
theory, so that his early concern for it is all the more revealing. Without its
influence, Schenker’s later musical conception would have been altogether
different.

16
Schenker (1903/1976), p. 7/22. 17 Ibid., p. 6/21. 18 Ibid., p. 8/23. 19
Ibid., p. 24/51.
20
Quoted in Schenker (1903/1976), p. 21/46. 21 Ibid., p. 49/98.
104 Development

Synthesis

After stressing the importance of notation in the monograph on

Beethoven’s Ninth, Schenker, as we have seen, says that one must go
further to grasp how music works: one must also “know the laws of tonal
life!” This explains why each monograph contains an important anal-
ytical component. Also, to account for the close ties between musical
coherence and variety and richness, Schenker introduced the concept of
Synthese, or “synthesis”: that a cohesive and unified whole results from the
joint cooperation of all musical elements.
Though described in the Preface of Kontrapunkt I as “the only source of
all musical laws,” the notion of synthesis actually dates back before the
monographs began appearing. It is mentioned, for example, in Schenker’s
1896 review of Siegfried Wagner’s music,22 and later becomes an important
component in his first developmental stage. Directed toward what he
later would consider foreground matters, it depends upon what Schenker
calls the “principle of variety”: that musical content results from the
interaction of all compositional components, even if they are apparently
in conflict. Whereas in “Geist” content was viewed primarily as melodic
in nature, thereafter, especially in the monographs, there is an analytical
shift toward music’s overall organization. And while synthesis persisted
in Schenker’s late work, its meaning had to be significantly altered for it to
survive as part of the mature theory.
It is no coincidence, then, that Schenker’s first monograph dealt with
the music of C.P.E. Bach, whose unpredictable and constantly changing
style provided an ideal topic for revealing musical multidimensionality.
The disjunct aspect of Bach’s rhythmic, textural, and motivic patterns is
always stressed, their “richness of ideas is paramount” and lends his work
“the gift of sounding spontaneous – eternally improvised.” Such ideas led
Bach to develop the technique of “group formation,” synthesis’s analytical
corollary, which says that “the resources of tonality and rhythm” combine to
create freer construction. Bach’s variety of ideas allows him “to rise above
the mechanical aspects of modulation and frees him from all concern for
‘form.’ In short, Bach’s entire technique is derived from this richness;
ideas are everything to him. Change, mobility and freedom are everywhere;
the schematic and the purely mechanical are nowhere to be found!”23 (It is

22 23
Schenker (1990), pp. 181–85. Schenker (1903/1976), p. 14/33.
 The monographs 105

notable that here, as in “Geist,” Schenker puts the word “form” in quotation
marks.)
Variety allows composers to “write countless sonatas, symphonies,
and quartets” with no two alike, making “the form and the inner diversity
of each work . . . entirely new and [allowing listeners to] witness an endless
ebb and flow of ideas, an unending eloquence, and unending melody.”24
And since “imagination desires variety,” improvisation, freedom’s musical
corollary, assumes particular importance.
Schenker remarks that: “What first strikes one about Bach’s compos-
itional technique is the absence of any kind of schematic formula, whether
in regard to form, idea, or harmony.”25 And in introducing the term “syn-
thesis,” near the monograph’s beginning, he notes that Bach’s greatness lies
in “the way . . . themes and motives follow one another; when, how, and
where they enter; how they are combined and separated, etc.; how Bach
effects a synthesis of ideas. This synthesis may rightly be considered the
deepest, indeed the ultimate mystery of musical composition.”26
Thus one should not commit the error of imposing generalized
formal schemata upon a masterpiece (even though Schenker himself
continues to provide formal outlines as a heuristic device, even in his
later work). For the purpose of analysis is to bring out what is unique
and individual in a composition, not to impose upon it a fixed and gener-
alized formal schema. And whereas “Geist” stressed the lack of logical
causal connections and thus unity in musical materials, the monographs
no longer consider this to be an insurmountable enigma but a problem
to be solved. Though Schenker is still unable to formulate general
explanations for such “mysteries,” he does at least offer individualized
analytical solutions.
In the section on form, C.P.E. Bach’s music is analyzed in more detail.
Again Schenker notes that its overall construction depends upon the co-
operation of independent elements: tonality, rhythm, dynamics, etc. And
he cites several examples, though without providing a systematic definition,
to illustrate the way different musical components contribute: tonality,
for example, binds together diverse materials through key relationships;
rhythmic contrasts set off individualized subgroups from one another;
and dynamics underline motivic correspondences and differences.27

24
Ibid., p. 14/34. 25 Ibid., p. 10/27. 26 Ibid., p. 3/15–16.
27
Addressing the topic three years later in Harmonielehre, Schenker substitutes the word “thought-
groups” (“Gedankengruppen”) for “group construction.” In addition, he is somewhat more
specific in describing its relation to tonality’s ability to achieve “organic unity,” relating it to the
106 Development

The concept of synthesis appears prominently in the analysis of

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in the 1912 monograph on this piece.
There Schenker notes: “Analysis of the content gave me the desired oppor-
tunity to specify the tonal necessities, hidden until now, that caused
the content to assume exactly one form and not any other.”28 Such “neces-
sities,” moreover, apply to all musical parameters, including, for example,
dynamics, which “far from merely suggesting dynamic conditions, play
a completely unique role in relation to synthesis – that is, form.”29
The main theme of the third, slow movement of the Ninth Symphony
(mm. 3–24) effectively illustrates the influence of synthesis on Schenker’s
analytical approach. Here the focus is especially on instrumentation,
specifically the wind entries that follow each cadence and help to articulate
the basic underlying 4+4+4+5 formal shape. (Schenker even remarks
that this pattern actually appears unadorned, without winds, in one of
Beethoven’s earlier sketches.) Whereas the wind entrances at first serve
to underscore through repetition the cadential moments of this schema,
they are later involved in its extension and thus help create, near the
beginning of the third phrase, an entirely individualized form.
In this phrase the winds interrupt the strings with their one-bar
repetition after only two bars instead of four (at m. 14.4); and when the
strings then finish the phrase with an apparent final cadence at m. 18.3, the
winds again enter with a cadential repeat (m. 18.4), which continues with an
extended yet closely derived version of the preceding string phrase
(mm. 19.4–23, echoing mm. 15.4–18.3), while the strings assume a merely
accompanimental role. This wind phrase, the theme’s final unit, ends by
first leading into what promises to be a deceptive cadence on vi (m. 23),
but actually closes in the following measure when it melts into D major
(III of the original tonic, but I of the second Andante moderato section
beginning in the next measure at m. 25).
Schenker goes on to examine the formal layout of the theme in relation
to Beethoven’s use of dynamics before turning to the brief introductory
wind bars (mm. 1–2), mentioned at the outset but only to say that their
meaning depended upon their relationship to the theme. Here it is shown,
however, that the introduction’s content not only anticipates the theme
but, through the more extended clarinet descent at mm. 2–3, foreshadows
both the violin descent near the beginning of the third phrase (mm. 12.4–
14) and its somewhat shortened repeat (led again by the clarinet) at

power to create relatively few Stufen by “drawing from each Stufe that much more motivic
content.” (Schenker 1906/1954, p. 325/244.)
28
Schenker (1912/1992), p. vi/4. 29 Ibid., p. xiv/10.
 The monographs 107

mm. 14.4–15, which ultimately leads to the phrase’s formal extension.

Especially telling is the remark that the theme’s three-part formal schema,
which seems at first “completely ordinary,” is “transported into the realm
of the extraordinary only by the manner in which the winds participate.”30
What initially sounded as “a merely superficial effect” thereby gains,
and does so in both “length and expression.”
Though Schenker continues to describe the wind passages in more
detail, what matters here is that the passage’s synthesis, and thus its total
coherence, is understood only when orchestration is considered. This does
not mean that other features are unimportant: the music’s cadential
structure alone, for example, makes the orchestra’s contribution fully
comprehensible. But the complete result is what is most important, and
that depends upon the way the different components work hand-in-hand.31

Reduction and the Urlinie

A useful feature of the monographs is that, compared with other works

produced during this period, they allow one to trace in more detail
the development of Schenkerian reduction technique. Though several
early instances of reduction were noted in the chapters on Harmonielehre
and Kontrapunkt, its development until the 1920s, when it expanded
dramatically, is best followed in the monographs.
Although the first monograph contains no reductions, the second, on
J. S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue (1910b), which came out the
same year as Kontrapunkt I, contains several, revealing Schenker’s turn to a
more subsurface conception of musical structure. In graphing the work’s
fugue subject in his example 33, he abstracts a descending diatonic fifth

30
Ibid., p. 197/186.
31
Additional information on the concept of synthesis appears in Schenker’s lengthy unpublished
monograph Über den Niedergang der Kompositionskunst (“The Decline of the Art of
Composition”), written mainly in the first decade of the twentieth century but only published
recently, edited and translated (along with the original German text) by William Drabkin. As
Drabkin notes in his introduction, of particular interest for the concept of synthesis is the
discussion of “cyclic form,” by which Schenker means complex, multi-sectional forms of a
developmental nature and which he calls “the most vital worth of art.” (See Schenker [2005],
especially pp. 142–56/43–60, the quotation appearing on p. 152/52.) Also notable, but as far as I
know mentioned only here, is the association of richness and variety with “irrationality”:
Schenker apparently used the latter term to refer to something ineffable, defying rational musical
explanation, though he is ambivalent about this, as he also says that through it “a code of laws”
was developed. Schenker (2005), p. 161/65. Important, however, is that the idea of “irrationality”
also appeared as part of Schenker’s concept of “genius.”
108 Development

Example 6.1 J. S. Bach, Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue: reduction of fugue subject
(Schenker 1910b/1984, example 33, p. 32/45)

Example 6.2 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, I: harmonic reduction of mm. 12–19
(Schenker 1914, figure 7, p. 21)

progression, and believing that it says something essential about the music,
notes that it lifts “the veil . . . from a wondrous and profound mystery,”
showing that the “chromaticism of the subject, seemingly so diffuse and
aimless, is in fact firmly rooted in the composed-out D-minor chord.
Indeed, it is as if we heard only the composed-out chord itself.”32 (See
Example 6.1.)
The following two monographs, on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony
(1912/1992) and the Piano Sonata, op. 109 (1913), have no reductions, but
the fifth, on op. 110 (1914), has several. Some seem to be little more than
chorale-like simplifications of complex keyboard passages; yet Schenker
describes them as summaries of the “true content in simpler form,” and
notes that the outer voices frequently trace stepwise motions, linking
them to “melodic fluency” (introduced in Kontrapunkt I). For example, the
modulatory passage in mm. 12–19 of the sonata’s first movement, shorn of its
complex figurations, rhythms, and registral extremes, appears as a chorale-like
succession with largely stepwise motion in the outer voices (see Example 6.2).
Schenker’s accompanying commentary, however, continues to focuses
on the multidimensional features typical of synthesis: the tonal shift to
E[ in m. 17 is indicated with traditional Roman numerals; and there is

32
Schenker (1910b/1984), p. 32/45. This graph was later incorporated essentially verbatim into
the analysis of the fugue subject in figure 20.2 of Der freie Satz (1935). An even more complex
instance of tonal unfolding in the second monograph appears in the analysis of mm. 57–59 of the
fugue (Schenker (1910b/1984), p. 35/49–51.
 The monographs 109

Example 6.3 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, III, recitative: linear reduction
(Schenker 1914/1972a, figure 74, p. 62)

reference to the “thickening” of harmonic rhythm from m. 17, as well as to

the rhythmic and linear connections that link the later thirty-second-
note figuration to the preceding measures (reflected in Beethoven’s
orthography, which Schenker says reflects the passage’s “organicism”).
The reduction of the Recitativo of mm. 3–7 of the Adagio anticipates
the later analyses more specifically, the underlying reduction connecting
“with the previous cadences (particularly with m. 3) not just through the
tonality alone, but even more through [the] secret line that, as it were,
expresses the ultimate meaning of the content.”33 (See Example 6.3.)
Schenker’s verbal commentary still concentrates more on formal
synthesis than linear succession. But the graphic sketch clearly implies
that simple linear patterns exist underneath complex musical surfaces,
bringing out the “concealed” voices of a more encompassing unity.
The monograph’s most advanced reduction, however, treats a larger
passage of the second movement, mm. 41–72 (Schenker’s figure 70 in the
revised edition, misnumbered in the original as figure 71). Each of the
graph’s four systems corresponds to one of Beethoven’s four eight-measure
phrases: mm. 41–48, 49–56, 57–64, and 65–72. (As Schenker notes, since
these phrases do not form a complete progression, Beethoven adds a full
cadence in mm. 73–75, after which he repeats the tonally complete first
phrase twice, mm. 76–83 and 84–91.) Typically, Schenker describes the
graph as “exposing the final core, that is, that final secret that guides the
master’s inspiration.”34 The single Stufe of the first phrase, mm. 41–48, is
thus “composed-out on I, or rather I-V-I, in so far as the neighbor-note
harmony in m. 45 is taken into consideration.”35 (See Example 6.4.)
A somewhat earlier graph (figure 64 in the revised edition, figure 65 in the
original) already analyzed in more detail the upper-voice neighbor relation-
ship in this phrase as part of an internal dominant seventh descent, g[2–a[1, in

33 34 35
Schenker (1914/1972a), p. 62. Ibid., p. 56. Ibid.
110 Development

Example 6.4 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, II: reduction of mm. 41–72 (Schenker
1914/1972a, figure 70, p. 56)

mm. 45–47. Since this dominant is itself part of a larger descent of a D-flat
triad, the whole phrase composes-out by implication the neighbor motion F–
G[–F with a double-octave transfer, f 3–g[2–f 1 (see Example 6.5).
Though the reductions in this monograph are still relatively few, their
importance is evident from Schenker’s insistence that they all resolve
previous “mysteries,” as well as his consistent use of the word Geheimnis
(“secret”) to refer to their ability to grasp something formerly beyond
understanding.
 The monographs 111

Example 6.5 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 110, II: reduction of top-voice figuration,
mm. 41–48 (Schenker 1914/1972a, figure 64, p. 54)

Whereas the sixth monograph, on Beethoven’s op. 111 (1915), has little
on reduction (despite many suggestive comments on motivic parallelism),
the seventh and final one, on op. 101, published six years later in 1921
(shortly before Kontrapunkt II, and the only one to appear in the 1920s),
contains many. This monograph is particularly important in Schenker’s
development, partly because a relatively lengthy preface includes the
initial discussion of the Urlinie concept, perhaps the final theory’s most
central analytical idea. Not surprisingly, this concept too is based on
reduction, as it depends on stepwise background motion. Though the
linear progression had not yet come into existence, the Urlinie formed
what might be described as a series of such progressions. Though the term
Urlinie was later reserved for the Ursatz’s upper voice, while linear
progression was used to refer to more foreground lines, at this stage it
indicated a composite span that encompassed the entire movement and
consisted of numerous linear patterns (both rising and falling) and often
included their counterpoint. At times it is thus difficult to distinguish
individual linear progressions.
The Urlinie, moreover, was at this point neither fixed nor prede-
termined but influenced by the individual piece’s foreground motivic and
melodic features. Yet even at this point Schenker recognized its analytical
significance, as it allowed him to rethink traditional thematic content as
reductions and thus in more abstract terms. Though the concept of Urlinie
was itself basically theoretical, he accorded it life-creating features: “A
musical composition comes into the world woven alive out of the Urlinie,
Stufe and voice-leading.” It is not yet the sole source of music’s coherence,
but only one part of overall formal synthesis: thus it “may be, indeed must
112 Development

be, spoken of in particular,” but it “works inseparably together with the

other forces within the . . . artwork.”36
The Urlinie concept enabled Schenker to transcend many of the surface
difficulties traditionally associated with thematic parallelism. Moreover, it
was in his own mind poised to assume a fundamentally new analytical
role: it is “present from first tone to last,” provides a “photograph of the
soul’s core,” and “moves with the human being from cradle to coffin.” And
it is “solely the possession of the genius,” an idea now bolstered with
quotations from Goethe, Lessing and Kant.37
We will return to op. 101’s preface in the next chapter, since much of
its theoretical component appeared verbatim as part of the first Urlinie
article in Tonwille 1, which is discussed there.
We now turn to one of the analytical sketches of the op. 101 monograph.
All are largely focused on stepwise linear patterns and represent the
initial application of reduction to more extended musical contexts. For the
first time, the analysis of longer passages, such as mm. 1–81 of the first
movement, is indicated on a single graph. Still, the graphs do not yet reflect
a single analytical approach but continue to support a conception of form
as the synthesis of multiple musical elements.
Though all the graphs are of interest, perhaps the most suggestive for
our purposes is the one giving the tonal–contrapuntal plan for the middle
section of the second movement of op. 101, mm. 11–37 (see Example 6.6,
Schenker’s figure 29). Multiple voices are here arranged in six structural
layers, communicating a larger sense of prolongation but a still ambiguous
one. There are numerous inconsistencies, for example in the treatment
of keys and Stufen, which are indicated by the Roman numerals at layer (a)
(the “first hearing”), at layer (b) (the “first revision,” containing consid-
erably fewer indications), and at layer (e) (the “final version,” containing
only a single linear progression in F major: from F down to C, or from I
to V). (It should be noted, however, that forward slashes connecting
Roman numerals here indicate a change of function: thus I/VI at the
beginning of levels (a) and (b) indicates that I in F becomes VI in A
minor, while V/II in m. 19 indicates that V in A minor becomes II in
D minor.)
Schenker notes that the Stufen on the earlier levels are “erased” at
subsequent ones, and are thus only “apparent.” The somewhat confusing
F-major succession at layer (a), starting in m. 25 with ]V7/[VI[5 and
extending to m. 30, is revealed at layer (b) to be only a series of “passing

36 37
Schenker (1921/1972b), p. 8. Ibid.
 The monographs 113

Example 6.6 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 101, II: reduction of mm. 11–37 (Schenker
1921/1972b, figure 29, pp. 37–38)
114 Development

harmonies” prolonging D[ ([VI with [5–[6 exchange) and resolving to

V. The F-major progression encompassing this one in mm. 23–35 of layer
(b), I/VI–II–V–[VI[5–[6–V, gives way at layer (e) to an implied VI–V
prolongation (the motion between these chords elaborated by the previous
level’s prolonged, chromatically passing [VI). But there is still no indication
of how these erased Stufen contribute to subsequent prolongations.
More revealing in light of subsequent developments is the analysis of
more foreground prolongations, with their focus on linear matters rather
than Roman numerals. The D-flat chord beginning at m. 25, for example, is
prolonged in the top system by octave descent from D[ in mm. 26–30, in
the bass, and by an octave ascent from f 1 in mm. 26–33, in the top voice
(grouped by slur). These two lines work together contrapuntally; but there
is still no principle explaining the linear prolongations, or how they should
be graphed.
The more detailed pitch indications for the opening segment, mm. 11–25,
given on the staffs located above (a) and below (c), are still largely concerned
with linear–motivic correspondences. They are grouped under brackets,
often with lines descending by fourths or fifths, and are presumably related
to the Urlinie, which is elaborated by similar descending spans derived
from fourth motion, though this is not indicated in the graph (see mm. 4–5
and 7–9 of Beethoven’s score). Schenker refers to the partly “concealed”
fourth interval as the movement’s Ur-Idee (“basic idea”), and even uses the
term Motivzüge (“motivic progressions”), attributing to the progressions
both concrete and abstract features. The sketch does indicate, however, that
a more background linear ascent, E–F–G(])–A, is concealed as the top
voice of layer (d) (mm.12–22).
Schenker also indicates a related subsurface motive that encomp-
asses the whole graph: the fourth-descent from F to C in the bass at level
(e), which not only expresses the section’s “basic idea” but resolves “the last
puzzles of the conception” and reveals “the mystic wonder of the organic.”38
But there is no indication of how this fourth is to be reconciled with
more foreground layers. A hierarchical reading of its second pitch, the E at
m. 19, for example, is contradicted both by its role as dominant in the
prolongation of A in mm. 12–22 of level (d) and by its linear relation to the
D-minor prolongation at mm. 16–23.1 of the top staff and at level (c), evident
also in mm. 19–23.1 of levels (a) and (b). Equally unclear is how the A-major
prolongation, beginning at m. 12 of levels (b), and (d), in the last presumably
extended until m. 22, supports the F-major one at level (e).

38
Ibid., p. 40.
 The monographs 115

Yet, tentative though it may be, this graph and its reductions reflect a unique
moment in Schenker, marking it, along with the other op. 101 graphs, as a
significant milestone. It indicates that the unfolding of the basic F-major key at
level (e) extends well into what Schenker would later call the middleground,
and also reveals an effort (though compromised) to show that the pitch events
participate in a unified motion. These tendencies were at least implicit in the
notion of synthesis; but here they attain a degree of specification that, combined
with an attempt to achieve hierarchy, anticipate the later work.

The monographs as a group

The seven monographs occupy a central position in Schenker’s develop-

ment, especially due to their concern for analytic-interpretive matters.
Particularly important was the last monograph’s introduction of the
Urlinie concept. One can also see in them the joint nature of his ideology,
which drew upon, and integrated, both nineteenth- and twentieth-century
factors: for example, the idealist focus on reduction technique and the
empirical emphasis on compositional practice. Schenker was always at
pains to show analytically how the idealist concepts of reduction and the
Urlinie derive from actual musical surfaces; and that however abstract
these analytical devices may seem, they were intimately linked to actual
musical construction through compositional example.
More than any other publications of the earlier years, then, the mono-
graphs indicate that the final theory developed though engagement with
actual music. While it may be possible to see in “Geist”’s anti-organicism a
quasi-scientific premonition of this engagement, the Schenker of “Geist”
was still forced to reject musical organicism due to his inability to account
for musical causality empirically. The post-“Geist” Schenker, on the other
hand, by adopting a more integrated and work-oriented approach,
accepted organicism. And even though “Geist”’s early emphasis on materi-
alism remained evident throughout his entire theoretical development,
so did idealism. Both forces lay squarely behind the mature theory.
Since one aspect of the monographs’ concern with analysis was its
development of reduction technique, a fifth important aesthetic concept,
musical depth, should be added to the four introduced in the first section
(pp. 99–101) of this chapter.39 As an idealist component, the idea of depth

39
The topic of musical depth has been dealt with at length in Watkins (2011), which includes a
chapter on Schenker. I owe Professor Watkins particular thanks, both for treating the depth
116 Development

helps explain Schenker’s increasing conviction that true musical meaning

resides in the “background,” underneath music’s surface appearance. Even
though Schenker had by this time not worked out the full theoretical basis of
his theory, the idea of depth encouraged him to think of musical content as a
more orderly process that existed underneath actual music. Indeed, the idea
was so essential as to stand behind Schenker’s entire notion of “musical
truth.”
Not surprisingly, then, one of the late theory’s most defining features is
precisely its mediation between abstract and concrete, ideal and material,
and consequently between musical depth and musical surface. All of these
pairings hinge upon the presence of both dimensions; and nowhere was
their interaction more clearly worked out in Schenker’s first developmental
phase than in the monographs.

metaphor as central to German art and criticism of the nineteenth and earlier twentieth centuries
and for making available to me portions of her manuscript before its publication.
7 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik

The decade from 1921 through 1930, during which all of the ten issues of
Der Tonwille and the three volumes of Das Meisterwerk in der Musik
appeared, proved to be Schenker’s most productive, both for the frequency
of publications and the unprecedented extent of his development. The
issues of the two periodicals, Der Tonwille published between 1921 and
1924 and Das Meisterwerk in 1925, 1926 and 1930, were entirely devoted to
Schenker’s own work; each contained analyses of individual compositions
and essays on various topics, mostly having to do with music. This chapter
deals with both series, as both were essential for the evolution of the final
theory, in the decade in which he worked out its principles in virtually
complete form.1
The ten issues of Der Tonwille, described by Schenker as “pamphlets,”
were intended to have a limited number of pages and to contain shorter
articles. The issues contain numerous brief analyses and additional essays,
usually on musical topics, as well as a number of miscellanea sections. The
volumes of Das Meisterwerk, on the other hand, conceived as yearbooks,
have longer analyses and articles. (The first volume, however, was initially
viewed as a continuation of Tonwille and contained three analyses of Bach’s

1
Schenker (1921–24) and (1925, 1926, and 1930). Both Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der
Musik have been translated into English by a team of distinguished British and American scholars
and published in landscape format; and these translations, which are excellent, have been used
here with only minor changes. An English version of the complete Tonwille series was edited by
William Drabkin and published in two volumes in 2004 and 2005. Each of the two volumes
contains half of an extended introduction by Drabkin and Ian Bent that deals with various matters
related to the series: Tonwille’s origins in the early 1910s; Schenker’s difficulties with Universal
Edition’s principal editor, Emil Hertzka; establishment of a fake publishing company so that
Universal could avoid connection with Schenker’s social and political views; change in the final
four issues from irregular to quarterly publication; contractual matters; content (including the
discussions of literature and performance); and reception.
Das Meisterwerk’s three volumes, also edited by Drabkin, were published a decade earlier
(1994–97), also in landscape format but with considerably shorter introductions (by Drabkin
alone), probably reflecting that the volumes’ content was more consistently musical, and led to a
less vexed publication process. Its miscellanea sections, though briefer and more moderate in tone
than those in Tonwille, nevertheless dealt in part with extramusical matters. Das Meisterwerk and
the yearbook idea were discontinued, however, following a four-year delay between the second
and third volume. 117
118 Development

Little Preludes, continuing the three published in Tonwille 5.) All the
Meisterwerk volumes included a miscellanea section, and in addition to
their analyses at least one extended article on theoretical matters: vol. I had
two, on improvisation and the notation of phrasing; vol. II also had two,
on organicism in sonata form and in fugue; and vol. III had one, on
Rameau’s and Beethoven’s contrasting conceptions of counterpoint
(which is discussed in the last section [pp. 153–55] below).
This chapter contains four sections. The first (pp. 118–35) summarizes
the six articles on the Urlinie that appeared in the two series in year-by-year
sequence, starting in 1921 in the first issue of Der Tonwille and continuing
through 1926 in the second volume of Das Meisterwerk. These articles, on
probably the final theory’s most important concept, provide a critical source
in tracing Schenker’s early conception of the Urlinie. The second section
(pp. 135–45) deals with the evolution of the Urlinie’s role as reflected in
the longer analyses of Tonwille. Though the concept was at first conceived
in terms mainly pertaining to the thematic features of individual pieces,
lending it a varied function in different works, Schenker considered it
critical and developed it rapidly during the Tonwille years. Though none
of these analyses can be said to be fully representative of the final theory,
they tell us much about its initial emergence. The third section (pp. 145–53)
focuses on Meisterwerk, especially the two complete and lengthy analyses
from the second and third volumes, which were conceived when the final
theory had largely assumed its final shape. The fourth briefly closes the
chapter by examining the Rameau–Beethoven article from Meisterwerk III.

The Urlinie articles

A series of six articles, five containing the word “Urlinie” in their title and
the sixth entitled simply “Erläuterungen,” was published once per year
between 1921 and 1926 (in Tonwille 1, 2, 5, 8/9 and Meisterwerk I and II)
and provide the best general introduction to the early development of
the Urlinie idea. Due partly to their chronological consistency, these articles
demonstrate Schenker’s early understanding of the idea’s theoretical signi-
ficance and analytical use, documenting his changing views of the concept at
this critical point in his evolution. In these articles, one can see that, at the
beginning of its history, the Urlinie did not necessarily indicate a linear “top
voice” alone, but could also refer to its counterpoint. And this allows one to
follow the emergence of the bass as an equal partner within the underlying
two-voiced contrapuntal setting that would eventually be called the Ursatz.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 119

Before taking up the articles, it is useful to distinguish between two

aspects of the Urlinie. First, there is the metaphorical and psychological
power that is immediately attributed to it by Schenker, who took consid-
erable pains to explain why it was not just another analytical tool but an
encompassing force supplying the key to a more fully integrated conception
of music theory. Given his early uncertainty as to just what the Urlinie was
and how it related to other compositional components, this intuitive grasp
of its significance is all the more impressive. The second, more technical,
aspect concerns the Urlinie’s analytical function, the way it contributes
more specifically to a new theoretical approach. Unlike the first aspect,
this one was less stressed initially but became more so as the series
progressed.
Significantly, the first two articles have neither musical examples nor
indication of how the Urlinie is defined in concrete musical terms. Their
somewhat abstract quality no doubt reflects Schenker’s own insecurity about
how the concept might be fleshed out. For in its first manifestations, the
Urlinie exists only in embryo, and is quite different from what it would
ultimately become. Only in the third article do musical examples begin
appearing, illustrating its role in creating prolongations. Yet as a complete
group, the six articles nevertheless enable us to follow the Urlinie’s increasing
comprehensiveness. And the final one, published in 1926, which contains
many of the theory’s final details, allows for the inclusion in the same volume
of the first of the two lengthy analyses, considered in Section 3.
The initial article, published in Tonwille 1 (1921), “Die Urlinie: Eine
Vorbemerkung” (“The Urlinie: A Preliminary Remark”), as was noted in
the last chapter, consists partly of material from the preface of the op. 101
monograph (though the monograph actually appeared shortly after the
article). While short and without musical examples, it effectively sets the
stage for the more detailed discussions that will appear later in the series.
The material from the op. 101 monograph, already discussed, takes up the
middle third of the article, surrounded by new material that considers
the Urlinie as part of a fresh musical vision.
It is “a fundamental phenomenon of tonal life,” an “archetypal situation”
and a “fundamental succession” derived from the musical surface. And it
contains:2

the seeds of all the forces that shape tonal life. With the cooperation of the Stufen,
the Urlinie indicates the paths to all elaboration and so also to the composition of

2
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 1), p. 22/21.1.
120 Development

the outer voice, in whose intervals the marriage of strict and free composition is so
wonderfully and mysteriously consummated.

In addition, the Urlinie’s association with thematic matters “gives life to the
motive and to melody.” Indeed, thanks to melody’s origin in the Urlinie it is
“more than what it is usually taken to be.” For although it “obeys the law of
procreation, which is the law of repetition,” it differs by avoiding the “easily
perceptible” repetitions of melody, amd instead “begets in its primal womb
background repetitions of a concealed, most sublime sort.” Indeed, art music
owes its very existence to the Urlinie, for “through it alone can it prosper.”3
The Urlinie thus allows music to construct “a world of its own, unto itself,
comparable to the Creation in the sense that it rests only in itself, operating
with no end in sight.” It is the “muse of all extemporaneous creation, all
synthesis, the beginning and end of all studies.” And it provides tones with
“a merciful fate full of agreement between the life of each individual tone
and a life that exists above and beyond their being (like a ‘Platonic idea’ in
music), a fate full of breeding and propriety and order, even in places where
uproar, chaos or dissolution seem to emerge in the foreground.”4 It also
requires Fernhören, or “long-distance hearing”; for its creator possesses a
“seer”’s “visionary gift,” which is felt to be “a heavy honor when a god wants
to communicate through him . . .”5
While the first article lays out basic groundwork, the second one, “Noch
ein Wort zur Urlinie” (“Yet Another Word on the Urlinie”), from Tonwille 2
(1922), though still without musical examples, begins to flesh out the
conceptual links connecting it to the composing-out process. By “unfurling
a basic triad, the Urlinie presents tonality on horizontal paths,” and its
voice-leading serves as “mediator between the horizontal formulation . . .
presented by the Urlinie and the vertical formulation presented by the
Stufen.” The composing-out process, moreover, “brings to fruition a bass
line that, in view of the fact that the roots of the harmonic degrees operate
in the depths of the mind, is just as much an upper voice as the soprano . . .”
Unlike the “spiritually anchored tones of the Stufe,” then, the bass
represents one of two principal melodic lines, so that “the setting of the
outer voices is to be understood as a counterpoint of two upper voices
above the Stufen, a two-voice setting the quality of which determines the
worth of the composition.”6
The top voice nevertheless remains the dominant one, amplifying an idea
from the previous article:7

3
Ibid. 4 Ibid., p. 23/21.2. 5 Ibid., p. 26/22.2.
6 7
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 2), p. 4/53.1. Ibid., pp. 4–5/53.2.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 121

The Urlinie then leads to a selection of intervals in the contrapuntal setting (and in
this selection alone lies the guarantee of the setting’s highest worth and most
consummate synthesis), intervals that continue to bear in themselves the law
of strict counterpoint. Only through such a selection do we understand the compo-
sition’s prolongations of the law, which do not cancel it but rather validate it in
freedom and newness . . . The fact that the harmonic degrees and the selection of
intervals come only from the Urlinie and go into it constitutes the miracle
of circularity.

The importance of both diminution and counterpoint is fundamental. The

former is “to the Urlinie as flesh in the bloom of life relates to a man’s
skeleton,” it is the “secret . . . hold[ing] everything together”; while the latter
“testifies decisively about the intervallic span of the Urlinie as well as about
diminution.” It is the Urlinie itself, however, that “leads directly to synthesis
of the whole.” Indeed, it “is synthesis,” as only “synthesis generated from
an Urlinie has the redolence of a true melody . . . a melody of the whole, the
sole ‘endless melody.’”8
Though this article is conceptually closer to the final theory, the next one,
“Urlinie und Stimmführung” (“Urlinie and Voice-Leading”) from Tonwille 5
(1923), goes considerably further, referring to a graph that demonstrates
specific analytical techniques associated with the concept. Surprisingly, given
the article’s significance, it appears in small type and double columns, grouped
with other entries under the heading “Vermischtes” (“Various”). It consists
almost entirely, moreover, of commentary on a graph that appears in an earlier
article in the same volume, on the D-minor prelude from Bach’s Twelve Little
Preludes. At first, then, it seems to be little more than an extended footnote
to this graph, yet it represents Schenker’s most advanced technical statement
so far. This results partly from the multilayered graph on which it comments
(reprinted here as Example 7.1), which presents six stages of musical
growth, beginning with the Urlinie and a slightly elaborated bass arpeggiation,
indicated as the source of all voice-leading, plus five prolongations.
Especially characteristic is the second level, whose bass line is simplified
so that it accompanies the top voice’s octave descent in parallel motion. The
text also states that the first Urlinie tone, f 1, was chosen because it represents
the outer-voice “boundary of all descending progressions” and because the
“third-progression” (an early use of this term) has motivic significance at
other structural levels.
The third Urlinie article itself, however, provides a truly detailed descrip-
tion of this graph and its prolongations. It even indicates that the top layer

8
Ibid., p. 5/53.2–54.1.
122 Development

Example 7.1 J. S. Bach: Little Prelude no. 5: reduction (Schenker 1921–24/2004–05,

issue 5, figure 1, p. 8/180.2)

is a “two-voiced Ursatz” (Schenker’s first published use of that term),9 and

describes in general the prolongational process that results from the five
remaining layers and their relationship to one another and to the Ursatz, all
of which is readily grasped due to the graph’s hierarchical arrangement. The
path-breaking description, largely focusing on the top voice, warrants
quotation at length:10
In figure 1a, the notes of the Urlinie can be seen in the two-voice Ursatz. One may
already observe that this setting is somewhat freer than the voice-leading that would
be formed in the setting of an actual cantus firmus – the material given here would
not be enough for a cantus firmus setting – but in any case the purity in the
progression of intervals is in accordance with the precepts of strict counterpoint.
Figure 1b offers a prolongation of figure 1a. On what is this based? Simply on the
fact that an octave descent is called upon to help express the retention of a single
Urlinie note and a single interval (the third or tenth): without affecting the
meaning of the principal progression, it provides an opportunity to increase
the musical content, to generate motives, to express small-scale multiplicity and
unity – in short, to bring a stationary note to life. Although within the octave descent
the voice-leading may also – and this has its own justification – comply with the

9
In the article accompanying the graph itself it is referred to as the Urliniezug, or “Urlinie
progression.”
10
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 5), p. 45.2/212.2–213.1.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 123

demands of strict counterpoint, its principal validity remains the derivation from
the fundamental voice-leading in figure 1a, which alone authenticates it as an octave
descent, that is, as the interpretation of exactly one note and one interval.

The prolongation in figure 1c follows: it is based on the insertion of chromatic notes,

which are forbidden in strict counterpoint, but which here in free composition take the
place of the diatonic steps, in order to give the appearance of cadential closure. The
justification of this voice-leading lies once again above all in its derivation from (b) and
(a), even if it also has its own justification. It is exactly the same with the subsequent
prolongations in (d), (e), and (f ): all of them can be related to the voice-leading in
(a), (b), and (c). So, one has to say that if the final realization were not traceable to the
Urlinie’s voice-leading in (a), by means of the prolongations in (e), (d), (c), and (b), it
would not have the cogency and perfection that we admire in it. Accordingly, we stand
here before several voice-leading levels, mounted on the first of the Urlinie notes.

But this entity, far beyond everything purely concerned with voice-leading –
precisely in this expansion lies its true significance – moreover bears witness to
tonality, becomes one with it, and constructs synthesis and form!

As the closing sentences indicate, the graph bears witness to the prelude’s
tonality, all its layers being linked to the Ursatz (though the Urlinie alone is
mentioned in this connection). Yet the relationships between Urlinie and
Ursatz, as well as between Ursatz and other prolongational levels, are more
explicitly described than before; synthesis is exclusively tied to the pitch
structure and, as Schenker stresses, the analysis is in full accord with the
principles of strict counterpoint.
In many respects this graph resembles Schenker’s later ones; but this is
perhaps misleading (as has been suggested in the literature), since the piece
analyzed is brief and has only two underlying progressions, both prolonging
the tonic chord. The first, an octave descent extending the initial Urlinie
tone in mm. 7–39, moreover, clearly supports the second by elaborating its
final 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ descent. Though this results in one of the three Urlinie types
that Schenker eventually allows, this is no doubt less remarkable due to the
piece’s relative simplicity. And since the Urlinie had not yet been solidified
into a universal type, the graph’s suggestion of a final Ursatz form is at least
partly happenstance.
Nevertheless, since none of the longer Tonwille analyses has a background
graph encompassing an entire movement, this third article represents a kind
of plateau.11 And unlike the previous two, it comments on an actual musical
analysis in illustrating some of the theory’s conceptual features.

11
The first analysis in Tonwille 5, of Bach’s Little Prelude no. 1, is also complete and multilayered
but tonally incomplete, ending on V7. An earlier version of a complete Ursatz (slightly
124 Development

Example 7.2 Chord of nature transformations (Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 8/9,

figures 1, 2, 3, p. 49/117.1)

The fourth article, “Erläuterungen” (“Elucidations”) in Tonwille 8/9 (1924),

the only one not containing “Urlinie” in its title, is also brief yet significant
(the author himself obviously thought so as he reprinted it three times: in
Tonwille 10 and in both Meisterwerk I and II). Here for the first time Schenker
provides schematic illustrations of the Urlinie idea. The article opens with
the Ursatz’s derivation from the chord of nature, an old Schenker idea but one
now graphed in three transformational stages: the chord as a “natural”
simultaneity on the fundamental C with its first five overtones (Schenker’s
figure 1); the chord’s “artificial” transformation as a horizontal arpeggiation
within a single octave (his figure 2); and the chord in scalar form that, like the
Urlinie itself, “measures out the tone-spaces within the chord and thereby
articulates it and brings it to consciousness” (his figure 3).12 See Example 7.2.
Though the graph has no Urlinie, the latter’s derivation from the abstract
scale is implied in Schenker’s figure 3, which thus suggests that it is derived
from the chord of nature. Moreover, the Urlinie is described as “the
first passing-tone progression,” “the first melody,” and as “Diatonie” (as
opposed to foreground tonality). Also notable is that its derivation from
scalar form indicates that “there are no other tonal spaces than those of 1–3,
3–5, and 5–8” through which it can pass, and thus “no other origin for
passing-tone progressions, or for melody.”13
An additional innovation is the introduction of several Urlinie-derived
transformations of the linear progression. Perhaps the most significant
involves a dissonance converted into a consonance, allowing, thanks to
the hierarchical nature of the theory, what was originally a passing tone
to become a consonant headtone:14
The first passing-tone progression comprised by the Urlinie generates dissonance
(second, fourth, seventh). Dissonance is transformed into a consonance because
only consonance, with its tonal spaces [by analogy with the chord of nature, as
shown earlier] can by contrast with dissonance, promote new passing-tone
progressions and freshly burgeoning melodies.
elaborated) appears in Tonwille 4’s analysis of Bach’s Little Prelude no. 2 (Schenker’s figure 1b);
but the piece is even briefer and less differentiated than this one.
12
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 8/9), p. 49/117.1. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid., p. 49/117.1–2.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 125

Example 7.3(a), (b) Passing-tone and arpeggiation conversions (Schenker 1921–24/

2004–05, issue 8/9, figures 4c and 7, pp. 49–50/117.2)
(a)

(b)

In other words, what is dissonant at a higher (more background) level can

become consonant at a lower one, allowing it to generate its own linear
span (distinguishing between foreground and background, words that are
later actually employed in the article). This is illustrated through two-part
configurations, two of which are reproduced in Example 7.3. In the first,
four different forms of consonant conversion transform the note E (the
last contains an internal prolongation), initially a passing tone in an F–E–D
linear progression (supported by a IV-V progression in C) but then made
consonant by the bass motion. (As indicated by the Stufe notations,
the passing tone ultimately retains its original dissonant function.) And in
the second, two consonant conversions transform what was at first a
dissonant neighbor-note figure, F over C.
Techniques with similar schematic illustrations demonstrate additional
transformations (not reproduced here), including composing-out by arpeg-
giation, ascending and descending octave transference, conversion of a
rising second into a falling seventh and a falling second into a rising seventh,
unfolding, and reaching over. As Schenker explains:15

This comes about through prolongations in ever-renewing layers of voice-leading,

through diminution, through motive, through melody in the narrower sense; but

15
Ibid., p. 49/117.2 This treatment of consonance and dissonance was partly anticipated (though
without musical examples) in the half-page article “Gesetze der Tonkunst” (“Laws of
Composition”) in Tonwille 2, in which Schenker says (in words originally intended for the never-
completed final portion of Kontrapunkt II): “Consonance is the sole law of everything harmonic,
vertical, and belongs to Nature. Dissonance belongs to voice-leading, the horizontal, and
consequently is Art. Consonance lives in the triad, dissonance in passing. From triad and passing
tone stem all the phenomena of tonal life” (Schenker [1921–24/2004–05], issue 2, p. 3/51.1–2).
Also, see the discussion of consonance and dissonance in Section 5 of Chapter 2.
126 Development

all of these hark back to the initial tonal space, and to the initial passing-tone
progressions of the Urlinie. As the outcome of all these transformations and
unfoldings, there emerge the harmonic Stufen.

Throughout the first four Urlinie articles, Schenker repeatedly stresses

the German origin of great music and the role of genius in its creation. In
the fourth, however, he relates these ideas specifically to the new theory,
revealing its close ties with his aesthetic beliefs:16
Only genius is imbued with a sense of tonal space. It is its innate awareness, just as
the concepts of physical space and time . . . are inborn, innate in every human as
part of the sense of their own body. Genius alone creates from the background of
tonal space, from the first passing-tone progressions comprised by the Urlinie . . . In
all this infinitude of genius and melody there is but one boundary. This is the
boundary drawn by Nature itself with its primary chord, and by man with his tonal
space and Urlinie . . .

In the works of its great composers, German music commands the broadest spans of
tension, the most powerful transformations with the layers of voice-leading, the
most unrestrained processes of dissemination and unfolding, in its Stufen and its
passing-tone progressions . . . German melody, the true melody of music, holds the
monopoly of the melody of synthesis.

Of the two remaining articles, both entitled “Fortsetzung der Urlinie-

Betrachtungen” (“Further Consideration of the Urlinie”), the first, published
in Meisterwerk I (1925) and the longest so far (fourteen pages), resembles the
sixth in being divided into sections. Except for a single example in the final
section, only the second and third have illustrations; both of these, however,
are the most important for our purposes, as they contain analytical applic-
ations of concepts previously set out more abstractly. Though the analyses
in both sections resemble one another, their focus is different: the second
deals with the Urlinie’s relationship to the treble voice, the third with the
linear progression’s unfolding of tonal space.
Entitled “Die Urlinie und die Oberstimme” (“The Urlinie and the Top
Voice”), the second section actually begins by asking whether an analysis
should be, in effect, generative or reductive. Should it start at the top with
the background level and move downward toward the foreground, or start
at the top with the foreground and move downward toward the background?
Schenker, as seen, prefers the former, which assumes the composer’s task of
“composing-out of a chord”; while listeners and performers prefer the latter.
He does not answer his question here, but says that in either case the surest

16
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 8/9), pp. 50–51/118.1–2.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 127

analytical method is the “discovery and recognition of the outer-voice

counterpoint.”17 This he addresses again (as he did briefly in the two
preceding articles), mentioning in addition that a third voice (the root of
the Stufe) is supplied only by the imagination:18
The outer-voice setting in strict counterpoint is a two-voice setting formed by treble
voice and bass. In free counterpoint it again consists of the two-voice setting formed
by treble and bass, but in a prolonged form as actually a setting of a treble and
an inner voice above a conceptual lower voice, which carries the fundamental, or
scale-degree, notes. Thus in free counterpoint the treble and bass exhibit, in contrast
to the conceptual third and lowest voice, the same manner of composing-out in
linear progressions; and therefore the bass as well moves as though it were an upper
voice. The treble voice, naturally, passes through notes of the Urlinie, among
others, and the bass passes through notes of the conceptual scale-degree successions;
but treble and bass are always to be held conceptually distinct from Urlinie and
scale-degree succession.

Schenker then introduces graphs to show how the Urlinie relates to the
actual top voice. Uniquely, in this article, he orders the graphs for didactic
purposes reductively, from foreground down to background and thus in
accord with the observer’s perspective. But even so, identification of the
correct two-part setting is difficult, in part because, as he says, the basic
chord, the Urlinie, and the Stufe all “remain pure idea”:19
On the one hand, if the treble voice in its composing-out explorations even passes
through notes that belong to the Urlinie, such notes are certainly constituent
parts of voice-leading progressions, and if the course of the bass takes it through
notes that coincide with the conceptual fundamentals, those notes as well remain
constituent parts of the voice-leading progressions. But on the other hand: Just as
the underlying triad that is subjected to composing-out remains at the same time
pure idea – the only idea of Nature and the first idea of Art – the Urlinie notes and
the Stufen notes likewise remain at the same time pure idea, even if they crop up in
the course of the treble and bass voices.

A central analytical problem, then, is to determine how the “ideal”

outer-voice setting of the Urlinie and bass (along with the Stufen indication)
relates to the actual outer voices of the score. Schenker illustrates four
solutions in brief, multilayered analyses, all of which are relatively
advanced. The opening of Beethoven’s C-minor Piano Sonata, op. 10
no. 1, for example, is graphed as shown in Example 7.4.

