Vous êtes sur la page 1sur 365

!"#$%&'()*)+,$-&.$//$0"(,&!

"1$0-&2+3&
'"(,"42(&53)%(%67&$+&82,)&9$6:,))+,:;
')+,"47&9+6(2+3&
&
94$+&<)(7243&
&
&
&
=0:"($0:&=0:%%(&%/&!"1$0&
!0>$((&?+$@)41$,7-&!%+,4)2(&
&
A"(7&BCDD&
&
E&,:)1$1&1"F*$,,)3&,%&!0>$((&?+$@)41$,7&$+&G24,$2(&
/"(/$(*)+,&%/&,:)&4)H"$4)*)+,1&%/&,:)&3)64))&%/&
I:.&$+&!"1$0%(%67J&
&
K&94$+&<)(7243&BCDD&
Library and Archives Bibliothèque et
Canada Archives Canada
Published Heritage Direction du
Branch Patrimoine de l'édition

395 Wellington Street 395, rue Wellington


Ottawa ON K1A 0N4 Ottawa ON K1A 0N4
Canada Canada
Your file Votre référence
ISBN: 978-0-494-78778-6

Our file Notre référence


ISBN: 978-0-494-78778-6

NOTICE: AVIS:
The author has granted a non- L'auteur a accordé une licence non exclusive
exclusive license allowing Library and permettant à la Bibliothèque et Archives
Archives Canada to reproduce, Canada de reproduire, publier, archiver,
publish, archive, preserve, conserve, sauvegarder, conserver, transmettre au public
communicate to the public by par télécommunication ou par l'Internet, prêter,
telecommunication or on the Internet, distribuer et vendre des thèses partout dans le
loan, distrbute and sell theses monde, à des fins commerciales ou autres, sur
worldwide, for commercial or non- support microforme, papier, électronique et/ou
commercial purposes, in microform, autres formats.
paper, electronic and/or any other
formats.

The author retains copyright L'auteur conserve la propriété du droit d'auteur


ownership and moral rights in this et des droits moraux qui protege cette thèse. Ni
thesis. Neither the thesis nor la thèse ni des extraits substantiels de celle-ci
substantial extracts from it may be ne doivent être imprimés ou autrement
printed or otherwise reproduced reproduits sans son autorisation.
without the author's permission.

In compliance with the Canadian Conformément à la loi canadienne sur la


Privacy Act some supporting forms protection de la vie privée, quelques
may have been removed from this formulaires secondaires ont été enlevés de
thesis. cette thèse.

While these forms may be included Bien que ces formulaires aient inclus dans
in the document page count, their la pagination, il n'y aura aucun contenu
removal does not represent any loss manquant.
of content from the thesis.
$$&
!

L2F()&%/&'%+,)+,1&
&
L2F()&%/&'%+,)+,1& & & & & & & & $$&
8$1,&%/&!"1$02(&9M2*G()1& & & & & & & @&
8$1,&%/&L2F()1& & & & & & & & & $M&
8$1,&%/&N$6"4)1& & & & & & & & & M$&
EF1,420,& & & & & & & & & M$$$&
!"#$%$& & & & & & & & & & M$$$&
E0O+%P()36*)+,1& & & & & & & & M$@&
&
5+,4%3"0,$%+&& & & & & & & & & D&
& &
L:)&544$,2,$%+1&%/&Q$4,"%1$,7& & & & & & D&
& &
':2G,)4&DR&L%P2431&2&S)P&EGG4%20:&,%&.$//$0"(,&T)7F%243&!"1$0&&
%/&,:)&82,)&9$6:,))+,:&')+,"47& & & & & & DU&
& &
V462+$0$1,&W)1G%+1)1&,%&9$6:,))+,:;')+,"47&T)7F%243&.$//$0"(,7& DU&
X'()*)+,$&$1,&)$+&'()#*)++),-&P$)&2(()&YZ(10:)[R&W)0%+1$3)4$+6&&
!%#24,&%+&'()*)+,$& & & & & & & BC&
XQ$4,"%1$,7[&@1J&X.$//$0"(,7[& & & & & & U\&
'"(,"42(&2+3&W:),%4$02(&W)1G%+1)1&,%&.$//$0"(,&!"1$0& & & ]U&
':24(2,2+1&2+3&Q$4,"%1$R&./+012&(#-,(23&-4&5$#(+$6& & & & \C&
I%,)+,$2(&'4$,$02(&I)41G)0,$@)1R&W)0%+0$($+6&.$//$0"(,$)1& & \\&
&
':2G,)4&BR&L:)&':2+6$+6&53)%(%67&%/&N)*2()&T)7F%243&&
I)4/%4*2+0)&2+3&I)326%67&$+&82,)&9$6:,))+,:;')+,"47&8%+3%+& & \^&
&
5+,4%3"0,$%+& & & & & & & & \^&
Y%*)+&2,&,:)&T)7F%243&$+&9$6:,))+,:;')+,"47&&
9+6(2+3R&E+&V@)4@$)P&& & & & & & \_&
W)23$+6&W)6"(2,%47&L)M,1R&53)%(%6$)1&%/&`):2@$%"4& & & a]&
$$$&
!
XI)4G),"2(&`2F7$1*[R&'%*G"(1%47&I211$@$,7&2,&,:)&T)7F%243& & a_&
W)1$1,2+0)-&.%"F,-&2+3&,:)&E+M$),7&%/&I420,$0)& & & ^^&
'%+3"0,;`%%O1&W)/()0,&2&':2+6$+6&53)%(%67R&Da]C;D^]C& & _]&
L:)&W)23$+6&Y%*2+-&,:)&I)4/%4*$+6&Y%*2+R&&
X!$14)23$+6[&2+3&X!$1G(27$+6[& & & & & _a&
'4$,$02((7&9+626$+6&P$,:&,:)&9$6:,))+,:;')+,"47&&
N)*2()&T)7F%243&I)4/%4*)4& & & & & & DCU&
&
':2G,)4&UR&'%+,)M,"2($#$+6&'()*)+,$b1&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)[&&
cDaaad&2+3&VGJ&B&cDaa_d& & & & & & & DDa&
&
& 5+,4%3"0,$%+& & & & & & & & DDa&
& Q24$2,$%+1&%+&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)[& & & & & DD^&
& `2P3$+)11& & & & & & & & DBB&
& E&'4"3)&5+;e%O)f& & & & & & & DB^&
& W23$02(&I$2+$1*f& & & & & & & DUC&
& '%+,)M,"2($#$+6&'()*)+,$b1&VGJ&B& & & & & DU]&
& 5*26$+247&N$41,&'%+,20,&P$,:&'()*)+,$b1&VGJ&B&& & & DU_&
&
':2G,)4&]R&!2()&782-#()&2+3&N)*2()&9#):(/R&9$6:,))+,:;')+,"47&&
'"(,"42(&53)%(%67&$+&I420,$0)& & & & & & & D\^&
&
& 5+,4%3"0,$%+& & & & & & & & D\^&
& I4)($*$+24$)1R&E+&V@)4@$)P&%/&9+6($1:&&
T)7F%243&'"(,"4)&$+&,:)&(2,)&DaaC1& & & & & DgB&
& !2()&782-#()-&N)*2()&9#):(/-&2+3&,:)&E00%*G2+$)3&=%+2,2& & Da\&
& .$//$0"(,&!"1$0&2+3&,:)&!2()&>2#)& & & & & D^C&
& '()*)+,$&2+3&N)$6+)3&5++%0)+0)&$+&,:)&E00%*G2+$)3&=%+2,21& D^^&
& '%"+,)4G%$+,&/%4&,:)&!)+-&V0,2@)1&/%4&,:)&823$)1& & & D_g&
& S%@)(,7&2+3&=:2*)&$+&I%1,;VGJ&B&T)7F%243&'"(,"4)& & & BD]&
& '%+0("1$%+R&'()*)+,$&21&;2#2/()#18& & & & & BDa&
&
$@&
!
':2G,)4&\R&L:)&I)326%6$02(&I4%*%,$%+&2+3&=,42,)6$0&'%**%3$/$02,$%+&&
%/&.$//$0"(,&!"1$0&"+3)4&924(7&'2G$,2($1*&$+&9+6(2+3& & & & BBC&
& &
& 5+,4%3"0,$%+& & & & & & & & BBC&
& '()*)+,$b1&!"1$02(&=)(/;I%4,42$,1& & & & & BB\&
& '()*)+,$b1&X`42+3[&2+3&$,1&'%**"+$02,$@)&I%P)4& & & BUa&
& L%G$02(&.$@)41$,7&2+3&,:)&8)6$,$*$#2,$%+&%/&I()21"4)&$+&VGJ&Ua& B]]&
& .)0$G:)4$+6&L20,$($,7& & & & & & & B\]&
& <)(G$+6&,%&'%+H")4&.$//$0"(,7R&&
L:)&!"1$0;!21,)4&2+3&:$1&X':)1,&%/&L%%(1[& & & & B\a&
& '()*)+,$b1&=,"3)+,1&2+3&.)3$02,))1& & & & & Bga&
& '()*)+,$b1&.$1)*F%3$)3&<2+31&2+3&,:)$4&W)G4%3"0$F$($,7& & Ba]&
& !$1G(27$+6&'()*)+,$b1&X!%3)[&& & & & & B^D&
&
'%+0("1$%+& & & & & & & & & B_C&
&
9G$(%6")R&5+&1)240:&%/&X$+$*$,2F()&)+,:"1$21*[R&
E&`4$)/&="4@)7&%/&'()*)+,$&W)0%43$+61& & & & & B_U&
&
EGG)+3$MR&53)%(%6$02(&3$//)4)+0)1&4)6243$+6&O)7F%243&&
G420,$0$+6h*"1$0&)3"02,$%+&$+&Ug&0%+3"0,&F%%O1&&
2+3&,4)2,$1)1-&Da]D;D^U^& & & & & & & UCa&
&
`$F($%642G:7& & & & & & & & & UDg&
&
@&
!