17 18 19
Schenker (1925/1994), p. 188/105.1. Ibid. Ibid.
128 Development

Example 7.4 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 10 no. 1: reduction of mm. 1–21 (Schenker
1925/1994, figure 2, pp. 189–90/106.1)

At the Ursatz level (at the bottom), the analysis indicates a prolongation
of C minor through a single falling-fifth progression in the top voice,
outlining the C-minor chord elaborated by a rising third. As subsequent
layers indicate, everything feeds into this larger motion. The main difficulty,
Schenker states, is to hear the peak notes of the arpeggios (e[3 and f 3) as the
first two “real” top voices of the rising third-progression in mm. 1–8, not
as the bracketed inner-voice motive of level d (c2–b1–c2), and to follow
this progression up to g2 in m. 9, also the first note of the fifth-descent.
The third section, “Von den Auskomponierungszügen” (“Composing-
Out by Linear Progressions”), concentrates on linear progressions as the
chief means of prolonging an underlying chord, transforming it from a
verticality to a horizontal succession that traverses the tone-spaces of
a third, a fifth, or their inversion. After reiterating an assumption from
Kontrapunkt I and II concerning the spiritual unity of a second-species
third progression, “assured” by the presence of a single cantus firmus tone,20

20
Schenker (1910a/1987), p. 242/180 and (1922/1987), p. 59/58.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 129

Example 7.5 Haydn: Piano Sonata in C, Hob. XVI:48, IV, mm. 123–29 (Schenker 1925/
1994, figure 7, p. 124/108.2)

Schenker considers the transformation of a passing dissonance into a

consonance:21
But even in free composition, the unity of the third progression is not canceled
merely by the fact that the prolongation occasionally turns the middle note of the
third-progression – the dissonant passing note – into a consonance . . . And thus it
is also with the conceptual unity of the fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-progressions
as well: since they arise from the horizontalization of an original vertical chord,
they carry within themselves by virtue of that alone the guarantee of unity, which
then permeates all voice-leading transformations as well. The voice-leading
strata, then, are not only an image of the growth of the diminution, but also the
certification of the unity of the linear progressions that serve the composing-out
of the Ursatz.

Several analytical examples, all brief but nuanced, illustrate. The one shown
in Example 7.5 traces a fifth-progression in the bass at mm. 123–29 of the
last movement of Haydn’s C-major Piano Sonata (Hob. XVI:48).

21
Schenker (1925/1994), p. 192/107.1–2.
130 Development

The bass arpeggiation from C down to F (mm. 123–28) is here elaborated

by its interior third, A[. At the same time the top voice descends from 3̂ to 2̂ ,
the latter note elaborated by a linear descent into an inner voice (2̂ to 7̂ ). The
bass’s fifth-progression is grouped by slur, while a bracket covers the entire
first phrase, including the larger linear progression from e[2 to d2 and
the “backward-pointing” bass prolongation from I to V (layer a). Despite
references to the bass, the Urlinie nevertheless remains the ultimate musical
determinant: “all linear progressions are traceable back to the Urlinie . . . all
transformations presuppose an ultimate, immutable kernel: in a human
being it is character, in a composition it is the Urlinie.”22
The longest of the articles is the final one, from Meisterwerk II (1926),
over thirty pages and again divided into sections, but different from
all others in that it deals almost exclusively with technical matters. Its first
section, on the linear progression as “sole bearer of comprehensiveness,”
has two brief though detailed multileveled graphs. The first, of the
second theme of Mozart’s F-major Piano Sonata K 332, indicates that its
antecedent–consequent structure is bound together by a single motion:
a fourth-descent in the antecedent, completed by a fifth-descent in the
consequent (indicated by brackets). The second, the opening of Chopin’s
Berceuse, op. 57 (Example 7.6), indicates that the top voice has a neighbor-
note prolongation, f 2–g[2–f 2, whose first two tones lead down through
linear progressions to inner voices (see level d).
The article’s following section, on the psychological and spiritual reten-
tion of linear progressions, notes that the headtone “expresses a concep-
tual tension” that increases comprehensiveness by allowing the
descending “linear progression in the treble . . . [to] signify motion to an
inner voice of the original chord or the ensuing one,” and the ascending
one to signify “motion from an inner voice to the treble.”23 Schenker
further states that:24
The tension of the whole grows out of the partial tensions of the individual linear
spans, of the mental retention of the headtone through the first fifth-span and finally
out of the Urlinie progression. Thus, even in a piece of larger dimensions, such
as Chopin’s Nocturne, op. 9 no. 2, for example, the tension of the whole – i.e., its
synthesis – is better expressed as follows:

22
Schenker (1925/1994), p. 194/108.2–109.1. Each of this article’s remaining five sections is
devoted to a brief discussion of the Urlinie’s significance in relation to “dynamics,”
“performance,” “freedom,” “fertility,” and “history.”
23
Schenker (1926/1996), p. 15/3.2–4.1. 24 Ibid., p. 17/5.1.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 131

Example 7.6 Chopin: Berceuse, op. 57: reduction of mm. 1–5 (Schenker 1926/1996,
figure 2, p. 13/2.2)

Parts of the form: a1 − b − a2

Urlinie: 3̂ − 2̂ − 3̂ 2̂ 1̂
Stufen: I − V− I − (V) − I

than by 3̂ 2̂ 1̂ − 2̂ − 3̂ 2̂ 1̂

The graph then reads as shown in Example 7.7.

Though it contains only a single middleground level, the graph encom-
passes the entire piece (except coda); and as the text explains, its first
Urlinie tone is prolonged by third-progression and its neighbor by fifth-
progression.
Two sections treat motions ascending to the first Urlinie tone, the first by
arpeggiation and the second by linear motion. Whereas such initial ascents
were previously considered part of the Urlinie, they are now subsidiary: “In
the case of (1 2) 3̂ 2̂ 1̂ it is, to be sure, only 3̂ −2̂ −1̂ – and, indirectly, also
132 Development

Example 7.7 Chopin: Nocturne, op. 9 no. 2: reduction (Schenker 1926/1996, figure 8,
p. 17/5.1)

the particular Urlinie space – that is immediately understood as a given a

priori . . .”25 And between the two sections, there is one on the bass’s role
as a “guidepost” for the Urlinie, revealing Schenker’s increasing awareness
of its importance: “For greater ease in uncovering the course of the Urlinie,”
attention should first be given “to the large arpeggiation with which the
bass unfolds the tonic triad.”26 A series of schematic examples is again
provided, illustrating various prolongations of the bass arpeggiation from
fundamental to fifth (see Example 7.8).
Schenker’s comment supports the view (now apparently fully accepted)
that the Ursatz (though he doesn’t use this term) includes both Urlinie and
bass as equal parts of a two-voiced background:27
Only in this way is it possible to understand the many other arpeggiations of the
bass as entities which, although complete in themselves, are nevertheless subordinated
to the purpose of the large arpeggiation of the tonic triad. And thereby, in turn, one
gains the ability to distinguish among the many linear progressions of the treble in
their various meanings, and to penetrate to the actual progression of the Urlinie.

25 26 27
Ibid., p. 22/8.1. Ibid., p. 21/8.1. Ibid., p. 22/8.1.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 133

Example 7.8 Elaborations of bass arpeggiation (Schenker 1926/1996, figure 14,

p. 21/8.1)

Another section distinguishes true cadential dominants from those

that merely function as passing consonants within a larger progression.
Such true cadential dominants create a “divider” that, like those at the
end of antecedent phrases, produce an “open-ended” (that is, backwards-
prolonging) phrase.28
The next and longest section, on the dissonance as a passing event, does
not provide a new idea but more detailed discussion of an old one: that
passing motion is dissonant. Again Schenker calls upon Kontrapunkt I’s
conception of passing motion as subsidiary to the underlying progression,
which at that level is thus without validity as part of a simultaneity. Indeed,
here he provides for the first time a kind of definition for the linear
progression, an idea harking back to Kontrapunkt I but now central to his
whole manner of thinking: “[T]here can be no linear progression without a
passing note, no passing note without a linear progression.” Passing motion,
“the vehicle of the melodic element,” is thus responsible for “forming a
melodic bridge from one consonance to the next, and of creating the tension
of the third-progression, for whose duration (through the dissonance
and beyond) the primary note is retained.”29 And again he stresses the
significance of the bass, especially with regard to linear progressions:30
Free composition prolongs with greatest freedom the law of retention of the primary
note; these prolongations apply especially to the composing-out of the bass. To the
extent that the bass places its composing-out in the service of the fundamental
arpeggiation and the subordinate arpeggiations derived from it, it gains the
opportunity to bind its linear progressions with those of the treble into polyphonic
passing motions.

The “spiritual” idea of retention, which is retained whether the consonant

headtone is actually present or subsequently imagined, is again mentioned.
In conjunction with substitution, upon which it depends, its importance

28
Schenker also uses the word Teiler (“divider”) to refer to any cadential dominant that prolongs a
tonic, even if it is on the third scale degree or, if on V, continues to the tonic within the same
phrase.
29
Ibid., p. 24/9.2. 30 Ibid., p. 26/10.2.
134 Development

Example 7.9 J. S. Bach: B-flat-minor fugue from The Well-Tempered Clavier I, mm.
55–63 and reduction (Schenker 1926/1996, figure 29, p. 33/14.2)

becomes particularly clear in an analysis appearing shortly afterwards (see

Example 7.9) of a section from Bach’s B-flat-minor fugue from The Well-
Tempered Clavier I, mm. 55–63.31
[D]issonance arises, especially in mm. 58–9, as a result of the linear progressions in
the outer-voices! (By imagining E[, the root of IV, as persisting to the upbeat of
m. 61, one gains, by insight into the linear progressions, a convincing explanation
of all incidental dissonances.)

Everything in the first six and a half measures thus moves through the
E-flat-minor Stufe, iv of the tonic, which is prolonged by third- and sixth-
progressions in the bass (e[1 to g[1, g[1 to B[) and diminished-fifth
progression in the top voice, e[2 to a1 (the latter reached at m. 60 when IV
moves to V of B-flat), all indicated in the lower graph. In this passage, E-flat
minor thus persists temporarily as an “idealized” background Stufe made
linear by passing progressions in both outer voices.32 In addition, the
analysis shows that the imagined E[ “pedal notes” are not simply implied,
but are “summoned” by events on the musical surface, above all the
linear progressions.
A significant portion of this long penultimate section is devoted to
the superiority of master composers and the failure of Schenker’s
31
Ibid., pp. 33–34/15.1.
32
Although Schenker’s analytical voice-leading sketch has only one level, it is easy to imagine a
deeper one showing the fourth Stufe as prolonged until m. 62, and thus graphically “present.”
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 135

contemporaries to understand passing motion, and thus true synthesis,

properly. Wagner, though preferred to his followers, is especially blamed,
as is Schoenberg. The preceding Bach analysis is in fact directed against
Schoenberg, and his Harmonielehre is criticized for supporting his idea that
dissonances are more distant consonances within the overtone series by
treating complex dissonant combinations as real chords. For Schenker, this
ignores the principle that dissonance depends upon passing motion and
thus must have consonant surroundings; it cannot be part of an indep-
endent simultaneity. This section also contains the oft-cited analysis of a
passage from Stravinsky’s Concerto for Piano and Winds, which Schenker
criticizes for its absence of meaningful progressions. It is “a poor manner of
writing notes – one that does not yet merit the name music at all.”33
A final section briefly observes that music’s foreground is a “torrent
of diminution” whose unity can be established by the background alone.
Foreground motives thus “sound as though snatched out of thin air, unpre-
pared, stuck together, like a splash of tinsel, like ear jewelry, nose rings, and so
forth”; which means that “the following are really synonymous: the whole,
synthesis, organicism and figure.”34 And here, exceptionally (at least before
Der freie Satz), Schenker comments on the quasi-religious motivation that led
him to develop the concept of the Urlinie, and ultimately the Ursatz: “Every
religious experience and all of philosophy and science strive towards the
shortest formula; a similar urge drove me to conceive of a musical work
only from the kernel of the Ursatz as the first composing-out of the tonic triad
(tonality); I apprehended the Urlinie; I did not calculate it!” 35

The Tonwille analyses

Turning now to the Tonwille analyses, we concentrate primarily on those of

longer pieces, as these allow the theory’s evolution to be measured more

33
Ibid., p. 37/17.1. 34 Ibid., p. 40/18.2.
35
Ibid., p. 41/18.2–19.1. My colleague Stephen Hinton, Professor of Music at Stanford University,
has written me in an email that Schenker’s kürzeste Formel (shortest formula), a phrase he
frequently uses at this stage for deeper configurations, appears in German law, along with
“Ursatz” itself, and is used to refer to something fundamental, rather like an axiom. Professor
Hinton speculates that Schenker, while studying law at the University of Vienna, most “likely . . .
came across the concept [there], before applying it to music.” This may well be true; but as noted,
both Ur-words, as well as related ones, were common not only in German legal, but other,
disciplines long before Schenker formulated the Ursatz concept. (See Morgan [2002], especially
pp. 254–61.) Indeed, the word Satz alone has multiple, well-established meanings of both a
musical and extramusical nature.
136 Development

effectively.36 Though they do not yet reflect the theory’s later stages, collec-
tively they help us understand Schenker’s rapid development during the
early 1920s.
To begin with some general remarks about Tonwille, the title of the series
draws upon the familiar Schenkerian idea that tones have a biological
nature, which gives them their own “egos.” And its subtitle, Blätter zum
Zeugnis unwandelbarer Gesetze der Tonkunst (“Pamphlets in Witness of
Immutable Law of Music”), evokes two equally important tenets: that music
is controlled by laws and that these laws are eternal. Also notable is
Tonwille’s polemical nature, reflecting Schenker’s increasingly virulent
nationalism following World War I and its aftermath. The most noxious
essay, “Von der Sendung des deutschen Genies” (“The Mission of German
Genius”) was the lead article of Tonwille’s first issue; and few of Tonwille’s
entries, even those analytical in focus, fail to introduce at some point
Schenker’s virulent political and social opinions. The seven “miscellanea”
sections (some of considerable length) contain certain ideas that are at best
only distantly related to music. (This emphasis, though remaining during
Tonwille’s final two years, does decrease somewhat there.) In this section,
however, the focus is exclusively on musical-theoretical matters.37

36
Ten longer works are analyzed in the first nine issues of Tonwille: Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5,
op. 67 (published serially in issues 1, 5, and 6), his Piano Sonatas in F minor, op. 2 no. 1 and F
minor, op. 57 (in issues 2 and 7), and the first movement of his Piano Sonata in G major, op. 49
no. 2 (in issue 4); Mozart’s A-minor Piano Sonata, K 310 and the first movement of his C-major
Piano Sonata, K 525 (in issues 2 and 4); Haydn’s E-flat Piano Sonata, Hob. VI:52 and the first
movement of his C-major Piano Sonata, Hob. VII:35 (in issues 3 and 4); the first movement of
C. P. E. Bach’s C-major Piano Sonata, Helm 244 (in issue 4); and Brahms’s Variations and Fugue
on a Theme by Handel, op. 24 (in issue 8/9). (The three-part study of Beethoven’s Fifth, the
longest, was also published as a separate monograph in 1925.) Though the tenth and final issue of
Tonwille contains works exclusively of medium length or less, one of its more advanced analyses
is also discussed: Mendelssohn’s “Lied ohne Worte,” op. 67 no. 6.
37
There is no doubt truth in Bent and Drabkin’s statement in their introduction to the English
translation (see fn. 1): “There is a sense . . . in which the opening article of Der Tonwille, ‘The
Mission of German Genius,’ set the agenda for the entire publication, and also for Das
Meisterwerk in der Musik. All of the subsequent material – the analyses . . . and theoretical essays,
as well as the miscellanea – constitute the empirical body of evidence for the assertion made in
the ‘Mission’ that Germany was battleworthy when it was tricked into a cease-fire; that the
‘Western’ nations dishonestly used the Treaty of Versailles to lay the burden of guilt for the war
on the German nation; that Germany herself had come to believe her guilt, so forgetting her great
intellectual and spiritual heritage; and that she needed to be reconnected with her past tradition,
and made to recognize the unworthiness of France, Italy, and the Anglo-Saxon countries. It is not
far-fetched to suggest that the flashpoint for Der Tonwille was the Versailles Treaty itself (1919),
and that all ten issues were impelled by a fervor to ‘expose’ democracy and cosmopolitanism as
mortal dangers to Germany’s inherent monarchic society” (Tonwille 1, pp. 1.2–2.1). The weight
of their opinion nevertheless seems less oppressive when examined in light of Schenker’s larger
development. Although the tone and content of Tonwille was certainly influenced by his post-
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 137

Regarding Tonwille’s longer analyses, it is difficult to specify precisely

the extent to which any one of them anticipates Schenker’s final goal. None
has, for example, an Urlinie representing a single, abstract precompositional
idea, as each continues to stress the Urlinie’s connection to what is motivically
characteristic in the music, such as phrase structure and rhythmic articulation.
The analyses thus emphasize such matters as the relation of the voice-leading
to the Urlinie’s temporal placement, whether it is rhythmically accented or
appears in a strong or weak measure. What matters most to Schenker, then, at
least in all but the final issue, is not the identification of a predefined melodic
pattern but the different ways linear patterns can be defined by specific
compositional events (as reflected in his use of the term “Urlinie-motive”).
Of course, even in these analyses the concept of the Urlinie necessarily
carries some degree of abstraction. Thus the rising and falling line that
Tonwille 2 identifies as an Urlinie segment in mm. 1–8 of Beethoven’s op. 2
no. 1 reappears in its development section, but over some thirty measures
and projected by much more differentiated thematic material. But no
analysis identifies a single unbroken Urlinie succession that covers an entire
movement, but only a series of linked Urlinie segments. Moreover, these
segments both rise and fall, have numerous repetitions, and are often
chromatically inflected. Instead of focusing on a single overall progression,
then, the concentration is on voice-leading details of briefer segments, with
attention to both rhythmic and prolongational features.
All of Tonwille’s longer analyses, however (as well as some shorter ones),
have something significantly new: an Urlinie-Tafel, Schenker’s somewhat
misleading term for a relatively detailed foreground graph that charts the
Urlinie’s course through the entire movement (with the recapitulation
often omitted). The Urlinie appears here not as a single span, however,
but as a composite, consistent with Schenker’s view at the time; and it may
also appear with accompanying counterpoint. The Urlinie segments are
themselves usually articulated by brackets of varying lengths, occasionally
with slurs or even with two smaller brackets embedded within a larger one.
After Tonwille 1, the Urlinie-Tafel normally also appears as a separate
enclosure (though in the translations these are placed within the text);
and despite being a form of reduction, it is usually presented with normal
musical notation and in correct registral and rhythmic position within
the piece’s own barlines. And it refers to what Schenker would later call
more foreground linear or motivic connections.

World War I views, its concern for more specifically musical-theoretical matters can also be
related to the more general framework I prefer to stress.
138 Development

Since the Urlinie-Tafel is almost exclusively concerned with pitch and

its rhythmic placement, it also reflects the degree to which this single
parameter begins to dominate Schenker’s analytical approach. And since
it covers essentially the entire composition, it reflects as well his growing
interest in overall unity. Indeed, the Urlinie-Tafel’s bar-by-bar reduction,
containing both Urlinie notes and their contrapuntal elaborations, is
ideally designed to convey the relatively low level of abstraction favored
by Schenker at this time.
Thus the Urlinie-Tafel, as noted, does not reduce the Urlinie to a single
directed motion. And while it helps reveal the larger voice-leading, it can
still make it difficult to identify the actual top voice, even when it is set off by
brackets and heavier notation. As a consequence, the first lengthy analysis
in Tonwille, of the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5 (issue
1), includes a separate, complete top-voice graph designated as “the first
formula of creative fantasy” in the text, though it is still arranged to reveal its
derivation from the opening motive. Similarly, in the second and fourth
movements of Beethoven’s F-minor Piano Sonata, op. 2 no. 1 in issue 2, a
separate Urlinie-like line is given above the Urlinie-Tafel itself. Shortly
afterwards, however, in the analysis of Haydn’s E-flat Piano Sonata in
issue 3, Schenker hit upon the solution retained in all the later analyses:
the Urlinie notes are distinguished by carets and scale-degree numbers, with
less significant notes occasionally placed in parentheses. At the same time,
he temporarily adopts dotted brackets placed over a single tone to indicate
that it is prolonged for an extended time, and drops the use of embedded
brackets (occasionally replacing them, however, with brackets divided by
an interior vertical line).
The Urlinie-Tafel of the first movement of C. P. E. Bach’s C-major Sonata
(in Tonwille 4) provides a typical, relatively early example (see Example 7.10).
Since the piece consists almost entirely of arpeggiations (and thus
multiple voices), here it is reduced to a series of more easily read harmonic
and linear successions. Original barlines are retained, as are most of the
original registers, though mm. 50–51, 61, and 68–69a and 69b are altered in
accord with the “obligatory register” idea. But otherwise the notes, though
simplified, remain registrally unaltered. The Urlinie-Tafel thus provides a
relatively complete low-middleground reduction of the most important
contrapuntal unfoldings for the entire piece; and through it one can see
(in conjunction with the accompanying text) suggestions of prolongation
techniques later worked out more specifically: arpeggiated ascent
(mm. 1–3), linear descent (mm. 3–6), octave exchange (mm. 7–11 and
11–21), and neighbor-note configuration (mm. 21–26).
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 139

Example 7.10 C. P. E. Bach: C-major Piano Sonata, I: Urlinie-Tafel (Schenker 1921–24/

2004–05, issue 4, Beilage/150–51)

Nevertheless, the idea of synthesis is retained. The three-page text accom-

panying the graph even states that the movement is “born of synthesis,” and
should be analyzed to “distinguish and highlight [the work’s] wonderful
powers, even though these are mutually interdependent and, as in the case
with all organic creations, work together in harmony.”38 Schenker does
suggest, however, that individual Urlinie segments can be combined into
more encompassing lines, as at the beginning of the following quotation:39
Above all the principal witness, the Urlinie [used here to designate the top voice
alone]: in the exposition it moves downward in four sections, whose apex tones
likewise represent a stepwise descending series, g–f–e–d, in mm. 3, 4, 9 and 21. The
first two sections each elaborate the interval of a third; the last two, separated from
them by a change of key, elaborate a fifth, so that the final tone of the last section is
an octave lower than the apex tone of the first. The development, mm. 29–51, starts
from the apex tone of the final section, d (m. 29); it is raised to d] in m. 33, and so
leads to e in the following measure. From this tone, the line – now in E minor – again
descends an octave, and thus creates a parallelism with the octave descent in the
exposition. Common to both octave progressions is the division into fourth plus
fifth, g2–d2:d2–g1 in the exposition and e2–b2:b2–e1 in the development. In
the retransition, which begins in m. 44, the 1̂ in E minor is taken up as a 3̂ in C

38 39
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 4), p. 12/150.1. Ibid., p. 12/150.1–2.
140 Development

major; the line then moves up, through 4̂ in m. 50, to g2 and the start of the
recapitulation on 5̂ . In the recapitulation (mm. 52ff ) the line proceeds in two
sections, 5̂ –2̂ and 5̂ –1̂ .

The remaining text takes up additional matters related to synthesis, linking

them to the Urlinie through voice-leading and Stufen associations. Also
notable is the concern for the work’s Urzelle, or “fundamental cell,” here a
neighbor-note configuration. Unlike motives treated as “thematic work,”
which are now considered to be mere “compositional appearance,” the
fundamental cell is realized in widely varying forms and at different
structural levels, participating in a “law of construction.”
The only example contained within the article itself treats the harmonic
and contrapuntal “difficulties” of the retransition preceding the reprise
(mm. 44–51]:40
Note the fourth-progression c2–f 2 in the upper voice, and the consecutive fifths
between the upper and inner voices, which must be avoided by 5–6 exchanges. In the
path from e1 (m. 44) up to f 2 (m. 50), the c2 in m. 44, which in reality is derived
merely from the b1 gained by substitution, signifies a substantial shortcut. It is more
important, however, that the bass in these measures apparently intends to parallel
those immediately preceding, mm. 41–43. And if, as opposed to A]–A in mm. 41–42,
here stands B[–A in mm. 44–45, and if the expansion in mm. 45–50 is set in contrast
to the quick progression of the bass notes in m. 43, then it is precisely from these
features that we know that the retransition has arrived [see Example 7.11].

As is usual, the Urlinie-Tafel contains only one analytical layer. Indeed,

multilayered graphs, though they appeared in the op. 101 monograph, are
still relatively infrequent in the early Tonwille analyses. In Tonwille 1–4, for
example, though several analyses include successive versions of a single
passage, there are only three multileveled graphs: Schenker’s figure 14 in
issue 1, dealing with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony; figure 3 in issue 2, dealing

40
Ibid., p. 14/152.1–2. William Drabkin, the translator of this article, remarks in a footnote that
Schenker conflates the chords in mm. 41 and 44 by considering both to be ]IV7. For Drabkin
takes the former to be ]IV7 in E minor, but the latter (with B[ in the bass) as V2 in F major, noting
that Schenker “takes full advantage of his labeling error” in stressing the enharmonic equivalence
of A] and B[. But is Schenker really in error? Since he views the chord at m. 44 as a pivot, he
considers it first as being still in E minor (see the “substituted” B\–b1 he associates with it in
Example 7.11). Nor is there anything in the music preceding the arrival of C\ two sixteenths
before m. 44 that contradicts this. Schenker, in other words, reinterprets the m. 44 chord as V of F
major (the latter key, as he indicates, actually being IV in C major). For him at this time, in other
words, what counts is what one hears at the moment. His point about the bass repetition thus
depends upon the sounding similarity of the two chords, and thus their enharmonic relationship
(A]=B[).
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 141

Example 7.11 C. P. E. Bach: C-major Piano Sonata, I: reduction of mm. 44–51

(Schenker 1921–24/2004–05, issue 4, figure 1, p. 37/152.2)

with the A-minor Mozart sonata; and figure 2 in issue 4, dealing with the E-flat
Haydn sonata. They occur with greater frequency, however, in Tonwille 5 and
6, especially in the latter’s concluding part of the Beethoven Fifth Symphony
analysis.
Multilayered graphs are of more than notational interest, as they indicate
prolongations that occur at various levels of contrapuntal elaboration. And
those with a bass indicate a shift of emphasis from the Urlinie alone to its role
within a two-voice contrapuntal setting. The first multilayered graph for an
entire longer movement does not appear, however, until the analysis of
Beethoven’s “Appassionata” Sonata in issue 7. Although the analysis has
multiple references to the Ursatz and Züge, the bass of the two-part setting
that provides a “background” sketch for the entirety is referred to as the
“image of the Urlinie tones” and labeled as part of the Urlinie-Satz.41 And
although this setting appears in the central part of a three-layered graph, its
multilayered nature is deceiving in that the top and bottom staffs repeat the
top voice and bass with occasional minor simplifications (though the article
does contain early instances of the words “background” and “foreground”).
There is also a separate and more detailed Urlinie-Tafel of the whole piece,
though the recapitulation and coda ending are omitted. And since the
Urlinie is divided into multiple segments, no single progression encompasses
the whole; and the graph still has occasional references to “Urlinie-motives.”
Another later Tonwille analysis, of the Brahms Handel Variations (in
issue 8/9, its length explaining the double issue), begins with a complete
graph of the theme: a top-level Ursatz with six additional layers. The Ursatz
has a 5̂ –1̂ succession distinguished from the rising 1̂ –5̂ line preceding
it (though later Schenker refers to its “seven-note Urlinie,” thereby
incorporating the top third of this ascent). And Stufe indications are

41
A two-part setting is anticipated in the preceding analyses of the third and fifth Bach preludes in
Tonwille 5; but since these are quite brief, they are not considered.
142 Development

Example 7.12 Mendelssohn: “Lied ohne Worte,” op. 67 no. 6: reduction (Schenker
1921–24/2004–05, issue 10, figure 1, p. 30/150.1)

given, partly in parentheses, to show that this Stufe stands for – and thus
prolongs – the one preceding it (as explained in Schenker’s text).
The graph, however, is limited to the theme alone, though several
variations that differ significantly have partial multilayered graphs of their
own. In addition, an Urlinie-Tafel for the entirety is presented on a single
staff (two for the final fugue). In addition, the text also mentions links tying
variations together, either through surface motives connecting them or
more long-range voice-leading relationships. This Brahms analysis, along
with the one of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, is the most detailed in the
Tonwille series; yet neither has a background graph for the entirety.
(The Brahms text does refer to an integrated conception of the “loose”
variation format, but only briefly, and after concluding the analysis proper.)
The last issue of Tonwille is the only one with multilayered prolonga-
tional graphs that span entire compositions. Though the eight pieces
analyzed are of medium length, Mendelssohn’s “Lied ohne Worte,” op. 67
no. 6, is included here as a clear anticipation of aspects of the later Schenker
(see Example 7.12). The graph consists largely of an aligned group of
three layers, with a background at the top and two additional ones below.
Although the top graph is notated entirely in undifferentiated black
noteheads, it resembles a mature analysis in that it contains an elaborated
3̂ –1̂ Ursatz with bass arpeggiation. Yet brackets above the careted numbers
show that the Urlinie is still conceived as a collection of individual segments,
though, there being no full cadence until the work is almost over, only the
last is complete (mm. 61–91).
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 143

Example 7.13 Mozart: Piano Sonata K 310, I: reduction of development (Schenker

1921–24/2004–05, issue 2, figure 1, p. 10/57.2)

The Urlinie notes and bass arpeggiations in the second layer, however, are
differentiated by stemmed half notes. Also important motivically at this
level is the leap of a sixth from b1 to g]2 (the second note being part of
the Urlinie). It rises initially from a middle voice following the opening
configuration (indicated with a dotted slur at level two), and returns at the
reprise of that level after the inner-voice b1 again emerges, this time defining
the middle section as goal of the preceding linear progression f]2–b1
(mm. 27–60). Thereafter it rises again to g]2, this time with a filled-in slur.
Slurs are also used in connection with this motive at level three, as well as
to connect the main prolongations of both bottom graphs. Further elabor-
ations appear in the bottom layer, below which Stufen are indicated; and an
Urlinie-Tafel provides additional information about more foreground
events. In this analysis, then, a multilayered graph leads from a background
with two primary outer voices, through two aligned middleground layers to
the piece’s foreground. Yet the Urlinie remains a composite, without being
reduced to a single triad in E major.
We have saved for last perhaps the most forward-looking feature of the
Tonwille analyses: their treatment of relatively unstable developmental and
transitional sections. Even the earlier volumes have more comprehensive
graphs for these, which reduce their pitch events to a single, section-defining
prolongation. Looser in construction and lacking the readily divisible
formal segments and obvious harmonic connections stressed in traditional
analysis, they provide an ideal means for demonstrating the advantages of
Schenker’s new approach. The sketch of the development section of the first
movement of Mozart’s K 310 in Tonwille 2, one of the earliest analyses (see
Example 7.13), thus forms a sort of prolongational synopsis that integrates
the section’s Urlinie segments from the movement’s Urlinie-Tafel into a
single contrapuntal structure.
Though larger connections within the graph are not yet indicated by a
slur or bracket, and there are no Stufen indications (despite the presence of a
bass), the preliminary rising third to b1, accompanying a harmonic move
144 Development

Example 7.14 Beethoven: Symphony no. 5, II: reduction of mm. 123–76 (Schenker
1921–24/2004–05, issue 5, figure 6, p. 37/205.2)

from III to V/V, can be seen as leading to a section-defining V prolongation

formed by descending linear fifth-progressions in both bass (B–E) and
soprano (b1–e1).
Though there is no description explaining this graph, the Rückmodulation
of the same sonata’s slow movement, mm. 32–53 (Schenker’s figure 3, not
included here), is verbally described as a single prolongation. So too is the
two-layered graph in Tonwille 5 of the unstable episode from the second
movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, mm. 123–76, reducing the
passage to its “shortest formula” (see Example 7.14). Schenker comments:42
Although the descending fifth V–I is probably delineated well enough in the
harmonic progression V–III\3–I–V, what is at any rate of even greater significance
here is that the end-points of the progression are the same, V: this amounts to a
circle, a higher unity affirming the 5̂ –2̂ here as in the last analysis the elaboration
merely of V.

In other words: a single prolongation encompassing some fifty-four

measures composes-out the dominant chord in combination with a falling-
fourth linear progression.
These sections, as well as a few others like them, indicate how far
Schenker’s new way of thinking had brought him. Yet they are exceptional
in Tonwille, whose analyses do not otherwise have a single background
motion. The whole thus has to be controlled only by composite Urlinie
segments; and though these might in principle be joined together to form a
more-or-less coherent larger progression, that does not occur. Nor is there

42
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 5), p. 37/205.2–206.1.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 145

any indication of how an overall line should be notated. Tonal logic, being
defined primarily in terms of Stufen successions rather than a single under-
lying chord, is much more diverse; a deeper linear-harmonic reduction
representing the whole is still missing.
A final word about synthesis. Schenker continues to stress the term
throughout Tonwille but now begins to consider it almost exclusively in
association with pitch. Indeed, one of Schenker’s best descriptions of
synthesis, from the Mozart analysis in the second issue, is framed almost
entirely in terms of the Urlinie:43

Motive and diminution, sprouting from the line, color the segments of the Urlinie,
the individual Stufen and the modulations, and set the parts against each other so
as to bind the whole more tightly. A further contributor to synthesis, in the
domain of rhythm, is the technique of reinterpretation of bars, the play of motives
against the underlying meter; in the domain of voice-leading, artistry, and beauty
in the outer-voice counterpoint, and this indeed in the counterpoint of the Urlinie
as much as in the diminution and especially the long, artful transitional sections.
And in each and everything the richest diversity, testifying to the infinity of
organic life. This alone is synthesis, this alone is ingenious, classical, and
German – fundamentally German!

Before closing, it bears reiterating that all of the analyses in Tonwille are
distinguished by their increased focus on pitch. The ubiquity of the pitch-
orientated Urlinie-Tafel provides one reason, as does the fact that synthesis
is rethought almost exclusively in pitch terms. The analyses thus exemplify
not just the early analytical application of the Urlinie idea, but Schenker’s
related turn toward a single parameter.

The Meisterwerk analyses

Regarding in general the analyses in Das Meisterwerk I (1925), there are

nine, all dealing with relatively brief works. Each has an Urlinie-Tafel and
a multilayered graph encompassing the entire piece; and each graphic layer
is discussed in turn, moving from background to foreground, a procedure
then remaining constant in Schenker. Though the volume contains
many transformational operations, making its analyses seem relatively
advanced, there are definite limitations compared with the two later
Meisterwerk volumes. The Urlinie still includes initial ascents; and one

43
Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 2), p. 7/64.2.
146 Development

analysis has a background with an internal prolongation, while another

contains four separate segments.
The analyses from the next volume, however, Meisterwerk II (1926),
reflect the mature theory almost completely. In addition to the idea of
prolongation, most transformational techniques are now in place. And as
a consequence, complex compositions can be analyzed in their entirety,
reduced to a single tonic. Although the aesthetic foundations of Schenker’s
development were set out well in advance, the speed and assurance of the
technical dimension, completed in the remarkably short time between 1921
and 1926, suggests how natural this development must have been for
Schenker. Meisterwerk II, in addition to one long, multi-movement analysis,
has three shorter ones, including one counter-example (Reger’s op. 81).
Meisterwerk III, on the other hand, contains only its one lengthy, multi-
movement analysis.
Each of the final two volumes of the series thus contains the analysis of one
extended work; and each analysis is more or less fully representative of the
mature theory in action, offering an unparalleled source for examining
Schenker’s later development. Both are of well-known compositions:
Mozart’s G-minor Symphony, K 550, which appeared in Meisterwerk II (the
same volume in which the final article of the Urlinie series appeared, as if the
analysis confirmed that the final theory could now be demonstrated in full);
and Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3, op. 55, in Meisterwerk III, the final volume
of the three yearbooks. One segment of both analyses is now considered.

Mozart: Symphony in G minor, K 550, first movement

Despite the movement’s length, the Ursatz level of the opening movement
of the Mozart analysis encompasses its entirety with a single descending 5̂ –1̂
Urlinie and bass arpeggiation. It is notated with white notes, and the slightly
elaborated inner voices and passing notes are in black. The Ursatz
appears with three aligned middleground levels, of which the bottom two
contain brackets indicating larger linear connections. All layers have Stufen
indications, though their number increases significantly in the lower two.
The Ursatz is now identified as such and, consisting of a two-part setting
of the Urlinie and bass arpeggiation, is described as the source of the
movement’s coherence:44
One can fully experience the organic life in the realm of the first movement only
by retracing the present of the foreground from the past of the Ursatz and the

44
Schenker (1926/1996), p. 109/61.1–2.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 147

voice-leading layers. The Ursatz shows the motions of the Urlinie and the bass. The
Urlinie begins immediately with 5̂ ; its descent 5̂ –1̂ not only animates the chord of G
minor but also creates the particulars of its content and, by both these actions,
affirms the tonality of G minor. The bass proceeds through two arpeggiations of the
G triad. Both strive towards the same goal, the dominant divider . . .

The Urlinie’s descent provides the underlying G-minor chord with its initial
melodic pattern, while the bass’s arpeggiation provides it with harmonic
life;45 and its “definitive retention” provides the movement with a “constant
basic idea.” In addition, an Urlinie-Tafel covers all but the last part of
the recapitulation and coda. The graphing itself (despite added length in
some brackets) remains much as before.
Each level is described in detail, both individually and in relation to
the others. Large-scale linear-motivic features, previously assigned to the
Urlinie itself, are now located exclusively in the middleground, though
their motivic importance receives emphasis. The movement’s
Zweitonigkeit, or “two-toned character,” is stressed, but as subsidiary to
the Ursatz. Schenker’s text is long (fifty-seven pages for this movement),
though it focuses mainly on voice-leading matters. Attention is still given to
phrase length, rhythmic extension and compression, registral deployment,
and synthesis in general, but these are discussed exclusively in connection
with the pitch relationships given in the graphs.
The only graph included here (see Example 7.15) treats the first
movement’s development section, a part of the third middleground layer
(mm. 101–66), plus the preceding two-measure transition from B-flat
major. This section, critical for the overall tonal motion, opens with a
distorted version of the symphony’s first theme, passing through a sequence
of seemingly unrelated keys. Traditional harmonic analysis would struggle
with this passage, but Schenker views its seemingly drifting motion in
relation to his single-tonic conception of the whole. The development
thus prolongs the bass motion from B[ (where the exposition ends) to D,
or from III to V in G minor (mm. 99–153), moving first from B[ to G in
mm. 99–101 (here not the tonic but the lower third of B-flat), then from G
and B[ to A as V of V in mm. 101–134, and finally to V at mm. 153ff.
Following the arrival on G at m. 101, the bass is accompanied by the
neighbor motion D–C]–D in the top voice.

45
The purpose of the double arpeggiation in the graph of the Ursatz will become clearer when
interruption is discussed in the second section of Chapter 10.
148 Development

Example 7.15 Mozart: Symphony no. 40 in G minor, I: middleground analysis of

development section (Schenker 1926/1996, figure 1d, fragment, Anhang/60–61)

After ascending to d3, the top voice has an octave descent from m. 101 to
m. 133, d3 to d2, elaborating the first Urlinie tone over a prolonged G in the
bass; after which d2 moves to c]2 in m. 134 as the bass moves to A, a
neighbor to the B[ ending the exposition. Then c]2 is prolonged (in part by
octave exchange) before returning, through d3 (itself prolonged by octave
coupling) to d2 in mm. 153–60 over V. The D chord then eventually gives
way to G minor and the reprise at m. 166.
In discussing the Urlinie-Tafel, Schenker says that the mysterious
succession of “keys” accompanying the initial octave descent (mm. 101–
33) is only “apparent,” as it descends in stepwise passing motion from G to
B[ (G minor–F-sharp minor–E minor–D minor–C major–B-flat major),
then through G again before moving to A, V of D, at m. 134. For Schenker
this progression has a threefold function: it promotes the “two-note”
character of the original theme (extended beyond its original linear
descent of a sixth), removes the threat of parallel fifths, and prolongs the
key of B-flat major. Regarding the first, he notes:46

These leaps [of a falling fifth], moreover, lead to chords which, considered in
themselves, might be taken for gross deviations from the principal tonality: it is
precisely the conceptual unity of the octave descent that completely reduces them to
mere transitional harmonies. For this reason it does not matter in the slightest that
the treble seems at first to descend through an apparently disconnected succession,
d–c]–b–a–g–f, and only from f 2 [its final note] finds a way of proceeding to the end
with a strictly diatonic succession.

It should be noted that the main voice-leading graphs, from the Ursatz
to the Urlinie-Tafel, do not yet contain “interruption,” which later would
become a central part of Schenker’s explanation of sonata form; though the

46
Schenker (1926/1996), p. 116/65.2.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 149

concept is at least partly implied in the fourth layer (as in earlier analyses)
by embedded brackets and other notational means.

Beethoven: Symphony no. 3 in E-flat major, op. 55, Scherzo

section of third movement
Schenker’s analysis in Meisterwerk III of Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the
last lengthy one of a multi-movement composition, is considered by many
to be his most advanced. Although largely consistent with the Mozart
analysis in overall approach, it includes interruption and significant graphic
differences. For the first time beams and slurs are used instead of brackets
to indicate groupings articulated by linear progression, arpeggiation and
other middleground and foreground relationships, a practice then largely
retained. Also, brief verbal indications are included as aids to the reader
(some in boxes). The Urlinie-Tafel is now referred to as the “foreground
graph,” presumably because the older designation stressed the top voice at
the expense of the bass. And the graphs are all handwritten, avoiding
placement at the printer’s whim.
The text of the Eroica analysis, like that of the Mozart, focuses on pitch
relationships indicated in the graphs, although Schenker still comments on
phrase grouping, bowing, motivic alterations, diminution, dynamics,
rhythm, and synthesis.47 But the concentration is on pitch configurations
revealed by the new theory. Comments on registral layout, for example,
though detailed (and usually tied to instrumentation), refer consistently
to the idea of “obligatory register.” And all musical examples, not just the
main ones, are located in a separate enclosure (though again placed within
the text in the translation).
The symphony’s complete first Scherzo section serves as our only
example, its third middleground graph (Schenker’s figure 33) reprinted
here as Example 7.16. (The content of the two more background
graphs, Schenker’s figures 31 and 32, though not reproduced here, is
essentially clear from the third alone.) Consistent with Meisterwerk’s
general practice, each level is examined in turn. The Ursatz, which is
not graphed separately by Schenker, appears in the first middleground

47
For example, the following sentence appears with reference to dynamics: “A comparison of the
foreground graph of bars 43–45 with that of bars 218–20, 396–98 and 446–48 reveals that in this
symphony a common dynamic pattern applies to the concluding bars of a motion that is both
necessary and desired” (Schenker [1930/1997], p. 32/15.1).
150 Development

Example 7.16 Beethoven: Symphony no. 3: middleground analysis of scherzo, first half
(Schenker 1930/1997, figure 33, Anhang/42–43)

level (figure 31) as a 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ Urlinie descent in E-flat major with bass
arpeggiation, along with the first tone’s upper neighbor (a[2) over IV
in the bass. (The Ursatz is again notated in white, while the other
notes are black.)
Schenker’s second middleground graph (figure 32) adds an initial sixth-
ascent, from the inner voice b[1 through e[2 to g2, the first Urlinie tone. The
passing note in the first third of this ascent, c2, is made consonant through
bass arpeggiation of B-flat major: B[ with b[1, F with c2, and D and B[ with
d2. When the bass’s last B[ returns to the E[ tonic at m. 93, the top voice
continues its ascent from e[2. At this point the second graph follows the first,
except that the Ursatz’s 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ descent is joined with a rising stepwise
bass line from B[ to e[1, connecting V to I. The top-voice sixth-ascent
from b[1 thus prolongs its goal (the Urlinie 3̂ ) with the bass’s E[, both of
which last until the upper neighbor’s arrival. The Ursatz itself is presented
again in half notes, while some of the black ones are stemmed (including
the entire initial ascent).
All of this can be followed in the third graph (Schenker’s figure 33: see
Example 7.16), except that the Ursatz descent is no longer notated in half
notes (sacrificed in part to emphasize the rising sixth-ascent). Schenker
deals with the third graph at length, discussing it simultaneously with the
“foreground graph” (Urline-Tafel) for eight pages. The initial top-voice
ascent from b[1 (m. 7 to m. 123) is here beamed with a dotted line between
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 151

the staves; and its doubling at the upper octave (beginning m. 28, still on B[)
is also beamed above the treble staff. (The two join after the first Urlinie tone
is reached in the final repeat of the rising upper third at mm. 151f.) The
initial ascent to G, plus its upper neighbor A[ (in parenthesis), is indicated
in letters above the graph, preceded by a verbal description (“Initial ascent
to 3̂ in the form of a sixth-progression”).
The opening bass notes are connected by individual slurs except for
those accompanying the Urlinie’s descent at the end, B[–E[, presumably
because of their prominence in Schenker’s figures 31 and 32. And the two
bass B[s in mm. 28 and 73 are beamed together below the bass staff as a
dominant Teiler, their prolonging arpeggiation also indicated by unaligned
letters and measure numbers. Stufen, given as Roman numerals, reveal that
the opening E[ bass prolongation (to m. 93) leads to four harmonically
arpeggiated repetitions: mm. 93–115, 115–23, 123–51 and 151 to the end
(m. 166 of the second ending). The third of these coincides with the arrival
of the Ursatz 3̂ , and the fourth with the Ursatz descent; and the empty
parenthesis in the Roman-numeral analysis of the third, mm. 127–43,
denotes an “interpolation” within the harmonic progression.
The graph’s stress on register and instrumentation is underlined by
the word Lagenwechsel (“change of register”) near its beginning, as well as
by the various instrumental indications. Of interest also is Schenker’s
concern for the delayed octave doublings in the top-voice ascent to e[2,
which are anticipated by the rising octave diminution, B[–b[1, in the violins
in mm. 1–7 (also appearing at the end of the registrally altered repeat in
mm. 8–14) and the doubling of the goal tone b[1 at mm. 7 and 28. The
subsequent c2/c3 (m. 44) is anticipated by the staggered violin-flute coupling
at mm. 39–40, and the d2/d3 (m. 57) by the coupling at mm. 50–51 (both
indicated by asterisks). In addition, the arrival on d2 appears first as d3
(m. 57), coupled downward at m. 69. These octaves come together again on
e[2/e[3 at m. 93, preceded by a fourth-diminution in octaves.
The ascent to the upper third appears gradually during the four E[
phrases, each of the first three containing an octave coupling upward. The
first is achieved by reaching over, an arpeggiation from e[1/e[2 (m. 93)
through b[1/b[2 (mm. 96 and 100) to e[2/e[3 (mm. 104 and 108), followed
by a cadence on E[ in the outer voices at m. 115 with the inner voice moving
from a[2 to g2. (Its a[2, the first of several emphasized in the graph – the
following four are actually beamed with g2 – results from the reaching over’s
inner-voice descent from b[2.) The second ascent begins at m. 115 with
melodic emphasis on g2 (not yet the goal), followed by f 2, which is part of
the sixth-ascent leading to g2 in mm. 119–23 (also with upper neighbor),
152 Development

anticipating the first Urlinie tone. The third begins at m. 123, repeating
the second with top-voice octave doublings and emphasizing the initial
appearance of the first Urlinie tone at m. 123 (note the “3̂ ” above it). The
continuation is altered, however, so that e[2 appears alone at m. 143,
coinciding with the completion of another octave coupling e[2/e[3 in
mm. 127–43. (Schenker apparently refers to an “interpolation” in this
segment because its main purpose seems to be the production of this
coupling.) Following this, however, e[2’s ascent to g2 is echoed between
the bass and lower octave (mm. 143–48), after which the neighbor a[2 finally
appears, beamed with g2 in mm. 150–51 (the only A[ neighbor designated
with Nbn. not in parentheses). The fourth E[ phrase provides yet another
ascent from e[2 to g2, mm. 151–55, simultaneously doubled in the upper
octaves (in the “foreground” graph the e[3 in 155 is linked by asterisk to
the one in m. 123), decorated again by the neighbor a[2 at m. 157. After this
the flute, thanks to a “special arpeggiation” (mm. 158–61), doubles the
repeat in the upper octave and produces a[3 (m. 161), supported by
V. Thereafter the Urlinie descends quickly, 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ , doubled in the upper
octave, to conclude the Scherzo.
Even this relatively detailed description of the pitch relationships touches
on only some aspects of Schenker’s graph and commentary, which also
points out more foreground voice-leading features, as well as thematic,
motivic, and rhythmic matters. Attention is directed, for example, to
whether main voice-leading components are located in strong or weak
measures. And the rhythm of the six repeated notes opening the descending
melodic figure of mm. 7–8 is shown to be derived from the neighbor-note
diminution at the opening, as is the figure’s falling octave figure (to m. 14)
from the opening’s rising one. Similarly, the arpeggiated theme in
mm. 115–19 (plus its repeat in mm. 123–27) is derived from the violin’s
rising arpeggiation and stepwise descent in mm. 100–02, while its final two
stepwise notes, A[–G (set off by rest and slur in mm. 118–19), are related to
the various other A[ neighbor figures. The bass G at m. 123 is also shown to
connect to the same octave’s G in m. 151. By relating such surface details
to the larger pitch organization, Schenker indicates that both become more
comprehensible when viewed through his theory.
So too does the “form” of the scherzo, which can be schematically
represented by a1a2|b,a3a4. Its relationship to the graph just described is
notable. The first a1 segment (mm. 1–14) and its a2 “repeat” coincide
with the first major section in the graph, whose I–V bass motion and
upper-voice retention end at m. 28. The much longer second section
(its repeat signs omitted in Schenker’s graph) begins with segment b
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 153

(mm. 29–93), during which V is prolonged by arpeggiation in the bass

while the top voice completes the first third of its sixth-ascent, to d2. The
return of the opening (a3), however, continues the V prolongation, so that
it overlaps with the (b) segment at m. 79 (cf. mm. 15ff ), a measure not
indicated in the voice-leading graph because of the lack of harmonic-
linear arrival. The continuation is also altered so that the return of I,
accompanied by the top voice’s continuation to e[2/e[3, appears only at
the section’s end, at m. 93, which means that the overall I–V motion of a1
in mm. 1–14 is reversed to V–I in the a3 reprise. The ensuing a4 segment,
which corresponds to a2 in mm. 15–28, then continues to the end, but
considerably reworks the original. Instead of the previous one phrase on
V, it now consists of four phrases on I (supporting the Urlinie and its
descent), the second and third supplying the ascent’s completion to the
first Urlinie tone and the fourth the Ursatz’s descent at the close. The V
prolongation, from m. 7 to m. 83, thus cuts across the formal division of
A3, helping to form a structural overlap.
The two extended analyses discussed in this section indicate that by the
second half of the 1920s Schenker had developed an analytical approach
that considered all voice-leading details in terms of an Ursatz and its
prolongation of a single triad. Though only the development section of
the first was discussed, it was seen as part of a complete tonic elaboration;
and while in the second only the first part of a movement was discussed, it
nevertheless defined a complete tonal motion.48

A word on “Rameau oder Beethoven?”