8$1,&%/&!"1$02(&9M2*G()1&
&
9MJ&DJD&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&a&S%J&B-&&
c8%+3%+R&/%4&,:)&2",:%4-&Da^]d-&D\J& & & & UD&
9MJ&DJB&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&a&S%J&B-&&
c8%+3%+R&/%4&,:)&2",:%4-&Da^]d-&_J& & & & UB&
9MJ&DJU&& ':24()1&`"4+)7b1&)M2*G()1&%/&X.4J&`"((b1&&
3$//$0"(,&I21126)1[&/4%*&!&<2,2#)*&;(/+-#=&->&?4/(1@&&
A#-B&+82&.)#*(2/+&!%2/&+-&+82&9#2/2,+&92#(-C&DEFGHI-&&
Q%(J&B-&DD\J& & & & & & & ]B&
9MJ&BJD&&& A%:2++&=2*")(&=0:4%),)4-&VGJ&DhDh$-&cDaaad-&**J&D;\UJ& aB&
9MJ&BJB&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&B&S%J&B-&c8%+3%+R&Y)(0O)4-&&
Daa_d-&DCJ& & & & & & & aU&
9MJ&BJU&& A%:2++&N4$)34$0:&93)(*2++-&X555&=%+2,)1&I%"4&&
8)&'(2@)0$+-[&cI24$1R&!J&.bE46)+@$(()-&0J&Daaad-&BJ& & DDC&
9MJ&UJD&& XL:)&`(20O&A%O)[&c0J&DaUCd&2+3&'()*)+,$b1&Daaa&&
@)41$%+-&**J&D;Da-&0%*G24)3J& & & & & DB\&
9MJ&UJB&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&)+3$+6&1,42,)6$)1&$+&Daaa&2+3&&
0J&D^B\&@)41$%+1&%/&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)[&P$,:&2&&
X`(20O&A%O)[&2(("1$%+&$+&2&Da_]&1%+2,2&cVGJ&UUhDh$$dJ& & DBg&
9MJ&UJU&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&0%32&2+3&/$+2(&@24$2,$%+1&%/&&
'()*)+,$b1&Daaa&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)J[& & & & DBa&
9MJ&UJ]&& A%:2++&':4$1,%G:&I)G"10:-&XV@)4,"4)&,%&,:)&&
`)6624b1&VG)42-[&0(%1$+6&*)21"4)1-&G4%F2F(7&&
,42+104$F)3&F7&L:%*21&E4+)J& & & & & DU\&
9MJ&UJ\&& A%:2++&':4$1,%G:&`20:-&)M0)4G,&/4%*&2&&
,42+104$G,$%+&%/&!242$1b&!*1(C2J&& & & & DU\&
9MJ&UJg&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BhBh$-&cDaa_d-&**J&D;U_J&& & D]U&
9MJ&UJa&& '%*G24$1%+1&%/&$*G($)3&/$+6)4$+61&$+&!"#$%&&
'()*)+,$b1&VGJ&B&S%1J&B-&]-&2+3&gJ& & & & D]]&
9MJ&UJ^&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&Bh]h$$-&cDaa_d-&**J&]];\gJ& & D]\&
9MJ&UJ_&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&Bhgh$-&cDaa_d-&**J&D;BUJ&& & D]a&
@$&
!
9MJ&UJDC& A%:2++&S)G%*"O&<"**)(-&VGJ&BhUh$-&cDa_Ud-&**J&D;gJ& D\\&
9MJ&UJDD&& 8"3P$6&@2+&`)),:%@)+-&VGJ&BhUh$-&cDa_gd-&**J&D;]J& & D\\&
9MJ&UJDB& 8"3P$6&@2+&`)),:%@)+-&VGJ&BhUh$@-&cDa_gd-&**J&D;^J&& D\\&
9MJ&UJDU& A)2+;8%"$1&E32*-&X=%+2,)&I%"4&()&N%4,i&I$2+%&&
0%*G%1i&G%"4&()&'%+0%"41&3)&9(j@)1&3"&&
'%+1)4@2,%$4)&3"&!"1$H")-[&cI24$1R&I()7)(-&D^DCd-&BBJ& & D\a&
9MJ&]JD&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BDhDh$$-&cDa^^d-&**J&D;UBJ& & D_D&
9MJ&]JB&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BahDh$$$-&cDa_Dd-&**J&D;DBJ& & D_]&
9MJ&]JU&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BahDh$$$-&cDa_Dd-&**J&Ua;]UJ& & D_\&
9MJ&]J]&& A%1)G:&<273+-&k0)((%&G24,&,%&2+&200%*G2+$)3&&
1%+2,2-&c8%+3%+R&`$40:2((&l&E+34)P1-&Da^;fd-&\J& & BC]&
9MJ&]J\&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BahDh$$-&cDa_Dd-&**J&D;]C& & BC\&
9MJ&]Jg&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BhUh$-&cDaa_d-&**J&D;^J& & & BCa&
9MJ&]Ja&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BhUh$-&cDaa_d-&**J&U];U^J& & BCa&
9MJ&]J^&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BhUh$$-&cDaa_d-&**J&\U;aCJ& & BC^&
9MJ&]J_&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&Bh\h$-&cDaa_d-&**J&]\;\CJ& & BC^&
9MJ&]JDC& E"6"1,"1&N4)3)4$0&':4$1,%G:)4&T%((*2++-&&
XE&!"1$02(&.)/$+$,$%+[&/4%*&,:)&J4)#+2#*=&?4/(1)*&&
K2%(/+2#&cD^DBdJ& & & & & & & BDU&
9MJ&\JD&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&XI4)("3$%&5&2((2&'()*)+,$-[&&
2",%642G:-&4)@$1)3&$+&W%*)-&D^CaJ& & & & BB^&
9MJ&\JB&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&XI4)("3$%&5&2((2&'()*)+,$-[&&
%4$6$+2(&Da^a&2+3&4)@$1)3&D^Ca&@)41$%+1&0%*G24)3J& & BB_;UB&
9MJ&\JU&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&0(%1$+6&*)21"4)1&%/&,:)&&
7-11)+)&/4%*&VGJ&DD-&c8%+3%+R&T)4G)+-&Da^]d-&D\J& & BUU&
9MJ&\J]&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&ahBh$-&c8%+3%+R&G4$+,)3&&
/%4&,:)&2",:%4-&0J&Da^Ud-&DC;DDJ&& & & & BU_&
9MJ&\J\&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&^hBh$&c8%+3%+R&G4$+,)3&&
/%4&,:)&2",:%4-&0J&Da_Cd-&_J& & & & & B]C&
9MJ&\Jg&&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&DBhUh$-&c8%+3%+R&&
AJ&I4)1,%+-&Da^]d-&BBJ& & & & & & B]D&
9MJ&\Ja&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&DBhUh$-&c8%+3%+R&
@$$&
!
& & AJ&I4)1,%+-&Da^]d-&BUJ& & & & & & B]D&
9MJ&\J^&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&DDh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&T)4G)+-&Da^]d-&^J& B]U&
9MJ&\J_&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&L)&'8)//2-&VGJ&Dgh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&&
8%+6*2+&l&`4%3)4$G-&Da^gd-&\J& & & & B]]&
9MJ&\JDC& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&X`26G$G)[&0%321&2,&,:)&0(%1)&&
%/&VGJ&UahDh$&2+3&VGJ&UahUh$-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&&
l&`4%3)4$G-&Da_^dJ& & & & & & B]\;g&
9MJ&\JDD& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&UahUh$$-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&
& & l&`4%3)4$G-&Da_^d-&U\J&& & & & & B]^&
9MJ&\JDB& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&UahUh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&
& & l&`4%3)4$G-&Da_^d-&UgJ&& & & & & B]_&
9MJ&\JDU& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&X`26G$G)[&0%32&%/&VGJ&UahUh$$$J& & B\D&
9MJ&\JD]& A2+)&!247&>")1,-&!C)%(-&1-,&?-*+-&./M#2//(-,2&/4%*&&
N-,)+)&>-#&+82&9(),-&A-#+23&O(+8&),&!11-BM),(B2,+&>-#&+82&&
P(-*(,&)C&*("(+4B-&c8%+3%+R&'()*)+,$&l&'%J-&D^Cad-&&
**J&]a;gCJ& & & & & & & B\U&
9MJ&\JD\& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&\ChUh$$-&cD^BDd-&**J&D;DCJ& & B\U&
9MJ&\JDg& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&_hBh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&G4$+,)3&
& & /%4&,:)&2",:%4-&Da^U;\d-&DaJ& & & & & B\\&
9MJ&\JDa& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BUhBh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&
& & l&`4%3)4$G-&Da_Cd-&DaJ&& & & & B\g&
9MJ&\JD^& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&VGJ&BUhBh$$$-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&
& & l&`4%3)4$G-&Da_Cd-&Da-&P$,:&0%+,)*G%4247&/$+6)4$+61J& B\a&
9MJ&\JD_& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&2+&)M0)4G,&/4%*&L)&'8)//2-&VGJ&Dg&cDa^gd-&&
P$,:&0%+,)*G%4247&/$+6)4$+61J&& & & & BgD&
9MJ&\JBC& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&/$+6)4)3&)3$,$%+&%/&VGJ&DD-&
& & c8%+3%+R&AJ&.2()-&Da_Bd-&DBJ& & & & & BgU&
9MJ&\JBD& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&Q,+#-C41+(-,&+-&+82&!#+&->&9*)=(,%&-,&+82&&
9(),-&A-#+2-&c8%+3%+R&'()*)+,$-&`2+6)4-&<73)-&&
'%((243&l&.2@$1-&D^CDd-&D_J& & & & & Ba^&
9MJ&\JBB& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&X8)11%+&Q-[&$+&Q,+#-C41+(-,&+-&+82&&
!#+&->&9*)=(,%&-,&+82&9(),-&A-#+2-&c8%+3%+R&'()*)+,$-&&
@$$$&
!
`2+6)4-&<73)-&'%((243&l&.2@$1-&D^CDd-&BBJ& & & B^C&
9MJ&\JBU& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&A2/+(,)&L2,+2&c`2(,$*%4)R&A%:+&'%()&&
l&=%+-&D^U;fd-&P$,:&2++%,2,$%+1&$+&2&0%+,)*G%4247&:2+3J& B^a&
9MJ&\JB]& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&)M0)4G,&/4%*&X=02();9M)40$1)&$+&>m&*$+%4-[&
/4%*&'()*)+,$b1&D^DD&!MM2,C(:R& & & & B^_&
9MJ&gJD&& !"#$%&'()*)+,$-&0J&Da^]&2+3&D^C]&&
@)41$%+1&%/&VGJ&DDh$$&0%*G24)3J& & & & UC]&
& &
$M&
!

8$1,&%/&L2F()1&
&
L2F()&DJD& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&X5(2,,2&0)&BB&nRF4)&Da^DJ[& & & BD&
L2F()&DJB& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&XP(2,,2&0)&DB&3)&A2+@$)4&Da^BJ[& & BU&
L2F()&DJU& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&X5(2,,2&0)&Dg&3)&A2+@$)4&Da^BJ[& & B];\&
L2F()&DJ]& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&XP(2,,2&0)&BU&3)&A2+@$)4&Da^BJ[& & Bg&
L2F()&DJ\& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&XP(2,,2&0)&^&3)&*2e&Da^BJ[& & Bg&
L2F()&DJg&& !%#24,&,%&:$1&/2,:)4-&XP(2,,2&0)&a&A"$+&Da^UJ[& & & Ba&
L2F()&DJa& 8)%G%(3&,%&:$1&32"6:,)4-&X!o+0:)+&3)+&pD\Jq&&
;-#,4,%&pN)F4"247q&Da^gR[& & & & & UU&
L2F()&DJ^& 8)%G%(3&,%&:$1&32"6:,)4-&X=2(#FR&3)+&BU,)+&!Z4#&Da^gJ[& UU&
L2F()&DJ_& 8)%G%(3&,%&:$1&32"6:,)4-&X=2(#R&3)+&^,)+&.)0)*FR&Da^gJ[& U]&
L2F()&DJDC& 8)%G%(3&,%&:$1&32"6:,)4-&X=2(#FR&3)+&Bg,)+&A)++)4&Da^aJ[& U]&
L2F()&DJDD& =7+%+7*%"1&,)4*1&4)(2,$+6&,%&XG%P)4&2+3&1O$((&$+&&
G)4/%4*$+6&*"1$0[&/%4&,:)&9+6($1:&(2+6"26)&&
c;(/+-#(1)*&782/)4#4/&->&+82&S:>-#C&.,%*(/8&&
T(1+(-,)#=-&BCC_dJ& & & & & & Ua&
L2F()&BJD& 53)%(%6$02(&3"2($,$)1&/%4&P%*)+&$+&.4+2#M2U&-#3&&
K2B)#V/&-,&+82&W/2&),C&!"4/2&->&?4/(13&)/&)&9)#+&->&&
?-C2#,&.C41)+(-,-&0J&Daa_J& & & & & ^B;U&
L2F()&BJB& 53)%(%6$02(&3"2($,$)1&/%4&*)+&$+&.4+2#M2U&-#3&&
K2B)#V/&-,&+82&W/2&),C&!"4/2&->&?4/(13&)/&)&9)#+&->&&
?-C2#,&.C41)+(-,-&0J&Daa_J& & & & & ^];\&
L2F()&BJU& E++%,2,$%+1&F7&XAJ&YJ[&$+&W)@J&L:%*21&>$1F%4+)-&&
!,&.,X4(#=&(,+-&+82&T4+(2/&->&+82&A2B)*2&N2:&&
c8%+3%+R&I4$+,)3&/%4&LJ&'23)((&A"+&l&YJ&.2@$)1-&Da_adJ& ^_&
L2F()&UJD& 874$01&,2O)+&/4%*&XL:)&V4$6$+2(&'%2(;F(20O&A%O)J[&&
`4$,J&!"1J-&>J&UDgJ&)J&/%(J&__J& & & & & DBD&
L2F()&UJB& VGJ&D-&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)-[&2+3&VGJ&B&0%*G24)3J& & DU]&
L2F()&UJU& V43)4&%/&,:)&%4$6$+2(&Daa_&Y)(0O)4&G4$+,&%/&VGJ&BJ& & D]C&
L2F()&UJ]& <$1,%4$02(&,$*);($+)&%/&,:)&XV0,2@)&8)11%+b1[&
0"(,"42(&()6207J&&& & & & & & D\C;U&
M&
!
L2F()&]JD& L7G$02(&4)G)4,%$4)&%/&2&/)*2()&O)7F%243$1,R&&
X!$11&V44&Daa^J[& & & & & & Dg];\&
L2F()&]JB& !24$2b1&1"Fe)0,$@$,7&2+3&0%*G($*)+,247&*"1$02(&
& & 6)+4)1&$+&Y%((1,%+)042/,b1&782&Y#-,%/&->&Y-B2,&cDa_^dJ&& D^a&
L2F()&\JD& '()*)+,$b1&3)3$02,))1J& & & & & & BaC;B&
& &
M$&
!