Meisterwerk III contains a single essay, “Rameau oder Beethoven:
Erstarrung oder geistiges Leben in der Musik?” (“Rameau or Beethoven:
Paralysis or Spiritual Motion in Music?”), that provides a helpful summary
of many of Schenker’s main aesthetic and theoretical ideas. In particular, it
argues that Beethoven’s horizontal conception of music, as opposed to

48
These Mozart and Beethoven analyses were not Schenker’s last word on analysis; the Fünf
Urlinie-Tafeln were published in landscape format in 1932, between Meisterwerk III and Der freie
Satz, consisting of five analyses that some find even more sophisticated than the two from
Meisterwerk just discussed. But these later analyses were published without verbal commentary
and deal exclusively with shorter works (the Haydn E-flat Piano Sonata is only apparently an
exception, its development section alone being graphed). As a result, they lack the complexity of
the Meisterwerk pair. They do, however, return to the normal practice of aligning all main layers,
as well as the use of the term Urlinie-Tafel.
154 Development

Rameau’s vertical one, is alone in doing justice to the art. The essay is
remarkably polemical, most of its points supported by binary oppositions,
the favored term praised and the other one castigated. In addition to the
relative value of Rameau’s horizontal vs Beethoven’s vertical conceptions,
such dualisms appear as Germany vs France, genius vs mediocrity, organi-
cism vs mechanism, dynamism vs paralysis, musical masterpieces vs jazz
and exotic music, and unification vs fragmentation. A final section even
complains about the impact of Schenker’s own personal and professional
difficulties (impecuniousness and incomprehension) on the completion,
distribution, and acceptance of his work.
Although this Meisterwerk essay does not contain a general discussion of
the theory comparable to the ones collectively presented in the Urlinie series,
it does have one relatively extended statement that helps complete them:49

I designate the primal condition of the horizontal thus: the Urlinie as the first
composing-out of the fundamental chord in one of the three possible tonal spaces
of that chord, namely third, fifth or octave, falling conjunctly in accordance with the
law of the passing note until it reaches the tonic note, and offset in counterpoint by
the arpeggiation I–V–I in the bass: this yields the complete Ursatz. I then trace
the proliferation of the first horizontal strand by means of prolongations – i.e.,
digressions, diminutions in the form of linear progressions, [octave] couplings,
neighbor notes etc. – and the way in which they blossom into ever newly forming
layers of voice-leading, expanding across ever greater spans and moulding
themselves into various forms, until they culminate in the final unfolding at the
foreground as the highest stage of intensification; and I trace the way in which these
proceed simultaneously above the top of the unfurling in the bass, as it buttresses
the counterpoint and impels the succession of harmonic scale steps.

With all of this, the cohesiveness of the total content of a piece is provided and
established as a unity between the depths of the background and the breadth of
the foreground. Closely associated with the secret of such a cohesiveness is music’s
total independence from the world around it, the being-based-within-itself that
distinguishes music from all other art forms.

Though the idea that a single triad lies at the root of all great compositions,
and that all musical detail derives from it, had been expressed long before,
Schenker had not yet noted that the Ursatz had to have one of three closely-
related Urlinie successions that joined with an unvarying bass arpeggiation.
This definition of the Ursatz, the most fundamental, and controversial,
concept in the theory, was, along with the idea of interruption, the last to
be explicitly formulated.

49
Schenker (1930/1997), pp. 20–21/7.2–8.1.
 Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik 155

With these two additions, then, the theory was basically in place. The only
thing remaining was to put everything together in a coherent form and
provide it with a clear overall shape. That was the purpose of the final
publication, Der freie Satz, the subject of the next and final chapter of the
book’s second part.50

50
Pastille (1990a) provides an excellent summary of the development of the Ursatz idea,
overlapping to some extent with the one in the previous chapter and this one, even discussing
some of the same graphs. His primary concern, however, is with the Ursatz’s origin in the
concept of “melodic fluency.” Although this idea forms an essential aspect of the Ursatz’s
evolution, the latter is here considered as a response to a more general set of philosophical and
ideological concerns. I am nevertheless deeply indebted to Pastille’s work.
 8 Der freie Satz

Most music theorists, though not all, consider Der freie Satz, published in
1935 shortly after Schenker’s death, to be his magnum opus.1 But however
one may feel about this, the work is widely regarded as one of the major
accomplishments of Western music theory. Representing the last stage of
Schenker’s development, it provides the most authoritative statement of
his final theory. Since its primary purpose is to present the entire theory,
however, rather than its analytical application, it does not contain detailed
analyses of complete pieces. Rather, it takes up each of the theory’s
components more or less individually, with graphic sketches that illustrate
each one.
Der freie Satz was thus not designed to demonstrate the theory in action.
For that, the two large-scale analyses discussed in the previous chapter are
far more representative. Even in this final work, moreover, Schenker does
not try to systematize the theory completely in order to develop a strict
method. One of the striking features of Freier Satz is its varying approach,
and thus the extent to which the text requires interpretation. Even in this
case, then, one feels that Schenker was to some extent feeling his way.
It seems likely, moreover, that even with more time Schenker would have
resisted presentation of a fixed analytical method and single approach to its
graphic representation. Despite the tendency in his later life toward system-
atization, he must have felt unable – and probably unwilling – to reduce his
work to a single formula, even at this stage. While part of him did strive to
present his theory definitively, he remained committed to the belief that,
being artistic and intuitive, it resisted straightforward codification.
This chapter thus views Der freie Satz from a number of diffe-
rent perspectives, each of which has its own section: (1) its history and
relation to Schenker’s previous work (pp. 157–60); (2) its organization
(pp. 160–62); (3) the linear progression as its basic operation (pp. 162–65);
(4) discussion of one of its graphs (pp. 165–71); (5) its relation to

1
Schenker (1935). The 1979 translation by Ernst Oster is used throughout with only minor
alterations, as it is excellent if occasionally misleading. For an informative discussion of the
particular problems encountered by English-speaking readers of Schenker, especially American
156 ones, see Rothstein (1986).
 Der freie Satz 157

Schenkerian ideology (pp. 171–75); (6) its religious component (pp. 175–78);
and (7) its overall nature (pp. 178–80). Schenker’s own point of view is in
general accepted (save for part of the fourth section), more critical consid-
eration being left for the three chapters in Part III.
Due to Der freie Satz’s format, a word about citations will be helpful. As
usual, these are given first for the German edition, though where possible
these are identified here by section numbers, which are relatively short and
are identical in both German and English editions. Since the work’s intro-
duction (or foreword) and first chapter are without sections, however,
citations for passages located there are given by page numbers. And pas-
sages originally omitted from the English translation and only subsequently
added in an appendix are also indicated by page number, and the few
omitted entirely from the English edition (translated by the present author)
are indicated by their German reference alone.2 Where possible, German
citations refer to the second edition (1956), the only exceptions (always
noted) being the one quoted passage in the first edition that was omitted
from the second. One caveat: the ordering of text occasionally differs in all
three editions, although this does not affect the content of the section
numberings.
One thing that should be noted in advance: though Schenker is widely felt
to have believed, especially in his late work, that his theory answered all
musical questions, this was not quite true. Despite all his ambitious claims,
he felt that music’s essence was beyond explanatory power:3
One might feel tempted to entrust musical creativity entirely to the intellect
and expect favorable results. But every attempt in this direction must founder,
for even prolongations bring with them occurrences intangible, inaccessible to
the intellect. The true profundities of creativity are not attainable by intellect
alone.

History and relation to Schenker’s previous work

Der freie Satz, though left partly unfinished at the time of Schenker’s death
in January 1935, is generally accepted as his crowning achievement. It had to
be put in final form by his wife; and it was published, in two volumes (the
second consisting of musical examples), later in the same year. The second

2
Almost all passages in the appendix of the translation, as well as those that have been omitted
entirely, appear in the foreword and first chapter of the German edition and are cited by page
number.
3
Schenker (1935/1979), §85.
158 Development

German edition appeared in 1956, without substantial changes and edited

by his former student Oswald Jonas (Jeanette Schenker having been mur-
dered at Buchenwald in 1942). Der freie Satz contains the sole comprehen-
sive presentation of the final theory. Though its main components were
essentially in place by the time of Meisterwerk III, the total theory was not
yet then described or illustrated in detail. It thus lacked an overview; and
Der freie Satz was designed to fill that gap.
The final years of Schenker’s life were largely devoted to this task, the
result being long in planning and the cause of much difficulty.4 Its pre-
history goes back to 1917, when Schenker worked on an earlier version that
was intended as a final chapter of Kontrapunkt II but later abandoned. The
second phase of this version, now reconceived as a third volume of
Kontrapunkt, dates to at least 1926, when Schenker (optimistically) referred
to its imminent appearance in his diary. Work on it thus overlapped
presumably with the Meisterwerk II essays, and perhaps even those in
Meisterwerk III.5
Though Schenker would undoubtedly have made substantial additions
and alterations to Der freie Satz had he lived longer, the work’s importance
remains indisputable. Indeed, its analytic method is often simply equated
with Schenkerian theory, an understandable if largely misleading view.
Schenker himself nevertheless considered it the summation of his life’s
work, and consequently of all useful theory preceding his (which he limited,
however, to strict counterpoint and thorough-bass). More important,
though, is that Der freie Satz, while including almost nothing that did not
exist in some sense already, is markedly different in conception, organiza-
tion, and tone from all of the author’s previous work.
Der freie Satz’s relation to the earlier publications is both complex and
revealing. In some respects it can be said to continue the two companion
studies in Schenker’s theoretical trilogy Neue Theorien und Phantasien, on
harmony and counterpoint (the latter in two volumes). Yet even if one can
see in retrospect that these volumes contain significant foundational mate-
rial for the mature theory, they provide only hints of the theory itself (also

4
During the period between Meisterwerk III and Der freie Satz, two additional publications
appeared: Fünf Urlinie-Tafeln of 1932 and Johannes Brahms, Oktaven und Quinten u. A. (Vienna:
Universal Edition, 1932). Neither work, however, is directly related to the final theory.
5
The early historical background is set out in more detail in an excellent article by Siegel (1999). As
she notes, though the unfinished version of Freier Satz was illuminating for subsequent
developments, it was conceived as the mature theory was only beginning to be formulated and
thus differs in most respects from the 1935 publication. See also Schenker Documents Online:
www.schenkerdocumentsonline.org/colloquy/heinrich_schenker.html
 Der freie Satz 159

true of their contemporaries, the monographs, except perhaps for the last
one, where concrete features of the theory begin to appear).
Over the next ten years, however, Schenker’s final development pushed
forward in the issues of Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk with remarkable
speed, culminating in the two lengthy Mozart and Beethoven analyses
discussed in the third section of the preceding chapter (pp. 145–53). Even
so, the various articles in the two series do not set out, individually or
collectively, the theory in complete, orderly form. The series of Urlinie
articles in Tonwille and Meisterwerk, discussed in section one of the pre-
vious chapter (pp. 118–35), probably comes closest; but since it was con-
ceived when Schenker was searching for a unified theoretical picture and
uncertain about how its materials should be organized, it reflects a theory
still very much in progress.
Since this book has emphasized, in surveying Schenker’s theoretical
development, connections between the earlier work and his mature theory,
moreover, it should be noted that the final theory is clearly differentiated
from what preceded it. Despite the retention of earlier ideas, such as the
Stufe and composing-out in Harmonielehre, the expanded notion of passing
motion and musical spirituality in Kontrapunkt I and II, and the turn
toward analytical reduction, above all in the monographs, Schenker’s
mature theory cannot simply be viewed as the culmination of his previous
evolution. Though Schenker was himself always acutely cognizant of the
continuity in his thought, and felt there was no reason to disclaim his earlier
work, the later theory nevertheless represented a truly new manner of
musical understanding where all pitch details were joined together as part
of a single comprehensive picture. This may have been consistent with the
“bird’s-eye” view quoted from the early “Hearing” article in Chapter 1, but it
seemed to form an essentially new type of theory.
Consider Schenker’s concept of the Stufe, which dates back to 1906. In its
earlier incarnation, it was viewed mainly in local terms, without any indi-
cation of how long a Stufe lasted or its connection with other Stufen. In the
final theory, on the other hand, it is transformed into a generalized concept
that involves detailed understanding of both how it is formed and how it
relates to other Stufen. Similarly, Schenker’s expanded idea of passing
motion, which dates back to 1910, was at that time exclusively concerned
with surface passages; only later, joined with the idea of mental retention,
was it transformed into a more background concept, allowing it even to
span entire compositions.
The final theory, then, did not result simply from an accumulation of
earlier techniques, but joined them together as integral parts of a generalized
160 Development

view of musical organization. No longer considered as isolated phenomena,

they became components of a comprehensive conception, each with its own
necessary contribution, yet joined together harmoniously in a whole.
Despite the developmental focus of this part, Der freie Satz is thus unpre-
cedented, presenting the theory in a complete and, for Schenker, uniquely
systematic manner.
This is not to say that there are no problems in Der freie Satz. The puzzling
ordering of some of its sections, mentioned in Chapter 2, has been noted; and
there is also insufficient information concerning the number and location of
analytical layers.6 And there is almost no explanation of how an analysis
should be undertaken, or how it should be graphed. Among other matters
about which there have been complaints, one could mention stress on back-
ground relationships, the advisability of beginning the Urlinie on 5̂ or 8̂
(containing what Schenker referred to as an “unsupported stretch”) rather
than 3̂ , inconsistency in analytical grouping, ambiguity regarding interrupted
dominants, lack of attention to subordinate keys, little weight on associa-
tional as opposed to syntactic relationships, and emphasis on commonalities
as opposed to differences. Problems also arise from resistance to a simple,
straight-through reading: one part of Der freie Satz is understood only when
the whole is grasped; yet the whole is understood only when individual parts
have been understood. (An obvious example: the Ursatz, the first technical
concept introduced in the volume, is adequately comprehended only when
the entire theory has been read.) And the presentation leans heavily upon
graphs of particular compositions, with the result that one experiences the
theory only as it is applied to particular compositional cases that require
detailed study.7
Yet despite such problems, Der freie Satz fulfills its task with remarkable
success. Schenker’s way of thinking about certain things may seem unneces-
sarily vague and uncertain (and attempts to clarify them often result in
further distortion), yet the organization remains remarkably straightfor-
ward. Indeed, there is nothing else like it in the entire Schenkerian oeuvre.

The theory’s presentation

Treatment of the details of Der freie Satz was largely covered in Chapter 2
and is not the primary concern of this chapter (although Section 4

6
For a consideration of both problems, see Proctor and Riggins (1988).
7
Schenker himself, in §49, refers to the difficulty of explaining the transformational processes and
graphic representation.
 Der freie Satz 161

[pp. 165–71] does examine one graph in some detail). Description of its
presentation is nevertheless useful; and although, given the earlier over-
view, some overlap is inevitable, what is stressed here is the way the theory
is portrayed in the final work. The most basic assumption, set out in the
preface, is that great musical compositions are unfolded by the Ursatz
from the “chord of nature,” and is graphically indicated by a series of
successive, hierarchically organized elaborations that lead from the Ursatz
down to the composition itself. The Ursatz itself is consistent with the
“principle that all complexity and diversity arise from a single simple
element rooted in the consciousness or the intuition.”8
The elaborations are grouped into three general levels: background,
middleground, and foreground, each of which is treated in order in Der
freie Satz. Following a general introduction, Part I contains three brief
chapters on the background, which includes only the Ursatz, the simplest
elaboration of the underlying triad, always consisting of a top-voice stepwise
descent (the Urlinie) and a bass arpeggiation. Part II contains two chapters
on the middleground, the first on the “middleground in general” and the
second on various middleground prolongational operations. And Part III
concludes with five chapters on the foreground. The first three of these form
a sort of unit and deal with the “concepts of strict counterpoint,” the more
foreground transformational operations (which correspond to the middle-
ground presentation in the second chapter of Part II), and more “specific
foreground events.” The final two chapters then discuss well-established
theoretical matters, the first on meter and rhythm and the second on form.
The chapters in Parts II and III are for the most part considerably longer
than those in Part I, the longest being the two chapters in Parts II and III on
middleground and foreground transformations and Part III’s chapter on
specifically foreground matters (Ursatz transferences, cross-relations, and
diminutions). Together these account for the major portion of the theoret-
ical part of the text. As the book gets closer to the musical surface, it also
increases in size, as more details come into consideration.
Much of this material is devoted to the various transformations that
compose-out, and prolong, simpler vertical entities. Since all the layers of
contrapuntal elaboration are hierarchically related, each is in principle
contained by the previous one and contained in all that follow. This
produces mutual interaction between all layers, from background to fore-
ground and vice versa, maintaining consistency throughout. Though
Schenker discusses whether the layers should be read in a generative

8
Schenker (1935/1979), §29.
162 Development

manner (as composing-out) or a reductive one (as prolongation), for him,

despite his preference for generation, the distinction seems to depend
primarily upon the direction in which one views the musical process.
Whether arranged from top to bottom or from bottom to top, the elabo-
rations collectively represent, and to that extent graphically “explain,” the
music’s overall tonal projection.
A notable feature of Der freie Satz’s presentation is the attention to non-
technical matters. Schenker, as we have seen, was always intensely aware of
close correspondences between his musical and non-musical beliefs; and he
supported his theory with frequent, and at times extensive, reference to its
ideological foundations.

The linear progression as key transformation

In working out his theory, Schenker devoted more than a decade (the
1920s and after) to developing the transformational operations and deter-
mining their implications. As indicated in Chapter 2, these included
such basic Schenkerian concepts as Zug (linear progression), Kopfton
and Endton (headtone and final tone), obligato Lage (obligatory register),
Höher- and Tieferlegung (upward and downward registral transfer),
Oktavkoplung (octave coupling), Brechung (arpeggiation), Anstieg (ini-
tial ascent), Über- and Untergreifung (motion into and out of an inner
voice), Stimmtauschung (voice exchange), Entfaltung (unfolding), and
Unterbrechung (interruption). Since these have been discussed, they do
not as a group require further consideration here. Yet one, the Zug, or
linear progression, supplies the basis for all the others; and due to its
central function in the theory, it requires more detailed examination.
Schenker was himself aware of the crucial role of this transformation,
which composes-out in stepwise form either a single chord or the motion
between two chords and includes most of the theory’s essential elements.
The linear progression resembles the theory itself in being “anchored in
polyphony,” supplying the music with its “primary means of coherence” by
“creating melodic content in passing motion.” In short, it “presupposes
education in contrapuntal thinking.”9 Since its top voice may produce the
music’s Urlinie, which is itself a linear progression, it also provides music
with its most fundamental linear structure and a key for composing-out in
general:10

9 10
Ibid., §203; p. 37/9.1. Ibid., p. 28/5.1.
 Der freie Satz 163

Within the poles of fundamental line [Urlinie] and foreground, of diatony and
tonality, the spatial depth of a musical work is expressed – its distant origin in the
simplest element, its transformation through subsequent stages and, finally, the
diversity of its foreground.

The linear progression’s goal-directed quality is also said to provide the

basis for music’s teleology:11
The goal and the course to the goal are primary. Content comes afterward: without a
goal there can be no content . . . A person stretches forth his hand and indicates a
direction with his finger. Immediately another person understands this sign. The
same gesture-language exists in music: every linear progression is comparable to a
pointing of the finger – its direction and goal are clearly indicated to the ear.

Most telling, however, is that Schenker seems to equate linear motion

with the spiritual basis upon which the entire transformational process
depends:12
In its linear progressions music mirrors the human soul in all its metamorphoses
and moods.

Schenker, as noted, recognized the linear progression’s potential well before

the first issue of Tonwille. It thus seems likely that, even before he recognized
its long-range possibilities, the progression encouraged him to search for a
general theory of compositional unfolding. Especially critical was the clarity
with which it illustrated the Schenkerian concept of passing motion, some-
thing that, already in Kontrapunkt I, depended upon the listener’s psycho-
logical processes, and thereby supplied a common base for a range of tonal
phenomena. In Kontrapunkt II, moreover, it was related to the “spiritual
verticalities” underlying all linear motion, and thus to the spirituality of
counterpoint in general.
This represented an important change from Harmonielehre, where har-
mony alone was said to be a “spiritual universe.” With the addition of
counterpoint, Schenker acknowledged that voice-leading as well partici-
pated in composing-out, so that its consonances remained in force even
when they were not literally present. Voice-leading thus achieved “neces-
sity,” enabling it to assume a more fundamental role in the theory. “The
unity of all passing motion” (die Einheit alles Durchgängigen), generalized to
include all prolongational motions, became a basic premise.

11
Ibid., p. 29/5.1–2.
12
Ibid., p. 19/xxiii.2. Although the German reads unambiguously, “In ihren Zügen spiegelt die
Musik der Menschenseele,” the English translation alters its meaning by inserting “and other
comparable tonal events” after “linear progressions.”
164 Development

This in turn led to the concept of the “mentally retained” Kopfton, which,
by controlling all linear progressions and linking passing motion to musical
hearing, allowed it to be expanded over much longer passages. Schenker, by
explaining all triadic unfolding in terms of the listener’s spiritual and
psychological capacities, justified the assumption that chords no longer
present remained conceptually in play. Both harmony and voice-leading,
thanks to composers’ and listeners’ memory and imagination, were thereby
able to be essential prolongational agents regulating musical motion.13 This
explains why human hearing was so critical for Schenker, who even used the
word in the titles of two of his articles: the early (1894) “Das Hören in der
Musik” (“Hearing in Music”), quoted at the opening of Chapter 1, and the
later (1922) “Die Kunst zu Hören” (“The Art of Listening”).
We have already seen that the dissonances of passing motion can be
converted into consonances at more foreground levels. And now Schenker
notes:14
This principle continues through all layers of the middleground, creating more and
more new layers which present new possibilities of prolongations for dissonant
passing tones either in the outer or in the inner voice. Finally the foreground, with
its greatest freedom, shows voice-leading events which are not understandable as
passing motions unless one refers to relationships in the middleground and
background.

The linear progression, as mentioned, supports Schenker’s assumption that

music is essentially melodic. But whereas in “Geist” it caused him to deny
music’s organicism, since he could not specify any logical principle of
melodic succession, he could later circumvent this problem by reconceiving
melody in terms of linear progression. As a consequence, melody acquired
the logic and necessity demanded by the final theory. By focusing on the
voice-leading patterns underlying it, Schenkerian melody gave up its tradi-
tional manifestations as theme and motive and could be explained
“organically.”
For the genius, the Urlinie is the “primal design” of melodic content.
“Melody,” relinquishing its connection to “motive” and “idea” (words
Schenker now places in scare quotes), is redefined as a voice-leading trans-
formation with a purely linear function, becoming “a melody of far higher
order and greater inevitability.”15

13
Although all such voice-leading motions conform to strict counterpoint, they do not conform to
species counterpoint. However much they may resemble species exercises, they differ
fundamentally in both form and intent.
14
Schenker (1935/1979), §170. 15 Ibid., §50.
 Der freie Satz 165

Despite this, however, the linear progression cannot simply be equated

with Schenker’s final theory. The Ursatz, for example, invariably joins it to a
bass arpeggiation; and at later levels it is linked to various other prolonging
operations. Nevertheless, it offers deep insight into some of the theory’s
most fundamental features.

A sample analysis

At this point we can examine in detail an analysis from Der freie Satz,
thereby getting a more concrete view of Schenker’s approach. A difficulty, as
noted, is that the graphs were designed to illustrate particular theoretical
points and vary widely in form and purpose. Most have only one analytical
level; and if they have more, they have, with few exceptions, only two.
Moreover, since the graphs were not conceived as complete analyses, they
rarely encompass entire movements. And as a consequence, the three-level
analysis of the complete, though brief, second song of Schumann’s
Dichterliebe is often cited in introductory literature as illustrating
Schenker’s approach.16
I have chosen a longer and more differentiated analysis: the Largo e
mesto movement from Beethoven’s D-major Piano Sonata, op. 10 no. 3
(Schenker’s figure 39.2).17 Reproduced here as Example 8.1, the graph
covers the entire piece (though there is relatively little on its recapitulation
and ending). Nevertheless, the graph contains only two levels, both of which
are notated on a single staff, the upper one with an Ursatz and interrupted
Urlinie and the second with a relatively deep middleground graph. Both,
however, illustrate many of Schenker’s ideas about tonal motion. (Though it

16
This graph (Schenker’s figure 22b), used only to illustrate interruption (Schenker says almost
nothing further about it), becomes the centerpiece of both Forte (1959) and Kerman (1980), the
former presenting a largely enthusiastic assessment and the latter a largely negative one.
17
A detailed, broadly-based, and extremely interesting analysis of the piece appears in Wintle
(1985). Despite the article’s “Kontra-Schenker” title, however, Wintle is not so much concerned
with Schenker’s own analysis as with the piece’s relation to other analyses: by Riemann, Diether
de la Motte, Donald Francis Tovey, and Federhofer. In addition, he is primarily concerned with
the movement’s “synthesis” of dynamic, registral, formal, and motivic structures (in the latter
leaning heavily upon Berg and Schoenberg), as well as with diminished-seventh chords,
orthography, and the piece’s combination of “wildness” and “melancholy.” Though my remarks
on Schenker’s graph were written before I read the article, I necessarily touch on some of the
voice-leading features mentioned by Wintle, although what he says ranges far beyond the graph
in Der freie Satz. The “Kontra-Schenker” of his title, for example, is not directed so much
“against” Schenker as to the fact that the article’s seventh part (also entitled “Kontra-Schenker”)
offers a “counter-structure” of diminished-seventh chords as a complement to Schenker’s voice-
leading graph, a structure that Wintle describes as related to “the argument of the entire paper.”
166 Development

Example 8.1 Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 10 no. 3, II: analysis (Schenker 1935/1979,
example 39.2, p. 13)

is possible to understand much of what follows from the graphs alone, a

complete score is helpful, especially for the second one.)
Schenker’s top graph combines the background with several deep mid-
dleground features. The Ursatz, indicated with beams and white notes,
defines the D-minor key through its two basic motions: an interrupted
Urlinie, which descends first from f 2 to e2 (the third and second degree),
and is then repeated and completed to d2; and the bass, which arpeggiates
from tonic to fifth and back. Inner-voice notes are included to clarify
harmonies but are notated in black, as are the repeated D and A bass
notes accompanying the Urlinie repetitions of f 2 and e2. Black notes with
slurs also indicate the prolongation of the first dominant chord to m. 38,
where the middle voice rises to c]2, the leading tone.
Schenker’s unusual treatment of interruption here deserves some com-
ment. The bass’s opening D and initial arrival on the dominant V are
accompanied by f 3 and e2 in the top voice, all notated with white notes. In
the restatement and completion, however, only the top notes have open-
note values, while the first two bass notes (D and A) are in black. This seems
to indicate that these two notes are not part of the Ursatz but only prolong
the final bass D (which is white), with no structural tonic at the background
level immediately following the prolonged V. But if so, this means that the
bass is not interrupted at all, as confirmed by the first row of Roman
numerals (at the bottom of the second graph), whose final D alone (I)
follows the first A (V). The graph thus shows melodic but not harmonic
interruption. Schenker does not normally treat interruption in this contra-
dictory manner, but opts instead for the fully interrupted form shown in
figure 21a of Der freie Satz V (but not in figure 21b).18

18
The topic of interruption is returned to in Section 2 of Chapter 10.
 Der freie Satz 167

The lower graph of Example 8.1 contains the most important middle-
ground elaborations. The initial top-voice f 2 is approached by linear ascent
from the tonic, d1, with registral transfer between the first two notes (the
opening d2 being notated only in parenthesis). Though f 2 is accompanied
in the bass by a chromatic G], the top voice’s subsequent third-descent to
d2, appearing in conjunction with a complete bass arpeggiation, is suffi-
cient to prolong the opening D-minor configuration (as indicated in part
by the diagonal line connecting the bass D and top-voice f 2 in mm. 1–7).
Thus G] is a chromatic passing tone elaborating the A, to which it
resolves.19
The Urlinie’s initial 3̂ is first prolonged by the linear descent to d2
(mm. 7–9), appearing with the bass D that completes the first bass arpeg-
giation (producing a transferred middleground Ursatz in mm. 1–9). It is
then further prolonged by the flagged f 2 seventh as part of a V7 chord on G,
V7 of C (m. 12), which carries the top voice down to the second Urlinie tone,
e2, accompanied by the bass’s C (m. 13). This passing e2 is thus here made
consonant and subsequently prolonged, first by third-progression to c2, and
then by third to a1, completing a fifth-descent with the tonicizing bass A of
an E–A arpeggiation (preceded by D] accompanying c2, transposing the
outer voices of m. 7). There is consequently a transferred Ursatz on A at the
exposition’s close; but it is incomplete, since it begins on the third, C (rather
than the root, A) (mm. 13–21).20 (This is followed by two confirmations of
the A cadence, in mm. 22–26 and 26–29, neither of which is included in the
graph.)
The brief development section begins by accompanying the A chord’s
middle voice c2 with its lower fifth F, both voices moving stepwise upwards
through 5–6 exchanges back to e2 over A, completing the larger prolonga-
tion of A in mm. 13–38. (Schenker’s word Untergreifzug, abbreviated as
Untergrfz., which may be translated as “motion from an inner voice,” refers
to the ascent from c2 back to the top-voice e2; while brackets above the
ascent’s first, third, and fifth notes refer to the parallel fifths avoided by 5–6
exchanges.) The raising of the middle voice to c]2 converts the previously
tonicized A chord into the dominant of D minor, its prolongation indicated
by slurs connecting the top-voice e2s (mm. 13–38) and bass As, mm. 21–38
(here presumably dotted because the notes are the same), plus completion of

19
Schenker includes this example primarily to illustrate the opening ascent to a first Urlinie tone
appearing over a chromatic tone (thus the asterisk under the bass G]).
20
This incomplete progression is an example of what Schenker refers to as an auxiliary cadence.
For a useful summary of this complex notion and its compositional realizations, see Burstein
(2005).
168 Development

the broken beam in the top voice to show the movement’s primary tonal
division.
In the recapitulation, b[1 returns as a middle voice (m. 48, resembling
m. 5), and there is again a top-voice ascent with octave transfer from d1 to f 2
with the latter again accompanied by G] (cf. mm. 7 and 63). Here, however,
d1 is transferred up an octave to d2 before ascending to f 2, with d2 accom-
panied by the bass B[ (m. 54), dividing the bass’s leap from D to G] and f 2
now initiates a complete Urlinie descent to its final d2 goal, again preceded
by a fifth-descent that mirrors the one in A that closed the exposition.
In addition, the first set of Roman numerals below the second graph refers
to the larger harmonic progression associated with the Ursatz, while the
second set, immediately underneath the first, contains the two transferred
Ursatz forms mentioned (the second incomplete): on I (mm. 1–9) and
V (mm. 13–21).
The two graphs leave a number of questions unanswered, partly because
they were not intended as a complete analysis. One concerns where the
Ursatz’s final tonic arrival is located. Since the last measure indicated is m.
63, it obviously cannot be m. 60 (which seems unlikely in any case, though
the measure does correspond in some respects with m. 21). But is the final
tonic arrival at m. 65, m. 76, or the final measure (with m. 76 perhaps
preferred due to the final descending-fifth progression over V)?21
There are other omissions as well. A more detailed middleground, for
example, would presumably show that the b[1s in m. 5 (exposition) and
m. 48 (reprise) are both goals of rising-sixth linear progressions leading to
tonicizations of G minor. There are also numerous additional octave trans-
fers, including those connected with the top-voice third-descents in
mm. 7–9 and mm. 13–17, as well as with the two subsidiary A-minor
prolongations and complete bass arpeggiations in mm. 21–26 and 26–29.
In addition, the voice-leading in the development could be further clarified,
and the reprise graphed in greater detail.
Even leaving such omissions aside, however, the analysis raises questions
about what it does and does not communicate. To begin positively, it
shows that the linear and arpeggiated motions of the pitches project one
key that allows all temporary tonics and secondary keys to work together in
creating a unified tonal space. The keys of C major (mm. 13–17), A minor
(mm. 18–33), F major (30–34), and B-flat major (mm. 53–56), for example,

21
A more general question that defies a simple answer is whether or not there are actual points in a
musical score that correspond to Ursatz configurations. Many Schenkerians (with some
justification) do not think so, preferring to consider the Ursatz as “ideal” and not necessarily tied
to specific compositional events.
 Der freie Satz 169

all participate in a comprehensive tonal structure. Taking the first two as

examples, C major is not treated as an isolated key but helps prolong A
minor (as in the second graph), which itself prolongs the movement’s tonic
D minor (as in the first). All keys elaborate the tonic in some way.
The analysis also facilitates a more detailed interpretation of correspond-
ing pitch events at different structural levels. For example, B[ performs
numerous complementary roles: it is upper neighbor within the larger linear
progression (mm. 6–8 and its altered return in mm. 49–51); temporary
tonic (mm. 53–56); VI of D minor (mm. 56–57); and participates through-
out in various motivic events.
The analysis also offers a view of the movement’s form that is closely
related to, yet distinct from, the thematic and sectional articulations favored
in more traditional analysis. This is particularly helpful here, where, follow-
ing a well-defined opening first theme (mm. 1–9) corresponding to the first
D prolongation, the second theme grows imperceptibly out of the tonic
extension in mm. 9–17 before reaching its first cadential goal on C major,
which in turn delays the arrival on the dominant until m. 21. The first of
these tonally unstable sections thus serves to shift the key from D minor to
C major, and the second from C major to A minor. Schenker’s analysis,
however, since it sees C major as part of the dominant prolongation,
interprets what might otherwise be considered a transitional passage
(mm. 9–21) as belonging for the most part to a larger A-minor complex.
The movement’s second group thus unites three quite different passages
under a single formal–tonal idea. The first leads in the top voice from f 2 to e2
(from D minor to the second group’s Kopfton) over C major, and then
prolongs C with a descending third, e2 to c2 (mm. 9–17); the second carries
this melodic progression on to a1, reached at the A cadence (mm. 18–21);
while the third (not included in Schenker’s graph) provides a more stable
variation of the second (mm. 22–26). But despite this apparent formal
peculiarity, the entire second group is tonally unified, as it is motivically
by the “sigh” figure derived from the first group (in mm. 13 and 15 and,
more extensively, in mm. 17–26).
These tonal–formal “contradictions” are even more pronounced in the
recapitulation, where the first and second thematic groups, taken to-
gether, create a motion in the tonic. The reprise of the opening two-phrase
thematic statement (mm. 1–9) is now altered to stay on iv rather than return
to I (mm. 44–52), and is followed in mm. 52.4–56.2 by a new version
of mm. 13.4–17.2 that closes on B-flat major rather than the exposition’s
C major; while the following section, mm. 56–65, resolves B-flat back to
D minor with a new version of mm. 17–26. The reprise, then, unites
170 Development

elements of both thematic groups that were previously modulatory, within a

single, tonic-defining tonal process. Despite differences, there is neverthe-
less a measure-by-measure derivation of the content of mm. 13–25 in
mm. 52–64 (transposed and with other alterations), the exposition’s
C major–A minor downward third becoming the reprise’s B-flat major–D
minor upward third. The tonic cadence at m. 60, corresponding to the
structural dominant cadence at m. 21, is however completely subsumed
within this larger motion.22
On the negative side, some will simply disagree with the way these formal
features have been identified and defined, while others will find the focus
skewed, either because important details are not considered or are pinned
down, contradicting the belief that they are better left open to different (and
often contradictory) interpretations. There is no effective response to such
demurrals, however, except to acknowledge their existence.23
Among numerous other things that Schenker does not tell us, some result
from the fact that his graphs are not designed to show them (presumably
because they were considered less important), while others – potentially
more interesting – are excluded by his commitment to rigor and pitch
orientation. We are not told, for example, anything explicit about the
rhythmic shape of the movement, which seems paradoxical since
Schenker’s pitch choices obviously depend heavily upon rhythmic and
formal decisions. Otherwise, how would he make such basic determinations
as that there is a significant arrival at m. 9, or that the A arrival in m. 21 takes
precedence over the one in m. 26? Nor is there explanation of why a codetta
appears at mm. 26–29, a coda at mm. 65–76, a return of the opening texture
at m. 76, and an acceleration of harmonic rhythm at m. 69.4–70. But the
theory’s very nature prevents a theoretical account of such decisions.
This points to a closely related anomaly: whereas Schenker’s analytical
decisions depend upon a firm intuitive grasp of formal-rhythmic matters
(one of the reasons he presumably insisted that his theory was not mechan-
ical), these cannot be dealt with in theoretical terms. They are analytically
banished, as are such other non-pitch matters as dynamics and timbre,

22
A Schenkerian analysis also helps explain such apparently anomalous progressions as the one
linking the root position tonic chord at m. 65 (presumably beginning the coda) to the ii 6/5 chord
in m. 71. A detailed graph of the seemingly mysterious intervening chords (including two
inverted E-flat chords and a series of parallel diminished sevenths) could show that they support
an octave shift in the top voice (d1 to d2) with a rising, largely chromatic linear progression
accompanied at the sixth below by a bass supplying mobile – yet relatively consonant – linear
support. This progression continues diatonically in mm. 71–72, through e2 and f 2 over G and A,
leading to the dominant prolongation in mm. 72–75.
23
For a compendium of analytical issues omitted by Schenker, see the Wintle article cited in fn. 17.
 Der freie Satz 171

musical form (at least as the term is normally understood), and the music’s
“meaning.” That Schenker cared deeply about all these matters is obvious;
and even his later work frequently provides non-theoretical commentary on
them to support his theoretical decisions. But since such elements are not
controlled by the theory’s internal mechanisms, they must be treated
“informally.” This explains why the notion of synthesis, never entirely
abandoned, required fundamental reinterpretation in the later work.
Compositional elements no longer worked together in mutual cooperation
but functioned exclusively in the service of voice-leading and prolongational
matters. Much is gained, of course, by focusing exclusively on pitch relation-
ships, which lend themselves well to the theory’s rigor; but much is lost as
well. This problem is not, of course, Schenker’s alone; no music theorist has
managed to incorporate non-pitch matters with anything like the rigor
evident in his pitch analyses. But as he himself must have realized, non-
pitch factors could be interpreted by his theory only externally, not within
the theory itself. So however much their role may be illuminated by a purely
Schenkerian analysis, they remain necessarily ancillary.

Ideology and Der freie Satz

Having previously considered the influence of Schenker’s ideological beliefs

on his theoretical development, we now turn to their impact on his final
theory. Though Schenker liked to stress connections between his beliefs and
his theoretical work, the interrelationship between the two was fully estab-
lished only when the final theory was complete. And having shaped to such
a marked extent his conception of Der freie Satz, such ideas can facilitate our
understanding of it. Though most were established in the earlier writings
(indeed, many in the “Geist” article of 1895), and were discussed in previous
chapters, here they are brought together collectively, something that to my
knowledge has not been done before. Listed as a numbered series of
interconnected theses, they provide a kind of conceptual “snapshot” of the
background sources for Schenker’s musical theory at the end of his life.24
(1) great music is based on purely musical principles; (2) these are derived from
nature; (3) from them music acquires organic coherence; (4) the connection to
nature stems from the overtone series and the tones’ “will” to propagate through
triadic and motivic repetition; (5) this natural component is transformed into art by

24
This list is limited to ideas more-or-less directly tied to music; but it is also consistent with
Schenker’s political and social views, even at their most extreme.
172 Development

both the Ursatz and the subsequent prolongational layers; (6) the layers are hier-
archically organized; (7) nature is transformed into music only unconsciously and
instinctively, and (increasingly in the later writings) through God’s grace; (8) this
transformation is achieved only by geniuses, operating unconsciously; (9) this
preserves agreement between nature and art, making great music consistent with
natural law;25 (10) music thereby acquires inner necessity; (11) though the prin-
ciples behind the nature–music agreement emerged gradually in a long historical
process, they remain eternally valid; (12) masterpieces alone reveal these principles;
(13) their provenance is in essence German; (14) the most significant musical
relationships lie beneath the surface and are not accessible to normal perception;
(15) they can be explained only through spiritual-psychological processes made
comprehensible through Schenker’s theory; (16) understanding the theory requires
elite and knowledgeable listeners; (17) like the musical masterpieces it addresses, the
theory is intuitive and artistic in nature.26

Presentation of the theory’s aesthetic background in this manner provides a

useful base for posing a basic question: Why did Schenker, with so little
precedence to guide him, formulate such an unusual conception of music?
While this list cannot be said to have “caused” the theory, it does play a
critical role in its formation; and it thus helps us understand why he took on
this difficult task in the first place and then realized it with such persever-
ance. In addition, its examination focuses attention on material from Der
freie Satz, especially the opening chapters, which is too often ignored.
The remainder of this section then, examines how the ideas listed above
helped shape Schenker’s theory. Its material is presented by and large in
paraphrase rather than direct quotation, exceptional for this book. Sources
have nonetheless been inserted in brackets (these are drawn exclusively
from Freier Satz, indicated by FS). For reasons of space, however, these are
normally limited to one or two for each point, and only one passage is
quoted at length. All seventeen points listed above, however, are touched
upon, though not in order.
To begin, Schenker’s theory is not a makeshift. Its graphs contain actual
music; and though great composers are aware of the theory, they are so only

25
This recalls the moment in “Geist” when Schenker, before rejecting the notion, temporarily
ascribes organicism to music composed instinctively. By the time of Der freie Satz, however, this
view has become completely unambiguous: “the unity of nature and art becomes stronger and
stronger” in moving from the fundamental structure down to the foreground (Schenker 1935/
1979, §115).
26
Though this list is never presented as a unified argument, its tenets are all explicit in Der freie
Satz. Yet they were also set out repeatedly in the earlier works. What distinguishes Der freie Satz,
then, is not so much its ideology as its presentation in connection with a fully developed music
theory.
 Der freie Satz 173

unconsciously, through their own musical experiences (FS, 17/xxii.2). In

addition, the theory claims that music is autonomous and thus independent
of external factors such as dance, song, and march (FS, 26/4.1; 31/160.1). Its
concern, then, is purely musical, the result of human transformation of the
chord of nature.
The theory’s first musical representation, the Ursatz, the most basic form
of transformation, is not a part of nature but a conversion of nature’s
vertical source into a horizontal succession that conforms to the laws of
strict counterpoint (FS, 39–40/10–11.1). Yet the tones of the Ursatz, though
a contrapuntal expression of the chord of nature, do not form its actual
overtones but only their images or reflections (FS §9).27 The process of
translating nature into human form, made possible in part by the self-
replicating urges of the triad, then continues in analogous manner (as
reflections of reflections) from the Ursatz through the subsequent trans-
formational layers, all of which are hierarchically organized and thereby
provide an image of unified perfection capable of justifying music’s role as
ultimate truth (FS §50 and §115). These layers, incorporating ever more and
longer contrapuntal elaboration, ultimately lead to the composition itself
(FS, 27–28/4.2–5.1; §1–3, §22).
Much of Freier Satz deals with the processes of transformation: their
constitution, how they take place and relate to one another, and how they
are all, thanks to the Ursatz, linked to a common source. Rather than a
chronological explanation of what music is, then, the theory provides a
logical explanation of the interrelationships between simpler and more
complex combinations of tones (FS §29).
Despite their “human” source, the transformations remain organic and
natural. Both the Ursatz and its transformational layers “spring from a vital
natural power,” bringing the chord of nature to life (FS §46). In addition, since
the layers are horizontal, they give rise to the tensions and relaxations
associated with live organisms (FS, 29/5.1–2). They also remain tied to nature
through the consonant “vertical event” formed by the Ursatz’s opening
configuration (FS §12) as well as its final tonic arrival, which resolves all
musical tension (FS §10). And thanks to repetition, “a symbol of organic life
in the world of tones,” music is able to achieve artistic status on its own terms

27
As Schenker expresses the point in Meisterwerk I, the tones of the Ursatz, like the underlying
chord itself, are “as it were, idea.” The reader will again be aware that Schenker’s theory, even if
we grant him his theoretical assumptions, does not apply to “music” in general but only to a small
portion. And though Schenker’s insistence on a “purely musical” explanation, limited to a
specific canon of works, is simply taken for granted here, it is examined at length in the following
chapters.
174 Development

(FS §254). Finally, the entire process is spiritual: musical unfolding, an “image
of life-motion,” produces an “energy transformation” of its underlying natural
source (FS, 30/160.1), and reflects nature’s germination in its outward growth
(FS, 31/6.1). The musical organism, by remaining true to its own desires, thus
mirrors the natural organism (FS §254).28
The point that music retains its natural source warrants full quotation of
a particularly clear presentation of the composing-out process (partly
quoted previously):29
Thus, the fifth and third of Nature manifest themselves not only in the fundamental
linear progressions 3̂ –1̂ or 5̂ –1̂ and in the counterpointing arpeggiation of the bass
through the fifth, but also in fifth- and third-progressions which descend from a
tone of the fundamental line. This agreement with nature and with the fundamental
structure reveals itself even in the linear progressions of the transformation levels.
Thus on the way from fundamental structure to foreground, the unity of Nature and
Art becomes stronger and stronger.