8$1,&%/&N$6"4)1&
&
N$6J&DJD& <)F+2+&cN4)+0:-&)$6:,))+,:&0)+,"47d&2/,)4&`)4,2"M&&
cN4)+0:-&)$6:,))+,:&0)+,"47dJ&L2&'8)#*)+),&!**2B),C&c()/,d&&
2+3&L2&'8)#*)+),&A#),Z-(/-&Daaa&c4$6:,dJ&&
9+642@$+6R&G(2,)&B\J]&M&D_J]0*J& & & & \B&
N$6J&BJD& L$,();G26)&%/&'()*)+,$b1&VGJ&B-&,%6),:)4&P$,:&&
,:)&%P+)41b&+2*)1-&"GG)4&4$6:,;:2+3&0%4+)4J&&
c?+$@)41$,7&%/&'2($/%4+$2&2,&`)4O)()7-&4)G4%3"0)3&&
$+&L)*G)4()7-&)3J-&782&L-,C-,&9(),->-#+2&N18--*-&Q%(J&D-&U_dJ& gB&
N$6J&BJB&& .),2$(&%/&,:)&G2($*G1)1,&%/&%P+)41b&+2*)1&%+&2&&
,$,();G26)&%/&'()*)+,$b1&VGJ&BR&&
X!$11&NJ&=%+prfq-[&X!41R&E32*1-[&X!$11&E32*1J[& & gB&
N$6J&BJU&& L$,();G26)&,%&.4+2#M2U&-#3&K2B)#V/&-,&+82&W/2&),C&&
!"4/2&->&?4/(13&)/&)&9)#+&->&?-C2#,&.C41)+(-,-&&
c8%+3%+R&AJ&.%31()7-&0J&Daa_dJ& & & & & ^C&
N$6J&BJ]&& >42G:&%/&$3)%(%6$02(&3$//)4)+0)1&4)6243$+6&&
O)7F%243&G420,$0$+6h*"1$0&)3"02,$%+&$+&Ug&0%+3"0,&&
F%%O1&2+3&,4)2,$1)1-&Da]D;D^U^J& & & & _\&
N$6J&UJD&& .),2$(&/4%*&I(2,)&U&%/&Y$(($2*&<%624,:b1&&
K)V2[/&9#-%#2//&cDaU\dJ& & & & & & DBC&
N$6J&UJB&& EPOP243-&G2$+/"(&G%1$,$%+&%/&,:)&()/,;:2+3&$+&,:)&&
& & /$+2(&/2,$6"$+6&*)21"4)1&%/&'()*)+,$b1&XL:)&`(20O&A%O)-[&
& & cDaaadJ&& & & & & & & DUD&
N$6J&UJU&& I4)/20)&,%&E*F4%1)&I$,*2+b1&782&\2)4+(2/&->&T-B2,(1-&&
N1)#*)++(&N2*21+2C&>#-B&8(/&N4(+2/&C2&L21-,/R&A-#&+82&;)#M/(18-#C&&
-#&9(),-&A-#+2&),C&K25(/2C&O(+8&)&P)#(2+=&->&QBM#-52B2,+/&&
c8%+3%+R&p/%4&,:)&2",:%4q-&0J&Da^\;Da_DdJ& & & DUa&
N$6J&]JD&& 8%%1)(7&2",%+%*%"1&G24,$0$G2+,1&$+&,:)&)0%+%*$01&&
2+3&0"(,"4)&%/&9+6($1:&3%*)1,$0&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)-&&
G4);Daa_J& & & & & & & Dga&
N$6J&]JB& I4)3%*$+2+,&0:2420,)4$1,$01&%/&,:)&*"1$02(&&
M$$&
!
G4)/)4)+0)1&%/&*2()&2+3&/)*2()&2*2,)"41&&
$+&9+6($1:&3%*)1,$0&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)-&0J&DaaCJ&& & Daa&
N$6J&]JU&& =%+2,21&@1J&()11%+1R&XE3@)4,$1)*)+,[&,%&Y$(($2*&&
A20O1%+b1&N(:&N-,)+)/&>-#&+82&;)#M/(18-#C&)11-BM),(2C&&
O(+8&)&P(-*(,&c%GJ&Bd-&c8%+3%+R&A%:+&A%:+1%+-&Da\adJ& & Da^&
N$6J&]J]& L:)&(2,)&D^,:;0)+,"47&9+6($1:&3%*)1,$0&1%(%$1,&2+3&&
,:%1)&P:%&*$6:,&F)&$+@%(@)3&$+&:)4&*"1$02(&20,$@$,$)1J&& D^C&
N$6J&]J\&& =H"24)&G$2+%&F7&A20%F&`2((-&8%+3%+-&0J&Da_D-&&
c'%(%+$2(&Y$(($2*1F"46&N%"+32,$%+-&Q$46$+$2dJ&& & D_a&
N$6J&]Jg&& E&10:)*2,$0&*2G&%/&,:)&1%0$2(&/$)(3&%/&9+6($1:&&
O)7F%243&0"(,"4)&24%"+3&Daa_-&2/,)4&`%"43$)"-&D_^UJ& & D_^&
N$6J&\JD&& L$,();G26)&,%&,:)&/$41,&G4$+,&%/&,:)&?4/(1)*&'8)#)1+2#(/+(1/3&
& & VGJ&D_-&c8%+3%+R&8%+6*2+&l&`4%3)4$G-&Da^adJ& & BBg&
N$6J&\JB&& L$,();G26)&,%&,:)&/$41,&8%+3%+&)3$,$%+&%/&VGJ&DD-&
& & c8%+3%+R&T)4G)+-&Da^]dJ& & & & & BU]&
N$6J&\JU&& LP%&1)(/;G%4,42$,1&%/&A)2+;`2G,$1,);=$*i%+&':243$+J& & BUg&
N$6J&\J]&& L$,();G26)&,%&,:)&Da_B&/$+6)4)3&)3$,$%+&%/&VGJ&DD-&
& & c8%+3%+R&A%:+&.2()-&Da_BdJ& & & & & BgU&
N$6J&\J\&& =%0$2(&26)+,1&$+&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)&2+3&,:)$4&&
4)(2,$%+1:$G&P$,:&3$//$0"(,&*"1$0J& & & & Bg\&
N$6J&\Jg&& I%1,;Daa_&G420,$0)&8)"(+4/&/%4&/)*2()&G)4/%4*)41J& & Bgg&
N$6J&\Ja&& '()*)+,$b1&*2()&2+3&/)*2()&3)3$02,))1-&
& & cBDs&*2()-&a_s&/)*2()dJ& & & & & BaU&
N$6J&\J^&& 9M0)4G,&/4%*&'()*)+,$b1&!MM2,C(:&+-&+82&A(>+8&->&.C(+(-,&
& & ->&'*2B2,+([/&!#+&->&9*)=(,%&-,&+82&9(),-&A-#+2-&c8%+3%+R&
& & '()*)+,$-&`2+6)4-&'%((243-&.2@$1&l&'%((243R&D^DDd-&BJ& & B^]&
N$6J&\J_&& L$,();G26)&,%&'()*)+,$b1&A2/+(,)&L2,+2-&
& & c`2(,$*%4)R&A%:+&'%()&l&=%+J-&D^U;fdJ& & & & B^g&
&
&
&
M$$$&
!

EF1,420,&
&
L:$1&3$11)4,2,$%+&,2O)1&21&$,1&:$1,%4$02(&G%$+,&%/&3)G24,"4)&,:)&423$02(&2GG)242+0)&$+&
G4$+,&$+&Daaa&2+3&Daa_&%/&,)0:+$02((7&3$//$0"(,&O)7F%243&*"1$0-&0%*G%1)3&F7&!"#$%&
'()*)+,$J&L:)&3$//$0"(,&G21126)1&0%+,2$+)3&P$,:$+&,:)1)&P%4O1&24)&"+$H")&2*%+61,&
O)7F%243&*"1$0&G"F($1:)3&/%4&2&*24O),&,:2,&P21&"+3)41,%%3&2,&,:)&,$*)&,%&0%+1$1,&
2(*%1,&)+,$4)(7&%/&/)*2()&2*2,)"4&O)7F%243$1,1J&'()*)+,$b1&*"1$0&2//%431&/)*2()&
G$2+$1,1&2&+)P&O$+3&%/&*"1$02(&)MG4)11$%+J&L:$1&3$11)4,2,$%+&*2G1&,:)&$3)%(%6$02(&
0:2+6)1&$+&9+6($1:&2+3&9"4%G)2+&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)&/4%*&Daa_&,%&'()*)+,$b1&3)2,:&$+&
D^UB&2+3&211)4,1&,:2,&'()*)+,$b1&P%4O1&2+3&)+,4)G4)+)"4$2(&024))4&*24O&:$*&21&/24&
*%4)&%/&2+&$+/(")+,$2(&1,42,)6$1,&%G)42,$+6&P$,:$+&,:)&G242*),)41&%/&)24(7&02G$,2($1*&
,:2+&:21&F))+&G4)@$%"1(7&,:%"6:,J&E,,)*G,$+6&,%&"+3)41,2+3&,:)&1%0$2(-&*"1$02(-&2+3&
6)+3)4)3&$*G($02,$%+1&%/&,)0:+$02((7&3$//$0"(,&*"1$0&:)(G1&"+3)4($+)&$*G%4,2+,&
0:2+6)1&$+&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)&,:2,&02+&F)&1))+&,%&:2@)&:23&1$6+$/$02+,&0%+1)H")+0)1&
204%11&,:)&0"(,"42(&(2+3102G)&%/&,:)&Y)1,)4+&P%4(3J&
&
EF4i6i&
&
'),,)&,:j1)&)M2*$+)&()1&0%+1iH")+0)1&3)&(b$*G4)11$%+-&)+,4)&Daaa&),&Daa_-&3)&
G24,$,$%+1&3bt"@4)1&G%"4&$+1,4"*)+,1&u&0(2@$)4&3)&!"#$%&'(i*)+,$-&t"@4)1&3%+,&
(b)Mi0",$%+&G4i1)+,)&"+&3)64i&3)&3$//$0"(,i&i()@iJ&8)1&)M$6)+0)1&,)0:+$H")1&$*G%1i)1&
G24&0)4,2$+1&G21126)1&3)&0)1&t"@4)1&+b%+,&2"0"+&iH"$@2()+,&32+1&()&4iG)4,%$4)&G%"4&
0(2@$)4&3)&0),,)&iG%H")-&4iG)4,%$4)&3%+,&()&G"F($0&0$F()&i,2$,&G4$+0$G2()*)+,&0%+1,$,"i&
3)&G$2+$1,)1&2*2,4$0)1&u&H"$&(2&*"1$H")&3)&'()*)+,$&%//4$,&3)1&G%11$F$($,i1&
3b)MG4)11$%+&)+,$j4)*)+,&+%"@)(()1J&'),,)&,:j1)&4),420)&()1&0:2+6)*)+,1&$3i%(%6$H")1&
H"$&1"4@$+4)+,&2"&1)$+&3)&(2&0"(,"4)&2+6(2$1)&),&)"4%Gi)++)&3)&(2&*"1$H")&G%"4&0(2@$)4&
)+,4)&Daa_&),&(2&*%4,&3)&'()*)+,$&)+&D^UBJ&8)1&t"@4)1&),&()1&H"2($,i1&
3b)+,4)G4)+)"4$2,&3)&0)&3)4+$)4&4i@j()+,&H"b$(&/",-&F$)+&32@2+,26)&H"b%+&+)&()&04%$,-&"+&
1,42,j6)&$+/(")+,&272+,&*2+t"@4i&2@)0&1"00j1&u&(b$+,i4$)"4&3)1&G242*j,4)1&3"&
02G$,2($1*)&G4$*$,$/J&8bi,"3)&3)1&4iG)40"11$%+1&3)1&3$//$0"(,i1&,)0:+$H")1&1"4&()1&G(2+1&
1%0$2(-&*"1$02(&),&($i&2"&6)+4)&*),&)+&("*$j4)&3)1&0:2+6)*)+,1&*2e)"41&32+1&(2&
M$@&
!
0"(,"4)&3)&(2&*"1$H")&G%"4&$+1,4"*)+,1&u&0(2@$)4-&0:2+6)*)+,1&H"$&)"4)+,&"+&$*G20,&
1$6+$/$02,$/&1"4&()&G27126)&0"(,"4)(&3"&*%+3)&%00$3)+,2(J&
&
E0O+%P()36*)+,1&
&
L:)&4)1)240:&/%4&,:$1&3$11)4,2,$%+-&21&P)((&21&/%4&*"0:&%/&*7&6423"2,)&P%4O-&P21&
*23)&G%11$F()&,:2+O1&,%&,:)&6)+)4%"1&1"GG%4,&%/&,:)&8)+%4)&`"0O()&=0:%(241:$G&/%4&
!"1$0&cD__g;BCCCd-&,:)&!24,)+&`)H")1,&L42@)(($+6&=0:%(241:$G&cBCCUd-&,:)&9()2+%4&
=%G:$2&Y%%3&I%1,6423"2,)&W)1)240:&L42@)(($+6&=0:%(241:$G&cBCCU;BCC]d-&,:)&
`%"(,%+&I%1,6423"2,)&=0:%(241:$G&cBCCU;BCC]d-&,:)&AJ&YJ&!0'%++)((&!)*%4$2(&
N)((%P1:$G&cBCCa;BCC_d-&=,)G:)+&v2,)1-&T)+&2+3&9($#2F),:&S$)(1)+-&2+3&,:)&
6)+)4%1$,7&%/&*7&/2*$(7J&
&
911)+,$2(&4)1)240:&$+,%&'()*)+,$b1&*2+"104$G,1&2+3&%,:)4&)$6:,))+,:;0)+,"47&G4$+,1&2,&
,:)&8$F4247&%/&'%+64)11&$+&Y21:$+6,%+&.'&P21&211$1,)3&F7&2&!0>$((&>423"2,)&
W)1)240:&9+:2+0)*)+,&2+3&L42@)(&EP243J&5+@)1,$62,$+6&,:)&"+$H")&0:2420,)4$1,$01&%/&
9+6($1:&O)7F%243&$+1,4"*)+,1&P21&2&,21O&"+3)4,2O)+&P$,:&,:)&1"GG%4,&%/&,:)&
Y)1,/$)(3&')+,)4J&5&P%"(3&($O)&,%&,:2+O&E++),,)&W$0:2431&2+3&I2"(&L)6)(1&/%4&,:)$4&
:)(G&$+&%462+$#$+6&2+3&G4%*%,$+6&*7&S%4,:&E*)4$02+&,%"4&21&Y)1,/$)(3&'%+0)4,&
=0:%(24&/%4&BCC_;BCDCJ&E((&%/&*7&:%1,1&P)4)&6420$%"1&2+3&6)+)4%"1&P$,:&,:)$4&,$*)&
2+3&:%1G$,2($,7J&5+&,:$1&4)6243-&5&P24*(7&,:2+O&A2*)1&Y)2@)4&c=*$,:1%+$2+&
5+1,$,",$%+d-&I)++7&'42P/%43&c?+$@)41$,7&%/&!$0:$62+d-&A%:+&T%1,)4&cS2,$%+2(&!"1$0&
!"1)"*-&?+$@)41$,7&%/&=%",:&.2O%,2d-&2+3&A%:+&Y2,1%+&c'%(%+$2(&Y$(($2*1F"46&
N%"+32,$%+dJ&
&
N%4&*)&,:)&0)+,4)&%/&*7&6423"2,)&($/)&2,&!0>$((&:21&F))+&,:)&!24,$+&."0:%P&!"1$0&
8$F4247J&9@)47&1,2//&*)*F)4&,:)4)&:21&F))+&1"G4)*)(7&1"GG%4,$@)&2+3&:)(G/"(&2+3&5&
%//)4&*7&:)24,/)(,&642,$,"3)&,%&'7+,:$2&8)$@)-&'2,:7&!24,$+-&`4$2+&!0!$((2+-&.2@$3&
'"4,$1-&E+34)P&=)+$%4-&!)(2+$)&I4)"11-&>2$(&v%"1,)4-&>2F4$)(()&T)4+-&2+3&I2,4$0O&
."G"$1J&
&
M@&
!
E,&,:)&=0:"($0:&=0:%%(&%/&!"1$0-&5&:2@)&F)+)/$,,)3&)+%4*%"1(7&/4%*&,:)&23@$0)&2+3&
6"$32+0)&%/&I4%/J&Y$(($2*&'2G($+-&P:%*&5&,:2+O&/%4&:$1&1"GG%4,&2+3&)+0%"426)*)+,J&
I4%/J&=,)@)+&<")F+)4&2+3&I4%/J&9()2+%4&=,"F()7&:2@)&2(1%&0%+,4$F",)3&$+&1$6+$/$02+,&
P271&,%P2431&1,$*"(2,$+6&*)&,%&,:$+O&3$//)4)+,(7&2F%",&*"1$0b1&G(20)&$+&1%0$),7J&`%,:&
I4%/J&.2@$3&`420O),,&2+3&I4%/J&<")F+)4&$+,4%3"0)3&*)&,%&04$,$02(&,:)%47&$+&
$*G%4,2+,&6423"2,)&1)*$+241&2+3&5&2*&G24,$0"(24(7&642,)/"(&,%&I4%/J&`420O),,-&P:%&21&
1)0%+3&4)23)4&%//)4)3&0%6)+,&1"66)1,$%+1&/%4&0(24$,7J&5&P%"(3&2(1%&($O)&,%&,:2+O&I4%/J&
I),)4&=2F%4&2+3&I4%/J&.2@$3&<)+1()7&2,&,:)&.)G24,*)+,&%/&9+6($1:&/%4&,:)$4&
$+1G$42,$%+J&
&
L:)&02*2423)4$)&5&:2@)&1:24)3&P$,:&*7&/4$)+31&$+&!%+,4)2(&2+3&2,&!0>$((&?+$@)41$,7&
:2@)&1"1,2$+)3&*)&,:4%"6:&6%%3&,$*)1&2+3&F23&2($O)J&!7&,:2+O1&,%&!$0:2)(&9,:)+-&
T$*F)4(7&Y:$,)-&'%(),,)&=$*%+%,-&E+34)P&.)4"0:$)-&A"($)&I)3+2"(,&.)1(2"4$)41&
c)1G)0$2((7&/%4&:)4&:)(G&P$,:&N4)+0:&,42+1(2,$%+1d-&':4$1,%G:)4&!%%4)-&E()M$1&8"O%-&
94$0&=*$2()O-&!$*$&<233%+-&')324&Y$+62,)-&W)*$&':$"-&.2+2&>%4#)(2+7;!%1,2O-&
S2,:2+&!24,$+-&=242:&>",10:);!$(()4-&A%432+&<%P$)-&2+3&E()O1&=0:o4*)4J&
&
!2,,:)P&I4%@%1,&:21&F))+&$+&G24,$0"(24&2&1,2(P24,&1"GG%4,&2+3&)M,4)*)(7&:)(G/"(&P$,:&
,42+1(2,$%+1J&<$1&G%1$,$@)&1G$4$,&2+3&(%@)&%/&(2"6:,)4&:2@)&%/,)+&4)2+$*2,)3&*)&P:)+&
*7&)+)467&()@)(1&P)4)&(%P&2+3&,:$+61&(%%O)3&324O)1,J&&
&
L:)&P%+3)4/"(&0%+@)412,$%+1&5&:2@)&:23&$+&G24,$0"(24&P$,:&*7&6%%3&/4$)+31&82"42&
.7*%0O&2+3&I),)4&Y2(3O$40:&:2@)&()3&$+&*2+7&4)1G)0,1&,%&,:)&1%0$2(&2+3&:$1,%4$02(&
1(2+,&,:2,&,:$1&3$11)4,2,$%+&)+3)3&"G&,2O$+6J&I),)4&()3&*)&,%&4),:$+O&2+3&F),,)4&)MG(%4)&
,:)&"1)1&2+3&2F"1)1&%/&04$,$02(&,:)%47&c2+3&2(1%&6%,&*)&233$0,)3&,%&I:$($G&TJ&.$0OdJ&
82"42&:21&F))+&%/&$+@2("2F()&:)(G&$+&:)(G$+6&*)&/%4*"(2,)&1%*)&%/&*7&/"+32*)+,2(&
$3)21&4)(2,$+6&,%&9+6($1:&O)7F%243&0"(,"4)&2+3&:2GG$(7&(%%O)3&%@)4&/$+2(&342/,1&2+3&
4)@$1$%+1J&
&
N42+w%$1&<"3%+&:21&F))+&%/&$+02(0"(2F()&1"GG%4,&F%,:&21&2&0%*G2+$%+-&/4$)+3-&
,42+1(2,%4-&2+3&04$,$0J&<)&P21&,:)&%+)&P:%&4)2((7&$+,4%3"0)3&*)&,%&N4)+0:&,:$+O)41&
($O)&`%"43$)"&2+3&`2"34$((243&2+3&:21&2(1%&1:24)3&*7&G211$%+&/%4&F),,)4&
!"#$
!
%&'()*+,&'#&-$.,*/#0&1$*02#(+31$2%4+%),4$5)0'%2+#0&1$,&'$!"#$%&!"'(6,70&-*+$0+/()$
+/#&-*6#&$+/($(#-/+((&+/$2(&+%)38$
$
9+(5/(&$:,+(*$;,*$+/($5()*0&$;/0$.#)*+$#&+)0'%2('$7($+0$(#-/+((&+/<2(&+%)3$2%4+%)(8$
=$/,"($>(&(.#++('$-)(,+43$.)07$/#*$-(&()0*#+31$/0*5#+,4#+31$.)#(&'*/#51$,&'$?&0;4('-(8$
@%2/$0.$+/($-)(,+$40"($=$/,"($.0)$A&4#-/+(&7(&+$2%4+%)($/,*$207($'#)(2+43$.)07$0%)$
20&"()*,+#0&*8$
$
B07$C(-/#&$/,*$>((&$+/($-)(,+(*+$*%5()"#*0)$0&($20%4'$/05($.0)8$D#*$,55)0,2/(*$+0$
7%*#2040-31$+0$5().0)7,&2(1$,&'$+0$/#*+0)3$/,"($>((&$0.$5)0.0%&'$#&.4%(&2($+0$7(8$
@,&3$0.$+/($#'(,*$#&$+/#*$'#**()+,+#0&$2,7($.)07$73$5,)+#2#5,+#0&$#&$/#*$)'*+,!$-
.!/0"$5)0E(2+8$D($/,*$>((&$,$;0&'().%4$+(,2/()$,&'$,$-)(,+$#&*5#),+#0&$+0$7($,&'$=$
+/,&?$/#7$.0)$/#*$,'"02,23$+/)0%-/0%+$73$+#7($,+$@2F#44$G&#"()*#+38$
$
=$;0%4'$,4*0$4#?($+0$-),+(.%443$,2?&0;4('-($H(&$,&'$I#J$K#(4*(&L*$20&*+,&+$*%550)+$
0.$73$2,)(()$*#&2($=$.#)*+$,))#"('$#&$93'&(38$@,&3$+/#&-*$;0%4'$*#7543$&0+$/,"($>((&$
50**#>4($;#+/0%+$+/(#)$/(458$B/(#)$*%550)+$,&'$5,+)0&,-($0.$+/($,)+*$/,*$#&*5#)('$7($
+0$(&20%),-($,44$;/0$2,&$+0$.0440;$#&$+/(#)$.00+*+(5*8$
$
@3$;0&'().%4$.,7#436@%71$M,'1$N0J1$O,%41$D(#'#1$,&'$92,)4(+6/,"($*%550)+('$
7($#&$#&2,42%4,>4($,&'$73)#,'$;,3*$,&'$#+$#*$+0$+/(7$+/,+$=$40"#&-43$'('#2,+($+/#*$
'#**()+,+#0&8$
$
!"
!