Since all musical content is grounded in voice-leading transformations (FS

§50), the laws of passing motion are significantly extended, above all
because of the principle of mental retention (FS §204). Music also acquires
necessity through voice-leading. The Ursatz, for example, displays the same
“inner need” within the framework of voice-leading as does a cantus firmus
setting within strict counterpoint (FS §82); and its “inexorable compulsion”
reaches down ultimately to all layers of the music (FS §99), so that it
determines even the logic of individual harmonies (FS §84).
Though the history of music underwent a lengthy evolution through
which its laws were gradually developed along with the indispensable role
of polyphony (FS, 26–27/4.1–2), they remained always the same. As a
consequence, there is but one musical grammar, which deals partly with
subsurface phenomena that Schenker’s theory alone can explain (FS, 28,
first edition only/160.2). Yet since music’s creation is “inaccessible to
metaphysics,” it cannot be taught or learned (FS §50); its “secrets” are
attainable only by geniuses, who, favored by God, act unconsciously and
instinctively (FS, 18/xxiii.1). And since all great works belong to a limited
repertory, and are in essence Germanic, Schenker’s canon is accorded a
manifest destiny (p. 28, first edition only/161.1).

28
That music is now “organic” deserves further comment, since it obviously represents a change
from Schenker’s earlier view. The word “organic,” which receives frequent but negative
treatment in “Geist,” almost completely disappears in Harmonielehre; but it then reappears with
increasingly positive implications and frequency in Kontrapunkt I and II and the monographs,
and becomes almost ubiquitous in Tonwille, Meisterwerk, and Der freie Satz.
29
Schenker (1935/1979), §115.
 Der freie Satz 175

In addition, music’s hidden and unconscious relationships, “the seed and

flowering of German creative genius” (FS §254), necessarily had to remain
unnoticed until Schenker revealed them. And since only unconsciously
conceived works are “masterpieces,” these alone matter. This explains
why the concept of genius is so critical to Schenker: only an unconscious
musical creator can conquer and intensify nature (FS §263, p. 36/9.1, 21/
xxiv.2, 26/3.2). And not surprisingly, his theory is thus comprehended only
by gifted listeners (FS, 27/4.1–2).
Schenker’s ideology also explains his interest in improvisation. As a sort
of unconscious musicality, it is characterized as “the ability in which all
creation begins,” dependent upon knowledge of the unity of the whole (FS,
32/6.2) and the secrets of organic art (FS, 36/9.1). Improvisation is music’s
“initial inspiration” and requires “clairvoyance,” a “far-reaching forward
and backward perception” that allows the composer to envision it from a
greater distance (FS §183). And this explains why music theory can never be
a science, but must always remain an art (FS, 19/xxiii.2).30

The religious component

In the previous section’s summary of Schenker’s ideological beliefs and their

relation to his final theory, one element was largely omitted: religion.
Though only touched upon previously in this study, the religious factor
warrants attention as one of the theory’s striking features. Unlike most of
Schenkerian ideology, however, it becomes evident for the most part only in
the later publications; but there it assumes central importance.
The first thing to note is that, though Schenker had few institutional
religious ties, the significance of his Jewish upbringing was a central factor
in the formation of his character. I have written elsewhere about Schenker
as Grenzjude, or “border Jew,” an idea introduced into sociological
thought by Georg Simmel in 1908. Schenker was in some sense fully
assimilated into Germanic society, yet someone who also lived in relative

30
Although music’s hierarchical structure is well covered in Der freie Satz, its nationalistic basis is
stressed only in the work’s first edition, and to a limited extent even there. This is telling, for by
1935 Schenker had considerably toned down his nationalistic rhetoric, which had been so
emphatic in Tonwille and Meisterwerk. And the second edition of Der freie Satz (1956) and its
English translation both retain and even abet this change. (Nevertheless, the first edition of Der
freie Satz does contain a fascinating additional instance of nationalism concerning Beethoven’s
possibly “foreign blood,” quoted in full in Section 5 of the next chapter [pp. 195–200].) The
situation with musical autonomy is even more telling. Though Schenker addressed the matter
only indirectly in Der freie Satz, the intellectual climate had (presumably) altered sufficiently by
the time of its initial publication to make it no longer an issue.
176 Development

anonymity. In this sense, he was both part of his surroundings yet distant
from them.31 As a Jew, he must have felt significantly alienated from
Viennese culture, especially its musical component, which he felt was in
complete decline. Yet he was equally convinced that he alone possessed a
cure that could put it back on its true foundations, from which it had
become irrevocably separated.
The importance of Schenker’s Jewish background, however, extends well
beyond Simmel’s concept and accounts for the deeply religious character of
his musical beliefs in general. Despite failure to acquire institutional affili-
ation, Schenker never denied his Jewishness but accepted it as a source of
great pride; and despite his seemingly incomprehensible praise of Hitler’s
“brownshirts,” as expressed in a notebook entry of 1933,32 it was inseparably
connected to both his character and values.
Schenker’s religious dimension, however, was not determined entirely by
his Jewishness; it also had a partly musical source. His attitude toward music
thus reflected the broad sacralization of the fine arts that occurred through-
out Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, which affected both
Christians and Jews. Art was widely felt to be a kind of substitute, or
compensation, for the loss of established religion during these years, when
it was forced to forfeit its previous centrality. Shorn of traditional ritualistic
and social connections by its separation from church and court, art was re-
envisioned as “pure,” as having significant worth solely in its own right.
Schenker, especially in his later work, was obviously affected by this turn, as
is evident for example in his 1925 statement in Meisterwerk I: “Everything in
the realm of creation is wondrous. It emanates from God, the originator of
all that is wondrous. Where there is no wonderment, there can be no art;
where there is no faith too, there can be no art.”33
Music, moreover, enjoyed a privileged position within the world of pure
art; thanks to its supposed immateriality, many considered it the most
“metaphysical” of arts, ideally constituted to convey transcendent truths. It
seems more than likely that Schenker himself thought of music in these terms.
As early as Die Harmonielehre (1906), he thus remarked on its special status
as independent of ordinary experience: “By its own means and without direct
aid from Nature, [music] has reached a degree of sublimity on which it can
compete with those other arts supported by direct association of ideas from
Nature.”34 And four years later (1910), in Kontrapunkt I, he noted its absolute

31
Morgan (2002), p. 265.
32
Schenker (1985), p. 329. One can only be thankful that he did not live to experience the Austrian
Anschluss of 1938, to say nothing of his work’s subsequent banning.
33
Schenker (1925/1994), p. 211/116.2. 34 Schenker (1906/1954), p. 15/11.
 Der freie Satz 177

yet mysterious value: “If the philosopher [Schopenhauer], using counterpoint

as a point of departure, could only have formed an idea of the absolute nature
of music, it might have then been so much easier for him to understand the
ultimate mystery of the world, its absolute nature, and perceive the dream of
the creator of the world as a similarly absolute phenomenon!”35 From these it
is a relatively short step to the later statement in Meisterwerk I.
Schenker, however, added a significant new twist to the idea of music’s
omnipresence: whereas both romanticism and idealism praised music because
its higher meaning was viewed as ineffable, superseding rational thought and
explanation, Schenker claimed that his mature theory accounted precisely for
its total comprehensibility. Indeed, music’s exalted position not only fostered
his theoretical project but encouraged him to understand it in ethical terms: as
“a strengthening of our lives, an uplifting, and a vital exercise of the spirit
[through which we] achieve a heightening of our moral worth in general.”36
As implied in this statement, Schenker’s commitment to music’s unique
worth depended not only on art’s autonomy and organicism but on its religious
character as well. As he says in Freier Satz: “All that is organic, every relatedness
belongs to God and remains His gift, even when man creates the work and
perceives that it is organic.”37 At one point Schenker’s Jewish roots even
become manifest when, after noting music’s derivation from a single cause,
he asks: “Should I then proclaim my artistic-monotheistic theory from a Mount
Sinai and attempt to win over believers by performing miracles? Well, miracles
will happen, since belief in connectedness will sooner or later make the
musician a listener, even if it can never make ungifted ones talented.”38
Schenker’s interrelated theoretical and religious views completely join
forces in the following quotation:39

Included in the elevation of the spirit to the fundamental structure is an uplifting of

an almost religious character to God and to the geniuses through whom He works –
an uplifting, in the literal sense, to the kind of coherence which is found only in God
and the geniuses. Between fundamental structure and foreground there is mani-
fested a rapport much like that ever-present, interactional rapport which connects
God to creation and creation to God. Fundamental structure and foreground
represent, in terms of the rapport, the celestial and terrestrial in music.

Here one sees clearly the importance of religion to Schenker: it provided his
theory with a foundation deeper even than nature itself and strong enough

35
Schenker (1910a/1987), p. 24/16. 36 Schenker (1935/1979), p. 30/6.1.
37
Ibid., p. 18/xxiii.1. 38 Schenker (1935), p. 18, omitted in the translation.
39
Schenker (1935/1979), p. 29/160.1.
178 Development

to support its spiritual dimension. Without this religious dimension, music,

being linked to the mental activity of hearing, could be seen as transient. But
God provided it with a level more fundamental even than the chord of
nature itself: an ultimate background.

The nature of Schenker’s theory

We can now step back and view Schenker’s mature theory in its entirety and
ask: What kind of theory is it? Perhaps the most general answer is that the
theory is one based on what Schenker calls the “laws” of contrapuntal
writing. The Ursatz’s combination of the linear progression and bass arpeg-
giation into a single contrapuntal succession already communicates essen-
tial contrapuntal aspects of the theory; and the fact that the Ursatz supports
all musical operations indicates that its contrapuntal conception supports
the entirety. Schenker thus succeeded in making counterpoint, a purely
musical phenomenon with deep roots in Western musical tradition, his
theory’s driving force. And what matters about counterpoint, evident in all
his comments on the subject, is that it provides a set of rules that can govern
all voice-leading relationships according to basic consonance–dissonance
distinctions. He did not, however, simply follow these rules. His theory
focuses not just on well-known contrapuntal principles but extends them to
cover ever larger elaborations and eventually entire compositions. This use
of long-accepted conventions on an expansive scale both defines his theo-
retical “style” and sets him apart from all his forerunners.
There are, of course, other ways of characterizing the theory. One com-
mentator thus asks if it is a theory of “musical structure,” of “organic
coherence” in tonal masterpieces, of “hierarchic levels of musical elabora-
tion,” or simply of “tonality” in general.40 But surely it is all of these: a theory
of musical structure as produced by pitch relationships, of tonal master-
pieces containing organic coherence, of hierarchic levels represented by
ordered strata of contrapuntal elaboration, and of tonality determined by
linear motions derived from nature.41
But in addition, it is also a theory of compositional “generation,” at least
as that word is used in linguistics: a logical explanatory model of musical
production, but one that does not claim to explain how music is actually

40
Brown (1991), p. 273.1.
41
As noted earlier, however, it is not a theory of “tonality” in the broader sense, as it applies to too
restricted a repertory.
 Der freie Satz 179

composed.42 Its connection with linguistics quickly diverges, however, for it

views generation, as is consistent with Schenker’s later organicism, not
purely formally but as a biological process that involves “procreation.”
Admittedly, Freier Satz mentions analogies between music and language,
describing itself as “a genuine theory of tonal language”43 and as “a kind of
tonal language” not “comparable to mathematics or to architecture.”44 But
such comparisons are always made in the light of music’s biological nature,
its “image of our life-motion.”45
Schenker’s theory is as well a theory of musical analysis. Virtually all of its
points are illustrated through analytical means in actual compositions. Not
only does it lend itself to analytical use (as do many theories), it demon-
strates its main features almost entirely through compositional example.
Schenker’s goal, then, is not just to provide a general image of musical
organization but to show how specific pieces, despite their differences,
conform to that image. This is accomplished, moreover, not through
some abstract measuring device but in response to the way music unfolds
in time. No previous theory had attempted an elucidation of music’s in-
time, measure-by-measure motion in a comparable way.
We have seen that there is little doubt that Schenker favored a generative
conception of his theory, and thus preferred to order his analytical layers from
top down, from background to foreground. Yet, we have also noted that he
equivocates on this point in one of his “Urlinie” articles, and even temporarily
reverses the normal analytical direction of the graphs, commenting that the
direction of layers is less important than bringing them clearly to light. Even in
Freier Satz, he asserts that the Ursatz shows “the precision of relationship not
only from the simple to the more complex, but also in reverse, from the
complex to the simple.” What matters, then, is that music’s “secret balance . . .
ultimately lies in the constant awareness of the transformation layers and the
motion from foreground to background or the reverse.”46 Generation and
analysis are thus viewed as two different ways to attain the same result: from
Ursatz to surface through composing-out, or from surface to Ursatz through
reduction. And if this is so, his theory is best understood as being simulta-
neously both generative and analytical: generative yet based on analytical
procedures; analytical yet presented in generative form.
Despite the theory’s elaborate internal mechanisms, Schenker considered
it intuitive and based upon unconscious processes. He was drawn, as we

42
For a determinedly generative view of the theory, argued from a primarily formalist-linguistic
perspective, see Keiler (1983).
43
Schenker (1935/1979), p. 37/9.1. 44 Ibid., p. 30/5.2. 45 Ibid. 46 Ibid., §29.
180 Development

have seen, to compositional immediacy, to improvisation and what he

called “tone-readiness.” “The voice-leading constraint creates a certain ‘read-
iness’ which imparts to music the same flow as language displays in its
constant readiness for thought and word.” And “true musical fluency
comparable to that in speech,” moreover, “is to be found only in works of
genius.”47 As he put it in Meisterwerk II, “Tone-readiness presupposes the
whole,” and it “must be created by improvisation if it is not to be only an
assemblage of sections and motives in the sense of a formal schema.”48
These intuitive matters reflected the idealist side of Schenker. Combined
with his theory’s highly systematic aspects, they might seem surprising; but
by combining both idealist and empirical approaches, Schenker could make
two seemingly contradictory claims: that music’s organization is incompre-
hensible and mysterious, yet it is also unified and systematic. This had
profound implications on his work, which possessed an analytical compo-
nent derived from modernism but a vitalistic one derived from romanti-
cism. This dual source not only determined the theory’s character, but
reflected Schenker’s Romantic joint vision of music as a miraculous and
separate world and a modernist one of empirical secrets that were readily
available to the human mind. Like so much modernism, Schenker’s
remained rooted in nineteenth-century soil.49
This binary aspect also led Schenker to believe that his theory provided a
purely musical explanation of music’s underlying truths, and this enabled him
to renegotiate the famous nineteenth-century aesthetic conundrum that music
is a language but one that is rationally inexplicable. By deciphering the
language exclusively in its own terms, and with the result displayed in its
own notational system, he felt that he had given music the power to speak for
itself. As he says, his graphs were “not merely practical aids,” they were “part of
the actual composition.”50 This conversion of the art’s ineffable language into a
humanly comprehensible one turned Romantic music aesthetics on its head.51

47
Ibid., §83. 48 Schenker (1926/1996), p. 46/107.
49
The theory seems to oscillate between a quasi-medieval speculative tradition, which recognizes in
music clues to the order of the cosmos, and a nineteenth-century one that, rejecting these earlier
mathematical analogies, locates music’s significance in its own internal workings.
50
Schenker, ([1935/1979] 1956), p. 19/xxiii.2.
51
At least once, in the introduction to the Five Graphic Music Analyses of 1932, Schenker even claims
that music’s comprehensibility can be indicated through graphic means alone: “The presentation in
graphic form has now been developed to a point that makes an explanatory text unnecessary”
(Schenker 1932/1969b, p. 9, quoted from the English translation alone). This means, in other words,
that everything musically meaningful can be communicated graphically, but that nothing musically
non-meaningful is communicable at all. As far as I know, however, Schenker never repeated this
statement, at least publicly; and almost everything in his work suggests that he did not actually
believe it. Still, the fact that he made it at all is of more than passing interest.
part iii

Reconsideration
9 Critical assessment: ideology

In Part II of this book a primarily Schenkerian perspective was taken in

treating the theory’s development, as it seemed appropriate to examine it
from a basically neutral position. In this final part, however, a more
critical approach is adopted, taking into account both advantages and
disadvantages of the theory. The present chapter thus focuses on ideo-
logical issues, and the following one on musico-theoretical ones, while the
third (and shortest) closes with a more general perspective on both theory
and theorist. In all three chapters Schenker is viewed as a great innovator,
yet one whose work comes attached to numerous problems. As should be
evident by now, and will become more so as this last part proceeds, I am
acutely aware of both Schenker’s strong points and his limitations, and
will consequently defend him in relation to some charges but criticize him
with respect to others.
The present chapter begins with five sections in which Schenker’s
theoretical view is examined in terms of issues related to essentially
non-musical matters that have immediate philosophical, affective, and
historical implications but not obvious theoretical ones. In addition, a
sixth section (pp. 200–03) examines the idealist side of his ideological
position in light of a cluster of terms that, though again largely non-
musical in nature, together played a critical role in establishing his
theoretical position.

A philosophical objection

We begin with a challenge expressed by the philosopher Ludwig

Wittgenstein, who felt that non-scientific theories that purport to find a
hidden truth beneath the surface of art are unacceptable. Wittgenstein,
a contemporary of Schenker and fellow Viennese, acknowledges the
human desire to find what he calls Urphänomen, which are based on a
“preconceived idea that takes possession of us,” but holds that all such
revelatory approaches in the humanities are misleading. Any explanation
of human thought and action in terms of features hidden from common 183
184 Reconsideration

sense, and thus unavailable for experience by any normal person, must be
erroneous.
Wittgenstein does not include the hard sciences in this denial, since they
are unencumbered by human volition (at least with regard to the objects
addressed). Scientists are not confined to common-sense explanations but,
using specialized instruments, are able to extend human perception to
uncover attributes of reality – for example, molecular structure and black
holes – that would otherwise be inaccessible. The humanities lack such
instruments, and as a consequence they must deal with what is immediately
perceptible. Assumption of hidden entities simply distracts from what is
readily experienced; and consequently humanists must deal with the world
of surfaces that is evident to everyone.
Wittgenstein’s prime target is not Schenker, of course, but Sigmund
Freud, who believed that human behavior could be explained largely in
terms of repressed sexual desires concealed from conscious thought. Freud
hypothesized an Urszene, or “primal scene,” that gave to mental life a
psychic drama hidden beneath consciousness. Though Wittgenstein funda-
mentally disagreed with Freud’s theory, he recognized its appeal. It provided
“a sort of tragic pattern to one’s life,” explaining human behavior as the
“working out and repetition of a pattern.”
For Wittgenstein, then, “the attraction of certain kinds of explanation”
(summed up in his phrase “This is really only this”) is undeniable; but they
form only a pseudo-theory, not a true one. Freud makes a fundamental
mistake: he “looks at a special clearly intuitive case and says ‘That shows
how things are in every case; this case is the exemplar of all cases’ – ‘Of
course! It has to be like that’ . . . as if we had now seen something lying
beneath the surface.”1
Wittgenstein says nothing about music here, but he was deeply interested
in the topic and frequently commented on it. And in expressing his general
position on humanistic thought, he implies that viable musical interpreta-
tions must be limited to what is experienced by attentive listeners who
approach the art through direct contact rather than external means. He also
states that no single explanation can account for the multiple meanings that

1
The terms Urphänomen and Urszene, employed respectively by Wittgenstein and Freud, both
evoke Goethe’s Urpflanze, used to designate the ultimate – though invisible – foundation for his
theory of plants. (Goethe is often mentioned as one of Schenker’s principal intellectual forebears).
The definition of Urphänomen is taken from Wittgenstein (1977), §230. The first two
Wittgenstein quotations are from Wittgenstein (1967b), p. 51 and p. 24, and the third from
Wittgenstein (1967a), §444. For a wide-ranging group of articles on Wittgenstein’s views on the
humanities and the arts, see Wittgenstein (2001).
 Critical assessment: ideology 185

variable contexts always bring to human behavior; any explanation, then,

must be able to accommodate individual cases.
This might seem to eliminate Schenker’s explanation of music, as it not
only depends upon a complex and specialized theoretical apparatus but
requires that musical “differences” (a word favored by Wittgenstein) be
ignored. Since this limitation holds, however, for many – if not indeed
most – musical experiences, it raises important issues not only about
Schenker but about all informed musical commentary. Although
Wittgenstein may be right to regard with suspicion Schenker’s lack of
attention to external contexts (a point discussed later), his critique never-
theless invites at least partial answer. For his claim concerning Schenker’s
essentialist and universalist position serves to remind us that music theory
has always sought musical meaning below its surface, dependent upon a
more encompassing whole that can be only implied by the music itself. And
this meaning, whether cosmic, mathematical, affective, purely musical, or
whatever (for it has varied greatly over time), is consistent with one of
Wittgenstein’s principal tenets: that music should be considered in relation
to the differing contexts through which its meaning is defined and under-
stood. Indeed, within the broad extremes of music theory’s history, the level
of abstraction in Schenker’s theory could be said to occupy a comfortable,
and even unremarkable, position.
A related Wittgensteinian point is that any human activity, such as music,
must take place within a “public” arena where it participates in what
Wittgenstein calls a communally sanctioned “language game,” which is
itself embedded in shared “forms of life.” Yet reflection suggests that such
games and life-forms are necessarily numerous and varied, shaped by the
shifting circumstances that surround all human activity. Why, then, should
the life-forms associated with musical discourse be less varied or valid than
others?
It may be that Schenker’s manner of theorizing, even measured against
the standards of music theory, is obsessively cult-like and that, by relying
upon what Wittgenstein calls a “private language,” it takes part in what
for him is a logical impossibility. Human communication always requires
the presence of public conventions. Yet this too can be countered; for
Schenker’s theory, even as presented in Der freie Satz, rests upon a public
realm of musical meaning, namely the conventions of strict counterpoint.
And though these are largely technical and theoretical, they are widely
shared. So why should they be dismissed as “private”? Though the “laws”
of counterpoint are abstractions, derived from relationships that also exist
only “beneath music’s surface,” their validity is widely acknowledged by
186 Reconsideration

composers, performers, scholars, and others; and this has been the case for
so long as to make it perverse to deny them communality.
A controversial feature of Schenker’s theory, of course, is that it not
only accepts contrapuntal principles but extends them far beyond their
traditional compass, so that they are able to control entire compositions.
Yet according to Schenker, these extensions continue to adhere to strict
contrapuntal practice, and are still based on such ordinary technical
assumptions as the distinction between consonance and dissonance, passing
motion, arpeggiation, neighbor notes, and voice exchange. However para-
doxically, Wittgenstein’s critique of humanistic thought actually strength-
ens awareness of Schenker’s public dimension. And even if his objections
point to problems in Schenker’s absolutist and essentialist conception,
they do not suggest that his theory must be completely rejected.

Universality vs particularity

A related objection is that Schenker provides a single, synoptic explanation

for all music, or at least that part of it with which he is concerned. His theory
claims that every worthy composition is based on a single, all-consuming
principle; and regardless of whatever differences such pieces contain, all
compositions should be dealt with accordingly. Many feel that this gets
things backwards: that analysis should show why great compositions are
distinct, not what they have in common. This position is to some degree
unanswerable from Schenker’s perspective, since it rests upon completely
different analytical assumptions. Yet it does touch upon a limitation in his
work: all worthy pieces project a single triadic unfolding produced by
contrapuntal transformation. The theory’s whole modus operandi, in
other words, is designed to show that all compositions deserving of the
name ultimately do the same thing and in the same way. And this defeats
the very purpose of analysis for those who believe it should bring out
particulars.
For most of the compositions forming Schenker’s canon this limitation
may not seem particularly damning, at least not for someone who feels that
his approach tells us something useful about a piece. But even within his
canon, there are works for which his theory seems ill suited. What many
find most arresting about the tonal structure of Chopin’s F-minor Fantasy
for Piano, op. 49, for example, is that it moves gradually upward by third,
following an extensive opening section in F minor, and does so in all cases
but one through alternation of major and minor thirds. For such theorists,
 Critical assessment: ideology 187

then, any attempt to interpret these thirds as implying a Schenkerian

Ursatz with bass arpeggiation by fifth can only produce distortion.2 For
them it is essential that the piece opens and closes in two different keys,
moving from the initial F minor through the third A-flat and, after an
extended succession of upward thirds, moving back to F minor and
its relative major A-flat before closing on the latter. The third-succession,
F–A[–C–E[–G[–B[–D[–F–A[, thus brings back and completes the opening
third-cycle, beginning and ending with the same third-configuration. The
succession of thirds, then, is not simply a surface peculiarity giving way to a
deeper-level Ursatz, but is at the music’s core.
Other works from Schenker’s canon that similarly depend upon exact
(or nearly exact) transposed repetition (such as the F-minor Keyboard
Sonata, K 467 by Domenico Scarlatti) are equally problematic when viewed
from a Schenkerian perspective.3 Schenkerian analysis nevertheless remains
remarkably attentive to the compositional particulars within its canon. To
borrow Wittgenstein’s terminology, his theory is not only designed to locate
an invariable “truth” beneath music’s surface but to reveal how that “truth”
is expressed in the composition’s details. In Schenker’s terms, then, the
theory is designed not only to identify its background but to reveal con-
nections between the background, middleground, and foreground. This is
done, moreover, not through some ultimately unexplainable thought proc-
ess (as so often occurs in humanistic disciplines), but through close empiri-
cal observation of specific cases. There are, as we have seen, certain instances
in the Schenkerian canon where this results in problems; but such pieces
with backgrounds at odds with their deep middlegrounds are few in number
so that on the whole the theory stands up remarkably well.
It is also worth remembering that universality, along with abstraction and
generalization, is characteristic not only of Schenker’s theory but of all
musico-analytical descriptions – indeed, of all informed commentary
about music. This is unavoidable, since music exists in sound and time
but is largely addressed through words and concepts drawn from com-
pletely different domains, and originally designed to deal with non-musical
properties. The rising thirds in Chopin’s Piano Fantasy, for example,

2
An example of such a Schenkerian reading is found in Carl Schachter’s analysis of the Fantasy,
which eliminates the rising-third structure at the background level, acknowledging it as an
important, but strictly middleground, feature that must be replaced in the background by a
standard Ursatz. The third-succession thus disappears at the fundamental level of his analysis.
See Schachter (1988), pp. 221–53. I have discussed this piece, along with Schachter’s analysis, in
Morgan (2008), pp. 193–98 and 203–04.
3
See fn. 7 in the following chapter.
188 Reconsideration

represent a “spatial” concept that requires musical formulation in highly

abstract terms, as does almost any imaginable analytical description.
“Topic analysis,” sometimes praised for being historically sanctioned, is
felt by many to be preferable to other approaches for its better association
with our innate musical responses; and it is favored above all for its concrete
conception of musical events. But if one compares a description of the
opening, say, of a Haydn piano sonata as a succession of topics (initiated,
for example, by a “fanfare”) with a Schenkerian graph of its underlying
voice-leading, the latter remains in most respects much closer to the original
score. The topic description does away with almost all musical details, while
the Schenkerian graph attempts to explain these details in terms of their
origin in strict counterpoint. This does not mean, of course, that a topic
description cannot be helpful, or that it does not provide useful information
in connection with particular kinds of response; but this usefulness does not
result from its greater concreteness. This is to an extent true of virtually all
analytical commentary. Even to speak of an opening chord as a tonic, for
instance, means locating it within a complex network of tonal functions that
have been abstractly defined in advance.
Of course, Schenkerian analysis, like all analysis, focuses on some aspects of
music at the expense of others. And while one may argue about the path
taken, one cannot argue that a particular path has been chosen. And which-
ever one is chosen, the end result must be abstraction and generalization, and
thus universalism. Schenker’s theory, then, cannot be distinguished in this
way: like all theories, it deals with such abstractions and generalizations.
Nevertheless, the contrapuntal principles on which the theory rests are
admittedly extremely abstract, and their conceptual expansion requires a
corresponding expansion of the psychological processes justifying them.
Though the question of whether this expansion renders Schenker’s back-
ground inaudible is one that is much debated, the differences it introduces
are only ones of degree, not of kind.4 Moreover, one of the theory’s most

4
In an interesting recent ethnomusicological study, Perlman (2004) deals with the concept of
“unplayed melodies” in twentieth-century Javanese Gamelan theory as a form of idealized
melodic guides. These unplayed melodies play an important theoretical role; but some consider
them to be a “source” of melodic construction, while others see them merely as a pedagogical tool
for measuring melodic divergences. In a chapter entitled “Patterns of Conceptual Innovation in
Music Theory,” Perlman explores relations between these Javanese conceptualizations and
analogous ones in European theory. Though well aware of resonances with Schenker, he focuses
mainly on two earlier theoretical developments in Western theory: the concept of triadic roots
and Rameau’s fundamental bass. Perlman notes that both resemble Javanese “unplayed melodies”
in that they involve significant simplification and regularization; but as he would surely agree, this
holds for virtually any concept in Western music theory, including those developed by Schenker.
 Critical assessment: ideology 189

distinctive features, as has been mentioned, is its mediation between the

abstract and concrete. Returning to Wittgenstein’s “hidden truth,” what sets
Schenker’s theory apart is that it offers an explanation of its derivation from
actual music – and in a way that is consistent with what Wittgenstein refers
to as the “given objects of human experience.”5

System vs context

The next three sections consider Schenker’s theory not in terms of its own
methods but of various “external” factors that have influenced it. This
section, then, asks what relationship Schenker’s theory has to the world
around it. Though this question can also be addressed from many different
angles, two broadly opposed positions can be distinguished: music’s internal
structure is itself coherent, and is thus to be considered on its own terms,
independent of the contexts in which it is embedded; or the structure of
music, like all complex cultural phenomena, depends upon the world in
which it exists and should thus be considered in relation to the contextual
factors that helped shape it.
This methodological divide is illustrated by a well-known conceptual
disagreement between two distinguished figures in modern linguistics.
On one side is Noam Chomsky, who holds that languages share a uni-
versal grammar common to all human beings and can be analyzed
independent of context; and on the other is George Lakoff, who holds
that languages are deeply influenced by external factors – biological,
neurological, and social – that vary widely from culture to culture and
must be taken into consideration if they are to be properly understood.
For Chomsky, then, linguistic capacity is “innate,” understandable as a
thing-in-itself; while for Lakoff, it is “embodied,” dependent upon con-
textual variables.
At first glance, Schenker seems to belong on the Chomskian side of
this split (indeed, his work is often compared to that of the linguist).
He too believes that “universal” grammar is located not on the surface,
where appearances differ from sample to sample, but underneath, in

5
In this light, Schenkerian theory would seem to exceed in explicitness, if not in general
comprehensiveness, other “structuralist” accounts in the humanities that provide rational
explanations of human phenomena by appeal to a more natural “background.” One need only
compare the theory’s explanations with the “deep-structuralist” ones of such figures as Claude
Lévi-Strauss, Noam Chomsky, and Sigmund Freud to realize the extent to which this is true.
190 Reconsideration

what Chomsky calls language’s “deep structure.”6 Yet there are profound
differences between Chomsky and Schenker, even regarding grammar’s
“universality.” Chomsky, for example, understands fundamental gram-
matical properties to be common to all natural languages and in principle
capable of assimilation by any normal child, which makes all grammars
and languages equally valid and susceptible to study. For Schenker, how-
ever, musical grammar can be mastered only by those who are particularly
gifted, and is applicable to only one body of music that is both culturally
and chronologically restricted. Since all other musical types are said to be
different in kind and inferior in quality, Schenker’s view might be termed
(and has been) “elitist”; while Chomsky’s view, in which all languages
are equally valuable, has been labeled “democratic.”
Schenker’s divergence from Chomsky, however, does not mean that he
shares Lakoff ’s “embodied” approach; he is much too beholden to musical
autonomy for that. In addition to his insistence on the innate character
of music, he grounds his theory in the physical world; and though this
may seem to resemble Chomsky, in Schenker’s case it is accomplished by
evoking the “chord of nature,” which has no equivalent in linguistics. The
physical grounding of Chomsky’s theory, by contrast, resides in the innate
physiological and mental capacities of the normal human brain. And while
this may remind one of Schenker’s “mental retention,” that psychological
concept is available to only those few listeners favored with exceptional
ability.
Nevertheless, one is struck by how readily Schenker’s theory lends
itself to the sort of formalization commonly associated with Chomsky.
Not surprisingly, a number of attempts have been made to formalize the
Schenkerian approach more rigorously.7 But for present purposes, it must
suffice to note that those features linking the theory to formalism – its highly
systematic nature and hierarchical methodology – have asserted a prom-
inent, but both positive and negative, influence on its reception.
The formal aspects of Schenkerian theory have also placed it in confron-
tation with more recent developments in music history and theory, where
contextual matters have assumed an increasingly prominent role. One result
is that Schenker is often criticized for his “purely musical” orientation. It is
true, of course, that Schenker’s focus on autonomous music – and thus on
“music itself” – ranks as one of his theory’s defining qualities; yet the way

6
The present study of Schenker, however, is located on the Lakoffian side, as it interprets his work
in light of both musical and extramusical factors that contributed to his overall world view.
7
Two widely divergent attempts, the first computational and the second linguistic, appear in
Kassler (1977) and Lerdahl and Jackendoff (1983).
 Critical assessment: ideology 191

this relates to his own work and to musical thought in general is hardly
straightforward.
Some current scholars simply maintain that there is no such thing as
“music itself,” which is of course partly true, since all music relies upon a
social and political context that lends it support and renders it valuable.
But this does not mean that one cannot, or should not, temporarily bracket
contextual matters in order to focus exclusively on music’s inner workings.
There is no compelling reason why one cannot adopt a “purely musical”
approach when one wishes to examine musical issues entirely on their
own terms, and many in fact do so. This does not mean that other factors
are unimportant for a more differentiated understanding of the art, and
may well be crucial for one. But all musical commentary must bracket
out countless issues in order to adopt a particular point of view; for one
cannot possibly claim to take into consideration every possible element –
biographical, societal, psychological, historical, or whatever – that may
have had an impact on the notes. And the fact that a historian has a set of
concerns for which a “purely musical” approach may be unhelpful, or
entirely beside the point, provides no reason for assuming that this
position is the only one worth taking.
Nor does Schenker’s primary concern with music per se prevent his
work from being considered in contextual terms, which are stressed in
the next two sections. His theory is thus examined there in light of
contextual matters that, though only indirectly related to the theory
as such, nevertheless facilitate its broader understanding. Since these
sections will take us into a larger and highly contested terrain, their
focus is limited to only two major questions, with one section being
devoted to each: the role of musical affect, and the influence of social
and historical developments.

The affective dimension

From one perspective, the affective side of music may seem to form a glaring
gap in Schenker’s final theory; yet its position in relation to his work is far
from simple. Although the banishment of affect might seem an unavoidable
consequence of his later theory, Schenker himself did not consider it so.
Even in Der freie Satz he associates his theory with various life processes that
exist outside music. Yet whenever he addresses the specifics of his theory,
the affective side inevitably assumes a subsidiary, and essentially non-
theoretical, role.
192 Reconsideration

This is perhaps surprising, since Schenker in his earlier years often dealt
with music in openly affective terms, granting it a quality of agency.
Because this position is consistent with his idealist roots, one might
question the altered tone of the later work. Why this shift away from
musical affect? The answer seems to lie in Schenker’s altered conception
of music theory, which he came to believe should be exclusively directed
toward musical construction. While this agrees with his early position on
musical autonomy, its implications become fully evident only in the later
theory, which is based on a vision of music determined by voice-leading
and scale-degree progression, and thus requires that he adopt a more
objective stance. Despite continuing to describe theoretical concepts in
highly metaphorical language (“interrupted lines,” “unfolded intervals,”
“delayed goals,” etc.), his new theory forced him to think of human
sentiments – whether the composer’s, performer’s, or listener’s – as at
best tangentially related to the basic theoretical picture.
For Schenker, however, this view would almost certainly seem mislead-
ing. Reluctant to accept the full implications of his later development, he
continued to personify music and describe it in affective terms. Freier Satz
thus views music as “not only an object of theoretical consideration” but a
“subject, just as we ourselves are subject.”8 Nor does its tendency to attribute
human – or even superhuman – powers to music seem surprising, given the
theorist’s idealist background.
Schenker’s affective disposition is also reflected in a concept that
was consistently central to his theory since Harmonielehre: that tones
have “egos,” or “wills.” That they are thus “creatures” relates closely to the
claim that all human thought and creation – whether historical, artistic, or
natural – is a manifestation of mind, and imbued with life and direction.
This forms a necessary part of Schenker’s spiritual and psychological
conception of musical cognition, within which intention, affect, and other
psychological aspects of hearing are absolutely essential.
Kontrapunkt I even addresses one of music’s most “mechanical” compo-
nents, the rules of counterpoint, in psychological terms, according to their
“effect” [Wirkung] on the human mind. And though the strict voice-leading
routines of contrapuntal thinking are presented there in elementary form,
they are conceived as a preparation for free composition. Counterpoint’s
main purpose, then, is not to place “prescriptions and restrictions” on free
composition but to present its foundation in schematic form, “on a small
stage” in order to “accustom the ear” to the results. Composers’ intentions,

8
Schenker (1935/1979), p. 36/9.1.
 Critical assessment: ideology 193

moreover, being subservient to what tones themselves desire rather than

their own arbitrary will, are of little consequence. Tones have an “absolute
character” entirely independent of the composer’s mood; they inhabit “a
world of their own.”
To a significant degree subjective conceptions thus inform all of
Schenker’s theoretical publications; and this remains true of Der freie Satz.
There music is characterized as an “image of our life motion,” but not “to
the extent that it must abandon its own specific nature as Art.”9 The master
composer “lives his own life as well as that of the linear progressions; and,
conversely, their life must be his, if they are to signify life to us.”10 In
addition, compositions continue to resemble dramas:11
as in life, motion toward the goal encounters obstacles, reverses, disappointments,
and involves great distances, detours, expansions, interpolations, and, in short,
retardations of all kinds. Therein lies the source of all artistic delaying, from
which the creative mind can derive content that is ever new. Thus we hear in the
middleground and foreground an almost dramatic course of events.

It is hardly surprising, then, that in his later analyses Schenker continues to

employ hermeneutic interpretation, even if he does so despite his impas-
sioned attacks against other musical hermeneutists. For consistent with
German Idealism, he harbored a generally skeptical view of the hermeneutic
tradition, rejecting the replacement of absolute, universalist knowledge with
the relativist and historically contingent “understanding” of such figures as
Friedrich Schleiermacher and Wilhelm Dilthy. Yet Schenker’s Idealism, like
so much Idealism, continued to contain a strong hermeneutic component,
even if it had to play second fiddle to a more dominant musical absolutism.
Indeed, the later Schenker seemed to want things two ways: on the
one hand, encouraged by his idealist origins, he embraced music’s affective
and intentional side; yet he was also committed to scientific method and
the explanation of music solely through autonomous means. Yet this auton-
omous side of Schenker did not mean that the affective side simply disap-
peared. For musical autonomy had to coexist with the belief that tones have
wills and are thus organic. But what they “will,” and are consequently about,
is not something external to music but something residing within it. One
might say, then, that musical intentionality is not human but “purely musical”;
and once again we can see the paradoxical nature of Schenker’s thinking.
Nevertheless, the downplaying of music’s emotional effects after 1920
allowed Schenker to focus more exclusively upon technical matters, and

9 10 11
Ibid., p. 30/5.2. Ibid., p. 29/5.2. Ibid., p. 29/5.1–2.
194 Reconsideration

upon the development of explanatory concepts conceived in specifically

musical terms. And while affective observations never completely vanished,
they did recede whenever Schenker dealt with specifically theoretical mat-
ters. And however much the subjectivist dimension persisted, so too did the
difficulty of reconciling it with a method based largely on voice-leading and
degree progression. Schenker may have continued to consider the affective
dimension in vitalist terms, but it had to be allocated to a separate plain,
connected to the theory by analogy alone.
As a consequence, many theorists believe that the affective and vitalist
aspects of Schenker’s mature thought are superfluous and can simply be
discarded. Others, however, are convinced that their absence deprives the
theory of essential human roots and connections. For them, even the late
theory should be viewed in affective terms. Thus Robert Snarrenberg, whose
Schenker’s Interpretive Practice focuses largely on the theory’s expressive
implications, tends to read Schenker’s technical interpretations as “analyt-
ical fictions” (albeit useful ones), whose interest resides largely in their
extramusical effects. Although this is in principle an acceptable position, it
does place Schenker’s later work in a somewhat skewed light.
While Snarrenberg claims – and with some justification – that no
Schenkerian “utterance, analytical or theoretical, should be assumed to be
a straightforward reporting of his musical experiences,” his idea that he
can “reconstruct the structure and content of the music experiences
reported by Schenker” (p. xvii) seems overstated at best. It allows him,
moreover, to interpret Schenker’s statements pretty much as he sees fit;
and for Snarrenberg that means resurrecting the “images and programmatic
ideas” implicit in Schenker’s analyses so as to communicate “the effects of
tones” (p. 5), presumably as experienced by Schenker himself.12 This leads
him to concentrate especially on the theoretical works appearing before
Der frier Satz; and although the result is certainly interesting, it results in
emphasizing only one side of Schenker – and one the theorist himself had
partly discarded. Snarrenberg’s book nevertheless provides a useful comple-
ment to this one, balancing its stress on overall development with one on
interpretive subjectivity.
Another recent scholar with an affective view of Schenker is the late
Naomi Cumming, who was drawn to his work by her interest in music as a
source of “embodied meaning.” In the book The Sonic Self: Musical
Subjectivity and Signification, Cumming remarks that music theory, being
essentially “rule-oriented,” should be carefully distinguished from musical

12
Snarrenberg (1997).
 Critical assessment: ideology 195

aesthetics, which is “meaning-orientated.” Yet for her, theory and aesthetics

are always dependent upon one another and, despite differences, are ulti-
mately inseparable as disciplines.
This belief obviously colors her conception of Schenker. Consistent with
her semiotic position, Cumming emphasizes music’s “gestural” quality:
“Musical scores may contain patterns in their melodic organization that
are particularly suited to an inflected ‘gestural’ interpretation, and when so
realized, it is as if the body becomes inscribed in the sound” (p. 162). And
linking formal analysis to signification, she notes that the “qualities of a
Schenkerian structure might be described, for example, as an extended
‘passing,’ or a feeling of something ‘unfinished,’ and that the set of possible,
but generalized, ‘feelings’ for passing and continuity may be described
further as a generalized ‘instability,’ ‘willfulness,’ ‘desire,’ ‘propulsion,’
‘necessity,’ ‘incompleteness,’ or ‘openness’” (p. 174).
None of this seems controversial, even from Schenker’s own perspective,
as all of these terms appear in his work. In Cumming’s words: “Schenker
declares that the tonal unfolding of a work . . . yields qualities that might be
termed ‘aesthetic’” (p. 178). But as with Snarrenberg, her picture of
Schenker, though useful, is distorted; as it does not focus sufficiently on
the overall trajectory of his evolution.13
The problem with both of these revisionist interpretations is that they
ignore the fact that Schenker’s affective dimension, despite its importance in
his final work, did not – and could not – become part of the music theory
itself. It is inconsistent with the sort of theorizing to which Schenker then
aspired.14 Yet even to the extent that the final theory as such does not deal
with musical meaning and affect, and thus with such matters as musical
symbolism or narrative, analysts like Snarrenberg and Cumming remind us
of how readily, and easily, it lends itself to extramusical extension.

Social and historical aspects

Being exclusively concerned with music, Schenker’s theory does not deal
with the art’s social and historical ramifications. Yet the relation of his work
to these more encompassing issues is important, even if the theory treats

13
Cumming (2000).
14
In this connection one thinks of the (admittedly questionable) statement in Five Graphic
Music Analyses that the graphic approach renders texts unnecessary (see my Chapter 8, fn. 51).
For if the graphs tell us everything that the theory can communicate, then the theory obviously
tells us nothing about affect.
196 Reconsideration

them as only tangential. This is not only true of Schenker, however, but of
most music theories. And even though it is often seen as a limitation, it is
one that is widely shared and perhaps almost universal. For any theory of
human phenomena is unable to encompass everything relevant to the
subject; and since this limitation stems from choices that must be made, it
is also unavoidable. Such choices do have social consequences, however, and
this makes it worthwhile to address some of the contextual matters that
impinged upon Schenker’s development.
A characteristic of European thought that Schenker shared with the time
of his maturity was the great importance placed on music’s role in devel-
oping an intelligent and sensitive citizenship. As we have seen, thanks to its
immateriality, music was considered ideally suited to instill moral values
and promote inner contemplation. What is more, it was accorded particular
value if it demanded not only an emotional, but intellectual response. And
that occurred not because music was able to reveal anything specific about
the actual world, but because it communicated something that was other-
wise felt to be ineffable, beyond the reach of ordinary human experience.
This is evident in various musical manifestations of the period, including
concert life, where programs of “great works” requiring concentrated lis-
tening became increasingly common during the nineteenth century. At the
same time, popular music began to be treated as a separate musical type, as
did other musical genres, such as opera, folk music and virtuosic music.
Specialization ruled the day, fostering the widespread compartmentaliza-
tion of taste among contemporary concert goers, as well as increased
awareness of divergent interests. Especially favored were listeners attuned
to great works, or what were commonly called “classics,” honored both for
their special worth and their close affiliation with the past (though by
current standards the past remained quite close to the present).15
Schenker’s mature view of music fits comfortably within this picture.
Though in his earlier journalistic work there is some indication of a more
catholic taste, the later turn to a limited repertoire of great works formed a
critical part of his entire theoretical enterprise, and determined his view that
only a relatively few masterpieces supported the detailed analytical scrutiny
his theory demanded. And this idea was central to his obsessive desire to
discover both the truth of music and a theory able to reveal it.