#$%&'()*%+'$"
!
"#$!%&&'()('*+,!*-!.'&(/*,'(0!!
"
,-./+%-".-$.+%+0-"1$(".23/1%4-%+*"1//&'1*4-."+$"&-*-$%".%)(+-."52"6'41$"7%-81&%9
:1*,'$1;("1$("<$.-;3"=-&41&(>"%4-".%'&+-."8-"*'$%+$)-"%'"%-;;"15')%"?;-3-$%+"1&-"
'@%-$"'$-."'@"%-;-';'A+*1;"-0';)%+'$>"+$"%4-"*'$%-B%"'@"84+*4"4+."8'&C."1&-"*'$.+(-&-("
%&1$.+%+'$1;"1$("+3/-&@-*%D"E+."@'&31;"/&'*-()&-."1&-"F/&'%'96'31$%+*G"1$("%4)."1&-"
)$(-&.%''("%'"410-"%4-+&"/'%-$%+1;"&-1;+H-("'$;2";1%-&>"52"/-&.'$1;+%+-.".)*4"1."
I--%4'0-$D !"J4-.-"$1&&1%+0-."1;.'"%-$("%'"31&A+$1;+H-"?;-3-$%+K."/-&@'&3-("1$("
*'3/'.-("0+&%)'.+%2"1$("-B1AA-&1%-"%4'.-"F31%)&-G"*'3/'.+%+'$1;"-;-3-$%."%41%"
3'.%"&-.-35;-"%'")."%4-"8'&C."'@"*'3/'.-&."'@"%4-".'9*1;;-("F4+A49L+-$$-.-"
?;1..+*1;".%2;->G".)*4"1."I--%4'0-$>":'H1&%"'&"E12($D M""
"
J4).>"%4-"!"#$%#&$'()*+,$-./0*+1$*)$23/.4"(-.*&+5-."?;-3-$%+K."N/D"M".'$1%1."1."
$
@);;"'@"5&+;;+1$%"/1..1A-."+$"%4+&(."1$("'*%10-.>"5)%"%4-"%4-31%+*"+$0-$%+'$"+."
)$(+.%+$A)+.4-("1$("%4-"A-$-&1;"31$$-&"A&1$(+'.-"1$(".-;@91..)&-("5)%"8+%4";+%%;-"
+$(+0+()1;+%2"'&"+31A+$1%+'$D"
"
J4+."1..-..3-$%"'@"'/)."M>"+$(--("1";1$(31&C"+$"?;-3-$%+K."*1&--&>".-%."%4-"%'$-"@'&"
(-.*&+5+$A"4+."*'3/;-%-"'-)0&-O"
"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!"FJ4+.".'$1%1>"84+*4"?;-3-$%+"*'3/'.-("+$"!PQR"1%"15')%"%4-".13-"%+3-"I--%4'0-$"8&'%-"4+."

@+&.%"%4&--".'$1%1."SN/D"M>"T'.D"!9UV>"-B4+5+%.".'3-"'@"%4-"/&-96'31$%+*"W)1;+%+-."-0+(-$%"+$"
I--%4'0-$K."8'&C."'@"1".;+A4%;2";1%-&"/-&+'(DG"?;1)(-"LD"X1;+.*1>"-(D>"%*+0*5$650"*7*81$*)$9#/0#+5$
23/.4>"Y%4"-(D"ST-8"Z'&CO"[D"[D"T'&%'$"\"?'>"M]]!V>"MUYD"F^&'3"%4-".%1&%>"1$("-0-$"1%"4+."3'.%"
(+.*)&.+0->"I--%4'0-$"41("1"*'33+%3-$%"%'"%4-"%'%1;".%&)*%)&-"%41%"31C-."?;-3-$%+".--3"0-&2"
;1BDG"_'.-/4"`-&31$"1$("<;1$"J2.'$>"!"#$%#&$:+*;#$<##0"*;#5"Sa'$('$O"X1/-&31*>"!QbUV>"QPD"
M"6'41$"ED"7%-81&%9:1*,'$1;(>"%#&$=#+/>#40.;#/$*5$0"#$?#1@*A+,$B*5A0A/$*)$23C.*$D7#E#50."SI';'A$1O"

c%"N&/4-)."d(+H+'$+>"M]]eV"1$("FJ'81&(."1"T-8"N$%';'A2"'@":).+*1;"?;1..+*+.3O"
7-$.1%+'$1;+.3>"<&*41+.3"1$("^'&31;"=&1331&"+$"%4-":).+*"'@"?;-3-$%+>"E)33-;"1$(",)..-C"
f"1$("X1&1;;-;."8+%4"E12($>"I--%4'0-$"1$("7*4)5-&%G"SX4,"(+..D>"?135&+(A-"c$+0-&.+%2>"M]]!Vg"
<$.-;3"=-&41&(>"F*5,*5$35,$,#+$?7A//.C./E3/$.5$,#+$23/.GH$I.#$J,##$,#+$KA@/*730#5L$23/.G$35,$23C.*$
D7#E#50./$?7A;.#+&#+G"S7%)%%A1&%")$("[-+3-&O":-%H;-&>"M]]MVD"?&+%+W)-.".)&&')$(+$A"%4-"%-&3"F4+A49
L+-$$-.-"?;1..+*1;".%2;-G"8-&-"@+&.%"&1+.-("+$"_13-."[-5.%-&>"-A1,5M/$KNA+#&#77L$B1E>"*51$A5,$0"#$
J,#A$*)$D7A//.4A7$B017#H$!"+*38"$D*E>*/.0.*5$A5,$D147.4$J50#8+A0.*5$*)$"./$J5/0+3E#50A7$23/.4"S?135&+(A-O"
?135&+(A-"c$+0-&.+%2"X&-..>"!QQUV>"UYP9RPD"[-5.%-&K.";1%-.%"%4')A4%."'$"%4-"31%%-&"1&-"')%;+$-("
+$"FJ4-"d+A4%--$%4"?-$%)&2"1."1":).+*9E+.%'&+*1;"X-&+'(hG"O.8"0##50"PD#503+1$23/.4"!i!"SM]]YVO"
YP9e]D"
!"
!
#$%"&'()(*%+",-."*/%"-',-0."-1'("%/"2(.+.%"%3("%()4%-%+/*."/5"6+2%$/.+%07"-*8",3(*"
%3+."3-44(*."%3("2(.$'%."-2("8+55$.("-*8".%2-99'+*97"%3("%3()(."1(+*9"+*%(2.4(2.(8"
,+%3"4-..-9(."/5"4-88+*9:";/2"+*.%-*<("%3("=/*-%-"+*"&7">4:"?!7"*/:?7"4$1'+.3(8"-."
'-%("-."@ABC7"8/(."*/%"8+55(2"92(-%'0"+*"(..(*%+-'"D$-'+%+(."52/)"%3/.("/5">4:"!:"E3("
5+2.%")/6()(*%"</*%-+*."-*"/%+/.("<-8(*F-"-*8"%3(",3/'(",/2G7"%3/$93"12/-8'0"
4'-**(87"+."3/''/,"+*".%0'(7"-*8"+%"+."3-28"%/"1('+(6("%3-%"+%7"-*8"/%3(2",/2G."/5"%3("
.-)("G+*87",(2(",2+%%(*"10"%3("</)4/.(2"/5".$<3")$.+<"-.">4:"@?7"*/:"H"I+*";"
)+*/2J:"?"
"
E3("K%()4%-%+/*."/5"6+2%$/.+%0:L"M*"/88",/28"<3/+<("5/2"-"%(N%$2("$*8(2.%//8"10"
)-*0"-."8+55+<$'%"-*8"<3-''(*9+*9:"O+2%$/.+%0"+."<2+%+D$(8"3(2("-."K4-88+*9L"-*8"
K/%+/.(7L"-."-*"(-.0"-*8"%()4%+*9",-0"/$%"/5"-")/2("./43+.%+<-%(8"-*8"8(.+2-1'("
</)4/.+%+/*-'")(%3/8:"P/Q/*(",2+%(."+*"%3+.".%0'("*/,-8-0.7"-*8"'(-.%"/5"-''"R+<3-28"
E-2$.G+*7",3/.("!"#$%&'()*+$%,'$#'-.*+.%/'01*)2".$44'-*%."%3("/'8(2"3.4'!"#$%&'
()*+$%,: C"#$%"(6(*",+%3"P(,"S$.+</'/90T."-<<(*%"/*"<$'%$2-'"</*%(N%7",(".(()"
2('$<%-*%"%/"2(</*<+'("%(N%$-'".+%$-%+/*."%3-%",("8(.<2+1("-."1(+*9"%3,-2%(8"/2"
8(5/2)(8"10"8+55+<$'%"4-..-9(,/2G",+%3"%3("92(-%U+*8((8")-..U-44(-'"%3-%"
&'()(*%+T.">4:"!"(*9(*8(2(8"+*"-"G(01/-28"<$'%$2("%3-%",-.".$88(*'0")-8("-,-2("/5"
,3-%"K-*"/28+*-20")/2%-'"</$'8"-<3+(6("10"3-28",/2G:L V"W(23-4."3(2(",("9(%"-"'+%%'("
<'/.(2"%/"8(</*.%2$<%+*9"%3("+8(-"1(3+*8"%3("3.4'!"#$%&'()*+$%,5*"K%()4%-%+/*."/5"
6+2%$/.+%07L"-."+%"5/<$.(."$."/*"%3("4(25/2)(2"3-28"-%",/2G"-%"%3("G(01/-287"2(-4+*9"
%3("4'(-.$2-1'("1(*(5+%."/5"2(4(-%(8"1(3-6+/$2"4-%%(2*.:""
"
X*"%3("'-%%(2"4-2%"/5"3+."<-2((27"&'()(*%+"4-2-8/N+<-''0"8/,*4'-0(8U%32/$93"
</*6(2.-%+/*"-*8"+*%(26+(,U(-2'+(2"4(25/2)(8"K5(-%."/5"%(<3*+<-'"42/5+<+(*<07L"(6(*"
,3+'.%7"-."-*"(8+%/27"$48-%+*9"3+."/'8(2",/2G."+*")/2("6+2%$/.+<"9$+.(.: H"E3("-')/.%"
</)4$'.+6(".%2(-)"/5")/8(2*+F+*9"2(6+.+/*.7"3+."8+8-<%+<"+*%(*%+/*.7"-*8"3+."
.0)43/*+<"-)1+%+/*.")+93%"1("$*8(2.%//8"%/"/4(2-%(",+%3+*"-"*(,"2(9$'-%/20"
-(.%3(%+<"/5"%3("K,/2GQ</*<(4%7L"-."/$%'+*(8"+*"<2+%+<-'"%3(/20"10"&-2'"`-3'3-$.7"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
?"W3+'+4"R-8<'+55(7"KW+-*/"S$.+<L"+*"67.'89.'$#':..+7$;./'<=>?@<AB?7"(8:"Y(2-'8"M12-3-)"Z[/*8/*\"

>N5/28"]*+6(2.+%0"W2(..7"@B^!_7"?!VQH7"?!^:"
C"&'()(*%+"+.")(*%+/*(8"10"E-2$.G+*"%32(("%+)(.a"/*<("(-<3"+*"%3("</*%(N%"/5"b/3*";+('87"&3/4+*7"

-*8"E3("#(-%'(.:"R+<3-28"E-2$.G+*7"67.'!"#$%&'()*+$%,'$#'-.*+.%/'01*)2'ZP(,"c/2G\">N5/28"
]*+6(2.+%0"W2(..7"!ddV_7"?\A?QAC7"?V@"-*8"V\?!H:"
V"b-)(."W-2-G+'-."-*8"Y2(%<3(*"M:"e3(('/<G7"K@AAd."%/"@^!d.\"E3("W+-*/"R(6/'$%+/*"+*"%3("M9("

/5"R(6/'$%+/*.L"+*"b-)(."W-2-G+'-."(8:7"C)D/$'E$F.*'ZP(,"f-6(*\"c-'("]*+6(2.+%0"W2(..7"@BBB_7"AAQ
@?!7"^d:"
H"E3("D$/%("+."52/)"#(29(2T."-<</$*%"/5"@^dH:"=(("[(/*"W'-*%+*9-7"GF.H./+)I'()*'J)#.'D/&'01*)2"

Z[/*8/*\">N5/28"]*+6(2.+%0"W2(..7"@BAA_7"HV:"
!"
!
#$%&'("#)*($+"$,-"./-)$"0*'1(2 3"45"4,5'%6"0'(1$(-"1$5"$(78'-"5*"9*(:'98%%/"),"
;<<;+"=*&1">,7%)51":8%&8('"$,-"?%'6',&)"1)65'%9"@'('"9$("6*('"),:8%:$&'-"@)&1"&1'"
-)55'6),$&)*,"*9"@*(AB:*,:'C&"C1',*6',$"&1$,"1$5"='',"C('D)*85%/"&1*871&2"
"
E1)5"-($6$&):"$,-"$CC$(',&%/"),:*,5)5&',&"51)9&"),"?%'6',&)F5":$(''("),"&1'"%$&'"
')71&'',&1":',&8(/"'6=*-)'5"),"5'D'($%"('5C':&5"&1'":',&($%":*('"&','&5"*9"'6'(7',&"
@*(AB:*,:'C&"='%)'952"G*D),7"9(*6"$:&)D'":*,:'(&)H),7"$,-"$::%$)6'-")6C(*D)5),7"),"
&1'"I33<5"$,-"I3J<5+"?%'6',&)"),"&1'"I3K<5"&8(,'-"1)5"&$%',&5"),5&'$-"&*"C'-$7*7/+"
:*6C*5)&)*,+"$,-"C)$,*"&':1,*%*7/+"$,-"5*"),"&8(,"$6$55'-"$"187'"9*(&8,'"$,-"
9*(6)-$=%'"('C8&$&)*,2"L,:('$5),7%/+"1)5":*6C*5)&)*,$%"1$=)&5"@'('":1$($:&'()H'-"=/"
&1(''")6C*(&$,&"'%'6',&5"&1$&"./-)$"0*'1("1$5")-',&)9)'-"$5":',&($%"&*"&1'"'6'(7),7"
@*(AB:*,:'C&M"
"
N$O! P'78%$&*(/"@*(A5M"C'-$7*7/"N'272"!"#$%&'#$'(#")#&&%*"QC2"RR+"+,-'
("./"0&&,10'+.)#2,)#&"QC2"!SO+"),5&(8:&)*,"6$,8$%5"N'272"340*0)2,5&'("#62,6#4'
7#"*.)8'#Q"3+"9)2".$%62,.)'2.'2:0';"2'.<'(4#8,)/'2:0'(,#).'=."20"QC2"R;O+"$,-"
:$,*,):":*%%':&)*,5"$,-"$(($,7'6',&5"N'272"+6#"4#22,5&'3:0<&>$5?%1"0'I3KI+"
;@@0)$,-'2.'2:0'9)2".$%62,.)"QC2"R!+"T4"U'%':&)*,"*9"&1'"V*:$%"
?*6C*5)&)*,5"*9"G*H$(&W"IJI!BIJIS"'&:2OX J"
N=O! T?*,:'C&8$%')6C'()$%)56WM"('B@*(A),7"'$(%)'("6$&'()$%"),"'-)&)*,5"
:1$($:&'()5&):$%%/"%$='%%'-"T4"Y'@">-)&)*,Z@)&1":*,5)-'($=%'"
)6C(*D'6',&5Z:*6C*5'-"=/"G8H)*"?%'6',&)2W"0*'1("-'9),'5"
T:*,:'C&8$%")6C'()$%)56W"$5"$"C1',*6',*,"'6'(7),7"$(*8,-"IJ<<"@1',"
T685):)$,5"='7$,"&*"(':*,5&(8:&"685):$%"1)5&*(/"&*"6$A'")&"%**A"$5")9"
685):)$,5"1$-"$%@$/5"&1*871&"$=*8&"&1')("$:&)D)&)'5"),"6*-'(,"&'(65WX"
1'('+"'$(%)'("@*(A5"$('"6$-'"&*"T%**AW"6*-'(,X"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3"?$(%"[$1%1$85+"!"%)$4#/0)'$0"'A%&,B/0&6:,6:20"N\]%,M"G85)AD'(%$7"0'()7+"IK33OX"#$%&'("#)*($+"C#&'

*%&,B#4,&6:0'D%)&2E0"B'NE8&H),7M"^2"U:1,')-'(+"IKJ!O"$,-"T[$5"685)A$%)5:1'"\8,5&@'(A"-'("
Y'8H')&"8,-"-$5"685)A$%)5:1'"\8,5&@'(A"-'("4,&)A'W"),"=0&2&6:",<2'3#"4'C#:4:#%&'F%*'GHI'
!0J%"2&2#/+"'-2"^'(6$,,"[$,85'("'&2"$%2"N.$$='(M".$$='("V'(%$7+"IKJJO+"!BI<2"./-)$"0*'1(+"K:0'
9*#/,)#"8'A%&0%*'.<'A%&,6#4'L."B&M';)'N&&#8',)'2:0'(:,4.&.@:8'.<'A%&,6"NQ_9*(-M"?%$(',-*,"`('55+"
IKK;O+";Ra"$,-"@#&&,*2"
J"L"-)5:855"&1)5"9$:'&"*9"?%'6',&)F5":$(''("),"?1$C&'("a2"
!"
!
#$%! &'(')*$"+)',')'($'",-)"./'"#+012*$%"345+/-(4"-6')"./'"#7-5'3.*$%"3-(8.89"
./-0:/";2'5'(.*<3"'=.'(3*6'"8(7"0(3.*(.*(:"',,-).3"*("./*3"-)$/'3.)82"
:'()'">')'":'(')8224"0(30$$'33,02?"/'"0(7')3.--7"83"50$/"83"@847("8(7"
A''./-6'("./'"+->'),02"*58:'"./8."./'"$-5+-3')B/')-"8."./'"/'87"-,"8("
-)$/'3.)8"'=').'7"-("8"('>24C8..'(.*6'"807*'($'D"
"
A0."'6'("83";2'5'(.*<3"28.'"$8)'')"8(.*$*+8.'7"$02.0)82"8(7"503*$82"8..*.07'3"30$/"83"
./'3'"./8.">'"(-)58224"833-$*8.'">*./"A''./-6'("8(7B-)"E*'((8?"$-(.'5+-)8)*'3"8."
./'".0)("-,"./'"$'(.0)4"7'.'$.'7"3-5'./*(:",8*(.24"303+*$*-03D"F."*3"8("*))*.8.*-("./8."
+')3*3.3"'6'(".-784G./'"*330'"-,"/*3"H.'$/(*$82"+)-,*$*'($4?I"-,"/*3"H6*).0-3*.4DI J"K3"
&-'/)"8(7"-./')3"/86'"+-*(.'7"-0.?"./'"*($)'83*(:24"3.)*$."1*,0)$8.*-("-,"
H*5+)-6*38.*-(I"8(7"H$-5+-3*.*-(I"*("./'"'8)24"(*('.''(./"$'(.0)4"8$$'(.08.'7"
82)'874"+)'3'(."303+*$*-(3"8$$-)7'7".-"./'"7*,,*$02.?",283/4".'=.0)'3"./8.">')'"823-"./'"
/82258)L3"-,"./'"*5+)-6*3')D MN""
"
O-?"/->"5*:/.">'".82L"5-)'"5'8(*(:,0224"81-0."7*,,*$02."L'41-8)7"503*$"-,"./'"
'*:/.''(./C$'(.0)4P"Q-)'"3+'$*,*$8224?"/->"$8(">'")'$-($*2'"7''+"8(7"2-(:C/'27"
303+*$*-(3"81-0."6*).0-3*$"+)->'33">*./"8("*($)'83*(:24"H)'$82*1)8.'7I"8(7"'.*$"
8$$-0(."-,"'*:/.''(./C$'(.0)4"$02.0)'"8(7"/*3.-)4P MM"R'"8)'">*22*(:".-".82L"5-)'"8(7"
5-)'"81-0."./'"'*:/.''(./C$'(.0)4"-("*.3"->(".')53?"4'."3-5'"-,"03"$-(.*(0'".-"1'"
)'+'22'7"14">/8."RD"S'8("O0.$2*,,'"/83"$822'7"./'"H0:24",8$'"-,"6*).0-3*.4DI MT"W8)."-,"8"
>84",-)>8)7"5*:/."$-(3*3."*("2'33"-,"8"343.'58.*$"8(8243*3"-,"./'"503*$82".'=."8(7"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
J"F"/86'"1-))->'7"./'"$-($'+."-,"*))*.8.*-(",)-5"RD"S'8("O0.$2*,,'D"U("-./')"H*))*.8.*-(3I"*("

'*:/.''(./C$'(.0)4"503*$82"3.42'?"*("+8).*$028)24"./-3'"-,"O$8)28..*?"3''"HF))*.8.*-(3I"*("RD"S'8("
O0.$2*,,'?"!"#$%#&'()*+$,(-).)/$(0$1(2#-34($,4)*5)..3$)-+$637".##-."84#-.9*&$:9/34)5$,.&5#"#;851)*7:'9"
;851)*7:'"V(*6')3*.4"W)'33?"TNNX%?"TMYCTZXD"
MN"&-'/)?";2)73-)*&$:9/#92$(0$:9/34)5$<(*=/>$TXX",,D"O''"823-"[-3'+/"\')58(?"?(-4#*.($?(-@#*/).3(-/"

#;851)*7:'?"Q8338$/03'..39"@8)68)7"V(*6')3*.4"W)'33?"MJJJ%?"ZZ",,D"
MM"F"8:8*("1-))->"H)'$82*1)8.'I",)-5"RD"S'8("O0.$2*,,'<3"$2-3*(:")'58)L3"*("O0.$2*,,'?"!"#$%#&'()*+$