15
Weber (2008) brings together a wealth of information documenting the nineteenth century’s
development away from long and heterogeneous “miscellaneous concerts,” the later
eighteenth-century norm, toward shorter concerts with more restricted content. He focuses
especially on the reception of “serious music” in four major European centers: Vienna, Leipzig,
Paris, and London.
 Critical assessment: ideology 197

At the same time, Schenker was supported by the more general

belief, relatively new to the nineteenth century, that music deserved serious
attention in its own right. This idea, representing one of the principal lines
of the century’s aesthetics, held that the value of art depended solely on its
artistic merits. Though its moral and ethical import remained important,
these were felt to exist solely within the artwork itself. Music’s significance,
then, had nothing to do with entertainment, religious beliefs, political ideas,
or social activities. It was autonomous; and paradoxically, this made its
moral and ethical dimension that much more fundamental. The political
and social consequences of music remained great, but they depended
entirely upon their unconscious conveyance through artistic processes
themselves.16
Within this tradition, music’s “otherworldliness” helped explain its
spirituality. It was felt to occupy a separate world in which it remained
untouched by the many compromises inevitably accompanying everyday
life. This view was widely accepted by such Romantic and post-Romantic
nineteenth-century thinkers as the German writer Wilhelm Heinrich
Wackenroder, the English literary critic Walter Pater, and the French poet
Stéphane Mallarmé. All believed that great music expressed something
inexpressible, and did so by confining itself to its own language, which
was essentially incomprehensible. As I have already noted, this notion
was implicit in Harmonielehre’s statement that “music has risen to the
ranks of art” solely through “its own means, without direct aid from
Nature.” Similarly, Kontrapunkt I for this reason openly refers to music
as the “highest art”; while the essay “Rameau oder Beethoven,” from
Meisterwerk III, links music’s autonomy explicitly to the mature theory in
a statement immediately following the initial mention, quoted in Chapter 7,
of the three possible Urlinie types:17

With all of this the coherence of the total content of a piece is provided and established
as a unity between the depths of the background and the breadth of the foreground.
Closely associated with the secret of such a cohesiveness is music’s total independ-
ence from the world around it, the being-based-within-itself that distinguishes
music from all other art forms.

16
In this Schenker subscribes to Kant’s view that politics and ethics belong to separate domains.
Despite his strong political opinions, Schenker was thus convinced that music did not express
political ideas. Although it did foster ethical and moral improvement, it could do so only
unconsciously and indirectly. Even such a well-formed aesthetic as his, devoted to the idea that
unity resides beneath the chaos of appearance, could contribute only indirectly to political and
social well-being.
17
Schenker (1930/1997), p. 21/8.1.
198 Reconsideration

Another Schenkerian belief with strong historical resonances is the

Germanic provenance of great music. This actually seems disputable even
in Schenker’s own terms, as both Scarlatti and Chopin are at once canonic
and non-German. And the first edition of Der freie Satz even contains
evidence (in a passage omitted from both the second German and English
editions) that Schenker considered “Germanic” as less a cultural distinction
than a racial one:18
The power of tension and fulfillment can be understood directly as a blood test, as a
possession of the German race. In this sense the question pertaining to Beethoven
can for example be irrefutably decided: he is not as one liked – and still likes – to
have it . . . only half a German; no, whoever creates such linear spans must be a
German, even if foreign blood also runs in his veins. For this the definite
far-reaching accomplishment is more proof than all scientific racial theory.

Yet even if he rejects a “blood test,” the radical restriction Schenker places
upon his canonic repertoire, as well as the numerous nationalistic references
he makes regarding it, remains at best problematic. In the German-speaking
lands of his early maturity, however, German cultural superiority was
widely accepted as a fact. To name just three prominent German artists of
the earlier twentieth century, a composer, writer, and painter, who held this
view, one can mention Arnold Schoenberg, Thomas Mann, and Ernst
Ludwig Kirchner. (The fact that the first of the three was Jewish does not
seem particularly relevant at this time, as Jewishness was evidently not yet
considered, by Schoenberg as well as many others, to be a particularly
distinguishing mark.)
Schenker also accepted the nineteenth-century idea of historical progress,
arguing repeatedly that the primary significance of pre-eighteenth-century
Western music was its technical contribution to the great achievements of
the following two centuries (an attitude for which the “Geist” article, along
with other essays of the 1890s, formed something of an early exception). But
at the same time he rejected the belief, closely allied to progressive histori-
cism, that the present represents the apex of evolution, believing instead in
“degeneration,” the negative complement of progressive historicism: that
human culture underwent a precipitous decline after it attained its previous
highpoint.19 For Schenker the music of his own day – whether radical or
conservative, high-art or popular-art – represented barbarism and was

18
Schenker (1935), 1st edn. only, pp. 18–19.
19
The most famous figure to hold this view was Oswald Spengler, with whom Schenker
shared a number of intellectual ties. Chamberlin and Gilman (1985) contains a wide-ranging
collection of essays on degeneration.
 Critical assessment: ideology 199

inseparably linked to the social and cultural ills he associated with modern-
ity: democratic leveling, secularization, technological advance, mass think-
ing, and the like. Though this conviction was evident in virtually all of
Schenker’s writings, it intensified following Germany’s defeat in World War
I, receiving its most extreme expression, as noted, in 1921 in the opening
article of Der Tonwille’s first issue.20
There are other Schenkerian positions, however, that seem largely con-
sistent with modernity. His idea that history constituted a “useable” past,
frozen in time and thus available for artistic reuse, was shared by a number
of modernists (T. S. Eliot and Igor Stravinsky, for example). But whereas the
modernists celebrated the historical separation of the twentieth century
from earlier ones in order to praise the innovative (“Make it new!” Ezra
Pound proclaimed), Schenker, far from supporting newness and freedom,
held that they stifled creativity. Present-day music was thus woefully lacking
when compared with Schenker’s canonic past, whose perfections his theory
carefully demonstrated. Cut off from sanctioned habits, it lacked all culture
worthy of the name.21
For Schenker the world of modernity – of air travel, democracy, mass
culture, and modernist music of all types – was virtually uninhabitable.
This creates further problems for those who feel that we must accept the
present-day world as the only one we have, which, despite its evident draw-
backs, we must deal with as best we can. This places Schenker, moreover, in
opposition to the widely-held current belief that music should be viewed as an
integral part of everyday life, appealing to as many diverse constituencies as
possible, all of which are – at least in principle – of equal value.22

20
The title of this article, “Von der Sendung des deutschen Genies” (“On the Mission of German
Genius”), is appropriated by Reiter (2003) for an informative essay on Schenker’s general
social and political position. While Reiter is an acute cultural historian, with much of value to
say about Schenker’s intellectual influences, she says remarkably little about the article that
gives her essay its name.
21
I discuss the quasi-modernist aspects of Schenker’s thought at more length in Morgan (2002).
22
Although I have considerable sympathy with this position, I do not think it should be used to
denounce certain types of music. To take an obvious instance: under its umbrella “classical”
music should be valued along with all other kinds of music. And given the proper circumstances,
such music has a far wider appeal than is normally granted as a source of meaningful private
listening and strengthening of social, intellectual, and imaginative capabilities. It provides
performers, both amateurs and professionals, and regardless of age, with a significant
educational tool. Thus the argument for democratic accessibility, though compelling, should not
eliminate entire areas of musical experience, even those with restricted appeal. A similar point
applies to Schenkerian analysis: although it is not intended for everyone, it provides a source of
insight and personal enrichment for a sizeable minority. There is no reason to feel constrained by
Schenker’s own political and social views for his analytic method to be considered consistent
with cultural democracy.
200 Reconsideration

The fact that Schenker has attained such a prominent position in music
theory in recent years underscores the social and historical conflicts attend-
ant upon his work. Present-day contextualists, faced with Schenker’s lack of
interest in recent social reality, understandably react negatively to his work.
At the same time, his theory has great appeal for those primarily interested
in music’s construction. But even scholars convinced that music’s “full”
understanding (assuming such a thing is possible) requires a consideration
of its context must acknowledge that no single perspective can always be
appropriate; and one alternative is the “constructive” one, for which the
theory provides (despite all its ideological baggage) a particularly useful
framework.

A Schenkerian philosophical matrix

Grouped together, several terms emphasized in Schenker’s ideology – nature,

spirit, will, genius, and unconscious (in German: Natur, Geist, Wille, Genie,
and Unbewusstsein) – together form the groundwork for a kind of meta-
physical system central to his work.23 This system, essentially in place before
the beginning of his second developmental phase, provides a significant
intellectual backdrop for his mature theoretical ideas. Not surprisingly, all
five terms achieved special importance during the century prior to Schenker’s
birth, when they were widely used by a number of German thinkers, includ-
ing Kant, Goethe, Novalis, Fichte, Schleiermacher, Schopenhauer, Schelling,
and Hegel. All were central to the philosophical literature that preceded and
coincided with romanticism and German Idealism, forming a critical expres-
sion of the Germanic mind and experience of that time. (The choice of these
terms – excepting perhaps nature and spirit, which enjoyed a long and
prominent philosophical history – is partly arbitrary, since similar points
could be made with others.)

23
With the exception of spirit, all of these terms appear prominently in Schopenhauer’s account of
genius in The World as Will and Representation, especially chapter 31 (“On Genius”) in book II
and the related (but untitled) §36 in book I (Schopenhauer 1969, pp. II: 476–98; I: 184–94).
Without such terms (or closely associated ones), moreover, any discussion of points related to
romanticism and idealist philosophy would be virtually impossible. Thus Kevin Korsyn, who
notes in his article on “Geist” Schopenhauer’s emphasis in these sections on “objectivity” and
“pure will-less knowledge” (p. II: 185), derives a “cluster” of eight Schopenhauerian “oppositions
that structure organic discourse,” including several terms similar to my own. But other than
listing the oppositions and noting that virtually all of them appear in “Geist” (which nevertheless,
under Nietzsche’s influence, denies their “inflated claims for art”), Korsyn (1993, pp. 93–104)
says little additional about them: e.g., about their relation to more general philosophical issues, or
their central role in Schenker’s subsequent theoretical development.
 Critical assessment: ideology 201

All were connected with concepts evident, at least implicitly, in the

natural–artificial distinction underlying Schenker’s early article “Der Geist
der musikalischen Technik” (one even appears in its title). They were
not fleshed out and given their ultimate Schenkerian meanings, however,
until the theoretical work began to appear. But all figured prominently
in the first major work, Harmonielehre; and thereafter “spirit” underwent
further expansion in Kontrapunkt I and II, as did “genius” and its com-
panion “unconscious” in the monographs. Although all have been discussed
individually, they have not been considered together as a metaphysical unit;
nor should that be a surprise, as the five only assumed full Schenkerian
significance in his final theory.
It should be noted, however, that although Schenker was obviously aware
of all five concepts, he never dealt with them collectively, much less claimed
that they formed a coherent philosophical system (though this was not the
case in idealistic philosophy). Yet he must have been at least unconsciously
aware that as a unit they provided his theory with an implicit but necessary
philosophical support. Indeed, despite his silence on the matter, it is impos-
sible to imagine Schenker’s final theory emerging at all, consciously or
otherwise, without the influence of the philosophical assumptions they
embodied.
To begin with “nature,” one might initially wonder why this concept was
of such importance to Schenker; or more specifically, why the derivation of
music’s overtone series from a natural source formed such a basic part of his
theoretical beliefs. Nature, of course, acquired many different meanings
throughout philosophical history, some negative (one thinks especially of
Plato) and others positive. But Schenker obviously conceived of it in a
positive light, as he seems to have viewed nature as a source of philosophical
unity, as something that was created by a transcendent outside force (which
he later named “God”). Humans, on the other hand, grasped nature only
externally, as a realm distinct from human motivation and contingency and
thus free of all transient hopes and desires. In this meaning, basically the one
found in “Geist,” nature consists primarily of the physical world, a world
that is subject to natural law because it is foreign to human desires. It is
unavailable to humans through direct perception, since they are incapable
of grasping the “thing itself” and thus have only limited understanding.
Humans, that is, know the external world through its appearance, through
knowledge compromised by the ambiguities that accompany all human
sensation.
From the perspective of the Romantic mind, however, nature without
man is necessarily uninteresting and impoverished; its proper appreciation
202 Reconsideration

requires that it be connected to human experience. In response to the

human–natural division, the Romantics thus sought a unifying element
that could join the worlds of nature and mind, making them dependent
upon one another. Such a unity was possible, however, only if identity
could be established between knowing subject and object known; and this
required that the unity be dynamic, full of the power of both nature and
human life. Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, for example, felt that it existed, but
only beyond the realms of nature and humanity, as something they referred
to as the Absolute.
It was presumably under the influence of these ideas that Schenker begin
to shift his position regarding the relationship of music and nature. Instead
of opposing the two, as in “Geist,” he began to unite them. But to do this, he
had to make the natural world, which for Schenker was the root of all music,
responsive to human wishes and thus dependent upon human participa-
tion. And realizing this, he posited a theory of music based equally upon
natural and human properties.
Excepting nature, the remaining four terms in the cluster – spirit,
will, genius, and unconscious – all belong to the human side of “Geist”’s
art–nature equation; and, not coincidentally, they all stress the imaginative
side of mental activity. And all four, introduced (or reintroduced) in the
debates surrounding romanticism, referred to thought unburdened by prior
consideration, so as to be associated with thought “free” of conscious
human desire and thus thought subject to natural law. They were ideally
constituted, then, to unite Schenker’s joint belief in the human and natural
dimensions of music.
Taking “will” as an example, it refers (among various other things) to the
capacity of human thought to be oriented not just toward the present and
past but toward the future. It thus encompasses desires and volitions
concerning things that have not yet come to pass. Schenker makes this
assumption when he states that tones have “egos” unregulated by human
desires, dependent only upon their own natural wishes. Yet at the same
time, the main burden of musical coherence rests squarely on the partic-
ipation of the human ear. Music, then, encompasses simultaneously the
human and the natural; and for Schenker, without both it would simply
cease to exist.
Once it is understood that Schenker, following the Idealists, believed that
truly imaginative, constructive knowledge exists only when it is unaware of
itself, the three remaining terms are readily incorporated. Since only a
human being capable of unconscious reasoning provides the required
framework, then a genius alone, who thinks without predetermination
 Critical assessment: ideology 203

(“like a sleepwalker,” a common designation also used by Schenker), can

fulfill this role. And only thought suffused with an overriding spirit can
pervade both the natural and human worlds, creating unity between them.
Though such an idealist philosophical system, joining nature and mind,
had no obvious effect on certain aspects of Schenker’s theory (above all, its
hierarchical nature and notational system), it was essential for the theory’s
overall development and conception of musical prolongation, providing
these with both a unitary model and the necessary mental background to
sustain them. Indeed, the fundamental Schenkerian aesthetic assumptions
of musical logic, organicism, and teleology, the basis for such technical ideas
as substitution, long-range hearing, and extended passing motion, were
absolutely necessary for the theory’s gestation. And they depended upon
this philosophical matrix, without which the theory would have been
unthinkable.
Taken together, these terms provide validation for Schenker’s belief that
human beings possess an imaginative power capable of uniting music’s
variable appearances into a complex whole. In addition, they explain why
the human capacity to grasp truth requires going beneath music’s surface,
which consists of entities that are theoretically speaking chaotic in appear-
ance. These entities make sense only when viewed in terms of an ideal,
orderly background that exists underneath them, supplying them with
coherence.
 10 Critical assessment: theory

We now turn to technical issues related to Schenker’s final theory: its pitch
component, the role of rhythm and form, questions about the Ursatz, and
the appropriateness of extending Schenker’s ideas. Again, each item is given
its own section.

Pitch orientation and related assumptions

One of Schenker’s most distinguishing traits is his theory’s exclusive

orientation toward pitch. As has frequently been observed, Schenker’s
ability to explain surface features as derivations from a more fundamental
source depends upon his focus upon pitch as a separate and independent
component, with other elements playing only a supporting role. Thus
rhythmic and formal matters, although not ignored, relate to the theory
only externally, differing fundamentally from the pitch-centered ones.
Schenker’s very success in rethinking the scope of contrapuntal explanation
thus points to one of the theory’s shortcomings: it succeeds so well because it
limits its concern to pitch.
Schenker himself seemed to believe, at least at times, that the Ursatz
provides the ultimate source not just for pitch relations but for motivic,
formal, and instrumental ones as well.1 Yet the latter are obviously
controlled by background events that are completely unlike those that
determine pitch distribution; and as a consequence, they are treated as
theoretically different. It is thus a measure of Schenker’s genius that he
realized, at least unconsciously, that only an exclusive focus on pitch
allowed his mature theory to attain the rigor he sought. Nevertheless, the
payback was considerable. This is not to say that non-pitched factors are
irrelevant; on the contrary, they help shape the theory and provide critical
information for the analytical decisions made within it. But since they do
not lend themselves to explanations comparable to those for pitch, they lack
theoretical weight, regardless of what Schenker himself may have believed.

1
204 See, for example, Schenker ([1935/1979] 1956), p. 34/7.2–8.1, §50, §67, §306.
 Critical assessment: theory 205

But even with regard to pitch, Schenker’s theory lacks the comprehen-
siveness he claims. His desire to be all-encompassing makes idealist
assumptions unavoidable, yet most of these have to be taken simply on
blind faith. The idea that counterpoint is based upon unalterable laws, for
example, cannot be rationally maintained in light of the contrary evidence
available in both Western and non-Western music. Similarly, there is no
firm basis for the belief that Schenker’s canonic repertory is historically
inevitable or eternally valid. Nor is there any logical reason why the musical
significance of the chord of nature is restricted to its first five overtones,
or why some of these five are out of tune in the equal-tempered system
(on which the theory otherwise heavily depends). Equally unproved is
the claim that the triad retains its “natural” source when theoretically
rearranged to fit actual compositions. Indeed, the entire argument that all
great music is unconsciously created is circular, as, according to Schenker,
this type of creation alone is capable of producing great music.
In fact, the idealist origins of some of the theory’s most fundamental
assumptions – its basis in nature, appeal to genius, nationalistic bias,
etc. – indicates that these have no objective empirical grounding. Their
features, as well as others such as musical logic and necessity, provide
from an empirical perspective at best an efficient means for grounding the
work theoretically. This does not undermine it (for why should a music
theory be consistently empirical?) but it does undermine Schenker’s
conception of it.
In addition, there are more practical limitations regarding the way pitches
are treated. The theory bans all ambiguities and uncertainties, so that it does
not attempt (nor does it claim) to map a listener’s thought processes in
response to the highly ambiguous information supplied by a composition as
it unfolds. For Schenker, once sufficient context is provided only one read-
ing is allowed.2 Ideal listeners, regardless of their rarity, must be all-knowing
and must possess absolute musical memory, allowing synthesis of what has
been heard into a single comprehensive interpretation. As a consequence,
the theory, despite its emphasis on musical hearing, must ignore the
phenomenal, experiential, and time-centered aspects of actual listening.
For Schenker, then, listening experiences must be ideal if they are to
provide the knowledge necessary for a single, synoptic view. And conse-
quently, his theory cannot tell us anything about different hearings,

2
Schenker did of course change his mind about how particular pieces should be analyzed, but
presumably he did so because he felt that something about the pitches had not been sufficiently
considered.
206 Reconsideration

different “musical voices,” or the various meanings (narrative, symbolic,

or textural) commonly attached to musical experience. Although highly
speculative in its own terms, it discourages speculation in the areas it
ignores. This is to some degree true of any theory; but Schenker’s absolutist
assumptions make the restriction especially worrisome.

Rhythm and form

Discrepancies between pitch factors on the one hand and formal and
rhythmic ones on the other have consistently plagued those dealing with
Schenker’s theory, including many who have been well disposed toward it. If
one tries to imagine what an Ursatz would look like in the case of a rhythmic
or formal analysis, the reason becomes apparent. The analytical procedures
that are applied simply do not offer rules producing rhythmic or formal
layers that are truly Schenkerian in nature, but form at best only rhythmi-
cized or formalized versions of what are still essentially pitch layers. And
however crucial these other components are, they do not lend themselves to
strictly Schenkerian theorization.3
It is to be expected, then, that those who use the theory but also direct
their analyses toward non-pitch factors (which probably includes the
vast majority of current Schenkerians) find themselves to some extent in
disagreement with Schenker’s theory, whose methods must be adapted to fit
their own interests. Again, it is not that non-pitch factors are unrelated to
Schenker’s view of music; they contribute significantly to his analyses. For
example, they help determine the locations of major cadential articulations,
or how such articulations relate to the larger pitch structure, or the way
subordinate keys interact with the principal key, or where the Ursatz
components should be positioned.
Since form and rhythm have acquired an increasingly prominent posi-
tion in recent Schenkerian literature, disagreements among current
Schenkerians thus often stem from matters that fall outside the theory’s
purview.4 Nor is this surprising. As one prominent critic has noted,

3
For example, James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy are no doubt correct when they say in their
much-cited recent sonata-form treatise that their theory is compatible with Schenker; but this
does not mean that it is also comparable in rigor. See Hepokoski and Darcy (2006).
4
Among numerous examples on the rhythmic side, several influential articles by Carl Schachter
might be mentioned: Schachter (1976), (1980), and (1987a), all reprinted in Schachter (1999b);
and on the formal side there is Smith (1996), which deals specifically with Schenkerian alterations.
Indeed, two Schenkerian articles that deal with form have appeared next to one another in a recent
issue of a prominent theory journal: Smith (2006) and Suurpää (2006).
 Critical assessment: theory 207

Schenker’s theory says almost nothing about what “listeners tend to find
most immediately striking and memorable” in music, for example the
occurrence of “stressed dissonances,” “unexpected shifts of texture,” or
“memorable melodic flights.”5
Yet while Schenker’s theory cannot say anything directly about matters of
form, rhythm, theme, music drama, or symbolism, it possesses an almost
uncanny ability to inform us about things that impinge upon these areas.
As theorists have often noted, intelligent commentary on form, rhythm,
thematic connections, and musical meaning is virtually precluded if pitch is
not considered; and pitch is something Schenker tells us a great deal about.
If music’s tonal structure is viewed as a kind of story, for example, whose
plot unfolds as the music progresses, offering clues to its narrative meaning,
the theory can provide extremely useful support.
Schenker’s concern for formal matters led him to introduce one of the
most important techniques in his theory: “interruption.” This supplied the
primary basis for his view of sonata form and, at more foreground levels,
antecedent–consequent phrases. Yet interruption has not only proved to be
one of the most crucial aspects of his theory but also one of its most
controversial. For despite its obvious usefulness, interruption raises thorny
issues about the theory’s consistency. A basic Schenkerian premise is that
the Ursatz forms an uninterrupted progression that spans the entire piece,
and this unbroken quality is essential for the piece’s organic coherence. Yet
the technique of interruption splits the Ursatz into two separable parts, the
first of which is broken off (“interrupted”) after the bass and top voice reach
their penultimate position on the final dominant arrival, while the second
part restates the first and completes it. But this leaves unanswered the
question: How does the technique prolong an underlying – and presumably
unbroken – Ursatz?
Not surprisingly, Schenker himself was unclear about the matter. He
distinguished three different forms of interruption; yet only in one was
the Ursatz truly interrupted. In this one case, then, the Ursatz actually does
start over, but thereby contradicts a basic assumption of the theory. In the
other two, however, the Ursatz is only prolonged, but not interrupted. This
takes place in one of two ways: (1) the Ursatz’s initial position returns at the
beginning of the so-called “repetition,” prolonging its opening position until
it continues to the final tonic; or (2) the Ursatz’s initial position descends to
the second degree over the bass fifth, after which this dominant position is
prolonged until it returns near the end of the so-called “repetition” before

5
Whittall (2002), p. 32.
208 Reconsideration

descending to the final tonic. In neither case, then, is the Ursatz actually
interrupted; it is only prolonged: in the first case its initial tonic position,
and in the second its dominant position.
In other words, in both cases the Ursatz has but one part, within which
either the opening tonic or dominant configuration is prolonged before
descending to the final tonic. There is, then, an extensive middleground
elaboration, but not an interruption, of one or the other Ursatz positions.
On the other hand, if the first V is truly interrupted, then the Ursatz actually
does start over, which means that it has two parts at the Ursatz level itself.
The prolonged types, which are not interrupted, are more “organic” and
thus consistent with Schenker’s conception of an undivided background.
The interrupted, two-part Ursatz corresponds more closely, however, with
our formal–rhythmic intuitions, at least as shaped by classical formal con-
ventions. Unfortunately, Schenker does not, in Der freie Satz or elsewhere,
discuss the inconsistency of the interruption idea or compare the three
different types. All are introduced simply as “interruptions.” And though he
does seem to favor the version that is truly interrupted, he uses all three
without stating this preference.6
Not surprisingly, interruption is especially troublesome in the analysis
of sonata forms conceived more continuously or more symmetrically, a
prevalent tendency among certain nineteenth-century composers. These
fall into two basic compositional types, one featuring a tonic delay and the
other a more emphatically symmetrical construction. The first, which is less
radical and is common in Beethoven, Schubert, and Brahms, suppresses the
tonic return so that it doesn’t arrive until after the recapitulation has begun,
from which point the tonal motion proceeds more or less normally. The
second, more radical and favored by Schubert (again) and Schumann,
delays the tonic return until near the end of the recapitulation, often
preceding it with tonal motion that mirrors the exposition’s motion away
from the tonic (for example, in major I to IV in the exposition becomes V to
I in the recapitulation, or I to [III becomes VI to I). In both types the

6
The three types are discussed in the section on interruption in Schenker (1935), appearing as part
of chapter 2, part II (bearing the somewhat confusing title “Specific Characteristics of the
Middleground: The First Level”). Examples 21a and 22b illustrate interruption proper, while
Examples 21b and 23–27 demonstrate the second prolongation type (both also appearing
frequently in other graphs). While Schenker does not provide a simple graph of the first
prolongation type, he does describe it in the text, pp. 71, 73–74/36.2, 48.2. And as noted in the
discussion of Schenker’s example 39.2 in the previous chapter, its treatment there (in part
reminiscent of example 21b) compounds the problem by incorporating aspects of both
interrupted and non-interrupted versions. For more on these and other aspects of interruption,
see the excellent discussion in Smith (1994), which first brought this problem to my attention.
 Critical assessment: theory 209

thematic reprise begins away from the tonic, so that it has to work its way
back toward it. In such cases can one really speak of an interruption at all?
The question is especially pressing in the second, more symmetrical type,
where the second return is postponed almost to the end. Indeed, one
wonders if there is any real relationship at all between such a symmetrical
movement and a Schenker background, whether it is interrupted or not.7
The theoretical discrepancy between pitch and non-pitch elements in
Schenker’s theory also helps explain why the Freier Satz chapters on rhythm
and form, despite undeniable interest, are so unlike the others. It is not
just that Schenker had insufficient time to finish them before his death
(as frequently noted), but that they reflect an altogether different manner of
theorizing. This discrepancy is confirmed by even the best post-Schenkerian
contributions to non-pitch analysis: however excellent they may be, they
necessarily lack the theoretical rigor of pitch analyses.8
Even thematic and motivic factors involving pitch associations, which
one might assume would lend themselves more readily to theoretical
incorporation, are often in conflict with the theory. Indeed, all associative
relationships, unlike the syntactic ones Schenker primarily addresses, resist
strictly Schenkerian explanation, whether thematic, harmonic, or tonal.9
A major problem is that associational features are normally independent of
temporal succession, resulting from long-range, non-contiguous similarities
incompatible with Schenker’s strictly temporal voice-leading transforma-
tions, which must be linked to the strict chronology of the Ursatz and its
middleground offshoots.

The status of the Ursatz

Probably the most controversial feature of Schenker’s theory is its most

basic component, the Ursatz, the simplest transformation of the chord of

7
Recently I have raised questions regarding Schenkerian readings (though not by Schenker
himself ) of symmetrically organized movements in Bach’s E-major Prelude from The
Well-Tempered Clavier II and Scarlatti’s F-minor Keyboard Sonata, K 467, in Morgan (2005),
pp. 185–86.
8
See, for example, the three closely related articles on rhythm by Carl Schachter mentioned in fn. 4
above, and the two monographs Rothstein (1981) and Rothstein (1989). The present tendency
seems to be simply to admit the discrepancy and combine disparate approaches. As Frank
Samarotto, one of the younger and better Schenkerians, rhetorically asks concerning “Schenker’s
view of form as solely resulting from tonal structure”: “Who among Schenkerians has adopted it?”
Samarotto (1993), p. 93.
9
These problems are addressed in Cohn (1992a) and (1992b).
210 Reconsideration

nature. First, it is worth noting the peculiar role the chord of nature
plays in the Ursatz’s formation. It seems to float over the theory as a sort
of metaphysical ghost, an idealist assumption that stands behind the theory
yet is unable to participate in any of its operations. Since the Ursatz
elaborates the Naturklang, the Ursatz itself obviously cannot be this
chord; and this leaves the latter, despite its fundamental theoretical role,
without any function within the theory proper. The only thing one can say
about it is that it is the “source” of everything in the theory.
Another question concerns what the Ursatz has to do with actual
music and compositional practice. It seems counter-intuitive, for example,
to suppose that anyone ignorant of Schenker’s theory could “discover” an
Ursatz when analyzing music. To find an Ursatz, one must be aware of it.10
Nor did it occur to any theorist prior to Schenker that such a thing existed.
Schenker, though certainly cognizant of these problems, provides little
explanation for the Ursatz’s provenance beyond an occasional cryptic
remark about its being “intuited” or “apprehended” (erschaut) rather than
“calculated” (errechnet).11 While such remarks may tell us something about
how the theory came into existence, and about Schenker’s conviction that
the Ursatz, while linked to concrete musical perception, could be discovered
only by means of a divinatory process, they carry little empirical weight
regarding its nature and construction.
Nevertheless, there is no question about the Ursatz’s importance, whatever
its ontology; its necessity for Schenker’s theory seems undeniable. As the
triad’s simplest transformation, it provides the foundation for all subsequent
levels. The essential identity of its three basic forms is consistent with the belief
that musical laws are invariable; and the limitation to just these types is
justified by their representation of the possible stepwise tonic descents from
one of the triadic tones to the root.12 As music’s initial artistic (human)
manifestation, the Ursatz is variously described as the “mark of unity,” the
“resolution of all diversity into ultimate wholeness,” music’s “sacred triangle,”
and its “guardian angel.”13 As all these suggest, it is indispensable theoretically.

10
For a negative assessment of Schenker’s practice, both with regard to the Ursatz and in general,
see for example Narmour (1977).
11
See Schenker (1926/1996), p. 41/19.1. But even here he refers only to the Urlinie.
12
The question of why the Ursatz must always descend is more complex, though there does seem to
be something intuitively “right” regarding the descent’s finality. For more on this topic, see
Brown (2006), pp. 72–76, and for a dissenting view, Littlefield and Neumeyer (1992).
13
See Schenker ([1935/1979] 1956), pp. 28/5.1, §19, §29. Despite its critical role in long-range
musical coherence, however, the Ursatz is not the “source” of Schenker’s organicism, as William
Pastille has maintained. Having been conceived long after the acceptance of organicism, the
Ursatz was organicism’s consequence, not its source.
 Critical assessment: theory 211

What is open to question, then, is not the Ursatz’s logic but its empirical
and existential status. Schenker never comments explicitly on this, but
instead prefers to stress its secret, mystical character. Yet since the Ursatz
is directly connected to the music (Schenker claims, after all, that it is “part
of the composition”), the question remains as to precisely what it represents.
Most of Schenker’s followers resolve the issue by treating it as a kind of
axiom: a basic logical assumption that facilitates analysis and is to be judged
solely by how well it does its job.14 This gives it a comprehensible function
that is consistent with Schenker’s empirical side. In addition, it corresponds
to the theorist’s own tendency to transform the informal and more variable
procedures of his earlier years, directed toward the changing surfaces of
individual works, into the fixed and systematic ones he later favored, and
reduced to a single, essentially invariable pattern.
Yet this axiomatic conception of the Ursatz is also misleading. It differs
dramatically from Schenker’s own conception and distorts some of his most
basic beliefs. By reinterpreting the Schenkerian apparatus in solely empirical
terms, it retains the theory’s modernist husk but renounces its idealist core,
converting it into nothing more than an analytical tool, a system of hypoth-
eses among which the Ursatz is simply the most basic. But for Schenker the
theory is much more than that: it is the conveyor of musical truth.
Another critical question concerns the Ursatz’s relationship to subse-
quent analytical layers: is it purely contrapuntal and thus without Stufen of
its own; or does it include Stufen? In Der freie Satz Schenker calls the Ursatz
the ultimate source (or Ursprung, a word often used in this context) of all
musical content, which suggests that it has both harmonic and contrapuntal
implications. Yet there seems little doubt that he preferred to view the
Ursatz as contrapuntal. Stufen, for example, depend upon inner voices for
harmonic definition; yet in background graphs, Schenker consistently notates
these voices with smaller noteheads, distinguishing them from the Ursatz
proper. And without inner voices, there are no Stufen. The Ursatz, then, is
better conceived as the source of Stufen, but not as having Stufen itself.
A cause for confusion in this regard is the statement in Freier Satz that the
Ursatz is not the sole source of strict counterpoint.15 This appears, however,
in a paragraph that, unlike others in the volume, is not concerned with the
theory itself but with the discipline of strict counterpoint, where Ursatz-like
constructions obviously represent a small fraction of the many possible

14
In his article “Erläuterungen,” Schenker himself describes the genius’s feeling for musical space
as an Aprioricum; the quotation’s larger context, however, despite its strongly Kantian overtones,
does much to weaken its axiomatic connotations.
15
Schenker (1935/1979), §22.
212 Reconsideration

successions found in contrapuntal exercises. There it is obviously not the

source of all musical content, a role it acquires only within the Schenkerian
theory proper. This does raise the question of why such a paragraph was
included at all; but it is there, I suspect, only to stress the importance of strict
counterpoint for the theory. Although the two theories are distinct, one is
critical for understanding the other.
There are admittedly times when the Ursatz does not seem analytically
helpful. The claim that it is always “present,” for example, is of little
interest when the first Urlinie tone persists through almost an entire
movement before descending to its goal. Similarly, a deep middleground
consisting largely of recurring transferred Ursatz successions, often the
case in variation movements, tells us little about the work’s larger organ-
ization. Such apparently static repetitions can of course be combined
with an evolving structure of some other kind (rhythmic or textural, for
example), as Schenker sometimes does in analyses of variation form; but
such a structure – when viewed theoretically – falls outside of the theory’s
explanatory power.16
Finally, the Ursatz, like the theory itself, ignores such topics as the rise
and fall of levels of musical activity, which result from rhythmic and
formal intensification and relaxation. Ironically, Schenker often focused
on just this musical feature in his earlier work; and due to that work’s
quality, he was acknowledged even at the time as a major analytical figure.
It is not surprising, then, that many current theorists prefer the earlier
work.17 But in Schenker’s subsequent years, due to his wish for a more
formalized musical conception, such matters as intensification became
theoretically expendable, as contrapuntal motion took precedence over
everything else.

16
This is not to say, of course, that the Ursatz never has a significant role in determining
musical character. See especially Schachter (1999a), which, while warning against “valuing the
work’s deep structure more highly than the work itself ” (p. 309), describes the background
as being “embodied somehow in the foreground” (p. 298). It is nevertheless striking that all of
the pieces analyzed are short and, except for one, accompanied by text, and that the Ursatz is
not supported by an actual musical event (the 3̂ in a minor piece, for example, appears only as
the raised third).
17
Lubben (1993) contains an eloquent plea for the special value of the “middle-period”
analyses in Tonwille. And several theorists, notably Patrick McCreless, Janet Schmalfeldt, and
Peter Smith, have attempted to mediate between Schenker’s later formalism and a more
synthetic formal and rhythmic approach; but the result – as they would themselves no
doubt agree – does not possess the sort of absolutism sought by Schenker in his later years.
For more on Schenker’s earlier analytical practice, see my discussion of his analysis of the
opening of the slow movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in Section 4 of Chapter 6
(pp. 106–07).
 Critical assessment: theory 213

Extensions of Schenker

Viewed from today’s perspective, what is most problematic about Schenker

is that his underlying ideology seems doctrinaire and authoritarian. At a
time when exploration of diverse repertoires is celebrated, his beliefs – both
musical and ideological – seem hopelessly out of date. And since music and
ideology are so closely tied together (especially in his case), it is difficult to
evaluate one without the other. No doubt some feel that for this reason
Schenker’s theory should simply be discarded; yet others, particularly those
drawn to so-called eighteenth- and nineteenth-century “mainstream”
music, find his account of the way its pitches operate especially convincing.
But even those certain of Schenker’s worth cannot adequately solve the
problem of universal validity: the conviction that his theory applies only to
those pieces he considers worthy of the name “music.” What does it mean,
within the context of current musical thought, to say that as a form of art the
term “music” applies only to a limited group of works?
The theory tacitly admits this problem in assuming that what the canon-
ical compositions have in common musically, capable of overwhelming all
differences, is something hidden beneath the surface and thus unavailable
for immediate perception. Although Schenker’s success in identifying these
collective features is notable, it is accomplished only by ignoring some of the
music’s most important distinguishing features. Also, despite Schenker’s
quasi-scientific search for musical laws that are eternally valid, he must rely
upon the theory’s idealist underpinnings. Its empirical aspects, that is, are
inseparably tied to a Hegelian conception of music as an all-encompassing
and unified whole. And this idealist-empirical conjunction is, as noted, not
only one of the most definitive attributes of his theory but one of its most
problematic. While this is evident to some degree throughout Schenker’s
theoretical career, it reached full strength only in his late work, and above all
in Der freie Satz.
The theory’s insistence upon shared, universal conventions leads to
marked tension in Schenker’s restriction to a single repertoire. One won-
ders, for example, what relation it has to the world’s actual music. Although,
admittedly, all music is to some degree written in response to shared
convictions, how can Schenker’s theory do justice to the musical variety
evident in the world’s many different cultures? In his own mind, of course,
this is hardly a problem; yet as the theory stands, it remains inapplicable
to almost all of what is commonly understood as “music” today (and this
remains true even if the latter is limited to “concert music”). To borrow a
214 Reconsideration

Schenkerian concept, consider the “background” of world music, which

requires much greater flexibility than Schenker himself would grant it. And
even when widely-accepted conventions have been established, as for
example in Western music of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,
much of what has been written is composed “against the grain,” denying
what is expected in order to pursue mystery and surprise. Confronted with
these compositions, listeners are encouraged either to hear them in terms of
traditional relationships that appear in unlikely contexts, or else to reject
such relationships entirely in searching for new and presumably more
creative frameworks for musical experience. Indeed, the tendency toward
compositional confrontation can be so pronounced as to assume an active
role in promoting musical change.
Indeed, by viewing all pre-eighteenth- and post-nineteenth-century
Western concert music as deficient, to say nothing of most music composed
during these two centuries, Schenker places himself in an unenviable position.
Even if his assumptions are granted, problems persist. The elimination of
music lacking an Ursatz and tonal prolongation may seem – in Schenkerian
terms – obvious, but many works composed during the canonical period itself
are banned, not because they lack Schenkerian operations, but because –
according to him – they are realized unconvincingly. Equally damning,
there are other types of music, including non-Western, popular, Broadway,
folk, rock, and jazz, that are simply said to be beneath consideration.
Post-tonal concert music forms an especially troubling repertoire. Despite
rejection from Schenker’s canon, many works in this category retain numer-
ous elements in common with it, even among those conceived in confronta-
tion with traditional practice. For as long as such conventional compositional
techniques appear in opposition to innovative ones, they remain in some
sense linked to traditional practice. The concept of “rule” in this music is
nevertheless significantly modified. No longer strict and consistent, it can only
be adopted on an ad hoc basis, and restricted to particular contexts. And since
they are not generally applicable, rules vary from case to case.
Works containing such “rules” do not aspire, then, to absolute disorder, but
accept – and even revel in – the uncertainties produced by conflicting expect-
ations. While some composers, such as John Cage, may state that music
should follow no conventions whatever, they constitute a decided minority.
Most contemporary composers, for example, want to retain links with the
past, allowing their works to struggle between what is new and what is old.18

18
Although such works are quite common, one well-known example, viewed as groundbreaking
in this respect, is Luciano Berio’s Sinfonia of 1965.
 Critical assessment: theory 215

Works of this sort often lend themselves to a Schenker-derived

approach. And their composers form a large, varied, and distinguished
group. To name a few drawn from the earlier twentieth century, all
figuring prominently in the standard literature on music of this time,
there are Bartók, Stravinsky, Berg, Hindemith, Debussy, Ravel, Satie,
Sibelius, Poulenc, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Ives, and Copland. Even com-
posers of presumably non-tonal music, such as Schoenberg and Berg,
could be added. Yet all are rejected by Schenker’s theory. And this
means that anyone who wants to deal with them from a Schenkerian
perspective has to acknowledge a basic paradox: Schenker’s approach
must be applied to music with significantly non-Schenkerian features.
And this means that his theory, in order to deal with these features,
must be opened up to accommodate a more makeshift methodology, to
consist of more pliable techniques that are responsive to shifting composi-
tional requirements.
The question of how one goes about creating such a Schenker-derived
method is obviously complex. This is especially true since the works ana-
lyzed require individual approaches, without a single method that suffices
for all. One possibility, however, is to begin by examining the music’s more
traditional linear and prolongational aspects, assuming that these remain
partly susceptible to Schenker’s analytical apparatus; and when they no
longer work, to adopt individualized techniques that seem more appropri-
ate. Yet how does one determine at what point the Schenkerian apparatus
breaks down, how a new one is to be designed to supplement the old one, or
what relationship exists between the two? Each composition alone can
provide an answer to such questions. Each composition alone is able to
suggest the extent to which a Schenkerian approach remains suitable, as
each alone can answer the question of whether a conjunction of Schenkerian
and non-Schenkerian elements will produce a meaningful result.
Fortunately, a sizeable analytical literature exists demonstrating such
Schenkerian extensions, as well as a critical one examining both positively
and negatively the theory behind these analyses. Two prominent commen-
tators, Joseph Straus and Matthew Brown, have written eloquently about
the difficulty of applying Schenkerian analysis to post-tonal music.19 Both
affirm – correctly in my view – that any such analysis must differ funda-
mentally from a purely Schenkerian one. Yet both fail to realize that the

19
Brown (2006) and Straus (1987). Brown does allow certain dissonances to be prolonged in a
strictly Schenkerian manner, though only if the context is functionally tonal; and since his article
has appeared, Straus has altered his view to take a more positive position with regard to dissonant
prolongation.
216 Reconsideration

point of such extensions is not to establish a new system that is in all respects
consistent with Schenker’s, but to show that some aspects of the music
analyzed remain consistent with his theory while others do not. The prob-
lem, then, is not to equate the Schenkerian approach completely with one
that is only Schenker-derived, but to reconcile the two in such a way that
their conflict helps explain how the music works, and in a way that would be
impossible without the Schenkerian component.
Both Straus and Brown complain, for example, that the idea of
“dissonant prolongation,” which characterizes much Schenker-derived
analysis, obliges one to reinterpret prolongation in an essentially non-
Schenkerian way. Though this is no doubt true, the point of an analysis
undertaken in this spirit is not to retain but to reinterpret Schenkerian
principles, transforming them into something new and different. Dissonant
prolongation, for example, necessarily differs from Schenkerian prolonga-
tion; but while it is different, and must be more freely constructed, it retains a
measure of Schenkerian meaning.
This approach seems in fact consistent with the way much late nine-
teenth- and post-nineteenth-century music has been constructed. This
music does not attempt to achieve, like a Schenker masterpiece, a perfect
harmony that resolves all ambiguities; but at the same time, it does not
communicate total chaos and disorder. Rather, centrifugal elements that
disrupt normal continuity compete with centripetal ones that can provide
formal guideposts and anchors of stability. What is important, then, is
not the ultimate banishment of competing elements, but the meaningful
confrontation of the two within what is intended to be an unstable whole.
But in addition, any piecemeal borrowing of Schenkerian procedures
requires that the theory’s ideological foundations be largely jettisoned,
and this irrevocably transforms the entire analytical process. However
much of Schenker’s theory is retained, his ideal of a perfectly comprehensive
approach based on immutable principles has to be discarded, and with it his
conception of what an analysis should be.
This is readily apparent in the three types of extension that – still
confining ourselves to concert music – are evident in current Schenker-
derived analysis. The first, which is most closely related to the Schenkerian
original, simply applies Schenker’s theory to his own repertoire, which it
retains more-or-less intact (though normally without any additional
claim for its special value) but with the theory reinterpreted in axiomatic
terms. Here, then, Schenker’s own operations remain intact but are
conceived in a non-Schenkerian manner. A second type, occupying a
middle ground, attempts to accommodate a wider range of triadic music
 Critical assessment: theory 217

(including essentially tonal composers, but non-Schenkerian ones, such as

Josquin des Prez, Carl Czerny, or Wagner), extending the Ursatz to
include configurations Schenker would have confined to the middle-
ground or completely avoided. The third type, departing from the original
most broadly, attempts to deal with post-tonal music by such composers
as Bartók, Stravinsky, and even Schoenberg, by adopting non-triadic,
non-consonant backgrounds along with considerably freer voice-leading.
All three approaches appear frequently in the literature. The first,
for example, is represented by the work of Carl Schachter and Allen
Cadwallader, who view the Ursatz as axiomatic and, while rejecting
Schenker’s absolutism, usually stick closely to the dictates of his theory
and repertoire. The second is represented by the work of Arthur Komar,
Richard Littlefield and David Neumeyer, whose analyses are normally
confined to Schenker’s own repertoire but suggest alternate Ursatz types
(such as those containing a neighbor note, an ascending Urlinie, or a
three-voice structure). And the third is represented by Felix Salzer, Roy
Travis, Jim Baker and Fred Lerdahl, who combine dissonant backgrounds
with various non-Schenkerian methods, enabling them to analyze a variety
of twentieth-century music.20
Whether such alterations of Schenker’s approach are justified – whether
the pitch successions, for example, of Ockeghem and Palestrina, or Wagner
and Shostakovich, retain sufficient similarity to works in Schenker’s canon
to justify modified use of his method – remains much debated now and will
no doubt continue to be. My own view, however, is that these alterations are
not only justifiable but are in one sense necessary, for only through them
can Schenker’s relevance for current music be broadened. It is also consis-
tent with the theory’s present use, for it is applied to a much larger body of
music than existed in Schenker’s canon and put to purposes that go well
beyond those for which it was originally intended.
It should nevertheless be kept in mind that these extensions, including
even those in which the Ursatz is viewed axiomatically, necessarily
require that the ideological basis upon which the theory rests and was
created must be rejected. They demand a fundamental reinterpretation of

20
For the first type, see Schachter (1999b) and Cadwallader (1998); for the second, Komar (1971)
and Littlefield and Neumeyer (1992); and for the third, Salzer (1965), Travis (1970), Baker
(1990), and Lerdahl (1999). Morgan (1976) falls somewhere between the second and third,
examining largely non-canonical nineteenth- and early twentieth-century compositions with
backgrounds based mostly on augmented triads or diminished-seventh chords. In addition, a
large number of studies use an altered Schenkerian perspective to analyze pre-Baroque music, as
well as popular music and jazz.
218 Reconsideration

Schenker’s own premises, which, stripped of their ideological basis,

must largely lose their original meaning. The theory no longer imparts
“absolute musical truth.” And though this may seem all to the good
(and in one sense certainly is), we need to recall that, without
Schenker’s rock-hard absolutism, his theory – including its evolution
and very existence – would never have been realized.
11 Conclusion

This chapter begins by addressing a question that has long puzzled music
theorists: Why did Schenker, who was in so many ways a traditionalist,
believe that he had found a new vision of music that was both unique
and uniquely important? An answer to this question could assume many
different forms, several of which could take us well beyond purely musical
issues. But here we take an essentially musical perspective, looking at
Schenker’s achievement in the context of Western art theory as a whole
(especially its musical component) to see how he might have interpreted his
role within it. The chapter’s second topic is Schenker’s scientific dimension,
and in particular his relation to the scientific assumptions that largely
characterized the early twentieth century, the period in which he was
developing his theory. We then conclude with another look at his mature
theory, but from a more distant, all-embracing perspective.

Schenker’s response to Western music theory

Considered in the light of Western art theory in general, Schenker’s musical

theory can be seen as a response to a significant aesthetic-formal position
that was first set out in classical antiquity, passed down during the
Renaissance, and subsequently continued essentially up to the present.
This position comprises four interconnected theses: (1) that great works
of art depend upon immutable principles handed down by tradition; (2)
that the tradition is sufficiently flexible to allow these principles to be
realized in different ways; (3) that art has a set of values that positions one
type above all others; and (4) that the formal components of art are
organized so as to both be logical in themselves and have a necessary
function within the whole.
Schenker’s theory readily incorporates the first three theses: great
music conforms to a limited set of principles, these are maintained
despite different realizations, and one musical type is valued above all
others. Its relationship to the fourth, however, which concerns art’s internal
construction, is more complex and requires additional discussion. Some 219
220 Reconsideration

historical background will be helpful here, as scholars have often related this
matter to a shared thesis that extends back into antiquity: that the content of
great art is organized according to proportions, its individual parts related
by simple mathematical ratios both to one another and to the whole. This
view has been especially prevalent in architecture and music, since these two
lend themselves readily to proportional interpretation.
In architecture, proportions can be readily applied to individual parts
of buildings, defining their internal connections and their relationship to
the whole. A canonical statement of this position appears in the most
influential architectural treatise of the Renaissance, Leon Batista Alberti’s
Ten Books of Architecture of 1450, published posthumously in 1486 but
heavily indebted to classical practice, in particular to the first-century
Roman engineer Marcus Vitruvius. Alberti defines beauty as “the harmony
and concord of all the parts achieved in such a manner that nothing could
be added or taken away or altered except for the worse.” He considers
ornament, however, as not “proper and innate,” but “added and fastened
on” to provide “an additional brightness and improvement to beauty.”1
For the art of music, Alberti’s “harmony and concord of all the parts”
nevertheless had to be significantly redefined. It was originally applied, for
example by both Pythagoras and Plato, to pitch vibrations and their har-
monic ratios, whose proportional properties were said to mirror those of the
cosmos. This resulted in the idea of there existing a “harmony of the
spheres,” which quickly became critical for Greek music theory and
continued flourishing throughout the Renaissance and, in some quarters,
into the eighteenth century and beyond.
There is, however, a notable experiential difference between harmonic
proportions in architecture and those in music. In the former, they can be
related to the physical measurements of both parts and whole, and can thus
be readily grasped by the onlooker; but in music, the proportions of pitch
vibrations could not be experienced as such; and as a consequence,
they were largely ignored by composers. Moreover, since mathematical
relationships exist in all pitched music, they evidently had no influence
upon musical value.
The theory of pitch proportions thus had an important theoretical role
in music but lacked a practical one. This difference proved especially
problematic during the Renaissance and post-Renaissance periods, when

1
The quotations are from book VI, chapter 2 of Alberti (1955). The book’s only rival, which also
deals with proportional construction and was similarly written under the influence of Vitruvius, is
Andrea Palladio’s Four Books on Architecture, Palladio (1997), which appeared some 100 years
later.
 Conclusion 221

music theory began to undergo a shift toward a more utilitarian orientation.

Many theorists, perhaps in hopes of bringing the proportional idea more
in line with its use in architecture, thus began to interpret it in formal terms:
in relation to the length of phrases, sections, and larger musical units.
An active theoretical tradition developed from this idea, encompassing
such figures as Joseph Riepel, Heinrich Christoph Koch, Antonin Reicha,
Jérôme-Joseph Momigny, and Hugo Riemann (despite numerous
disagreements among them as to how such proportions were to be deter-
mined, or the extent of their validity).
An obvious problem, however, was the application of strict proportions
to an art whose formal units, especially larger ones, often did not maintain
precise proportional interrelationships. How could the irregularities of
actual musical compositions be accommodated to the regularities assumed
by a proportional approach? The more theorists insisted upon regularity,
the more it became necessary to explain away departures, often (as in
Riemann) through methods that caused considerable skepticism.
Another problem was that measuring the lengths of compositional units
put the focus on something that was “external” to musical content, as
opposed to content itself. During the nineteenth century, moreover,
analysts became increasingly committed to the idea that musical form
should be considered in specifically musical terms, leading them to seek a
more dynamic and holistic conception that viewed music as an organic
and evolutionary process rather than one consisting of the accumulation of
separate, externally measured parts. This gave rise to a second line of
analysis, extending from such early nineteenth-century organicists as
A. B. Marx and François-Joseph Fétis to twentieth-century energeticists
such as August Halm and Ernst Kurth.
But while this did allow energeticist theorists to avoid the analytical
problems associated with proportions, it also left them unable to determine
specifically musical principles that explained how dynamic musical
growth could be controlled. The energeticist approach thus focused more
on metaphorical and psychological features of music than on specifically
musical ones, and its theorists consequently emphasized individual
compositional instances rather than general principles. This approach
nevertheless enjoyed widespread popularity, and even led some committed
proportionalists, such as Riemann, to adopt a more dynamic conception.2

2
This tendency, already evident to an extent in Riemann’s stress on upbeats in his theory of musical
meter, Riemann (1903), became especially noticeable in two of his later publications, Riemann
(1914–15) and Riemann (1916). An excellent chapter on “Energetics” by Lee Rothfarb, which
discusses both Riemann and Schenker, appears in Christensen (2002), pp. 927–55.
222 Reconsideration

Returning to Schenker, according to his view of music, neither the

proportional nor the dynamic formal conception promoted true musical
understanding. Though he was drawn (like many of his contemporaries) to
the dynamic conception, he retained a classicist’s wish to state universally
valid principles. As his work evolved, he also became convinced that he
could describe concrete musical motion with sufficient precision to explain
it rationally.
Schenker’s ability to provide a dynamic account of actual musical process
through a relatively small number of basic principles helps explain his
conviction that his theory possessed unique value. No one before him had
even considered a dynamic view of music that operated with such precision.
For at least in his own eyes, his comprehensive, content-oriented, and
largely systematic theory could account not only for the details of music
but for its forward-directed coherence as well.

The scientific orientation

It is not surprising that a music theorist who claims to have a method that
solves all problems of theory and analysis, at least as related to pitch, is
widely appealing to some but anathema to others. Schenker is thus a
remarkably controversial figure, making it difficult to hold a neutral
position in relation to him. Yet despite this, Schenker’s theory acquired
extraordinary theoretical prominence during the twentieth century, which
it has largely retained during the present one. One reason is that it was
ideally conceived for a time that placed scientific method and mechanical
explanation at the forefront of intellectual concerns. The theory’s reliance
on logic and empirical verifiability thus spoke positively to a time in
which rationality, rigor and control were emphasized, not only in the
sciences but in such other fields as philosophy and the arts.
Three early twentieth-century Europeans who helped define the century’s
commitment to radical empiricism, all philosophers and all contem-
poraries of Schenker – and two of them fellow Viennese – might be
mentioned: Rudolf Carnap, Bertrand Russell and the early Wittgenstein.
They were complemented by numerous European figures in the arts
who were both equally prominent and empirically inclined – for example,
the painters Pablo Picasso and Fernand Léger, architects Mies van der Rohe
and Corbusier, composers Igor Stravinsky and Anton Webern, sculptors
Constantin Brancusi and Alberto Giacometti, and writers Bertold Brecht
and Jean Cocteau. All contributed, along with countless others, to the
 Conclusion 223

scientific tenor that defined an epoch that Walter Benjamin characterized

(referring primarily to film and photography) as “the age of mechanical
reproduction.”
Many musicians distrustful of scientific treatment have turned away from
Schenker. In addition, many have been negatively influenced by the
restricted scope of his musical concerns and repertoire, as well as the
supreme self-satisfaction with which he regarded his mission. What is
one to make of a single conception of music that claims to provide, once
and for all, the answers to artistic questions that have plagued musical
thinkers during countless centuries? This is bound to arouse suspicion
and distrust, not least because music, as a time-dependent and humanly
created art, produces widely variable results. Why should one submit to a
single, all-inclusive approach?
The fact that Schenker addresses this question by basing his theory on a
small number of works drawn from a limited period only exacerbates the
problem. For the theory’s restricted canon reflects his belief that this body is
not only sufficiently important to produce a totalizing conception but of
sufficient artistic quality to stand as music’s sole representative. Though
the decision to limit the theory in this way may have been initiated by a wish
to provide it with a firm empirical basis by allowing it to assume a suitably
“scientific” status, Schenker’s empirical musical pronouncements (not to
mention his idealist ones) were, as has often been noted, based upon
unmistakable and openly flaunted ideological foundations.
Schenker’s scientific side thus provides one important reason why he
is considered controversial. But equally important is that Schenker’s
empiricism is marked by an especially discomforting feature: his belief
that the musical laws supporting it were not only similar to, but operated
with the same force as the laws advanced by his scientific contem-
poraries and predecessors. Indeed, though he never says so explicitly,
Schenker appears to have regarded his proposals for musical coherence as
analogous to the physical laws put forward by his epoch’s most cele-
brated earlier scientist: Isaac Newton.
Though he lived two centuries before Schenker, Newton, characterized
by James Gleick as the “chief architect of the modern world,”3 had much
in common with Schenker. His genius, for example, was similarly joined
with troubling mental qualities, making him, in Oliver Sachs’s words,
“superhuman yet all-too-mortal.”4 Like Schenker, there was also a decidedly
mystical strain, leading Newton to draw consistent intellectual inspiration

3 4
Gleick (2003), p. 3. Quoted on the cover of Gleick (2003).
224 Reconsideration

from his interests in alchemy and magic. In addition, Newton’s religious

beliefs were similar to Schenker’s in being profoundly non-doctrinaire.
An anti-Trinitarian who rarely attended church, he nevertheless believed
firmly in God, considering Him to be nature’s ultimate provider, so that
Newton’s Nature was also permeated with “spirit.” Striking commonalities
also pervade the two theories themselves. Both were rooted in invisible
forces that resisted strictly material explanation: in Newton’s case, gravity;
in Schenker’s, the spirituality of tone. And both figures believed that
their theoretical explanations – of the entire universe in Newton’s case
and of its musical masterpieces in Schenker’s – were based upon fixed
laws that remained eternally in place. This last point may seem odd
today, when scientists often adopt a relativist view of the physical world,
even postulating the existence of parallel universes with alternative laws.
But at the time of both Newton and Schenker, such absolutism was quite
common.
Not surprisingly, then, Newton has at times been viewed in ways
that are also applicable to Schenker. The natural historian Stephen Jay
Gould describes Newton’s God as an “imperial watchwinder who, having
created matter and ordained its laws, let nature run its own course.” The
earth consequently “revolves endlessly about its star with no direction to
its history,” so that “one moment is like all moments.” Gould then asks,
temporarily adopting the perspective of a nineteenth-century naturalist
of Newtonian persuasion (Charles Lyell): “Could not such a grand vision
apply to our geological record of our planet as well?”5 Substituting “musical”
for “geological,” this question might well have been posed by Schenker
with reference to music history. But there is also one critical difference:
Schenker’s musical universe did not, like Newton’s physical one, achieve
instantaneous equilibrium, nor did it then maintain a perpetual steady
state. For Schenker, music discovered its true method only during the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, which was surrounded by a long
pre-history of gradual preparation and a brief post-history of precipitous
decline.
Much of Schenker’s theoretical development was consistent with his
scientific orientation. A constant feature of all the post-“Geist” works
was a commitment to music’s lawful nature, above all as expressed in
Schenker’s increasing reliance on the “law-like” principles of strict
counterpoint, which served as the underpinning for his entire mature
system. This “law-like” aspect is also related to why he considered his

5
Gould (1977), pp. 144, 151.
 Conclusion 225

work immune from future correction: once established, its principles

were beyond improvement and forever valid, and thus unavoidable and
inviolable. Schenker even believed, though one wonders with how much
conviction, that composers would eventually realize the error of aband-
oning common-practice principles and return to the “eternal” eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century procedures established in his work.6 Questions,
then, about why musical laws were so constituted, or why they existed
at all, would have made as little sense to Schenker as similar ones
regarding the universe would to Newton.
An obvious problem with Schenker’s way of thinking (as well as this
comparison of his work with Newton’s) is that the laws of music are
unlike those of physics: created by humans, they differ fundamentally
from those that control the universe. Schenker apparently believed that
this difficulty could be avoided by complementing his theory’s empiricism
with an idealistic superstructure (something that might also be said of
Newton), for this allowed him to understand music as organic, as rooted
in natural law. Indeed, without its idealistic component his theory simply
would not have existed; its empirical–idealist conjunction shaped his
entire evolution, and reached its full expression in his final work.
Nevertheless, as stated before, Schenker’s work is from a scientific
perspective empirically illusory. The assumption, for example, that the
nature–art dichotomy is resolved when nature is unconsciously
transformed, cannot possibly be proved. And few current theorists – even
among dedicated Schenkerians – follow him in restricting his theory to
such a small group of works. The world simply contains too much
musical variety to justify the limitation of a single repertory, or a single
theoretical approach.
Schenker’s unshakeable commitment to universal musical coherence
thus seems at best one-sided and at worst simply wrong. Nor does it help
that ultimately he attempted to account for music’s pitch operations in
predominantly idealistic terms, as this simply underlines the difficulty of
imagining his theory without its ideological sanctions. Schenker’s theory,
then, should probably best be considered as treating a group of standard
common-practice works “as if” they were organically organized (even
though the latter term must be used in a way he once characterized as
“informal”). Despite everything else, Schenker tells us something critical
about this music; and his theory, which fundamentally influences our
conception of both musical structure and musical meaning, is directed

6
See the Urlinie article in Schenker (1921–24/2004–05, issue 1), p. 26/22.2.
226 Reconsideration

toward a body of work that represents a critical part of Western culture.

Still, the ideological aspect cannot simply be eliminated. Both of the theory’s
philosophical components, idealistic and empirical, are responsible for the
characteristic for which it is best known: a “long-range” view of music.
Without the prolongational dimension there would be no synoptic
conception of how music fits together, no passing motion that extends
over an entire piece, nor any musical motion that could elaborate a
single triad. And it is precisely the thought that made these viable that
led him to treat his theory – as well as virtually everything else he wrote
about – with such extraordinary inflexibility.
A critical aspect of Schenker is that his theory counters one of the
dominant tendencies in current intellectual thought: the inclination to
adopt conceptual fragmentation. Current habit seems to deny that dissim-
ilarities can be integrated; yet Schenker offers an alternative, searching
for interrelations and continuities rather than imbalances and contra-
dictions. This is perhaps related to the theory’s limited scope, and to its
determination to find commonalities in such varied works. By describing
them as coherent rather than incoherent, however, and in rigorous terms
rather than speculative ones, he encourages us to see these compositions
as part of a larger picture: they are no longer a jumble of particulars
but fulfill a predefined pattern.
Of course, even if the theory succeeds in resolving the dichotomy
between wholeness and fragmentation, some will argue that it does not
provide a complete answer to the questions it addresses. There is obviously
some truth in this; and in admitting it, I am denying one of Schenker’s
most important principles, his absolutism. This raises another fundamental
question: can we continue to use his theory while ignoring its ideological
foundations, allowing it to function without the burden of ancestry?
Personally, I do not think this is possible. However much we may wish to
ignore the ideology, it cannot be erased.

A final consideration

We close with a final look at Schenker’s theory from a more distant

perspective, considering it as an idealized model that accounts for how
tonal music works by combining empirical and ideal means. On the one
hand, the theory is firmly based on strict contrapuntal assumptions
controlling all consonance and dissonance relationships; but on the other,
it extends these assumptions to cover not only smaller spans of music but
 Conclusion 227

larger ones as well. The theory thus goes beyond the strict rules Schenker
inherited from the past, which treated only local musical lengths. He
radically enlarged them so that they now controlled complete compositions;
and this required finding an entirely new way of thinking about them.
To bring this about, Schenker combined these principles in an unusual
ideological mix designed to regulate all voice-leading, both in individual
parts and the whole, placed under the same set of contrapuntal rules.
One of the theory’s most important features thus became its hierarchical
structure, which allowed this theoretical framework to be presented as a set
of interrelated layers, each included in the following one. This meant that
the entirety could be viewed as a set of contrapuntal elaborations, with the
last containing (at least in principle) not just the first but all those in
between.
Schenker’s theory thus views the composition’s overall tonal structure
as an unfolding of the tonic triad, its first level (like all others) covering
the entire piece, and consisting of the unfolding’s simplest form: a
stepwise descent in the top voice (the most proximate type of melodic
motion) down to the tonic, accompanied by a three-part triadic arpeggia-
tion in the bass (the most fundamental type of harmonic motion). Since the
bass’s first note, the tonic, sounds with the first note of the top voice, its
second, the fifth, with the top voice’s second degree, and its last, again the
tonic, with the top voice’s final note, both of its voices are directed toward
the final root, reached simultaneously. This first level, called the “Ursatz,”
thus consists of a top voice that unfolds the triad contrapuntally with a bass
that unfolds it harmonically (the only two types of elaboration), each voice
confined to a single octave and the whole controlling the music’s totality.
As subsequent layers descend, each new one adds detail to the Ursatz’s
triadic elaboration until – in principle – the composition itself is reached.
And since each layer has similar elaborations, and may even contain
replications of the Ursatz in the tonic or elsewhere (in which case it
“changes key”), the overall structure is partly redundant. But at the same
time, the varied surface of the contrapuntal operations assures that the
overall structure has sufficient contrast. Consistent with Schenker’s motto,
then, each composition contains the same underlying tonal operations, but
it is also unlike any other: the totality remains the same but differs in detail.
Viewed from a different perspective, the theory also explains music by
showing how it is experienced by an ideal Schenkerian listener. It does not
matter that this listener almost surely does not conform to any actual
person, for the theory does not so much examine how music is actually
heard but how it makes sense to an idealized Schenkerian. Of course the
228 Reconsideration

degree to which Schenker’s theory corresponds to the actual listening

process has always been a matter of intense interest, and this no doubt
explains why so much controversy has surrounded it. In addition, since it
also deals with numerous pieces in relation to the same limited number of
transformations, the theory has a quality of rigidity; and this no doubt
appeals to some, since one knows in advance what the basic form will
be, but not to others, since one is unable to respond on one’s own terms.
It is nevertheless notable that Schenker does not limit the musical
responses to such a degree as to eliminate creativity entirely, as anyone
familiar with different Schenkerian readings of the same piece knows.
We also must remember that Schenker not only tells us how his ideal
listener parses a tonal piece, but how that parsing relates to the piece’s
pitch details. That is, the theory not only suggests an ideal listening, but how
it derives from the musical surface. In Schenker’s terms, this means that a
reading must move back and forth between background and foreground,
and that it must be conceived, despite many common features with other
analyses, in terms of the music to which it is directed. And this brings us
once again to one of the theory’s distinctive features: its emphasis on
analysis. Schenkerian tonal structure is, according to the theory, not only
common to all compositions, but related to the particular prolongational
operations that generated it, to how the underlying triad is actually
unfolded.
The theory, then, serves a useful purpose; but like all things in life, it is
imperfect. Its ideological foundations cannot be dismissed, whether they
are related to Schenker’s historical evolution or to the theoretical result. But
our own conception of the theory is the only one available to us, and this
depends finally upon how we feel about it. Schenker himself was of course
a “true believer,” encumbered with both the positive and negative aspects
of that term, someone who at once had no doubts about the theory’s ability
to reveal musical truth, but also someone who was blind to its many
problems. There is no reason, however, why we should accept it unre-
servedly. After all, the theory represents the attempt by one human being
to explain a body of works that were themselves humanly constructed,
conflicted with the problems attending all such constructions.
Schenker will thus always remain a puzzle, even if he is by no means
uniquely so: at once a musical thinker who held repugnant convictions
but one widely perceived as a great innovator. To return to a point made
in the Preface, Schenker was unable to grasp that his musical conception
was contingent; it is only a theory, not absolute truth. He thus failed
to realize that – like all theories – his was subject to reconsideration and
 Conclusion 229

transformation: to alteration because of new empirical data; to applications

for which it was not originally intended; or even to total rejection due to the
appearance of a better theory. What ultimately matters for the theory today,
then, is not Schenker’s view of it, or even its evolution and ideological
background (matters this book has particularly stressed), but what it
means to us in our own current circumstances.
Since we have argued that Schenker’s position in Western music derives
at least partly from his ideology, and that ideology is inseparably tied to
theory, it seems appropriate to close this book with a quotation by one
of the foundational thinkers of nineteenth-century social and economic
history, Karl Marx. With reference to his contemporary, the philosopher
Ludwig Feuerbach, and his mistaken views on eternal verities, Marx wrote: 7

He does not see how the sensuous world around him is not a thing given direct
from all eternity, remaining ever the same, but the product of industry and of
the state of society; and, indeed, in the sense that it is an historical product, the result
of the activity of a whole succession of generations, each standing on the shoulders
of the preceding one . . . [T]he cherry tree, like almost all fruit-trees, was, as is well
known, only a few centuries ago transplanted by commerce into our zone, and
therefore only by this action of a definite society in a definite age it has become
“sensuous certainty.”

7
Marx (1978), p. 170.
 German originals

Chapter 1: Introduction
The page numbers before quotations refer to the page in this book on which
they appear, while those afterwards refer to the German originals.
The quotation in Chapter 1 is taken from the article “Das Hören in der
Musik,” Schenker (1990).
(p. 1): Was aber im Hören eines Kunstwerkes der höchste Triumph, die
stolzeste Wonne ist, ist, das Ohr gleichsam zu Macht des Auges zu erheben,
zu steigern. Man denke eine Landschaft, eine weite und schöne, von Bergen
und Hügeln umrahmt, voll Felder und Wiesen und Wälder und Bäche, voll
alles dessen, was die Natur in Schönheit und Mannigfaltigkeit, so vor sich
hin, schafft. Und nun besteige man einen Ort, der mit Einem die gesammte
Landschaft dem Blick erschliesst: wie sich da fröhlich und winzig die
Wege und Flüsse und Dörfer und Wälder und Alles, was lebt und nicht
lebt, kreuzen, dem schweifenden Blick überblickbar! So gibt es auch, über
dem Kunstwerk hoch irgendwo gelegen, einen Punkt, von dem aus der Geist
das Kunstwerk, all’ seine Wege, und Ziele, das Verweilen und Stürmen,
alle Mannigfaltigkeit und Begrenztheit, alle Masse und ihre Verhältnisse
deutlich überblickt, überhört. Wer diesen Höhepunkt gefunden – von
solchen Punkten muss auch der Componist sein Werk aufrollen – der
mag ruhig sagen, er hat das Werk “gehört.” Aber solcher Hörer gibt es
wahrlich nur wenig (p. 103).

Chapter 3: “Der Geist der musikalischen Technik”

All quotations in this chapter are from “Der Geist der musikalischen
Technik,” Schenker (1990), pp. 135–54.
(p. 44): Denn wenn man nur Werken, die man mit ganz ununterbroch-
ener eigener Arbeitsleistung, Spannung und Freude hören konnte, mit der
Huldigung des naturwissenschaftlichen Begriffes schmeichelt, so ist allzu
offenbar, dass hier das sozusagen organische Entzücken auf den Inhalt,
der solches Entzücken gespendet, übertragen wird. Daher kommt es, dass
ein durchwegs schönes Stück für organisch gebaut gehalten wird. . . (p. 148).
230
 German originals 231

(p. 45): Die Stimmungen des Lebens beherrscht und ordnet die Causalität
der Lebensereignisse, die Stimmungsbilder in der Musik aber, die nicht die
erdwärts zerrende Schwere des Begriffs und der Erfahrung kennen,
beherrscht nur der täuschende Schein einer Lebenscausalität (p. 149).
(p. 45): Ist das Wort eben nur ein Zeichen für Etwas, d.h. einen
Gegenstand oder einen Begriff, der in sich die Gegenstände verarbeitet,
so ist das musikalische Motiv nur ein Zeichen für sich selbst oder, besser
gesagt, Nichts mehr und Nichts weniger, als es selbst (pp. 137–38).
(p. 45): [D]ie Musik aber, die im Grunde Nichts von Causalität und Logik
weiss, vermag ein Ganzes nie so darzustellen, dass es bindend für
Jedermanns Gefühl wäre und das ungläubige Hören zwänge (p. 137).
(p. 45): [S]o begann die musikalische Kunst doch erst dort, wo eine Reihe
von Tönen mit dem Anspruch auftrat, als ein Ganzes, ein in sich ruhender
Gedanke verstanden und gefühlt zu werden (p. 136).
(p. 45): Indessen scheint mir die Harmonie, in jeglichem Sinn verstan-
den, noch eine wesentlich tiefere Rolle zu spielen: sie hilft der Musik über
den Mangel einer Logik und eines Causalnexus sich selbst und den
Zuhörer täuschen. Auch die Harmonie gebärdet sich so, als trüge sie in
sich den Zwang der Logik. Tradition und Gewohnheit geben bethört
auf diese Selbsttäuschung ein und gestehen ihr eine Logik zu, die sie
ebensowenig hat, wie die Melodie . . . Harmonie und Melodie scheinen
Notwendiges und Logisches zu predigen, und täuschen Beide, aber da
sie es zugleich thun, so ist die Täuschung eine um so grössere, und das
Ziel der Musik wird gleichsam mit doppelter Kraft und Täuschung
erreicht (p. 144).
(p. 46): So spielte z.B. die Modulation eine sehr bedeutende Rolle, indem
sie die erstgefundene Melodie in sogenannte verwandte Tonarten fleissig
hin- und hertrug und sich dadurch um die Länge, sowie um das deutliche
Verständniss und um die Stimmung grosse Verdienste erwarb. Auch baute
man Gänge, die in wahrem Sinne des Wortes als Gänge dienten, da sie von
Hauptzelle bis Hauptzelle führten (p. 147).
(p. 46): Jedoch schaute man selbstverständlich darauf, die Absicht der
Künstlichkeit nicht crass zu verrathen, man verdeckte und schminkte sie,
um für die Empfindung jenen unbewussten Zustand durchaus zu retten, in
dem das künstliche Ganze als ein scheinbar natürlich Geborenes am
glücklichsten empfangen und gehört werden konnte . . . Und so schim-
merte über all den erweiterten Bildungen einer phantastisch künstlichen
Willkür trügerisch der Schein einer gedanklichen Logik, und bald begann
man gar zu glauben, in der künstlichen Bildung ruhe eine eben solche
Notwendigkeit, wie in einem natürlichen Organismus (pp. 147–48).
232 German originals

(p. 46): In der That ist kein musikalischer Inhalt organisch. Es fehlt
ihm ein jeglicher Causalnexus, und niemals hat eine erfundene Melodie
einen so bestimmten Willen, dass sie sagen kann, nur jene bestimmte
Melodie darf mir folgen, eine andere nicht. Gehört es doch zu den
Schmerzen des Inhaltsaufbaues, dass der Componist von seiner Phantasie
sich mehrere Aehnlichkeiten und Contraste verschafft, um schliesslich die
beste Wahl zu treffen (p. 148).
(p. 47): [D]ie eigentliche Natur der Musik ist Melodien zu schaffen, die, wie
die Volkslieder, frei and unabhängig mit einander leben, familienähnlich und
versöhnlich, und die, wie die ersten Menschen im Paradies, nackt und
unbekleidet im Paradies der Musik sich herumtummeln können (p. 153).
(p. 47): So wirkten denn verschiedene Gründe zusammen, um die
Instrumentalmusik in eine Künstlichkeit hinauszutreiben . . . Da ich als
Gegensatz zur eigentlichen Natur der Musik, die meiner Ansicht nach
darin besteht, Melodien einzeln hervorzubringen, kein glücklicheres Wort
weiss, als “Künstlichkeit,” so will ich es in diesem Sinne hier gebrauchen,
doch muss ich zugleich bitten, dieses Wort von Odium zu reinigen, das in
der gewöhnlichen Anschauung darauf haftet (p. 147).
(p. 48): Indessen kenne ich eine Erscheinung in der musikalischen
Phantasie, auf die der naturwissenschaftliche Begriff des “Organischen”
ganz streng zu passen scheint . . . Jedoch ist dieses Organische natürlich
nur so lange organisch, so lange es vom Bewusstsein nicht beflekt worden,
und im Augenblick, wo der Componist seiner Phantasie den Weg und die
Suche nach Aehnlichkeiten anbefohlen hat, sinkt, was uns leicht
sonst organisch scheinen könnte, zu blos “Thematischem” d.h. ähnlich
Gewolltem herab. Was organisch ist, ist deshalb vorsichtigerweise immer
nur hypothetisch zu behandeln: vorausgesezt, dass der Componist jene
Aehnlichkeit nicht gewollt hat, ist sie in der Phantasie wirklich organisch
entstanden (p. 150).
(p. 48): Da ich . . . das Organische im musikalischen Inhalt nicht anneh-
men kann (denn schliesslich reicht das hypotetisch Organische zum
vollständigen Inhaltsbau gar nicht aus) . . . (pp. 151–52).
(p. 50): Und so sind denn auch zu verschiedenen Zeiten bei verschiede-
nen Völkern verschiedene Mittel angewendet worden, ein musikalisches
Ganzes zu formen, und so ist es auch noch heute (p. 137).
(p. 50): Es behält ein jeder Inhalt die Kraft, die er einst hatte, und es ist nur
an uns, diese Kraft wieder neu zu fühlen . . . Dieser Stoff widerspricht sich
eben niemals und nirgends, und ebensowenig widersprechen wir uns selber,
wenn wir heute Brahms unser Entzücken schenken, morgen aber Palestrina
oder einem anderen vor-Modernen (p. 151).
 German originals 233

(p. 50): Ein jeder Inhalt, der in einer gewissen Zeit neu gewesen, war
selbstverständlich mit einem eigenen Ausdruck begabt. Nachdem dieser
Inhalt durch die Köpfe vieler Nacherfindenden und Nachempfindenden
gegangen, verblasste er zu einer bekannten Redensart, weil man ihm weder
eine neue Aufmerksamkeit, noch ein dauerndes Interesse mehr zu widmen
brauchte (p. 150).
(p. 51): Als ein rein musikalisches Princip aus eigenen Mitteln zu eigenem
Zwecke schaffend, trat in die abendländische Musik die Polyphonie
ein . . . Abgesehen von all dem natürlichen Reiz, den die Mehrstimmigkeit
elementar ausstrahlen musste, begann durch die neue Künstlichkeit
sehr Umwälzendes in die Empfindung sich einzuschleichen . . . Es lernte so
die Empfindung, jeder geringfügigsten Veränderung treu zu folgen, sie
passte sich an den neuen Geist der Künstlichkeit und Complicirtheit
an . . . (pp. 139–40).
(p. 51): Aehnlich, wie durch die Schule der absoluten, mechanischen
Fingerfertigkeit die zur Freiheit, Unabhängigkeit und Kraft erzogenen
Finger in den Stand gesetzt werden, die mechanische Technik eines jeden
Kunstwerkes zu erfüllen . . . wird auch durch die Schule des Contrapunctes
die Phantasie befähigt, zahllose Charaktere und Wandlungen des Gedankens
zu sehen, um schliesslich für den Stimmungskreis des zu schaffenden
Kunstwerkes den zusagensten Charakter zu bestimmen. In demselben
Maasse aber, als der Stimmungskreis des Werkes subjectiv ist, ist in ihm
alle contrapunctische Technik, die einmal unwiderruflich gewählte, subjectiv
geworden (pp. 140–41).
(p. 55): Auch ist es, glaube ich, nicht rathsam anzunehmen, die Stimmung
B folge organisch auf die Stimmung A blos deshalb, weil Jene zu einer
gewissen Zeit – nach einer reiflichen Ueberlegung des Componisten oder
nicht – unmittelbar dicht auf die Letztere folgen musste. Das hiesse ja den
Schluss billigen, es folge die zweite Sekunde “organisch” auf die erste, blos
weil sie tatsächlich ihr nachfolgt (p. 149).

Chapter 4: Die Harmonielehre

All quotations in this chapter are from Die Harmonielehre (Schenker 1906).
(p. 61): Hier fehlt von Haus aus jede derartige unzweideutige Assoziation
zur Natur hinüber . . . (p. 3).
(p. 61): Erst mit der Entdeckung und Einführung des Motivs ist die Musik
wirkliche Kunst geworden . . . (p. 4).
(p. 61): Wiederholung als Prinzip der Form . . . aus eigenen Mitteln und
ohne deutliche Hilfe der Natur (pp. 10, 15).
234 German originals

(p. 61): [S]o wird die musikalische Reihe, erst wenn sie sich in der Reihe
wiederholt, zu einem Individuum in der Tonwelt. Und wie in aller Natur, so
offenbart sich auch in der Musik der Trieb der Fortpflanzung, durch
welchen eben jene Wiederholung in Szene gesetzt wird. Man gewöhne
sich endlich den Tönen wie Kreaturen ins Auge zu sehen; man gewöhne
sich, in ihnen biologische Triebe anzunehmen, wie sie den Lebewesen
innewohnen. Haben wir doch schon hier vor uns eine Gleichung:
In der Natur: Fortpflanzungstrieb – Wiederholung – individuelle
Art;
In der Tonwelt ganz so: Fortpflanzungstrieb – Wiederholung – individuelles
Motiv (p. 6).

(p. 61): [Ebenso gestaltet sich] die Schaffung des Systems der Töne,
innerhalb dessen das endlich entdeckte assoziative Treiben der Motive
kommen konnte (p. 32).
(p. 61): So ist nichts mehr als ein Wink . . . Daher die Kraft der Intuition,
mit der die Künstler hier die Natur errieten, nicht hoch, nicht dankbar
genug anzuerkennen und zu bewundern ist (p. 32).
(p. 61): So will ich denn hier versuchen, den Instinkt der Künstler zu
deuten und zu zeigen, was sie von den Vorschlägen der Natur unbewusst
gebraucht haben und noch gebrauchen, was sie dagegen unbenutzt
gelassen und vielleicht für immer werden unbenützt lassen müssen.
Wenn nun also diese Erörterungen in erster Linie dazu bestimmt sind,
dem Künstler seinen Instinkt, der in so geheimnisvoller Weise seine
Praxis beherrscht und der Natur abkommodiert, nunmehr auch zum
vollen Bewusstsein zu bringen, dann auch das gesamte musikalische
Publikum über das Verhältnis von Natur und Kunst in Beziehung auf
das System aufzuklären (p. 33).
(p. 62): Das menschliche Ohr folgt der Natur, wie sie sich in der
Obertonreihe offenbart, nur bis zum grossen Terz als der letzten Grenze,
also bis zu jenem Oberton, dessen Teilungsprinzip fünf ist . . . wunderbar,
seltsam und unerklärlich geheimnisvoll . . . eine begriffliche Abbreviation
der Natur . . . (pp. 37, 39, 41).
(p. 62): Es ist selbstverständlich, dass den Trieb, Generationen von
Obertönen ins Unendliche zu zeugen, jeder Ton in gleichem Masse
besitzt . . . So führt denn jeder der Töne seine Generationen und . . . seine
eigenen Durdreiklänge immer mit sich . . . Ist nun die quintale Beziehung
der Töne die natürlichste, so wird, wenn man noch mehr Töne als bloss zwei
in Beziehung zueinander bringen will, wieder die quintale Beziehung im
Sinne der Natur die gemässeste bleiben . . . (p. 42).
 German originals 235

(p. 62): . . . so haben die Künstler, indem sie eine Quintenbeziehung

in umgekehrter Richtung . . . ein künstliches Gegenstück dazu geschaffen,
eine Rückentwicklung, einen zunächst bloss künstlerischen Prozess, der im
Grunde eine naturfremde Erscheinung ist, da die Natur eben ein Rückwärts
nicht kennt (p. 44).
(p. 62): [Das sich die Natur] mit dieser Beziehung der Quinten nach
unten. . .gleichsam befreundet hat, ist übrigens leicht zu verstehen: denn
schliesslich mündet die Beziehung der Quinten nach unten doch wieder
auch in die natürliche Entwicklung der Quinten nach oben, d.h. wäre diese
nicht a priori von Natur aus gegeben, so hätten die Künstler sicher niemals
das Spiegelbild dazu schaffen können (p. 44).
(p. 63): Aber gerade deshalb, weil jene Form uns zu einer täglichen
Erscheinung geworden ist, lade ich jeden Musikfreund desto dringlicher
ein, im Auge zu behalten, welche merkwürdige Naturgewalten und
welche künstlerischen Triebe sich dahinter verborgen halten (p. 55).
(p. 63): . . .in diesem Sinne mag man, um ein Bild aus der Welt der Moral
zu entlehnen, die in der Beziehung der soeben gennanten beiden Stufen
enthaltene Fälsche der Relation, d.i. die Vermindertheit der Quint als
gleichsam eine Sühne für die der Musik nur künstlich aufgedrängte
Technik der Inversion betrachten (p. 57).
(p. 63): . . . und dass so das System als Ganzes nur als Kompromiss
aufzufassen sei zwischen Natur und Kunst, eine Mischung von
Natürlichem und Künstlerischem, nur freilich mit der überwiegenden
Macht der Natur, die ja Ausgangspunkt gewesen (p. 59).
(p. 64): Vor allem ist es nötig, zu errinern, dass auch auf das
Mollsystem jene Prinzipien Anwendung haben, welche wir bei Dur
ausführlich dargelegt haben; ich meine die quintale Beziehung der
Grundtöne des Systems, die Gesetze der Entwicklung und Inversion
samt allen daraus entstehenden Folgen. Soweit diese Prinzipien in
Betracht kommen, ist zwischen dem Verhalten des Moll und des
Dur kein Unterschied zu entdecken. Danach is also der Quintengang
z.B. in A-moll derselbe wie in A-dur, und er wird in Moll keineswegs
schon dadurch gehindert, das zum Unterschied von Dur, wo die ver-
minderte Quint erst zwischen VII. und IV. Stufe ausbricht, hier bereits
die zweite Oberquint in der erwähnten falschen Relation zur dritten
(H:F) steht (p. 61).
(p. 64): . . . dass das Prinzip des Stufenganges in Moll beileibe nicht
original, sondern . . . künstlich aus dem Dur übertragen, sogar gewaltsam
übertragen wurde; und dass . . . aus diesem Grunde eine Superiorität des
natürlichen Dur gegenüber Moll nicht abzuleugnen ist (p. 63).
236 German originals

(p. 64, fn. 18): Danach wird man nach keiner Seite hin wider den Geist
der Geschicht verstossen, wenn man die alten Kirckentonarten trotz ihre
unleugbaren historischen Existenz für blosse Experimente ansieht, für
Experimente in Wort und Tat, d.h. in der Theorie sowohl als auch in der
Praxis, die der Entwicklung unserer Kunst schon aus diesem Grunde zu gute
kamen, weil sie zur Läuterung unseres Gefühls für die beiden Hauptsysteme
e contrario wohl das meiste beitrugen (p. 76).
(p. 64): Wie anders aber könnte man dies, als dadurch, dass man in
Hinsicht dieses Systems weniger die Natur selbst, denn künstliche Motiv als
dessen Ursprung annimmt. Es können nur melodische, d.i. motivische
Gründe dafür massgebend gewesen sein den Molldreiklang überhaupt als
die erste Grundlage des Systems künstlich zu kreieren, und meines Erachtens
ist es eben bloss die Gegensätzlichkeit zum Durdreiklang allein, die den
Künstler gereizt hat, das Melos danach zu formen. [pp. 64–5] . . .
(p. 65): In diesem Sinne ist das Mollsystem eigentlich ganz Ureigentum der
Künstler, wodurch es ein Gegensatz zum Dursystem steht, dass mindestens in
seinem Grundlagen gleichsam spontan aus der Natur erflossen ist . . .
Gegenüber das Dursystem stellt sich somit das äolische ungefähr so, wie der
Natur gegenüber menschliche Kultur überhaupt. Seit Jarhtausenden immer
mehr und mehr – wie vielfach hat sich die Kultur von der Natur entfernt, und
doch wie sicher besteht die Kultur fort, in ihren Trieben ungeschwächt! Ja,
noch mehr, es hat die Natur den gesamten Bestand und Vorrat der Kultur in
ihr eigenes Depot gleichsam aufgenommen, so dass alle Kultur in diesem
Sinne sozusagen ein neuer Bestandteil der Natur geworden ist (p. 67).
(p. 65): Von der Poesie spricht Heine irgendwo als von einer “Erhöhung
der Natur.” Ohne mich nun einer gleichen Respektlosigkeit wider die
Mutter Natur, die ich doch für das Grössere halte, mitschuldig machen zu
wollen, würde ich unbedenklich empfehlen, auch das äolische System als
eine solche “Erhöhung der Natur” zu betrachten (p. 67).
(p. 65): Und nun in dieser Entwicklung der Musik in der Richtung zur
Kunst als einer endlich richtig erkannten Natur betrachte ich das Moll eben
als eine Vorstufe, vielleicht eine letzte, vorletzte zur wirklichen Wahrheit der
Natur, zu ihrer solennesten Wahrheit, nämlich dem Dur (p. 69).
(p. 65): Nun möchte man aber, fürchte ich schliesslich, einen Widerspruch
darin erblicken, wenn ich oben das erste Mal das Moll gleichsam “als
Erhöhung der Natur,” hier aber, das zweite Mal, es bloss erst als Vorstufe auf
dem Weg zur Wahrheit des Dur bezeichnet habe. Der Widerspruch besteht
aber nur scheinbar, denn, so wahr es ist, dass Moll evolutionistisch vor Dur
liegt, so drückt sich anderseits in der künstlerischen Verwertung des Moll, in
der Art des Gebrauches dieser Kunststufe, wie ich ja oben zeigte, so viel
 German originals 237

Künstlerisches, Originelles aus, das dieses Moment allein zur Auffassung von
einer “Erhöhung der Natur” berechtigt, sofern die Natur selbst doch alle die
Bedürfnisse des Motivischen ja gar nicht so deutlich vorgezeichnet hat. Der
Künstler Eigentum is die Entdeckung der Motive, ihre assoziativen Wirkung,
und da in dieser Entdeckung sich die Erhöhung der Natur unbedingt aus-
spricht, so drückt sich diese nicht minder auch in dem System des Moll aus,
das in der Geschichte zwar also eine Vorstufe zu Dur zu gelten hat, doch mit
dem motivischen Leben so verwachsen ist, das es aus diesem Grunde mit zur
Erhöhung der Natur gerechnet werden muss (pp. 69–70).
(p. 66): So steht denn also das, was wir Lebensfreude, Egoismus nennen,
im geraden Verhältnis zur Quantität der Lebensbeziehungen wie auch
zugleich zur Intensität der auf sie verwendete Lebensurkräfte . . . Äussert
sich der Egoismus des Tones darin, dass er, hierin einem Menschen ähnlich,
lieber über seine Mittöne herrscht, als dass er von ihnen beherrscht wird, so
sind ihm zur Befriedigung dieser egoistischen Herrschsucht eben in den
Systemen die Mittel zu Herrschaft geboten . . . Der Ton lebt sich reicher aus,
er befriedigt seinen Lebenstrieb desto besser, je mehr er diese Beziehungen
geniesst, d.h. wenn er erstens Dur und Moll vereinigt, und zweitens je
stärker in diesen beiden sein Genuss zum Ausdruck kommt. Es drängt
daher jeden Ton, solchen Reichtum, solchen Lebensinhalt sich zu
erkämpfen (pp. 106–07).
(p. 67): Stellt sich mir nämlich, im Gegensatz zur Lehre vom
Kontrapunkt, die Lehre von der Harmonie im ganzen als eine bloss geistige
Welt dar, als eine Welt von ideell treibenden Kräften, seien es natur- oder
kunstgeborene . . . (p. v).
(p. 67): Denn die Stufe bildet eine höhere abstrakte Einheit, so dass sie
zuweilen mehrere Harmonien konsumiert, von denen jede einzelne sich
als selbständiger Dreiklang oder Vierklang betrachten liesse; d.h. wenn
gegebenenfalls mehrere Harmonien auch selbständigen Drei- oder
Vierklängen ähnlich sehen, so können sie unter Umständen nichtsdesto-
weniger zugleich auch eine Dreiklangssumme, z.B. C E G hervortreiben,
um derentwillen sie dann alle unter den Begriff eben des C Klanges auf C,
als einer Stufe, subsumiert werden müssen. So bewahrt die Stufe ihren
höheren Charakter dadurch, dass sie über Einzelerscheinungen hinweg
ihre innere Einheitlichkeit durch einen einzigen Dreiklang – gleichsam
ideell – verkörpert [p. 181] . . . Wenn auch der Dreiklang sicher als eine
Erscheinungsform der Stufe bezeichnet werden muss, wo dann eben der
reale Grundton mit dem Begriff der Stufe zusammenfällt, so unterliegt
dennoch der Dreiklang, wenn er bloss als solcher auftritt, wohl der Willkür
der Phantasie, nicht so aber jener Dreiklang, dem der Rang einer Stufe
238 German originals

zukommt, welche mit Naturgewalt und Naturzwang den Künstler leitet . . .