,(-).)/$(0$1(2#-34($,4)*5)..3?"X]ND"F"03'"./'"3-5'>/8."$-(.)-6')3*82">-)7"H'.*$I"/')'"*("*.3"+-+028)"
5'8(*(:"-,"H$02.0)8224"('0.)82DI"^/'"U=,-)7"_(:2*3/"S*$.*-(8)4"7',*('3"*."83"H7'3$)*1*(:"8"
:'(')82*`'7?"(-(3.)0$.0)82"8++)-8$/".-"./'"7'3$)*+.*-("-,"28(:08:'"8(7"1'/86*-)DI"R*./"*.3"+8*)"
H'5*$?I"./'".>-"$-($'+.3">')'",*)3."-0.2*('7"14"2*(:0*3."\'(('./"W*L'"*("MJZYD"H_.*$I"*("!"#$
AB0(*+$6-753/"$134.3(-)*&>$T(7"'7D"MJ]J?"A61$A-53-#>$U=,-)7"V(*6')3*.4"W)'33D"
a/..+9BB7*$.*-(8)4D-'7D$-5B$:*B'(.)4BbNNY]bZMc"
MT"RD"S'8("O0.$2*,,'?"d'6*'>"-,":9C3($?5#2#-.3D$,.9+3#/$)-+$E*(/F#4./"'7*.'7"14"d-1').-"F22*8(-?"e0$8"

O828?"8(7"Q833*5*2*8(-"O828"#A-2-:(89"V."U)+/'03"_7*`*-(*?"TNNT%?":9/34$)-+$G#..#*/"]bBT"#TNN!%9"
TJbCXNN?"TJYD""
!"
!
#$%&"'(")("&*+),,-"%'.$%$+/")00$+(1"$2"13&"4&%2$%#&%"$%",'/1&(&%5/"%&)01'$(")(6"
&(.).&#&(1"7'13"13'/"8'(6"$2"#+/'09 :;"<(")66'1'$(="7&"3)>&"1$"6'/&(1)(.,&"13&"'//+&/"
$2"?,&#&(1'5/"%&0&41'$("3'/1$%-="2$%"13&"2+(6)#&(1),"'//+&/"$2"3'/"4%$7&//")1"13&"
8&-@$)%6")(6"3'/"/+00&//")/")"@+/'(&//#)("3)>&"6$..&6"3'#"'("4)%1'0+,)%,-"0%+&,"
7)-/"&>&%"/'(0&"A&%#)(B/4&)8'(."0$##&(1)1$%/",)@&,,&6"3'#")"CD&03)('0+/=E")"
C?')%,)11)($=E")(6"C/1'(8'(."%'039E :F""
"
<(":GHF=")1"13&"3&'.31"$2"3'/"4$4+,)%'1-")/")"4&%2$%#&%="?,&#&(1'5/"4,)-'(."@%$+.31"
2$%13"&(%)41+%&6")00,)'#9""
"
I3&("-$+"/&&"3'/"/7'21"$01)>&B4)//).&/"2$%"13&"/)#&"3)(6="-$+"0)("@&,'&>&"13&-")%&"
($1"&)/-"1$"4,)-")(6"3&"),7)-/"6$&/"2)%"#$%&"&>&("13)("'/"7%'11&(J$01)>&"1%',,/J
)(6"&>&%-"($1&"/$+(6/"0,&)%,-"6&1)03&6"2%$#"13&"$13&%/9"K&"4,)-/"7'13")("'('#'1)@,&"
&(13+/')/#=")(6"7'13"/+03"0$(1'(+),"/7&,,'(.")(6"%&0&6'(."7'13"+(7%'11&("!"#$%#&'="
()*%#&'"&109"13)1"'1"7$+,6"@&"'#4$//'@,&"1$"&L4%&//"'1"$("4)4&%9 :!"
"
M(-"#+/'0"'#4$//'@,&"1$"&L4%&//"$("4)4&%"'/"$2"0$+%/&")(")()13&#)"1$",)1&%"+"(,$(")""
4%'(0'4,&/="6&6'0)1&6")/"13&"43&($#&($("7)/"1$"#)8'(."13&"C0$#4$/&%5/"6&2&(0&/"
/+%&").)'(/1"13&"'(0+%/'$(/"$2"13&"&L1&#4$%'N&%E"7'13"13&")'6"$2"'(0%&)/'(.,-")00+%)1&"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
:;"O1&7)%1BD)0P$(),6"(&+1%),'N&6"13&"'//+&"/$#&73)1"'("3'/"QRR:"6'//&%1)1'$(="$@/&%>'(."13)1"

C73&("&(>'/).'(."&)%,-"('(&1&&(13B0&(1+%-"8&-@$)%6">'%1+$/'1-="$(&5/"'##&6')1&"13$+.31/"1+%("),,"
1$$"&)/',-"'("13&"6'%&01'$("$2"/1+6'&/")(6"&L&%0'/&/9"M"%&B&L)#'()1'$("$2"?,&#&(1'="K+##&,")(6"
P+//&8="'2"'1"0$(0&(1%)1&6"1$$"3&)>',-"$("13&"'//+&"$2">'%1+$/'1-="'/",')@,&"/'#4,-"1$"4&%4&1+)1&"13&"
0$#4$/&%/5"%&0&'>&6"'#).&/9"S3&"#$/1"$@>'$+/"7)-"$2"%&4,)0'(."/+03"'#).&/"'/"1$"7%'1&")"/1+6-"
$("13&"13%&&"0$#4$/&%/"'("73'03"$13&%"'//+&/"1)8&"13&"4,)0&"$2">'%1+$/'1-")/"/+@T&01/"2$%"
'(>&/1'.)1'$(9E"CS$7)%6/")("U(1$,$.-"$2"D+/'0),"?,)//'0'/#=E"V9"K'/"QRRV"@$$8="3$7&>&%="
1)08,&/"13&"&22&01/"$2"6'22'0+,1"4)//).&/"#$%&"6'%&01,-"'("13&"03)41&%"CWX&YBZ$0)1'(."[)(1)/')\"
P'.%&//'$(/="?)6&(N)/")(6"])%),,&,/"7'13"13&"]'01+%&/*+&=E"'("O1&7)%1BD)0P$(),6="-"./0"(12"3$45"1="
Q^^B;HR9"
:F"S3&"*+$1&/")%&"2%$#"D$N)%1")(6")(")($(-#$+/"T$+%(),'/1"WCP)2_%"'/1"?,&#&(1'"&'("/1&'(%&'03&%"

D)((EY"'("13&"6!!7"8"4#"/8)14,%!4139"/:"4$)#7":^"W:H:GY\":F^229"O&&"I',3&,#"`)+&%")(6"U11$"a%'03"
P&+1/03="&6/9=";'<%($/=(4">"/)#&/6)><"439#)#7"#?/=%#&/@@@A/BCDEFBCDG"Wb)//&,\"`c%&(%&'1&%=":^V;Y="
:^:"Wd)(+)%-":Q":GH:Y")(6"QGQ"Wd+(&"G":GH;Y9"S3&"T$+%(),'/1"'/"*+$1&6"'("]&1&%"e'&6&%#_,,&%="
C?,&#&(1'"+(6"D$N)%1">$%"6&#"X+//'03&("A%$f2_%/1&(="g?,$/&"X&)6'(.5"&'(&%"),1@&8)((1&("
M(&86$1&=E"'(";)<4'/H!"8"#$4A/I$)&4"1/%#&/0('12"3$1="&69"X$@&%1$"<,,')($="Z+0)"O),)=")(6"
D)//'#',')($"O),)"W`$,$.()\"h1"U%43&+/"a6'N'$('="QRRQY=":R^9"
:!"M,,"1%)(/,)1'$(/")%&"#'(&"+(,&//"$13&%7'/&"($1&69"M($(9="Ce)03%'031">$("6&#"?,)>'&%/4'&,&%"

?,&#&(1'9"`&%("'#"U819":GHF=E";%7%<4#/&"(/;)14,"Q"W:GHFY\";V!BG;9"CO'&31"#)("/&'(&".&/037'(6&"
U01)>&(.c(.&"2_%"6'&"(c#,'03&"K)(6="/$"/$,,1&"#)(".,)+@&(="/'&"/&-("('031"(&11"N+"/4'&,&(i"&%"
#)031")@&%"/$".)%"6&%.,&'03&("U01)>&("S%',,&%"'##&%"7&'1"#&3%="),/".&/03%&'@&("/1&3(="+(6"T&6&"
e$1&"'/1")+2/"6&+1,'03/1&">$("6&%")(6&%(")@.&,j/1i"#'1"&'(&%"/$,03"+(()03)3#,'03&("`&.&'/1&%+(.="
'##&%"7)03/&(6"+(6")@(&3#&(6="+(>&%#&%81&#",&(1)(6$="%+@)(6$"k09"6)f"&/"+(#j.,'03"7c%&="
/$,03&/")+2"6&#"])4'&%")+/N+6%+08&(=E";V^9"
!"
!
#$%"&'()*&+*,#+-%".-+)'%&"'/".0&*,#1"$'+#+*'$2 3!"41-.-$+*5&".#$6"7-89'7:*$;&"'/"
-#71*-7"9'7:&<-=*%-$,-"#1&'"'/"*77*+#+*'$>"'7"#+"+)-"1-#&+>"7-&+1-&&$-&&>"%*&&#+*&/#,+*'$>"
'7"#"%-&*7-"+'"*.(7'=-<.#6"*$"/#,+"(#7+#:-"#$%"-=-$"#$+-,-%-"+)-"-#716"$*$-+--$+)8
,-$+0765&"(7-',,0(#+*'$"9*+)"?-++-7"-@(7-&&*$;"+)-"*$+-$+*'$&"'/"+)-",'.('&-7>"+)-"
$-9"*%-#1"&+#+-"/'7"+)-"%-1*=-76"'/"#"A9'7:2B 3C""
"
D/"41-.-$+*5&"7-=*&*'$&"'/")*&"'9$"-#71*-7".#+-7*#1"#7-";''%"-@#.(1-&"'/"E'-)75&"
A,'$,-(+0#1"*.(-7*#1*&.>B"+)-$"+)-"7-,-(+*'$"'/"F'G#7+5&"3CH3"#&&-&&.-$+&"'/"
41-.-$+*>"/*7&+"(0?1*&)-%"?6"I*&&-$"*$"3HJH>",'$&+*+0+-&"#$"-=-$".'7-",'.(-11*$;"
'$-2"D+"*&")#7%"+'"%*&-$+#$;1-"+)-"-&&-$,-"'/"F'G#7+5&"$-;#+*=-"#&&-&&.-$+&"'/"
41-.-$+*5&"(-7/'7.#$,-"&+61-"*$"+)-"3CHK&"/7'."+)-"1#+-7"L'.#$+*,"#-&+)-+*,"'/"
*$$#+-"#$%".-#$*$;/01",'.('&*+*'$#1"%-(+)"*$"(7-/-7-$,-"+'"&)#11'9"'&+-$+#+*'0&"
%*&(1#62 3H"F'G#7+5&"1'$-<#$%"0$+*1"3HJH"0$(0?1*&)-%<='*,-"'/"%*&#((7'=#1"*$"+)-"
3CHK&".*;)+"&+7*:-"0&"$'9"#&"M-#1'0&"#$%"('0+*$;>"?0+"/'7".#$6",'$+-.('7#7*-&"*$"
+)-"3HJK&"#$%"1#+-7"F'G#7+5&"1-++-7&",'$&+*+0+-%"#"$-9"'7#,01#7",#$'$"9)'&-"/'7,-"
#$%"+70+)"&)'01%"$'+"?-"%*&(0+-%"9*+)2"D$"/#,+>"#+"+*.-&"*+"#((-#7&"#&"*/"F'G#7+5&"
('&+)0.'0&"='*,-"7-*$/'7,-&"#$%"#.(1*/*-&"+)-"='*,-"'/"#"6'0$;-7";-$-7#+*'$"*$"+)-"
3HNK&"#$%"OK&>"-#;-7"+'"%*&.*&&"+)-"-@,-&&*=-"/'11*-&"'/"-#71*-7":-6?'#7%*&+&"-=-$"9)*1-"
7-9'7:*$;"+)-."*$+'"#"(#$+)-'$"'/"$'?1-"#$,-&+'7&"+'"#"+70-7>".'7-".'%-7$"#7+"'/"
9)*,)"+)-6"9-7-"+)-".'%-1"%*&,*(1-&2 3P"Q-7-"+)-"7-897*+*$;"'/")*&+'76"*&"#,)*-=-%"?6"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3!"Q2"42"4'11-&>"AR@+-.('7*G#+*'$"'7"D.(7'=*&#+*'$>B"*$"!"#$%5&"&'()'#*+",-#.-/01'(-+*2-/01'('+*1>"