Gerade in ihrer höheren, abstrakten Natur ist die Stufe das Wahrzeichen der
Harmonielehre. Diese hat nämlich die Aufgabe, den Jünger der Kunst über die
abstrakten Gewalten zu instruieren, die teils mit der Natur korrespondieren,
teils in unserem Assoziationsbedürfnis, gemäss dem Kunstzweck begründet
sind. So ist denn auch die Harmonielehre ein Abstraktum, das nur die
geheimste Musikpsychologie mit sich führt (pp. 197–98).
(p. 68): In einem freien Satz wollen sich just kleine Einheiten bilden und
verschiedene Rhythmen bekämpfen – so ist denn auch dementsprechend
das Prinzip der Stimmführung freier geworden. Aber in erster Linie werden
diese Freiheiten gerechtfertigt und verstanden, weil der neue Gesichtspunkt
der Stufen hier dazugetreten ist . . . So bildet also der freie Satz eine
Verlängerung des strengen in Hinsicht der Quantität des Tonmateriales
und des Bewegungprinzipes. Aber alle diese Erweiterungen kommen von
den “Stufen,” unter deren Beistand sich der Kontrapunkt dem freien Satz
vermählt (pp. 203–04).
(p. 68): Dem zum Cantus firmus konsonierenden Noten entsprechen
gleichsam im freien Satz die Stufen, der durchgehenden Dissonanz aber die
in freier Bewegung sich entfaltenden Zwischenakkorde (p. 204).
(p. 69, fn. 30): Bekanntlich sieht man darin den Vorläufer des
Orgelpunktes, uns hat aber hier mehr als dieses die Technik zu interessie-
ren, wodurch ein Ton in die Lage gesetzt wird, eine grössere Reihe kontra-
punktierender Stimmen zu einer Einheit gleichsam zu sammeln, was ja der
eigentliche Beruf der Stufe ist (p. 183).
(p. 69): In dem Mass nun aber, als der harmonische Begriff zu seinem
Dolmetsch eben das Motiv benütz, das ja den primärsten Teil des Inhaltes
bildet, verwachsen Harmonie und Inhalt derart, das von nun ab nur ein
bestimmtes inhaltliches Glied des Gesamtorganismus erst den Drei- oder
Vierklang unserer Empfindung zum Bewusstsein bringt, und umgekehrt die
Gesetze des Harmonischen die Entstehung des Inhaltes beeinflussen. Es
wird solchermassen eine jegliche Harmonie nicht bloss behauptet, sondern
auch auskomponiert und dadurch erst erwiesen; wie denn eben aus diesem
Bunde des Inhaltes und der Harmonie zugleich auch das Gefühl der Stufe in
uns erblüht (p. 282).
(p. 70): [D]er Künstler horcht gleichsam auf die Seele des Tones – der Ton
sucht möglichst reichen Lebensinhalt – und so gibt der Künstler, der mehr
Sklave des Tons ist, als er ahnt, ihm so viel, als nur möglich ist, nach (p. 109).
(p. 70): [D]ie geheimnisvoll ordenen Mächte der Stufen p. 219 . . . die
Stufe kraft transzendenter Macht . . . p. 228 . . . die rein geistige Bedeutung
der Stufe . . . (p. 198).
 German originals 239

(p. 70): die Stufe [ist] das Wahlzeichen der Harmonielehre. Diese
hat nämlich die Aufgabe, den Jünger der Kunst über die abstrakten
Gewalten zu instruieren, die Teils mit der Natur korrespondiert, Teils in
unserem Assoziationsbedürfnis, gemäss dem Kunstwerk begründet sind. So
ist denn auch die Harmonielehre ein Abstraktum, das nur die geheimste
Musikpsychologie mit sich führt (p. 198).
(p. 70): So will ich denn hier versuchen, den Instinkt der Künstler zu
deuten und zu zeigen, was sie von den Vorschlägen der Natur unbewusst
gebraucht haben und noch gebrauchen, was sie dagegen unbenutzt gelassen
und vielleicht für immer werden unbenützt lassen müssen. Wenn nun also
diese Erörterungen in erster Linie dazu bestimmt sind, dem Künstler seinen
Instinkt, der in so geheimnisvoller Weise seine Praxis beherrscht und der
Natur akkommodiert, nunmehr auch zum vollen Bewusstsein zu bringen,
dann auch das gesamte musikalische Publikum über das Verhältnis von
Natur und Kunst in Beziehung auf das System aufzuklären . . . (p. 33).
(p. 71): Grossen Talenten und Genies nämlich ist es oft eigen,
Nachtwandlern gleich den rechten Weg zu gehen, auch wenn sie durch
dieses oder jenes, hier sogar durch die volle Absicht auf Falsches, verhindert
sind, auf ihren Instinkt zu horchen. Es ist, als komponierte geheimnisvoll
hinter ihrem Bewusstsein und in ihrem Namen die weit höhere Macht einer
Wahrheit, einer Natur, der er es gar nichts verschlägt, ob der glückliche
Künstler selbst das Richtige wollte oder auch nicht. Denn ginge es ganz nach
Bewusstsein der Künstler und nach ihrer Absicht, wie oft würden ihre
Werke schlecht ausfallen – wenn nicht glücklicherweise jene geheimnisvolle
Macht alles selbst aufs beste ordnen würde (pp. 76–77).
(p. 71): In der frei und mannigfaltig rhythmisch gebauten Melodie
dagegen entfällt naturgemäss das Postulat des Gleichgewichtes. In einem
freien Satz wollen sich just – kleine Einheiten bilden und verschiedene
Rhythmen bekämpfen – so ist denn auch dementsprechend das Prinzip
der Stimmführung freier geworden. Aber in erster Linie werden diese
Freiheiten gerechtfertigt und verstanden, weil der neue Gesichtspunkt der
Stufen hier dazugetreten ist, der die Entstehung jener kleinen Einheiten
überhaupt erst ermöglicht hat. Die Stufen also sind es, die nicht nur den
freien Satz entstehen machen, indem sie durch die ihnen immanente
natürliche Logik des Ganges alle seine Vielfältigkeit aus ihren geheimen
Gesetzen überhaupt logisch entwickeln, sondern auch die Stimmführung
freier und kühner machen (p. 203).
(p. 71): In der Musik ist es eben wichtig, sehr wichtig, jede Erscheinung,
selbst die kleinste, zu beachten und jedes einzelne Detail, selbst das
geringste, mit der ihm eigenen Ursache zu hören (p. 103).
240 German originals

(p. 72): So stellt sich denn der Gesamtinhalt eines Tonstückes im Grunde
einen wirklichen beständigen Kampf zwischen System und Natur dar,
und wer immer von beiden auch momentan siegt, verbannt doch nicht
vollständig den besiegten Teil aus unserem Empfindungskreise. Als
Ergebnis möchte ich daher das Prinzip aufstellen: Chromatik ist kein
die Diatonie zerstörenden, vielmehr ein sie desto nachdrücklicher
bekräftigendes Element (pp. 379–80).
(p. 72): . . . jede Stufe [bekundet] einen unwiderstehlichen Drang . . .
(p. 337).
(p. 73): Es wurde oben bereits demonstriert, wie die Stufe mit der
grösseren Masse des Inhaltes parallel läuft; ich kann daher behaupten,
dass die Entwicklung der Stufe, historisch betrachtet, mit der Entwicklung
des Inhaltes d.i. der Melodie in der horizontalen Richtung zusammenfällt.
Dreht Entwicklung in der Hauptsache bloss darum, auf welche formal-
technische Weise es möglich ist, eine grössere Summe von Inhalt zu erzie-
len. Gleichviel wodurch dieses Problem im menschlichen Bewusstsein
zuerst angeregt und auch für die Dauer rege gehalten wurde, ob dahinter
bloss ein einfacher Spieltrieb steckt, oder ob sich darin vielmehr das
natürliche Gesetz des Wachstums äussert, welches wir doch überall in den
Schöpfungen der Natur wie des Menschen wahrnehmen können, in jedem
Falle mussten die technischen Mittel zur Erweiterung des Inhalts erst Schritt
um Schritt erdacht und erfunden werden (p. 209).
(p. 76): Aber auch in der Form im grossen – auf dem Wege von
Gedankenkomplex zu Gedankenkomplex, von Gruppe zu Gruppe –
offenbart sich in wunderbar-mysteriöser Weise die bisher in der kleinen
Form von uns dargelegte psychologische Natur des Stufenganges. Wir
haben hier allerdings in Form von bereits ausgesprochen Tonarten
wieder nur einfach denselben Stufengang – aber höherer Ordnung: so
steigert sich eben der Tendenz des grossen Inhaltsaufbaues zuliebe mit in
entsprechender Weise das Naturelement des Stufenganges (p. 327).

Chapter 5: Kontrapunkt I and II

All quotations are from Kontrapunkt I (1910) and Kontrapunkt II (1922).

Volume 1 (1910)
(p. 78): Alle musikalische Technik ist auf zwei Grundelemente
zurückzuführen: auf die Stimmführung und den Stufengang. Das ältere
und ursprünglichere Element von beiden ist die Stimmführung (p. xxiii).
 German originals 241

(p. 78): Versteht man denn unter “Technik” nicht etwa die Erfüllung
jener Forderungen seitens des Künstlers, die der Stoff, hoch über dem
Künstler stehend, gar selbst an diesen stellt? (p. xiv).
(p. 78): [D]ie Töne sind sie selbst, gleichsam Lebewesen mit eigenen
Gesellschaftsgesetzen . . . p. 24 . . . Somit können die Töne nicht einfach nur
nach Wunsch dessen, der sie setzt, eine beliebige Wirkung hervorbringen;
denn niemand hat Macht über die Töne in dem Sinne, dass er auch ein
anderes von ihnen fordern könnte, wo die Voraussetzungen ihrerseits keine
danach sind. Auch die Töne selbst müssen, wie sie eben müssen! (pp. 21–22).
(p. 78): Der Künstler lernt sich so vor dem absoluten Charakter des
Tonlebens bescheiden beugen . . . Hier, in der Kontrapunktslehre, kann
also der Jünger die Grundlage für die erste Einsicht und Überzeugung
gewinnen, dass es einen Zusammenhang zwischen des Künstlers Absicht
auf Töne und deren Wirkung nun tatsächlich gibt . . . (p. 22).
(p. 79): Wie man sieht, wiederholt sich auch darin die schon aus der
organischen Natur bereits bekannte Tatsache, dass das Durchlaufen eines
embryonischen Stadiums unerlässlich ist! . . . gleichsam einer kleinen
Übungsbühne . . . (p. 16).
(p. 79): Ich hoffe, sie gewinnen mit mir die Überzeugung, dass die
letzteren [die Grundsätze der Stimmführung] einen unverlierbaren organ-
ischen Bestandteil aller Lehre bilden und ihre Geltung so lange behalten
werden, als die Tonkunst selbst unter den Menschen weilen wird! (p. xxiii).
(p. 80): Hat nun aber der strenge Satz . . . das Natürliche stets vor dem
Künstlichen zu bevorzugen . . . (pp. 238–39).
(p. 80): Die in der Obertonreihe sich manifestierende Natur deckt somit,
was wohl sehr zu beachten ist, nicht nur die Erscheinungen der vertikalen
Richtung, d.i. das harmonische Prinzip im Dreiklang, sondern auch die
Erscheinungen der horizontalen Richtung, d.i. der melodischen
Aufeinanderfolge. Ob die Oktav in vertikaler Richtung erklingt, oder ob
sie in horizontaler melodischer Fläche liegt, beider Wohlklang und
Rechtfertigung ruht gleichmässig auf dem Willen der Natur; and ganz so
ist es auch mit der Quint und Terz (p. 109).
(p. 80): Diese stellt . . . die einzige horizontale Dissonanz vor, deren sich
die Melodie in ihrem nacheinander bedienen darf: Die Sekund . . . Im Takt 3
bildet der Ton E, als Sekund zwischen F und D (Takt 2 und 4), gleichsam
eine Brücke, auf der die beiden letztgenannten Töne zu Terzwirkung
einander entgegenkommen (p. 116).
(p. 80): Das Problem der Dissonanz auf dem Aufstreich führt somit
endgültig zu folgender Skala der Lösungen: 1. Als die erste und natürlichste
Lösung, die zugleich alle Fehler unmöglich macht, erscheint jene, die im
242 German originals

Durchgang auch Beibehaltung der Richtung fordert. Man nennt in diesem

Falle die Dissonanz eine durchgehende Sekund. 2. Als minder natürlich,
weil bereits mit einer im strengen Satz unwillkommenen Konsequenz
verbunden, und daher an zweiter Stelle erscheint die Lösung, die auch am
Niederstreich des nächsten Taktes noch eine Rückkehr der selben
Konsonanz gestattet. Die in diesem Falle zwischen den beiden identischen
Konsonanzen erscheinende dissonante Sekund nennt man “Nabennote.”
3. Dagegen müssen alle anderen Lösungen, die das An- und Abspringen der
Dissonanz anwenden – und deren gibt es begreiflicherweise ja unendlich
viele – als für den strengen Satz, d.i. für das Stadium der Aufgaben noch
völlig ungeeignet erklärt werden; sie sind vielmehr nur dem freien Satz
vorbehalten . . . (pp. 240–41).
(p. 80): Was den freien Satz anbelangt, so emanzipiert er die durchge-
hende Dissonanz zunächst von Postulat der Sekund, so dass man dort – in
Erweiterung des Begriffes – als durchgehende Dissonanz auch jene disso-
nierende Note bezeichnen kann, die bei angenommener bestimmter
Harmonie zwischen zwei harmonischen Punkten der Harmonie sogar
einen Sprung bildet (p. 248).
(p. 81): Vielmehr steigert die verübergehende Selbständigkeit den
Wert und die Kraft der von Anfang an angestrebten und doch wieder
auch behaupteten Einheit beider Stimmen. So eröffnet sich denn gerade in
diesem Punkte ein schöner, weiter Ausblick in den freien Satz hinein,
der die Einheit seiner “Stufen” ebenso aus der Selbständigkeit gar vieler
Stimmen zu abstrahieren sucht, wobei denn auch der ästhetische Erfolg der
Einheitlichkeit ein desto vollkommenerer ist, je reicher die Selbständigkeit
der einzelnen Stimmen ausgebaut wurde (p. 247).
(p. 81): Vergleichen wir die dissonante Synkope mit der uns schon in der
zweiten Gattung bekannt gewordenen Erscheinung der durchgehenden
Dissonanz, so überrascht uns unerwarteterweise ein gemeinsames
Merkmal, nämlich, dass bei beiden das dissonante Element jeweilig nur
zwischen zwei Konsonanzen zu stehen kommt! . . . In diesem Sinne wäre
nun aber auch die dissonante Synkope im Grunde wieder nichts anderes, als
nur eine Art durchgehender Dissonanz, ein Teil des allgemeinen Problems
der Dissonanz überhaupt . . . (pp. 335–36).
(p. 81): Will man dem verborgenen Sinn der Entwicklungsgeschichte
unserer Kunst näherkommen, so empfehlt es sich, gerade in der dissonanten
Syncope ein technischen Mittel rein musikalischer Kausalität zu sehen, wie
ein ähnlich geeignetes für den Tonsatz der Vokalepoche kaum wieder
gefunden werden könnte. Auf der instinktiven Suche nämlich nach techni-
schen Mitteln, die die Länge des Tonsatzes dehnen sollten, und inmitten
 German originals 243

einer Stimmführung, die (ausser den eigenen Gesetzen) sonst noch keinerlei
höhere Notwendigkeit aufwies, bot sich dem künstlerischen Sinn im
Zwang der Vorbereitung und Auflösung einer Dissonanz ein durchaus
willkommenes Mittel, das mindestens von Harmonie zu Harmonie eine
Art musikalischer Kausalität und Notwendigkeit vorzutäuschen vermochte.
Lag ähnlich übrigens auch schon im allereinfachsten Durchgang ein Keim
solchen Zwanges zur Fortschreitung . . . so ist es klar, dass der Zwang der
dissonanten Synkope als eine unvergleichlich stärkere und zwingendere
Wirkung empfunden werden musste.
Letztere Wirkung einer musikalischen Kausalität blieb der dissonanten
Synkope naturgemäss nun auch in der Instrumentalmusik treu. Auch in
dieser, ja selbst in der vorgeschrittensten, erscheinen die Harmonien desto
inniger, scheinbar notwendiger verkettet, je drastischer und fremder ein
Ton der einen Harmonie sich gleichsam in den Leib der anderen nuchfolgen
einhakt. Für die höhere Notwendigkeit des Tonsatzes und der Länge sorgten
dann noch die Stufen (und was aus ihnen kommt: Tonalität, Chromatik,
Modulation usw.) und die Form! Bedenkt man, dass der Künstler aus den
Händen der Natur nur den Durdreiklang zu empfangen in der Lage war,
so muss man über das schöpferische Vermögen der Menschen staunen,
die auf so bescheidener Basis einen so stolzen Bau der musikalischen Kunst
aufzuführen und ihr so starke, hohe Notwendigkeiten mitzugeben ver-
mochten! In eben diesen Notwendigkeiten ganz eigener Art besitzt die
Musik nicht weniger “Logik,” als die Sprache oder die anderen Künste!
Man hat so allen Grund, wie man sieht, unter sämtlichen Künsten gerade
die musikalische am höchsten zu stellen, die für die Selbständigkeit
menschlichen Schaffens ein so stolzes Zeugnis ablegt! (pp. 376–77).
(p. 83): Erst der freie Satz vermag selbst auf ein wirkliches und deutliches
Liegenbleiben des sammelnden Tones (wie es der C. F. bei den Aufgaben der
späteren Gattungen ist) zu verzichten und auch nur ideelle Töne anzuhneh-
men, denen das Tragen von Dissonanzen durchaus zugemutet werden
kann. Doch freilich sind diese ideellen Töne so im Gefühl gegenwärtig,
das sie in diesem Sinne auch wieder als reell bezeichnet werden können. In
der Hauptsache sind es ja dort die Stufen, die ihren eigenen geheimen Gang
haben, und eben das Vertrautsein unseres Gefühls mit dem letzteren macht
uns die Annahme jener ideellen ausserhalb der wirklichen Stimmführung
liegenden Töne selbstverständlich (p. 154).
(p. 83): Um wie viel förderlicher wäre es doch für den Schüler gewesen,
wenn Bellermann sich zuerst selbst klar gemacht hätte, dass die
Kontrapunktslehre auf den freien Satz nur vorzubereiten, und das Ohr auf
diese oder jene Wirkung erst einzustellen hat, ohne dass sie im übrigen sich
244 German originals

gar damit noch zu befassen brauchte, ihre eigenen Ge- oder Verbote so ohne
weitere Modifikationen auch für die ihm doch fremden Situationen des
freien Satzes aufzustellen (p. 73).
(p. 83): Wer kann es nun leugnen, dass unter den hier zu Tage tretenden
besonderen Umständen motivischer Natur Beethoven den chromatischen
Gang so zu wagen wohl das gute Recht hatte, ja es wagen sollte und musste?
Und wie weiss Beethoven diesen motivischen Zusammenhang . . . ausser-
dem auch noch durch die Harmonisierung erst recht in seiner
Notwendigkeit zu erweisen! Man sehe nur die Harmoniefolge: C[7–G\7–
C: welche Ungereimtheit doch scheinbar in der plötzlichen Verbindung von
C[7, als eines V7 in F-dur und G7, als eines V7 in C-dur und wie logisch
gleichwohl auch diese Folge ausschliesslich im Dienste des Motivischen!
(pp. 74–75).
(p. 83): Im selben Masse nun aber, als der freie Satz der Mischung und der
chromatischen Modulation dringend bedarf, wird dort auch der daraus
entspringende Querstand zu einer nich bloss “geduldeten Lizenz,” sondern
zu einer durchaus gerechtfertigten Notwendigkeit (p. 227).
(p. 83): Dazu tritt übrigens noch, dass der freie Satz weit über das
unmittelbar verhandene reale Tonbild hinaus sämtliche Bestandteile der
Harmonie in unserer Vorstellung lebendig zu machen vermag, und zwar
in allen ihren möglichen Lagen und Oktaven. Wenn es nun also z.B. an
einer Stelle, die wir als Kadenz vorausnahnen, heisst: [example 357] so
verstehen wir das zweite Achtel c des Basses vor allem im Dienst der
zu erwartenden V. Stufe als die Nebennote des kommenden Grundtones
D; ausserdem aber stellt uns unsere Vorstellung aus Eigenem vor c
Bestandteile des zu verlassenden Durdreiklanges auf G bei, entweder H
oder D: [example 358] wodurch aber – und dieses ist eben das dem
oberflächlichen Empfinden unzugängliche Resultat – auch in dem zweiten
Achtel, also in dem angesprungenen Durchgang, doch wieder zur der
Urtypus des Durchganges selbst zur Verkörperung gelangt! Man sieht
also, wie ein und dasselbe Urphänomen in so vielen Formen sich
manifestiert und doch in keiner von ihnen sich ganz verliert! Will nun
auch fürs erste die jeweilige Abwandlung noch so wenig den Urtypus
erkennen lassen, gleichwohl ist es der letztere allein, der auch die neue
Erscheinung zeitigt und befruchtet. Gerade aber den Urtypus samt dessen
Abwandlungen aufzuzeigen, und eben nur Prolongationen eines
Urgesetzes zu enthüllen, auch dort, wo scheinbar Widersprüche gegen
dieses zu Tage treten, ist allein Aufgabe des Kontrapunktes! (pp. 314–15).
(p. 85): Die übermässige Quart des folgenden Beispieles [example 48] wird
aber durch die Natur des Klaviersatzes selbst (wovon noch später die Rede
 German originals 245

sein wird) erklärt. Besonders ist es der ältere Klaviersatz, der, je weniger er
eine bloss kontinuale Mehrgriffigkeit noch benutzte (zumal eine solche,
wie gerade wir sie heute so gerne pflegen), desto mehr und eifriger nun
die angeblich fehlenden Harmonien in seinen Figurationen und allerhand
Winkelwerk durchlief und so die Mehrstimmigkeit erzeugte. Wozu hatte
er denn Harmonien in fertigen Akkorden noch nötig, wenn er sie nur sonst
zum Ausdruck brachte? Im obigen Beispiel sehen wir ja deutlich, wie das
Figurenwerk mehrere Stimmenwege in sich aufs kunstvollste vereinigt
und etwa für folgenden Satz steht: [example 49] Daraus folgt aber, dass
die übermässige Quart in obigem Beispiel Händels doch nur ein scheinbarer
Tritonus ist, da ja in Wirklichkeit nach Fig. 49 der Ton A durchaus
nicht nach Es, sondern nach B geht, und überdies zugleich eine zweite
Linie nach G und F entsendet, welche beide Intervalle indessen nur
Sekundfortschreitungen vorstellen (p. 86).
(p. 86): . . .überhaupt eben nur in ähnlichen Ableitungen der wirkliche
Zusammenhang des freien mit dem strengen Satz gefunden werden kann
(p. 268).
(p. 87): Das Bild bei a) gibt die normalen diatonischen Durchgänge an,
die zwischen g und c1 der tieferen Stimme liegen, bezw. zwischen h und e1
der höheren. Das ist der eigentliche Hintergrund aller späteren Ereignisse,
sozusagen das erste Stadium. Das Bild bei b) bietet die chromatische
Ausfüllung der normalen Diatonie und zwar bei 1. der tieferen, bei 2. der
höheren Stimme. Dies ist das zweite Stadium. Das Bild bei c) stellt den
ersten und vorerst normalen Versuch vor, durchaus mit Beibehaltung des
einmal gegebenen Vierviertelraumes gleichwohl die sämtlichen oben sub b
aufgezeigten chromatischen Durchgänge beider Stimmen anzubringen
(p. 205).
(p. 88): Mit ihrer Allgewalt deckt freilich schon die Stufe allein, hier die V.,
den ganzen Ablauf der grossen Terzen (Takt 4–5) restlos genug, indem sie
diese zu melodisch bloss durchgehenden chromatischen Rückungen zwi-
schen g und c1 herabdrückt. Und doch begreift das Ohr sehr wohl auch den
Verlauf des ganzen Prozesses, der zu dieser Durchgangswirkung führen
musste, und wir gelangen schliesslich zur Einsicht, hier nur scheinbar grosse
Terzen vor uns zu haben, die in Wahrheit vielmehr von bloss kleinen
Terzen herstammen (p. 204).
(p. 88): [So kann] denn überhaupt eben nur in ähnlichen Ableitungen der
wirkliche Zusammenhang des freien mit dem strengen Satz gefunden
werden . . . (p. 268).
(p. 89): Wer kann denn übersehen, dass er [der zitierte Satz Goethes],
trotz allerhand Umstellungen, im Grunde doch nur Prolongationen auch
246 German originals

noch der normalsten grammatischen Gesetze aufweist? Ähnlich formen

ja auch die neuen Gewalten, die der freie Satz in der Musik mit sich bringt,
eine scheinbar neue Ordnung, und dennoch sieht der Kenner im
Hintergrunde tief und mystisch die grundlegenden kontrapunktischen
Gesetze wirken, so dass die Erscheinungen im freien Satz durchaus nur als
deren Prolongationen wieder zu erkennen sind (p. 20).
(p. 89): Es entsteht durch eine solche Taktik eine Art wellenförmiger
Linie der Melodie, die als Ganzes nun eine lebendige Einheit vorstellt, mit
ihren auf- und absteigenden Richtungen aber das Schauspiel eben eines
Gleichgewichtes in allen einzelnen Phasen bietet. Man nennt diese Linie den
“fliessenden Gesang” und man darf zugleich getrost ausprechen, dass die
Sekund, als kleinstes Intervall und Retterin in allen Nöten, gleichsam das
Medium des fliessenden Gesanges ist (p. 133–34).
(p. 89): Im “fliessenden Gesang” finden wir somit eine Art ausgleichender
ästhetischer Gerechtigkeit gegenüber dem Gesamtgebilde von Tönen,
innerhalb dessen jeder einzelne Ton ebensosehr Mittel zum Gesamtzweck
als auch Selbstzweck ist (p. 134).
(p. 90): [O]der mag sie [die Linie] endlich das geheimste Ergebnis,
den letzten Niederschlag auf- und niederziehender Figuren vorstellen,
wie er z.B. im Präludium der englischen Suite in D-moll von S. Bach
etwa folgendermassen festzustellen wäre: [example 120] Gleichviel
waltet in allen diesen Fällen das Gebot des fliessenden Gesanges und
bleibt nicht minder wach wie beim anspruchslosen, einfachen C. F. selbst!
(pp. 135–36).
(p. 90): Man sieht, die so gebrauchte Sekund schafft wirklich
völlige Neutralität von Ton zu Ton, indem sie auch dem nachfolgenden
Ton an Harmonie nicht mehr gibt, als dem vorausgegangenen . . .
Daher kam es, dass man schon vorzeiten, und zwar in Hinsicht auf
die vorteilhaften Konsequenzen sowohl der harmonischen Neutralität
als auch des fliessenden Gesanges, den Grundsatz aufgestellt hat: Die
Dissonanz auf dem Aufstreich darf nur stufenweise gebraucht werden
(p. 239).

Volume II (1922)
(p. 92): Im Sinne der Obertonreihe lautet die ursprüngliche natürliche
Ordnung der Intervale, die Oktav mit eingeschlossen, allerdings so:
3
5
8
"
 German originals 247

Jedoch ist im strengen wie im freien Satz, wo eine künstlerisch-künstliche

Stimmführung die Wege regelt, auch jede andere Ordnung willkommen,
vorausgesetzt nur, das 8, 5, 3 bleiben (p. 122).
(p. 92): Bei aller stets als unabhängig zu verstehenden Körperlichkeit der
im strengen Satze möglichen Intervalle enthüllt sich somit bei der
Urerscheinung des dissonanten Durchganges gleichwohl schon ein
seltsamer Einschlag von Vorgestelltem: er besteht in der geheimnisvoll
wirkenden Erinnerung an den konsonanten Ausgangspunkt, die den dis-
sonanten Durchgang auf seinem Weg durch den Terzraum begleitet. Es
ist, als würde die Dissonanz auch den Einschlag der Ausgangskonsonanz
stets mit sich führen, und man begreift so aus tiefstem Grunde die
Vorschrift des strengen Satzes, die vom dissonanten Durchgang fordert,
dass er durchaus nur im Sekundschritt und durchaus nur in derselben
Richtung fortgehe. Die Tragweite dieser Wirkung ist höchst bedeutsam:
Wir erkennen im dissonanten Durchgang den verlässlichsten, ja einzigen
Träger des Melodischen überhaupt. Während in der ersten Gattung die
melodische Linie sich noch mühsam Klang um Klang enthüllt, sehen
wir sie in der zweiten Gattung bereits bei einer ruhenden Vertikalen
fortschreiten. In diesem Sinn weist schon der zweistimmige Satz einen
ersten Ansatz zur melodischen Auskomponierung, das ist der gleichzeitigen
Entwicklung derselben Harmonie in vertikaler und horizontaler Richtung
auf . . . (p. 59).
(p. 93): Wir werden in der Folge auch bei den Mischungsaufgaben sehen,
wie sich die Notwendigkeit, an der konsonanten Harmonie des Niederstreichs
festzuhalten, desto dringender erweist, je mehr die anderen gleichzeitig in
Halben fortschreitenden Stimmen die Einheit der Niederstreichsharmonie
zu gefährden drohen. Die Einbildungskraft hat dann, besonders beim
dissonanten Durchgang des Basses, die Harmonie des Niederstreichs aus
Eigenem fortzutragen, und indem sie es tut, bereitet sie sich am schicklichsten
zur Empfängnis jenes grössten geistigen Wunders vor, das den freien Satz
beherrscht, nämlich der Stufe, die jenes Beharrende einer Harmonie für die
Dauer von Durchgängen in höchster Auswirkung vorstellt (p. 60).
(p. 93): In welchem Sinne schon bei der zweiten Gattung vom Begriff
der Auskomponierung gesprochen werden darf, wurde bereits . . . erörtet.
Es versteht sich nun, dass der weitere Zuwachs an Halben, wie er hier durch
die zweite ebenfalls im Halben kontrapunktierende Stimme vermittelt wird,
die Wirkung einer Auskomponierung steigern muss (p. 181).
(p. 93): Trotz allerdem bleibt es auch hier noch dabei, dass alle nur
irgend erzielbare Steigerung der Auskomponierung den Klängen noch
248 German originals

immer nicht jene letzte Bestimmtheit zu geben vermag, wie sie allein der
freie Satz durch die Stufen gewährt (p. 181).
(p. 94): Dass eine solche Stimmführung die Strenge der Begriffe . . .
überschreitet, liegt wohl klar zutage . . . Für die Richtigkeit des Satzes
bürgt hier aber nicht allein die uns in diesem Falle bekannte Herkunft,
sondern weit mehr der Umstand, dass wir auch sonst in der Lage, ja sogar
genötigt wären, uns eine dritte in Ganzen fortschreitende Stimme
hinzuzudenken . . . (p. 260).
(p. 95): Mit der Erkenntnis, dass gemäss obigen Versuchen zu den in
verschiedenem Rhythmus geführten Stimmen sich irgendwie ein die
Bewegung und Stimmführung deutender vereinheitlichender Ton grösseren
Wertes finden lässt, ist nun eine Brücke zum freien Satz geschlagen und
zugleich festgestellt, dass der freie Satz trotz seinen doch so vielfach
veränderten Erscheinungen mit eben dieser Ellipse wie gleichsam mittels
einer Nabelschnur geheimnisvoll an den strengen Satz gebunden ist. Immer
wird sich auch dort ein so geführter Satz mit einer weiteren Stimme ergänzen
lassen, die, als wäre sie wirklich geschrieben, neben den Stimmen, in dieser
oder jener Lage, nur eben in grösseren Werten einhergeht. Meistens wird sie
dort aber von unserer Empfindung, eben der Beschaffenheit des freien Satzes
entsprechend, in der Tiefe geführt, die oberen Stimmen unterbauend und
zumal den Dissonanzen veränderten Sinn gebend. Man errät, dass es die
Stufen sind, die den Satz in dieser Art vervollständigen (pp. 260–61).

Chapter 6: The monographs

All but one of the quotations are from the monographs (see fn. 1, this
chapter). Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik is quoted from the second edition, as
are the op. 109, op. 110, op. 111, and op. 101 monographs.
(p. 99): So musste naturgemäss mein erstes Ziel sein, den musikalischen
Inhalt des Werkes darstellen” . . . durch die Analyse gewonnenen neuen
Ergebnisse die entsprechend veränderte Vortragsart. . .festzustellen . . . das
Resultat der Analyse sicher zu stellen und vor Missverständnissen zu
bewahren . . . (1903/1908, pp. ix, vi).
(p. 99): Daher ihnen [der Melodie und den Manieren] auch eine
Wahrheit zugestanden werden muss, eine künstlerische Wahrheit, die
über aller Zeit steht und noch in der spätesten Zukunft noch wirken
wird . . . (1903/1908, p. 8).
(p. 100): . . . die Tonkunst dagegen aber nach Jahrhunderte langer
Entwicklung eine in ihren letzten Ergebnissen unteilbare, von Nation zu
Nation, von Rasse zu Rasse, von Jahrhundert zu Jahrhundert auf denselben
 German originals 249

Gesetzen unwandelbar ruhende Kunst bleibt . . . Niemals wird die Tonkunst

je auf anderen Gesetzen ruhen können, als auf denjenigen, die in ihr die
grossen Meister entdeckt haben! (1912, p. xxvi).
(p. 100): . . . jene Gesetze durchaus nicht bloss willkürliche Erfindungen
des einzelnen Künstlers sind, sondern allen Menschen zu eigen gehören . . .
volliges Bewusstwerden der in ihnen selbst deponierten Schaffensgesetze,
d.i. der Notwendigkeiten des Inhaltes zu bezeichnen (1912, p. vii).
(p. 100): Wo anders aber als in den Meisterwerken kann die Einsicht in
solche Natur – und Kunstnotwendigkeiten gewonnen werden?! (1912,
p. xxxiii).
(p. 100): . . . dass eben jene Meister die von mir geübte Art der
Beweisführung in musikalischen Sachen selbst noch gar nicht kannten . . .
(1912, p. xxxv).
(p. 100): [U]nd so blieb denn auch diesen Tonsetzern, trotz aller Begabung,
nichts anders übrig, als sich mit mehr oder minder glücklich konzipierten
Formvorstellungen zu behelfen, denen sie den Inhalt anpassten! Dass in
solchem Falle aber die Kunst sozusagen der Natur entbehrt, d.i. jener letzten
Wahrheit, die nur die Notwendigkeit in sich trägt, begreift sich von selbst
(1912, p. viii).
(p. 100): Auch in der Kunst kommt aller Segen nur von oben, vom Genie,
und unterhalb dieser Zone gibt es im Grunde weder Fortschritt, noch
Entwicklung, noch Geschichte, sondern meistens nur Nachahmung, oben-
drein schlechte Nachahmung jeweilig falsch verstandner Genies! (1914, p. 9).
(p. 101): Wer für die tausend und abertausend entscheidenderen Punkte,
die Stamitz von Bach oder Haydn trennen, kein Organ hat, dem freilich
muss aus dem Einerlei seines eigenen unkünstlerischen Kopfes heraus auch
die künstlerische Welt des Genies, der Talente und der Halbtalente, als
ebensolches Einerlei erscheinen . . . Zum Glück ist die Macht der Kunst und
des Genies sicher stärker als die des Herrn Historikers . . . (1903/1908, p. 2).
(p. 101): Des weiteren macht der Beweis begreiflich, wieso es kam, das
gerade Wagner der musikalischen Kunst den Todesstoss versetzt hat, indem
er die breitesten Schichten für seine eigenen “Musikdramen” (o, das Theater!)
in Anspruch nahm . . . (1912, p. xxv).
(p. 102): Damit gelangen wir aber . . . zur Erkenntnis, dass man, schon
um die Schreibart, d.i. um die gewünschte Wirkung auch nur begreifen zu
können, sehr wohl die Gesetze des Tonlebens kennen muss! (1912, p. xv).
(p. 102): Aus obigem ergibt sich mit strengster Folgerichtigkeit, dass
Unkenntnis der kompositorischen Gesetze die Einsicht in die wahre
Bedeutung der Schreibart verhindert und so zugleich zur Ursache einer
mangelhaften und falschen Inhaltsdarstellung werden muss! (1912, p. xv).
250 German originals

(p. 103): Die Manieren gehören zum Klavier . . . (1903/1908, p. 7).

(p. 103): . . . Schnörkel, rein instrumentale Effekte, ohne Wahrheit und
Empfindung . . . (1903/1908, p. 6).
(p. 103): [Die Manieren sind] wirkliche Melodie und wirkliche Schönheit
(1903/1908, p. 8).
(p. 103): So sieht er [Bach] in jeder Manier einen eigenen und eigenarti-
gen Ausdruck, als wäre sie fast ein Lebewesen, das mit einem anderen
ja durchaus nicht zu verwechseln ist . . . Kurz, alles, was Manier heist, ist
ihm nicht bloss Ornament, sondern wirklicher und selbstandiger Ausdruck
zugleich (1903/1908, p. 24).
(p. 103): . . . den musikalischen Vortrag bis zu einem alzu gekünstelt-
schematischen und bloss philisterhaft-akademischen Schnellspiel
herabsetzte . . . (1903/1908, p. 49).
(p. 104): Nur Reichtum allein ist es, der ihm die Absichtslosigkeit, das Ewig-
Improvisierte der Gedanken spendet, ihm die Vielheit und Mannigfaltigkeit
bringt; er ist’s, der ihn zum Prinzip der Gruppenbildung drängt, der
ihm die dazu gehörigen der Tonalität und des Rhythmus an die Hand
gibt; er ist’s der ihm das Mechanische der Modulation vergeistigt und ihn
im übrigen aller Sorgen der “Form” enthebt: kurz, alle Technik kommt
ihm vom Reichtum . . . überall Wechsel und Beweglichkeit der Mittel,
überall Freiheit, nirgends Schema, nirgends blosser Mechanismus!
(1903/1908, p. 14).
(p. 105): Sie [die Meister] schreiben Sonaten sonder Zahl, und keine
ist der andern gleich: sie dichten unzählige Symphonien, Quartette u. dgl.,
nicht eines aber ist dem andern gleich: in allen Werken neu die Form und
neu die Mannigfaltigkiet. Ein ewiges Kommen und Gehen der Gedanken,
eine unendliche Beredsamkeit, eine unendliche Melodie (1903/1908, p. 14).
(p. 105): Was an Bachs Kompositionstechnik zunächst auffällt, ist die
Abwesenheit einen jeglichen Schemas. Nirginds eine Vorgefasstheit; nirgends
ein Vorsatz, sei es im Bezug auf Form, oder Harmonien (1903/1908, p. 10).
(p. 105): [Die Vorzüge Bachs äussern sich hauptsächlich] in der Kunst,
mit der Bach seine Themen und Motive aufeinander folgen, d.i. in der
Art, wann wie und wo er sie eintreten lässt, wie er sie bindet und trennt
u. dgl., kurz in der Kunst der Gedankensynthese, die füglich als das letzte
und wohl auch das tiefste Geheimnis der musikalischen Komposition
überhaupt bezeichnet werden darf (1903/1908, p. 3).
(p. 105, fn. 27): Diese erreichte er aber damit, dass er für das einzelne
Element nur wenig, relativ sehr wenig Stufen verwendet, dafür aber desto
mehr motivischen Inhalt aus der gegebenen Stufe herauszuschlagen gesucht
hat (1906, p. 325).
 German originals 251

(p. 106): Die Analyse des Inhaltes gab mir die erwünschte Gelegenheit,
jene bis heute verborgen gebliebenen tonlichen Notwendigkeiten aufzuzei-
gen, die den Inhalt eben so und nicht anders entstehen liessen (1912, p. vi).
(p. 106): Speziell von den dynamischen Zeichen sei noch ausserdem
bemerkt, dass sie in den Werken unserer Meister . . . weit darüber hinaus
bloss dynamische Zustände anzudeuten, eine ganz eigene Rolle in bezug
auch auf die Synthese, d.i. die Form, spielen (1912, p. xiv).
(p. 107): Soweit bietet das Thema bloss der Konstruktion nach, vom
ästhetischen Eindruck freilich abgesehen, eine durchaus gewöhnliche
Erscheinung. Ins Ungewöhnliche rückt es erst durch die Art, wie die
Bläser daran teilnehmen (1912) p. 197).
(p. 108): Damit ist aber auch das wundersame, letzte Geheimnis
entschleirt, weshalb alle Chromatik des dux, die scheinbar so zersplittert
und irreführt, eben von der Grundwirkung der hier auskomponierten
D moll-Harmonie dennoch so glücklich niedergehalten wird, das wir
durchaus die Empfindung nur der letzteren allein gewinnen müssen!
(1910b/1969a, p. 32).
(p. 109): Doch hängt das Rezitativ mit den vorausgegangenen Kadenzen
(besonders mit T. 3) nicht nur durch die Tonart allein zusammen, sondern
noch mehr durch folgende geheime Linie, die gleichsam den letzten Sinn
des Inhaltes ausdrückt (1914, p. 62).
(p. 109): So mag denn endlich folgender Aufriss den letzten Kern,
also jenes Geheimnis blosslegen, das des Meisters Inspiration leitete
(1914, p. 56).
(p. 109): So wird in den T. 41–48 die I. Stufe auskomponiert, bezw. I – V –
I gebracht, sofern nämlich auch die Nebennoten-Harmonie bei T. 45 in
Betracht kommen soll . . . (1914, p. 56).
(p. 111): Zur Welt kommt ein Musikstück lebendig gewoben aus Urlinie,
Stufe und Stimmführung . . . Damit soll gesagt sein, dass wohl auch von der
Urlinie im besonderen gesprochen werden darf, ja muss, mag sie auch im
Kräftespiel des Kunstwerks nur untrennbar mit den anderen Kräften
zusammenwirken (1920/1972b, p. 8).
(p. 112): Gewissermassen ist die Urlinie Lichtbild des Seelenkernes. Wie
dieser mit dem Menschen wandelt von der Wiege bis zum Sarg, so geht die
Urlinie von ersten bis zum letzten Ton mit . . . Die Urlinie ist Besitz des
Genies allein . . . (1920/1972b, p. 8).
(p. 114): Und nun auch schliessen sich uns auch die letzten Rätsel der
Konzeption auf und wir sehen förmlich – vgl. das Bild unter e) – wo
und wie sich das mystische Wunder des Organischen begeben hat . . .
(1920/1972b, p. 40).
252 German originals

Chapter 7: Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk in der Musik

All quotations are from the original issues of Der Tonwille (1921–24) and
Das Meisterwerk in der Musik (1925, 1926, 1930). The page numbers before
the quotation refer to its position in this book; those after the quotation refer
to the German originals.
(p. 119): . . .[ich komme] auf eine Grunderscheinung des Tonlebens zu
sprechen, der ich die Bezeichnung Urlinie gegeben habe. Wie schon die
Bezeichnung andeutet, ist die Urlinie ein Urzustand, eine Urfolge von
Tönen. Die Urlinie birgt in sich die Keime aller das Tonleben gestantenden
Kräfte: Sie ist es, die unter Mitwirkung der Stufen aller Auskomponierung,
also auch dem Aussenstimmensatz die Bahnen weisst, in dessen Intervallen
eben die Einswerdung von strengen und freien Satz sich so wundersam
geheim vollzieht (Tonwille 1, p. 22).
(p. 120): Sie [die Urlinie] ist es auch, die dem Motiv, der Melodie
das Leben schenkt; nur wer das Wesen der Urlinie erfasst hat, findet den
Zugang zum Tochterwesen der Melodie und begreift, das sie vermöge dieser
Herkunft mehr ist als das, wofür sie allgemein genommen wird. Schon die
Urlinie gehorcht dem Zeugungs-, das ist dem Wiederholungsgesetz und
fügt sich mit solchem Urtrieb in die stets wachsende, sich mehrende Natur
als ein lebendiges Stück derselben ein. Während vor unserem Ohr Motive
und Melodien sich in Wiederholungen tummeln, die leicht wahrnehmbar
sind, zeugt sie in ihrem Ur-Schoss Wiederholungen verborgener höchster
Art . . . urgewaltigen Hintergrund-Wiederholungen der Urlinien . . . Nur so
aber, wie die Musik in der Urlinie begonnen, nur so wird sie in ihr allein
auch fortleben können (Tonwille 1, p. 22).
(p. 120): . . .über alles das hinweg, bleibt die Musik mit der Urlinie
eine eigene Welt für sich, vergleichbar der Schöpfung, wie diese nur in
sich selbst ruhend, sich auswirkend ohne Ziel . . . In der Urlinie vollzieht
sich das Schöpfungswunder im Grossen sie allein ist Muse aller
Stegreifschöpfung, aller Synthese, sie ist Anfang, Ende des Stückes . . .
[In ihr bescheidet der Komponist] seinen Tönen ein gnadenreiches
Schicksal voll Übereinstimmung zwischen ihrem Eigenleben und einem
über und hinter ihnen Seienden (als eine “platonischen Idee” in der
Musik), ein Schicksal voll Sucht und Sitte und Ordnung selbst dort, wo
im Vordergrunde sich Aufruhr, Chaos oder Auflösung zu zeigen scheint
(Tonwille 1, p. 23).
(p. 120): Die Urlinie ist die Sehergabe des Komponisten. Sehergabe ist ein
schwere Würde. Es leidet unsagbar der Seher, wenn sich ein Gott durch ihn
mitteilen will . . . (Tonwille 1, p. 26).
 German originals 253

(p. 120): Die Urlinie bietet die Auswicklung eines Grundklanges, die
Tonalität auf horizontalem Wege . . . Die Mittlerin zwischen der horizon-
talen Fassung der Tonalität durch die Urlinie und der vertikalen durch die
Stufen ist die Simmführung . . . Die Auskomponierung zeitigt eine Basslinie,
die vor den in der Tiefe des Geistes wirkenden Grundtönen der Stufen in
Führung der Linie, des Wellenspiels, der Konsonanzen und Durchgänge
ebenso wieder nur eine Oberstimme ist, wie der Sopran. Daher ist der
Aussensatz als ein Satz zweier Oberstimmen über den Stufen zu verstehen,
als ein zweistimmiger Satz, dessen Güte über den Wert der Komposition
entscheidet (Tonwille 2, p. 4).
(p. 121): In diesem Satze nun führt die Urlinie – und hierin allein liegt die
Gewähr der höchsten Güte des Satzes wie der vollenbesten Synthese – zu
einer Auslese von Intervallen, die in sich das Gesetz des strengen Satzes
forttragen. Nur durch eine solche Auslese verstehen wir denn auch die
Prolongationen des freien Satzes, die das Gesetz nicht aufheben, es vielmehr
in Freiheit und Neuheit bestätigen . . . Dass Stufe, Intervallen-Auslese aus
der Urlinie kommen und zu ihr eingehen, das macht das Wunder des
Kreislaufes aus (Tonwille 2, pp. 4–5).
(p. 121): Zur Urlinie verhält sich die Diminution wie zum Knochengerüst
eines Menschen das lebenblühende Fleisch. Unmittelbar spricht zwar
Form und Inhalt des Fleisches an, alles aber hält das Geheimnis des
Knochengerüstes zusammen . . . Ist es doch gerade der Kontrapunkt, der
über das Intervall der Urlinie, sowie über die Diminution entscheidend
aussagt. Die Urlinie führt geradenwegs zur Synthese des Ganzen. Sie ist
die Synthese . . . Nur eine solche aus einer Urlinie gezeugte Synthese hat den
Duft einer wahren Melodie. Diese aber ist Gesamtmelodie, die einzige
“unendliche Melodie” (Tonwille 2, p. 5).
(p. 122): Bei a) sind die Urlinie-Töne zu sehen, im zweistimmigen
Ursatz . . . Das Bild bei b) bietet eine Prolongation des Bildes bei a).
Worin beruht nun diese? Einfach darin, dass, um das Feststehen des einen
Urlinie-Tones und des einen Intervalls (der Terz oder Dezime)
auszudrücken, eine Oktavsenkung zu Hilfe genommen wird . . . Mag auch
innerhalb der Oktavsenkung die Stimmführung schon an sich – und das ist
ihre eigene Rechtfertigung – den Forderungen des Strengen Satzes entspre-
chen, ihre Hauptgewähr aber bleibt die Herkunft von der grundlegenden
Stimmführung bei a), die allein sie als eine Oktavsenkung d.h. als
Ausdeutung eben nur eines Tones und eines Intervalls beglaubigt. Es folgt
die Prolongation bei c): sie beruht auf der Einschaltung der im strengen Satz
noch verbotenen Chromen, die aber hier, im freien . . . treten, um den
Schein kadenzierender Schlüsse zu erwecken. Die Rechtfertigung auch
254 German originals

dieser Stimmführung liegt wieder vor allem in ihrer Herkunft von b) und a),
wenn sie in sich auch eine eigene trägt. Und ebenso ist es in der Folge mit
den Prolongationen bei d), e) und f): sie alle sind auf die Stimmführungen
bei a), b) und c) zu beziehen . . . Dennoch stehen wir hier vor mehreren
Stimmführungschichten, die über der ersten der Urlinie-Töne gelagert sind,
nur dass diese weit über alles rein Stimmführungemässige hinaus – gerade in
diesem Mehr liegt die wahre Bedeutung – auch noch für die Tonalität zeugt,
mit ihr zusammenfällt, synthese- und formbildend ist! (Tonwille 5, p. 45.2).
(p. 124): Der Klang in der Natur ist ein Dreiklang. [Fig. 1] Für die Kunst
als Menschenwerk kommt, schon wegen des geringen Umfanges der
Stimme, nur die Verkürzung des Naturklanges in Betracht, die in
Nacheinander den Tonraum schafft. [Fig. 2] Die Tonräume des Klanges
misst die Urlinie aus und bringt den Klang so erst zum Ausdruck, zum
Bewusstsein [Fig. 3] (Tonwille 8/9, p. 49).
(p. 124): Die Urlinie ist erster Durchgang, als solcher erste Melodie und
zugleich Diatonie. Andere Tonräume als 1–3, 3–5, 5–8 gibt es nicht, einen
anderen Ursprung des Durchganges, der Melodie gibt es nicht (Tonwille
8/9, p. 49).
(p. 124): Die erste Urlinie-Durchgang ist dissonierend (Sekund, Quart,
Sept). Die Dissonanz wird in eine Konsonanz verwandelt, weil im
Gegensatz zu jener nur diese allein mit ihren Tonräumen wieder zu
neuen Durchgängen, zu neu sich zweigender Melodie führen kann
(Tonwille 8/9, p. 49).
(p. 125): Dies geschiet nun durch Prolongationen in immer neuen
Stimmführungschichten, durch Diminution, Motiv, Melodie im engeren
Sinne, die aber alle zum erstgegebenen Tonraum, zu den ersten Urlinie-
Durchgängen heimweisen. Im Gefolge aller dieser Verwandlungen und
Ausfaltungen erscheinen die Stufen (Tonwille 8/9, p. 49).
(p. 125, fn. 15) Die Konsonanz ist einziges Gesetz alles Harmonischen,
Vertikalen und gehört der Natur. Die Dissonanz gehört der Stimmführung,
der Horizontalen, ist somit Kunst. Die Konsonanz lebt im Dreiklang,
die Dissonnanz im Durchgang. Vom Dreiklang und Durchgang stammen
alle Erscheinungen des Tonlebens . . . alle ihre Erscheinungen [beruhen]
offenbar auf Verwandlungen nur weniger Urkräfte (Tonwille 2, p. 3).
(p. 126): Nur das Genie ist mit dem Tonraumgefühl begnadet. Es ist seine
Aprioricum genau so, wie jedem Menschen schon aus seinem Körpergefühl
heraus die Begriffe des Raumes (als Ausdehnung seines Körpers) und der
Zeit (als Wachstum und Werden des Körpers) a priori eingeboren sind. Das
Genie allein schafft aus dem Hintergrund des Tonraumes, aus den ersten
Urlinie-Durchgängen . . . Nur eine Grenze ist all dieser Undendlichkeit von
 German originals 255

Genie und Melodie gezogen: es ist die Grenze, die die Natur selbst mit
ihrem Klang und der Mensch mit Tonraum und Urlinie zieht . . . Die
deutsche Musik bändigt in den Werken ihrer grossen Meister die weitesten
Spannungen, stärksten Verwandlungen in den Stimmführungschichten, die
freiesten Auflockerungen und Ausfaltungen in Stufen und Durchgängen . . .
Deutsche Melodie, die wahre Melodie der Musik, ist die Gesamtmelodie der
Synthese (Tonwille 8/9, pp. 50–51).
(p. 126): Sache des Komponisten ist die Auskomponierung eines Klanges,
sie führt ihn von einem Hintergrund-Ursatz über Prolongationen and
Diminutionen zu einem Vordergrundsatz . . . Dem Leser oder Spieler obliegt
umgekehrt die Rückverfolgung vom Vordergrund zum Hintergrund. Das
sichereste Mittel, diese Aufgabe zu lösen, ist die Erkenntnis und Festullung
des Aussensatzes (Meisterwerk I, p. 188).
(p. 127): Der Aussensatz ist im strengen Satz ein zweistimmiger Satz,
gebildet aus Ober- und Unterstimme, im freien Satz zwar wieder der
aus Ober- und Unterstimme gebildete zweistimmige Satz, doch aber in
prolongierter Form als eigentlich der Satz einer Ober- und Mittelstimme
über einer gedachten Unterstimme, die die Grund- oder Stufentöne führt.
Daher zeigen im freien Satz die Ober- und Unterstimme der gedachten
dritten, tiefsten gegenüber die gleiche Art der Auskomponierung in
Zügen, und also bewegt sich auch die Unterstimme, als wäre sie eine
Oberstimme. Die Oberstimme geht naturgemäss auch durch Töne der
Urlinie, die Unterstimme durch Töne der gedachten Grundtonreihe:
immer aber sind Ober- und Unterstimme von der Urlinie- und
Stufenfolge begrifflich auseinanderzuhalten (Meisterwerk I, p. 188).
(p. 127): Einerseits also: Wenn die Oberstimme auf ihren Auskompo-
nierungsstreifzügen auch durch Töne geht, die Urlinie-Töne sind, so
sind diese Töne gewiss auch Bestandteile der Auskomponierungszüge;
und wenn die Bassauswicklung durch Töne geht, die mit den gedachten
Grundtönen zusammenfallen, so bleiben doch auch diese Töne Bestandteile
der Auskomponierungszüge. Anderseits aber: So wie der grundlegende
Klang, der zur Auskomponierung gelangt, zugleich Idee bleibt, die einzige
der Natur und die erste der Kunst, ebenso bleiben die Urlinie und Stufentöne
zugleich Idee, auch wenn sie in der Ober- und Unterstimmenauswicklung
auftauchen (Meisterwerk I, p. 188).
(p. 129): Aber auch im freien Satze wird die Einheit eines Terzzuges nicht
schon dadurch aufgehoben, dass die Prolongation den mittleren Ton des
Terzzuges, den dissonierenden Durchgang unter Umständen konsonierend
macht. Und so is es auch mit der geistigen Einheit der Quart-, Quint- und
Sextzüge; da sie sich aus der Horizontalisierung eines ursprünglich
256 German originals

vertikalen Klanges ergeben, tragen sie schon dadurch die Gewähr der
Einheit in sich, die dann auch durch alle Stimmführungsverwandlungen
hindurchgeht. Somit sind die Stimmführungsschichten nicht nur ein Bild
des Diminutionswachstums, sondern auch der Beweis für die Einheit
der Züge, die der Auskomponierung des Ursatzes dienen (Meisterwerk I,
p. 192).
(p. 130): Die Rückführbarkeit aller Züge auf die Urlinie erweist . . . dass
alle Verwandlungen einen letzten unabänderlichen Kern vorsausetzen: im
Menschen ist es der Charakter, in der Komposition ist es die Urlinie
(Meisterwerk I, p. 194).
(p. 130): Auskomponierungszüge der Oberstimme bedeuten fallenden
Gang zu einer Mittelstimme des selben oder des nachfolgenden Klanges,
steigend den Gang von einer Mittel- zur Oberstimme . . . Das Festhalten des
Kopftons drückt so eine eigene geistige Spannung aus, es stärkt und mehrt
den Zusammenhang (Meisterwerk II, p. 15).
(p. 130): Die Spannung des Ganzen erwächst aus den Teilspannungen der
einzelnen Züge, aus dem Festhalten des Kopftones über den ersten Quintzug
hinaus und schliesslich aus dem Urlinie-Zug. Daher wird auch in einem Stück
grösseren Umfanges wie z.B. in Chopins Nocturne, op. 9 no. 2 die Spannung
des Ganzen, d.i. dessen Synthese, treffender ausgedrückt durch:
Formteile: a–b–a
Urlinie: 3̂ – 2̂ – 3̂ – 2̂ – 1̂
Stufen: I – V – I – (V) – I

als durch 3̂ 2̂ 1̂ – 2̂ – 3̂ 2̂ 1̂ (Meisterwerk II, p. 17).

(p. 131) Zwar versteht sich z.B. bei (1 2) 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ ) nur 3̂ –2̂ –1̂ und mittel-
bar auch der betreffende Raum der Urlinie als Aprioricum schon von
selbst . . . (Meisterwerk II, p. 22).
(p. 132): Zur leichteren Auffindung der Urlinie-Ganzes empfehle ich,
zunächst der grossen Brechung nachzugeben, mit der der Bass den
Grundklang entwickelt (Meisterwerk II, p. 21).
(p. 132): Nur so wird es möglich, die vielen anderen Brechungen des Basses
als zwar in sich geschlossene, aber untergeordnete Einheiten im Dienste der
grossen Brechung des Grundklanges zu verstehen, und dadurch wieder
gewinnt man die Möglichkeit, auch die vielen Auskomponierungszüge der
Oberstimme in ihrer verschiedenen Bedeutungen auseinanderzuhalten und
zum eigentlichen Urlinie-Zug vorzudringen (Meisterwerk II, p. 22).
(p. 133): Der Auskomponierungszug setzt immer einen Durchgang
voraus: kein Auskomponierungszug ohne Durchgang, kein Durchgang
ohne Auskomponierungszug . . . Im Gegensatz zur Brechung schafft
 German originals 257

der Terzzug Auskomponierungsgehalt auf horizontal-melodischem

Wege, die Dissonanz wird zur Trägerin des Melodischen. Darin nun,
das die Dissonanz eine Melodie-Brücke von Konsonanz zu Konsonanz
schlägt und die Spannung des Terzzuges schafft, für dessen Dauer
(über die Dissonanz hinweg) der Kopfton festgehalten wird . . .
(Meisterwerk II, p. 24).
(p. 133): Mit grösster Freiheit prolongiert der freie Satz das Gesetz
vom Festhalten des Kopftones, namentlich kommen diese Prolongationen
der Auskomponierung des Basses zustatten. Indem der Bass seine
Auskomponierung in den Dienst der Grundbrechung und der von ihr
abgeleiteten Einzelbrechungen stellt, gewinnt er Gelegenheit, seine Auskom-
ponierungszüge mit denen der Oberstimme zur Durchgangssätzen zu
vereinen (Meisterwerk II, p. 26).
(p. 134): Dissonanzen entstehen, besonders in den T. 58–59 durch die
Auskomponiergszüge im Aussensatz! (Denkt man Es, den Grundton der
IV. Stufe, als liegend bis zum Aufstreich des T. 61, so gewinnt man durch
den Einblick in die Züge eine ungezwungene Erklärung aller zufälligen
Dissonanzen.) (Meisterwerk II, pp. 33–34).
(p. 135): Dass es in Wirklichkeit aber auch ein schlechtes Notenschreiben
gibt, das den Namen Musik noch gar nicht verdient . . . (Meisterwerk II,
p. 37).
(p. 135): Also ist das Ganze des Vordergrundes eine einzige überströmende
Diminution, nur eine Figur. Wo nicht das Ganze in diesem Sinne Figur ist,
klingen die Motive wie aus der Luft gegriffen, plötzlich, aufgepappt, wie ein
Anfall von einem Ornament, wie Ohrschmusk, Nasenring usw. Somit sind:
das Ganze, Synthese, Organisches, Figur wirklich Synnonima . . .
(Meisterwerk II, p. 40).
(p. 135): Alles Religionsempfinden, alle Philosophie, Wissenschaft drängt
zur kürzesten Formel, ein ähnlicher Trieb liess mich auch das Tonstück nur
aus dem Kern des Ursatzes als der ersten Auskomponierung des
Grundklanges (Tonalität) begreifen: ich habe die Urlinie erschaut, nicht
errechnet! (Meisterwerk II, p. 41).
(p. 139): Ein in Synthese zu ewigem Leben geborener Sonatensatz. Es soll
hier versucht werden, ihre wunderbaren Kräfte zu sondern und herauszu-
heben, wenn sie auch einander wechselseitig bedingen und wie bei jeglicher
organischen Zeugung ineinanderwirken (Tonwille 4, p. 12).
(p. 139): Vor allem das Hauptzeugnis der Urlinie: sie verläuft im ersten
Teil fallend in vier Abschnitten, deren Spitzentöne in den T. 3, 6, 9, 21 eine
ebenfalls in Sekunden fallende Reihe g f e d vorstellen. Die ersten beiden
Abschnitte sind Terz-, die lezten beiden, von jenen durch Tonartwechsel
258 German originals

geschieden, Quint-Auskomponierungen, so dass mit dem Endton des

lezten Abschnittes die tiefere Oktave des ersten Spitzentones erreicht
wird. Die Durchführung, T. 29–51, greift auf den Spitzenton des letzten
Abschnittes, d, zurück (T. 29), dessen Erhöhung, dis, T. 33, zu e in T. 34
führt. Von diesem Ton aus fällt die Linie – nun in e-Moll – wieder um eine
Oktave, damit die Oktavsenkung des 1. Satzes parallelistisch erwidernd.
Beiden Oktavenzügen gemeinsam ist die Teilung durch die Quint, g2–d2;
d2–g1 im ersten Teil und e3–b2:b2–e2 in der Durchführung. Nun in T. 44
die Rückmodulation durch Übernahme der 1̂ aus e-Moll als einer 3̂ in
C-Dur, von der es dann aufwärts über 4̂ in T. 50 zu g2 als der die Reprise
beginnenden 5̂ geht. In der Reprise, T. 52ff., läuft die Linie in zwei
Abschnitten 5̂ -2̂ und 5̂ -1̂ (Tonwille 4, p. 12).
(p. 140): Mann sieht bei der Oberstimme den Quartzug c2–f2 und
zwischen Ober- und Mittelstimme eine Quintenfolge, die durch 5–6-
Auswechslung erst behoben warden musste. Auf dem Wege von e1 (T. 44)
empor zu f2 (T. 55) bedeutet c2 (T. 44), dass doch nur von einem durch
Stellvetretung zu gewinnenden h1 abzuleiten ist, eine wesentliche
Abkürzung. Noch wichtiger aber ist, dass der Bass dieser Takte offenbar
einen Parallelismus zu dem der vorausgegangenen T. 41–43 beabsichtigt,
und wenn gegen Ais–A der T. 41–43 hier in T. 44–45 B-A und gegen den
raschen Fortgang der Basstöne T. 43 die Dehnung der T. 45–50 steht, so
wird gerade damit die Absicht der Rückleitung erwiesen (Tonwille 4, p. 14).
(p. 144): Obgleich sich in dem Stufengang V–III\–I–V wohl deutlich genug
auch der Quintfall V–I abzeichnet, so fällt hier allerdings noch mehr ins
Gewicht, das den Ausgangs – und Endpunkt des Stufenweges die V hält; es
kommt dies einem Kreis, einer höheren Einheit gleich, die bestätigt, dass
hier 5̂ –2̂ im lezten Grunde eine Auskomponierung bloss der V. Stufe ist
(Tonwille 5, p. 37).
(p. 145): Motiv und Diminution, als Sprösslinge der Linie, verfärben
Urlinie-Abschnitte, einzelne Stufen, Modulationen und setzten so die
Teile gegeneinander, um desto fester das Ganze zu binden. Als weitere
Behelfe für die Synthese finden sich im Bereich der Rhythmik zum
Beispiel die Umdeutung der Takten, das Gegenspiel von Motiven gegen
das grundlegende Metrum; im Bereich der Stimmführung Kunst und
Schönheit des Aussensatzes, und zwar sowohl des Satzes der Urlinie als
der Diminutionen und ganz besonders die weiten so kunstvollen
Durchgänge. Und in allem und jedem reichste Mannigfaltigkeit, die
Undendlichkeit organischen Lebens bezeugend. Das allein ist Synthese,
das allein ist genial, klassisch und deutsch – urdeutsch! (Tonwille 2, p. 7).
 German originals 259

(p. 146): Dem organischen Leben in der Welt des ersten Satzes kann nur
derjenige wahr nachleben, der die Gegenwart des Vordergrundes aus der
Vergangenheit des Ursatzes und der Stimmführungsschichten so ableitet . . .
[D]er Ursatz [zeigt] die Bewegungen der Urlinie und Unterstimme. Die
Urlinie setzt gleich mit der 5̂ ein: so wird denn ihr Fallen 5̂ –1̂ sowohl den
Mollklang G überhaupt verlebendigen, wie den Inhalt im besonderen
erschaffen und durch beides die Tonalität G-Moll erweisen. Die
Unterstimme legt zwei Brechungen des G-Klanges zurück: beide streben
dem gleichen Ziele der teilenden Dominante zu . . . (Meisterwerk II, p. 109).
(p. 148): Nebenbei führen diese Quintfälle zu Klängen die für sich
betrachtet, als grelle Abweichungen von der Haupttonart zu nehmen
wären, wenn nicht eben die begriffliche Oktavsenkung sie als blosse
Durchgänge völlig in sich auflösste. Daher verschlägt es gar nichts, wenn
die Oberstimme sich zunächst in einer wie unzusammenhängenden Folge
d–cis–h–a–g–f ergeht, erst von f 2 ab findet sie die Möglichkeit, die Tonfolge
streng distonisch zuende zu führen (Meisterwerk II, p. 116).
(p. 149, fn. 47): [V]ergleichen wir das Bild [des Vordergrundes] der T. 43–45
mit dem in T. 218–220, 396–398 und 446–448, so erkennen wir darin ein in
dieser Sinfonie waltendes gemeinsames Kennzeichen der Dynamik für das
Zu-Ende-gehen eines gemussten wie gewollten Weges! (Meisterwerk III, p. 32).
(p. 154): Ich zeige den Urzustand der Horizontale: die “Urlinie” als die
erste Auskomponierung des Grundklanges in einem der drei möglichen
Räume desselben, also von der Terz, Quint oder Octave nach dem Gesetz
des Durchganges in Sekundschritten abwärts bis zum Grundton fallend,
kontrapunktiert von der Brechung I–V–I des Basses: damit ist der
“Ursatz” gegeben. Ich verfolge sodann die Aufblätterung der ersten
Horizontale in Prolongationen, das ist Ableitungen, Diminutionen in
Form von Zügen, Koppelungen, Nebennote usw., wie sie in immer neuen
Stimmführungsschichten sich immer mehr dehnend und in verschiedenen
Formen sammelnd bis zur letzten Ausfaltung im Vordergrund als der
höchsten Steigerung gedeihen und wie sie zugleich über der sowohl
kontrapunktisch-tragenden wie auch stufenführenden Auswicklung des
Basses vor sich gehen. Mit all dem ist der Zusammenhang des ganzen
Inhaltes eines Tonstückes als eine Einheit der Hintergrund-Tiefe und
Vordergrund-Breite gegeben und begründet (Meisterwerk III, pp. 20–21).

Chapter 8: Der freie Satz

With a few noted exceptions, the quotations are from Der freie Satz (1956).
The exceptions are from Harmonielehre (1906), Kontrapunkt I 1910), Das
260 German originals

Meisterwerk I (1925) and II (1926), and the first edition of Der freie Satz
(1935). The page numbers before the quotation refer to its position in this
book; those after the quotation refer to the German originals.
(p. 157): So könnte man sich denn versucht fühlen, das musikalische
Schaffen ganz unter Aufsicht des Verstandes zu stellen, und davon günstige
Ergebnisse erwarten. Doch müsste jeder Versuch daran scheitern, das schon
allein die Verwandlungen Ungreifbares und dem Verstande Unzugängliches
mit sich führen, so dass von einer Ausschöpfung durch den Verstand niemals
die Rede wird sein können (Der freie Satz, §85).
(p. 161): Ist res ein unverbrüchliches Gesetz, dass alles Komplizierte,
Unterschiedene von einem Einfachen kommt, das in Bewusstsein oder in
der Ahnung verankert ist . . . (Der freie Satz, §29).
(p. 162): Daher bedeutet auch in den späteren Schichten ein Zug
vor allem das Hauptmittel einer Inhaltsbeschaffung in Durchgängen,
das ist der Beschaffung einer melodischen Inhalts . . . Unerlässlich ist
die Erziehung mindestens zu den Zügen als den Hauptmittlern allen
Zusammenhanges. Sind diese aber im kontrapunktischen Satz verankert,
so ist Voraussetzung dafür die Erziehung zum kontrapuntischen Denken
(Der freie Satz, §203, p. 37).
(p. 163): Im Abstand von der Urlinie zum Vordergrund, von der Diatonie
zur Tonalität, drückt sich die Raumtiefe eines Musikwerkes aus, die ferne
Herkunft vom Allereinfachsten, der Wandel im späteren Verlauf und der
Reichtum im Vodergrund (Der freie Satz, p. 28).
(p. 163): Das Ziel, der Weg is das Erste, in zweite Reihe erst kommt der
Inhalt: ohne Ziel kein Inhalt . . . Der Mensch streke die Hand aus, weise mit
dem Finger eine Richtung, sofort versteht dies Zeichen auch ein anderer
Mensch; die gleiche Bewegungssprache gilt von den Zügen in der Musik:
Jeder Zug ist, sobald er einsetzt, mit einem Fingerzeig vergleichbar,
Richtung und Ziel liegen klar vor jedermanns Ohr! (Der freie Satz, p. 29).
(p. 163): “In ihren Zügen spiegelt die Musik die Menschenseele in allen
ihren Bewegungen und Wandlungen wieder” (Der freie Satz, p. 19).
(p. 164): Durch alle Schichten des Mittelgrundes pflanzt sich dieses
Gesetz fort, wodurch sich immer neue Schichten bilden mit neuen
Verwandlungsmöglichkeiten für dissonante Durchgänge – auch bei
Mittelstimmen – bis der Fordergrund in seiner äussersten Freiheit
Stimmführungen bringt, die ohne Deutung der Zusammenhänge in Mittel –
und Hintergrund als Durchgang nicht zu erkennen sind (Der freie Satz, §170).
(p. 164): Die Genies überlassen sich vertrauensvoll ihrem Weitblick;
deshalb stellen sie ihr Werk nicht etwa auf das, was gemeinhin “Melodie,”
“Motiv” oder “Einfall” genannt wird, vielmehr ist der Inhalt in den
 German originals 261

Verwandlungen und Zügen begründet . . . Freilich aber hat ein Genie . . .

eine Folge von Auskomponierungen im Ohr, die als Ganzes eine weit
höhere und notwendigere Melodie vorstellen, als die eine Melodie oder
der eine Einfall im üblichen Sinn ergeben kann (Der freie Satz, §50).
(p. 172, fn. 25) Gerade dadurch, das sich bis hinein in die Züge der
Verwandlungschichten die Übereinstimmung mit der Natur wie mit dem
Ursatz zeigt, befestigt sich auf dem Wege vom Ursatz zum Vodergrund die
Einheit von Natur und Kunst immer mehr und mehr (Der freie Satz, §115).
(p. 174): Somit verwirklichen sich Quint oder Terz der Natur nicht nur in
den Urlinie-Zügen 3̂ –1̂ oder 5̂ –1̂ und in der kontrapunktierenden Brechung
des Basses durch die Quint, sondern auch in den von einem Urlinie-Ton
abgeleiteten Quint- und Terzzügen. Gerade dadurch, das sich bis hinein in
die Züge der Verwandlungschichten die Übereinstimmung mit der Natur
wie mit dem Ursatz zeigt, befestigt sich auf dem Wege vom Ursatz zum
Vodergrund die Einheit von Natur und Kunst immer mehr und mehr
(Der freie Satz, §115).
(p. 176): Alles Schöpferische ist ein Wunder, es stammt von Gott, der
aller Wunder Urheber ist. Ohne Wundergefühl keine Kunst, also auch ohne
Glauben keine Kunst (Meisterwerk I, p. 211).
(p. 176): . . .[das Prinzip der Wiederholung], wodurch die Musik aus
eigenen Mitteln und ohne deutliche Hilfe der Natur sich zu einer Kunst
emporgerungen hat, zu einer Höhe, wo sie mit den anderen an die
Assoziationen der Natur sich direkt anlehnenden Künsten wetteifern
kann (Harmonielehre, p. 15).
(p. 177): Und wie leicht hätte dann der Philosoph, wenn er aus dem
Kontrapunkt heraus zunächst auch nur das Absolute der Musik begreifen
und sich aneignen könnte, von hier aus dann vielleicht desto besser auch
das letzte Geheimnis der Welt, ihr eigenes absolutes Dasein, den Traum
des Weltenschöpfers als ein ähnlich absolutes Ereignis zu verstehen!
(Kontrapunkt I, p. 24).
(p. 177): Es ist somit nicht allein die Hingabe, der Genuss, den wir vom
Meisterwerk abziehen, wir empfangen darüber hinaus Vorteile für die
Kräftigung unseres Lebens, Erhebung, Übung im Geistig-Lebendigen und
dadurch im Ganzen eine Steigerung unseres sittlichen Wertes (Der freie
Satz, p. 30).
(p. 177): Alles Organische, aller Zusammenhang gehört Gott und bleibt
sein Geschenk auch in dem von Menschen Geschaffenen, das als organisch
empfunden wird (Der freie Satz, p. 18).
(p. 177): Soll ich meine kunst-monotheistische Lehre deshalb etwa von
einem Sinai verkünden und ihr Bekenner damit zu gewinnen suchen, dass
262 German originals

ich Wunder tue? Nun, Wunder werden ja geschehen, denn der Glaube an
den Zusammenhang wird die Musiker früher oder später hörend machen,
wenngleich auch er aus Unbegabten niemals Talente wird machen können
(Der freie Satz, p. 18).
(p. 177): In der Erhebung des Geistes zum Ursatz ist eine fast religiös zu
nennende Erhebung zu Gott und den Genies als seinen Mittlern enthalten,
eine Erhebung im wörtlichen Verstande zum Zusammanhang, der nur bei
Gott und den Genies ist. Ähnlich wie von Gott zum Geschöpf, von
Geschöpf zu Gott eine Fühlungnahme waltet, stets ineinanderlaufend,
stets gegenwärtig, wirkt sich ein Fühlungnahme auch zwischen Ursatz
und Vordergrund aus als gleichsam einem Jenseits und Diesseits in der
Musik (Der freie Satz, p. 29).
(p. 179): Meine Lehre bringt zum erstenmal eine wirkliche Ton-Sprachlehre,
ähnlich der Sprachlehre, wie sie in den Schulen vorgetragen wird (The last
phrase is omitted in the English translation) (Der freie Satz, p. 37).
(p. 179): Weil diese Gleichnisse biologischer Art sind und durch wahrhaft
organische Zeugung fortgehen, ist die Musik niemals mit Mathematik oder
Architektur vergleichbar, am ehesten wieder nur mit der Sprache, einer
Ton-Sprache im Besonderen (Der freie Satz, p. 30).
(p. 179): Die Musik kann als Abbild unserer Lebensbewegung bis zur
Gegenständlichkeit vorschreiten, niemals allerdings so weit, dass sie sich als
die Kunst aufzugeben brauchte, die sie im Besonderen ist. Der freie Satz,
p. 30).
(p. 179): [Das Bild der Ursatzformen stellt] den Zusammenhang
nicht nur in der Richtungen vom Einfachen zum Komplizierten, sondern
auch in der umgekehrten Richtung vom Komplizierten zurück zum
Einfachen . . . Nur darin allein, in den der Ahnung immer gegenwärtigen
Verwandlungsschichten – gegenwärtig in der Richtung zum Vodergrund
hin wie umgekehrt – liegt das Geheimnis des Ausgewogenen in der Musik
(Der freie Satz, §29).
(p. 180): Der Stimmführungszwang ist es, der in die Musik den gleichen
Fluss hineinträgt, wie ihn die Sprache in den steten Gedanken– und
Wortbereitschaft zeigt . . . Ein wirklich musikalischer Fluss ähnlich dem
der Sprache findet sich nur im Werk der Genies. Die Spenderin aller
Ton-Bereitschaft ist einzig und allein die Stimmführung des Ursatzes und
seiner späteren Verwandlungen . . . Ton-Bereitschaft setzt das Ganze
voraus . . . (Der freie Satz, §83).
(p. 180): Das Ganze muss aus dem Stegreif erfunden sein, wenn es nicht
nur eine Klitterung von einzelnen Teilen und Motiven im Sinne eines
Schemas sein soll (Meisterwerk II, p. 46).
 German originals 263

(p. 180): [D]as [Noten]beispiel hat nicht als Lernmittel, sondern mit als
die wirkliche Komposition in Frage zu kommen, deshalb macht seine
Aufstellung die äusserste Sorgfalt nötig (Der freie Satz, p. 19).

Chapter 9: Critical appraisal: ideology

All quotations but the last two are from Der freie Satz ([1935/1979] 1956).
The two exceptions, as indicated, are from Das Meisterwerk in der Musik III
(1930) and Der freie Satz (1935). The page numbers preceding the quotations
refer to locations in this book. Those after refer to the German originals.
(p. 192): Die Musik ist nicht allein Objekt einer theoretischen
Betrachtung, sie ist genau so Subjekt, wie wir selbst Subjekt sind (p. 36).
(p. 193): Die Musik kann als Abbild unserer Lebensbewegung bis zur
Gegenständlichkeit vorschreiten, niemals allerdings so weit, dass sie sich als
die Kunst aufzugeben brauchte, die sie im Besonderen ist (p. 30).
(p. 193): In den Zügen lebt der Komponist sein eigenes Leben wie das der
Züge, also ist umgekehrt ihr Leben das seine, wie sie denn auch uns wieder
Leben bedeuten sollen (p. 29).
(p. 193): Auf dem Wege zum Ziel gibt es in der Kunst der Musik wie im
Leben Hindernisse, Rückschläge, Enttäuschung, weite Wege, Umwege,
Dehnungen, Einschaltungen, kurz Aufhaltungen aller Art. Darin liegt der
Keim all der künnstlichen Aufhaltungen, mit denen ein glücklicher Erfinder
immer neuen Inhalt ins Rollen bringen kann. In diesem Sinne hören wir im
Mittel- und Vordergrund fast einen dramatischen Verlauf (p. 29).
(p. 197): Mit all dem ist der Zusammenhang der ganzen Inhaltes eines
Tonstückes als eine Einheit der Hintergrund-Tiefe und Vordergrund-Breite
gegeben und begründet. Im Geheimnis eines solchen Zusammenhanges
liegt mit auch die völlige Unabhängigkeit der Musik von der Umwelt
beschlossen, das In-sich-selbst-Ruhen, das die Musik vor allen anderen
Künsten auszeichnet (Meisterwerk III [1930], p. 21).
(p. 198): Die Kraft der Spannungen und Erfüllungen darf geradezu als
Blutprobe angesehen werden, als ein Gut der germanischen Rasse. In die-
sem Sinne ist z.B. die Frage, wohin Beethoven zuständig sei, unwiderlegbar
entschieden: er is nicht, wie man es haben wollte und noch haben will . . .
nur halb Deutscher; nein, wer so Züge schafft, muss ein Duetscher sein,
wenn vielleicht auch fremdes Blut in seinen Adern rolltet. Hierfür ist
das bestimmte weitgespannte Vollbringen mehr Beweis als der aller
Rassen-Wissenschaft (Der freie Satz [1935], pp. 18–19).
 Works cited

Works by Heinrich Schenker

(1903/1908). Ein Beitrag zur Ornamentik, als Einführung zu Ph. Emanuel Bachs
Klavierwerken, mitumfassend auch die Ornamentik Haydns, Mozarts,
Beethovens, etc. (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1903); rev. 2nd edn., 1908. “A
Contribution to the Study of Ornamentation,” translation of the 2nd edn. by
Hedi Siegel, The Music Forum IV (1976), pp. 1–139.
(1906/1954). Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien I: Die Harmonielehre
(Berlin and Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta Verlag, 1906); reprinted by Universal
Edition, 1978. Harmony, partially translated by Elizabeth Mann Borghese
(University of Chicago Press, 1954).
(1910a/1987). Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien II: Kontrapunkt I (Berlin
and Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta Verlag, 1910); reprinted by Georg Olms Verlag, 1991.
Counterpoint I, translated by John Rothgeb and Jürgen Thym (New York:
Schirmer Books, 1987).
(1910b/1984). J. S. Bach, Chromatische Phantasie und Fuge D-moll: Kritische
Ausgabe mit Anhang (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1910); rev. edn. 1969.
J. S. Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue, translated by Hedi Siegel (New
York: Longman, 1984).
(1912/1992). Beethovens Neunte Symphonie: Eine Darstellung des musikalischen
Inhalten unter fortlaufender Berücksichtung auch des Vortrags und der
Literatur (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1912). Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,
translated by John Rothgeb (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992).
(1913/1971a). Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven, Kritische Ausgabe mit
Einführung und Erläuterung (Vienna, Universal Edition): Sonate E dur Op.
109 (1913); rev. edn., edited by Oswald Jonas, 1971.
(1914/1972a). Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven, Kritische Ausgabe mit
Einführung und Erläuterung (Vienna, Universal Edition): Sonate As dur Op.
110 (1914); rev. edn., edited by Oswald Jonas, 1972.
(1915/1971b). Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven, Kritische Ausgabe mit
Einführung und Erläuterung (Vienna, Universal Edition): Sonate C moll Op.
111 (1915); rev. edn., edited by Oswald Jonas, 1971.
(1921/1972b). Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven, Kritische Ausgabe und
Einführung mit Erläuterung (Vienna, Universal Edition): Sonate A dur Op.
264 101 (1921); rev. edn., edited by Oswald Jonas, 1972.
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(1921–24/2004–05). Der Tonwille.10 issues: (1) 1921; (2) 1922; (3) 1922; (4) 1923;
(5) 1923; (6) 1923; (7) 1924; (8/9) 1924; (10) 1924 (Vienna, Universal
Edition). Der Tonwille, various translators, edited by William Drabkin in
two volumes (Oxford University Press, 2004–05).
(1922/1987). Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien II: Kontrapunkt II
(Vienna: Universal Edition, 1922); reprinted by Georg Olms Verlag, 1991.
Counterpoint II, translation by John Rothgeb and Jürgen Thym (New York:
Schirmer Books, 1987).
(1925/1994), (1926/1996), (1930/1997). Das Meisterwerk in der Musik: Ein
Jahrbuch (Munich; Vienna: Drei Masken Verlag, 1925, 1926, 1930). The
Masterwork in Music, various translators, edited by William Drabkin in
three volumes (Cambridge University Press, 1994, 1996, 1997).
(1932/1969b). Fünf Urlinie-Tafeln / Five Analyses in Sketchform (New York: David
Mannes School, 1932). Five Graphic Music Analyses, edited, translated, and
with a new introduction by Felix Salzer (New York: Dover Publications, 1969).
(1935/1979). Der freie Satz (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1935); rev. edn., edited by
Oswald Jonas (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1956). Free Composition, translated
and edited by Ernst Oster in two volumes (New York: Longman, 1979).
(1985). Heinrich Schenker nach Tagebüchern und Briefen, edited by
Hellmut Federhofer (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag).
(1990/1988). Heinrich Schenker als Essayist und Kritiker: gesammelte Aufsätze,
Rezensionen und kleinere Berichte aus den Jahren 1891–1901,
Hellmut Federhofer (ed.) (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1990). “Der
Geist der musikalischen Technik,” translated by William Pastille, Theoria 3
(1988), pp. 86–104. (Article partially translated in Pastille (1984)).
(2005). Über den Niedergang der Kompositionskunst (“The Decline of the Art of
Composition”), unfinished book edited and translated by William Drabkin,
published in both German and English, Music Analysis 24/1–2, pp. 1–232.

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 Index
Alberti, Leon Batista, 220
Alpern, Wayne, 5 n. 3
analytical layers, 18
background, middleground, foreground, 19
author’s view of Schenker, xix
auxiliary cadence, 167 n. 20
avoidance of unpublished work, xx
Baker, James, 217
Bent, Ian, 7 n. 5
introduction to Tonwille, 136 n. 37
Berio, Luciano
Sinfonia, 214 n. 18
Berlin, Isaiah, 7 n. 6
Bernhard, Christoph, 96 n. 44
Blasius, Leslie David, xiv n. 1
Brown, Mathew, 178 n. 40, 210 n. 12, 215
Burstein, L. Poundie, 167 n. 20
Cadwallader, Allen, 217
canon, 101
Chomsky, Noam, 189–90
chord of nature 16, 124
Clark, Suzannah, 62 n. 9
Coclico, Adrianus Petit, 96 n. 44
Cohn, Richard, 209 n. 9
combination of idealism and empiricism in
Schenker, xiv
composing-out, 16
continued relevance of classical
music, 199 n. 22
Cook, Nicholas, x
Crews, Frederick, 9 n. 8
Cumming, Naomi, 194–95
Darcy, Warren, 206 n. 3
Darwin, Charles, 10, 52 n. 35
“Das Hören in der Musik” (1894)
quotation from, 3
development toward its goal, 3
Das Meisterwerk in der Musik, 117
analyses in, 146
translation with introduction, 117 n. 1
272
Das Meisterwerk in der Musik II
Beethoven, op. 55 analysis, 149–53
Mozart, K 445 analysis, 146–49
Das Meisterwerk in der Musik III
“Rameau oder Beethoven,” 154
Der freie Satz
as manifestation of ideology, 171–75
early version, 157
final version, 158
presentation of, 160–62
problems in, 160
relation to earlier publications, 158–59
religious component of, 175–78
signficance and function of, 158–59
suppression of nationalistic rhetoric in,
175 n. 30
“Der Geist der musikalischen Technik,” xiii, 36, 41
and Schenker’s future, 57–59
anti-organicism in, 44–46
idealism and empiricism in, 54–57
significance of, 41
three articles on, 46
Der Tonwille, 117
focus on pitch, 145
longer analyses in, 135–45
listed, 136 n. 36
translation with introduction, 117 n. 1
Der Tonwille and Das Meisterwerk
and Schenker’s future, 155
six early articles on Urlinie, 118–35
description of longer graphs
Bach, WTC I, C Major Prelude, 33–36
Beethoven
op. 10 no. 3, 165–71
op. 55, 149–53
Mozart, K445, 146–49
development of reduction technique, 85, 86, 87,
88, 107–15
diatonic basis of music, 72
diminution, 121
dissonance and consonance distinction, 29–31
dissonance and passing motion, 133
dissonance converted into consonance, 124, 125

dissonant prolongation, 216
Drabkin, William, 7 n. 5, 140 n. 40
introduction to Meisterwerk, 136 n. 37
Dubiel, Joseph, 77 n. 2
Duerksen, Marva, 59 n. 45
emerging importance of bass in Ursatz, 132
Eybl, Martin, 72 n. 42
Federhofer, Hellmut, 7 n. 5
final theory
a more distant perspective, 226–27
and ideal Schenkerian listener, 227
as avoiding tendency toward conceptual
fragmentation, 226
as doctrinaire and authoritarian, 213
as unified system, 15–31
close relation of background and
foreground, 228
commitment to universal musical
coherence, 225
ideological aspect of, 226
lack of empirical grounding, 205
music as all-consuming, unified whole, 213
negative view of most music, 214
relation to world music, 213
restriction to common-practice music, 225
rhythm and form, 206–07
chapters on, 209
pitch aspects of, 209
final theory in relation to overall development,
36–37
final theory vs early theory, xvi
first description of three Urlinie descents in
Ursatz, 154
foreground as “torrent of diminution,” 135
Forte, Allen, 165 n. 16
Freud, Sigmund, 8
generation vs reduction, 15, 126
genius 71, 100
German origin of great music, 126
“Gesetze der Tonkunst,” 125 n. 15
Gleick, James, 223 n. 3
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 42, 79, 89,
184 n. 1
Gould, Stephen Jay, 224
grand narrative, xv
graph alone as sufficient, 180 n. 51,
195 n. 14
graph of Bach D minor Little Prelude as
“complete,” 123
graphic notation, 31–33
Index 273
Haeckel, Ernst, 43
Hanslick, Eduard, 42
Harmonielehre, 60
and “Geist,” 72–73
and Schenker’s future, 76
biological life of tones, 60–62
coherence as hidden, 70
composing-out, 69–70
major and minor tonal systems, 62–66
natural attributes of both systems, 66
mental aspect of music, 70
spiritual nature of harmony, 67
Stufe, 67–69
headtone and endtone, 21
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 56
Hepokoski, James, 206 n. 3
Hinton, Stephen, 135 n. 35
Hoboken, Anthony van, 102 n. 14
Hume, David, 54
idealism in late nineteenth and early twentieth
century, 43
ideology, 4–5
incomplete transference of Ursatz, 23
incorrect translation of Künstlichkeit, 47 n. 17
initial ascent, 131
internal bass arpeggiation, 130
interruption, 26, 207–09
Jackendoff, Ray, 190 n. 7
Jonas, Oswald, 64 n. 16
Kant, Immanuel, 100 n. 10, 197 n. 16
Karnes, Kevin C., xiv n. 1
Kassler, Michael, 190 n. 7
Keiler, Allan, xviii n. 2, 49, 179 n. 42
“The Origin of Schenker’s Thought,”
49–52
Kerman, Joseph, 165 n. 16
Komar, Arthur, 217
Kontrapunkt, 77
and Schenker’s future, 97
Kontrapunkt I, 78
melodic fluency, 89–91
passing motion, 80–82
relation between strict and free counterpoint,
82–89
voice-leading, 78–80
Kontrapunkt II
compared with Kontrapunkt I, 91
Fuxian experiment in, 94–95
relation between spirit and nature, 91–96
spiritual nature of counterpoint, 91–96
274 Index

Korsyn, Kevin, xiv n. 1, 53, 200 n. 23 relationship of ideology and theoretical

“Schenker’s Organicism Reexamined,” 53–54 developement, xix
origin of music, 52 n. 35
Lakoff, George, 189
Leibniz, Gottfried, 55–57 Palladio, Andrea, 220 n. 1
Lerdahl, Fred, 190 n. 7, 217 Pastille, William, 46, 91 n. 33, 155 n. 50, 210 n. 13
Lewontin, Richard, 9 “Heinrich Schenker, Anti-Organicist?,” 46–48
linear progression Perlman, Marc, 188 n. 4
as main means of prolongation, 19–23, 128 post-tonal music
as sole bearer of comprehensiveness, 130 combines centripetal and centrifugal
early history of, 163–64 elements, 216
spiritual and psychological nature of, 130 described, 214
Littlefield, Richard, 210 n. 12, 217 links to past, 214
Lubben, Joseph, 212 n. 17 literature on Schenkerian extensions, 215
Proctor, Gregory, 160 n. 6
Mach, Ernst, 52 n. 35, 54 prolongation, 16
Marx, Karl, 229 publications between Meisterwerk III and Der
masterworks, 100 freie Satz, 153 n. 48
McCreless, Patrick, 212 n. 17 purpose of book, xv
mental retention, 20, 133
mixture, 22 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 79 n. 9
monographs, 98 reaching over, 21
aesthetic assumptions, 100 reaching under, 22
contribution of, 115–16 readership of book, xiv, xvi
development of reduction technique, 107–15 Reiter, Andrea, 199 n. 20
development of synthesis, 104–07 Renwick, William, 32 n. 12
listed with dates, 98 Riemann, Hugo, 221 n. 2
manuscript studies, 102 Riggins, Herbert Lee, 160 n. 6
ornamentation, 102–03 Rothfarb, Lee, 221 n. 2
purpose of, 99 Rothstein, William xi, 28 n. 9, 156 n. 1, 209 n. 8
more critical perspective in Part III of book, 183
Morgan, Robert P., 6 n. 4, 10 n. 10, 96 n. 44, Sachs, Oliver, 223
135 n. 35, 176 n. 31, 187 n. 2, 209 n. 7, Salzer, Felix, 217
217 n. 20 Samarotto, Frank, 209 n. 8
motivation of Urlinie, 135 Schachter, Carl, 187 n. 2, 206 n. 4, 212 n. 16, 217
multilayered graphs in Tonwille analyses, Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von, 42, 55
140–41 Schenker. See also final theory, final theory vs
music itself, xvii early theory, combination of idealism
musical laws, 100 and empiricism in, canon, graphic
notation
Narmour, Eugene, 210 n. 10 affective dimension in, 191–94, 195
natural–artificial dichotomy in history, 48 n. 19 and Chomsky, 189–90
nature, 96 and Freud, 8–9
Naturphilosophie, 55, 56 and Hitler, 176
Neumeyer, David, 210 n. 12, 217 and modernity, 199
Newton, Isaac, 223–24 and Vienna, 8
number of analytical layers, 15 and Western music history
harmonic proportions in architecture and
obligatory register, 17 music, 220
octave identity, 27 and Western music theory, 219–22
octave transfer, 27 energetics, 221
organicism, 42, 71, 174 n. 28 organicism in, 221
organization of book, xvii phrase proportions in, 221

pitch proportions in, 220
significant principle in, 219
and Wittgenstein, 183–86
as both outsider and insider, 11
as true believer, 228
attitude toward contemporary music, 198
belief in pure art, 176–77
character, 7–8
belief in own infallibility, 9
conservatism and modernism in, 12
differences in early and late theory, 159–60
graph alone is sufficient, 180 n. 51, 195 n. 14
ideology, 4–5
life, xv, 5–7
nature of theory, xiii–xiv, 180
philosophical beliefs, 200–03
pitch orientation, 204–06
scientific orientation, 222–25
social and historical apects of, 195–200
system and context in, 189–91
theoretical project, 11
universality and particularity in, 186–89
use of word “Geist,” 96
Schenkerian extensions, 213–18
justification of, 217
three types, 216
Schenker’s Jewishness, 175–76
Schenker’s motto, 19
Schenker’s view of creativity, 157
Schiller, Friedrich, 48 n. 19
Schlegel, Friedrich, 48 n. 19
Schmalfeldt, Janet, 212 n. 17
Schoenberg, Arnold, 135
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 200 n. 23
Schorske, Carl, 8
Siegel, Hedi, 32 n. 13, 158 n. 5
Simmel, Georg, 52 n. 35
Smith, Peter, 206 n. 4, 208 n. 6, 212 n. 17
Snarrenberg, Robert, 194
spatial vs temporal, 16
Spencer, Herbert, 52 n. 35
Spengler, Oswald, 198 n. 19
spirit, 130
Straus, Joseph, 215
Stravinsky, Igor, 135
Stufe, 28, 134
Stumpf, Carl, 52 n. 35
substitution, 28
Suurpää, Lauri, 206 n. 4
synthesis
as related to Urlinie, 121
development in monographs, 104–107
Index 275
Teiler (divider), 24, 133
temporary treatment of dissonance as
consonance, 27
three Schenker predecessors, 96 n. 44
transference of the Ursatz, 23
transformation, 16
translations of Schenker terminology, 15
Travis, Roy, 217
two methods of transformation, 16, 23
arpeggiated transformation, 23–25
linear transformation, 19–23
two phases of Schenker’s development, xvi
Über den Niedergang der Kompositionskunst,
107 n. 31
ultimate identity of linear and arpeggiated
transformation, 25
unconscious, 200
unfolding, 22
unidirectional aspect of theoretical
development, xviii
unstable sections in Tonwille analyses, 143–45
Urlinie, 17
and actual top voice, 127
Urlinie-Tafel, 137–40
Ursatz, 209–12
and actual compositional practice, 210
as related to actual musical events, 168 n. 21
as source of everything musical, 210
considered by some as axiom, 211
limitations of, 212
not sole source of counterpoint, 211
ontology of, 210
relation to subsequent levels, 211
Schenker’s view of its tones as idea,
173 n. 27
Urzelle, 140
Vitruvius, Marcus, 220
voice exchange, 22
Wagner, Richard, 101
Wagner, Siegfried, 104
Wason, Robert W., 60 n. 1
Watkins, Holly, 115 n. 39
Weber, William, 196 n. 15
Whittall, Arnold, 207 n. 5
will, 200
Wintle, Christopher, 165 n. 17
Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 183–86
Zug (linear progression), 17