S+)"-%$2>"T'12"J>"PP3>"U0'+-%"*$"E'-)7>"34+5'*+",-/01%04-#.-/01'(+6-7#"81>"JNO2"
3C"V)-"&+7#*$"'/"A7-&+1-&&$-&&B"+)#+"W0+,1*//-"(-7,-*=-&"+)7'0;)'0+"41-.-$+*5&",'.('&*+*'$&"9*11"?-"

%*&,0&&-%".'7-"/0116"*$"4)#(+-7"S2"W0+,1*//->"L-=*-9"'/"9)02'%1-+*2-:"#1;%()1>"NKK2"
3H"X$"+)*&"#-&+)-+*,>"&--"Q'116"Y#+:*$&>"AZ7'."+)-"F*$-"+'"+)-"W)7*$-["+)-"47*+*,#1"X7*;*$&"'/"

F0&*,#1"\-(+)>B"<=)>?@%*)0",-/01'("JC]N"^JKKO_["3CP8JKC"#$%"F#76"Q0$+-7>"A`V'"a1#6"#&"D/"/7'."
+)-"W'01"'/"+)-"4'.('&-75["V)-"D%-#"'/"+)-"a-7/'7.-7"*$"R#716"L'.#$+*,"b-&+)-+*,&>B"A#0"*+6-#.-
)>%-B4%"'(+*-/01'(#6#5'(+6-9#('%),"SH]J"^JKKS_["NSC8NPH2"
3P"Z'7"+)-".'&+"+)7'0;)"+7-#+.-$+"'/"+)-&-"A.0&*,#1"*%-#1*&+&B"&--"\#=*%"E7#.*+>"@06)'$+)'*5-/01'(C-

D>%-B1;'"+)'#*1E-3*)%"%1)1E-+*2-F'4')1-#.-!%"4+*-/01'(+6-@06)0"%E-<GGH?<IJI"^c-7:-1-6["d$*=-7&*+6"'/"
4#1*/'7$*#"a7-&&>"JKKJ_"#$%"F#7:"R=#$&"c'$%&>"AD%-#1*&."#$%"+)-"b-&+)-+*,&"'/"D$&+70.-$+#1"
F0&*,"#+"+)-"V07$"'/"+)-"I*$-+--$+)"4-$+076>B"A#0"*+6-#.-)>%-B4%"'(+*-/01'(#6#5'(+6-9#('%),"SK]J8N"
^3PPC_["NHC8OJK2"X$"F'G#7+5&"7-,-(+*'$"#/+-7")*&"%-#+)"&--"e')$"\#=-7*'>"AF'G#7+"*$"+)-"
$*$-+--$+)",-$+076>B"*$"D>%-@+4K"'25%-@#4;+*'#*-)#-/#L+")>"-%2"W*.'$"a2"f--/-"^4#.?7*%;-["
4#.?7*%;-"d$*=-7&*+6"a7-&&>"JKKN_>"3C383HO"#$%"E-7$'+"E70?-7>"/#L+")-+*2-:#1)%"'),>"+7#$&2"L2"W2"
Z07$-&&"^c'&+'$["I'7+)-#&+-7$"d$*=-7&*+6"a7-&&>"3PPO_2"Z'7"&'.-"-@#.(1-&"'/")'9"-#;-716"
F'G#7+5&"1-++-7&"^/'7;-7*-&"#$%"#11_"9-7-"#((7'(7*#+-%"*$+'"#-&+)-+*,"%*&,'07&-"&--"F#6$#7%"
W'1'.'$>"AX$"c--+)'=-$5&",7-#+*=-"(7',-&&["#"+9'8(#7+"*$=-$+*'$>B"/01'(-+*2-F%))%"1"!3]N8O"
^3PHK_["JCJ8JHN2"
!"
!
#$%&&'($)"*+',(*'"-&'./"0'&%"12*('"2(/1&'(3+,"/4*3(0(3(156"7&$+1+/"12+1"-*'*"*+',(*'"
3&$/#%*8"95"+$"*+)*'"4#9,(3"1&-+'8/"12*"*$8"&0"12*"*()21**$12"3*$1#'5:-&'./"
;#//*."8*/3'(9*8"+/"9*($)"8&$*"<($"12*"7*,,($)"=+5>:+'*"8(/%(//*8"95"12&/*"($"12*"
%(8?$($*1**$12"3*$1#'5"+/"32(,8(/2"9+#9,*/6 @A"
"
B$"CD@E"F#8-()"G*')*'"0*,1"3&%4*,,*8"1&"8*0*$8"2(/"+)($)"1*+32*'"+)+($/1"H(//*$I/"
4#9,(3+1(&$"&0"J&K+'1I/"3'(1(3(/%/"&0"L,*%*$1("($"1-&"/*4+'+1*,5"4#9,(/2*8"+'1(3,*/"($"
M(*$$*/*"N&#'$+,/6"B$"12*/*"($1*'O(*-/"-*")*1"12*"4+,4+9,*"/*$/*"&0"+"/1#8*$1"
+11*%41($)"1&"+11*$#+1*"12*"*+',(*'"*P3*//*/"&0"2(/"1*+32*'6"G*')*'"*$)+)*/"-(12"+,,"12*"
1'+44($)/"&0"<3&$3*41#+,"(%4*'(+,(/%>Q"2*",*)(1(%(K*/"+$8"/2&'*/"#4"L,*%*$1(I/"
'*4#1+1(&$"($"12*"*5*/"&0"3&$1*%4&'+'(*/"-(12"+44*+,/"1&"3#''*$1"12($.($)"+9&#1"
4(+$&"1*32$&,&)5R"*P4'*//(O(15R"12*",*)+1&"/15,*"S<)*9#$8*$*'*/"74(*,>TR"+$8"2(/1&'(3+,"
$&O*,156"
"
=2*$"B"+/.*8"2(%"(0"+1"12+1"1(%*"2*"1'*+1*8"12*"($/1'#%*$1"($"2(/"4'*/*$1"/15,*"S12(/"
-+/"($"12*"5*+'"CDAUTR"2*"+$/-*'*8"($"12*"$*)+1(O*V"+88($)"12+1"($"12+1"*+',(*'"1(%*"2*"
2+8"1+.*$"4+'1(3#,+'"8*,()21"($"9'(,,(+$1"0*+1/"&0"1*32$(3+,"4'&0(3(*$35R"*/4*3(+,,5"($"
12&/*"4+//+)*/"($"8&#9,*"$&1*/"12+1"-*'*"$&1"5*1"3&%%&$"9*0&'*"2(/"1(%*R"+/"-*,,"+/"
($"(%4'&O(/*8"3+8*$K+/6"B1"-+/"&$,5",+1*'"12+1"2*"+8&41*8"+"%&'*"%*,&8(3"+$8"$&9,*"
8*,(O*'5"12'&#)2"+11*$1(O*",(/1*$($)"1&"12*"0+%&#/"/($)*'/"&0"12*"1(%*R"12*$"12'&#)2"
12*")'+8#+,"4*'0*31(&$"&0"($"4+'1(3#,+'"12*"W$),(/2")'+$8"4(+$&0&'1*R"-2&/*"*+',(*'"
#$/+1(/0+31&'5"3&$/1'#31(&$"2+8"4'*O(&#/,5"+,%&/1"1&1+,,5"4'*3,#8*8"+"%&'*"!"#$"%&'(R"
,*)+1&"/15,*"&0"4,+5($)6 @C"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
@A";#//*.I/"3&%%*$1"+44*+'/"($"+"CDAA",*11*'"1&"L,*%*$1(Q"<*1+$1"F*"%*(,,*#'/"&#O'+)*"X#*"NI+("

N+%+(/"0+(1"($"12*"7*,,($)"=+5>"S<9*($)"12*"9*/1"-&'."12+1"BIO*"*O*'"8&$*"&#)$*()+(''&#,)-".>T6";+O(8"
Y&-,+$8R"*86R"/*()0122(341#5(#!()16)789&1)0'(:(#$&)SG&,&)$+Q"Z1"['42*#/"W8(K(&$(R"@ACATR"\D6"B$"
+$&12*'"*P+%4,*"&0"<3&$3*41#+,"(%4*'(+,(/%R>"]+58$I/"-&'./"($"12*"$($*1**$12"3*$1#'5"-*'*"
&01*$"4*'3*(O*8"+/"32(,8(/26"^+%*/"_+''+11R"<]+58$"+$8"`&/1*'(15Q"a2*"F&$)"H($*1**$12"
L*$1#'5R>"($"/*()0":%2&5,()01:4"#&1#)$1);".5#R"*86"L+'5,"L,+'."SL+%9'(8)*Q"L+%9'(8)*"Z$(O*'/(15"
`'*//R"@AA\TR"@@U?bD6"WO*$"L,*%*$1(I/"3&#$1*'4&($1"8(8"$&1"/+O*"2(%"0'&%"%+')($+,(K+1(&$6"
732#%+$$"$&1*8"<9*3+#/*"&0"2(/"3&$1'+4#$1+,R"3&,8"%#/(3R"L,*%*$1("3&#,8"0($8",(11,*"+33*41+$3*"
+%&$)"5&#$)*'"/*$/(9(,(1(*/6>"<(8()=(&$3!*2&6$)6>2)783&?)C"SCDbcTQ"!cR"X#&1*8"($"`,+$1($)+R"0'(:(#$&R"
bAC6"
@C"F#8-()"G*')*'R"<W',d#1*'#$)"*($*/"J&K+'1I/32*$"Z'12*(,/"e9*'"J#K(&"L,*%*$1(R>"0"(!&'&")CA"

SCD@ETQ"@bD?cA"+$8"@'',(:(&#():83&?"'&3!*()=(&$8#,)bC"SCD@ETQ"cU!?E6"<f#0"%*($*"g'+)*R"&9"*'"
8+%+,/"/32&$"($"/*($*%"N*1K()*$"715,*"S*/"-+'"(%"^+2'*"CDAUT"8+/"B$/1'#%*$1"9*2+$8*,1"2d11*R"
O*'$*($1*"*'"8(*//R"2($K#/*1K*$8Q"8+//"*'"($"N*$*'"0'e2*'$"h*(1"/(32"O&'K#)/-*(/*"$&32"($")'&//*'R"
9'(,,('*$8*'"g*'1().*(1"#$8"9*/&$8*'/"($"8*$"O&'"(2%"$(321")*9'd#32,(32")*-*/*$*$";&44*,)'(00?
`+//+)*$"#$8"*P1*%4&'('1*$"f#/0e2'#$)*$")*0+,,*$R"#$8"*'/1"/4d1*'"8*$")*/+$)O&,,*'$R"*8,*'$"
715,"(%"M&'1'+)*"8#'32"+#0%*'./+%*/"]i'*$"8+%+,()*'"9*'e2%1*'"7d$)*'R"8+$$"+#32"8#'32"8(*"
+,,%d2,()*"M*'O&,,.&%%$#$)"9*/&$8*'/"8*'"*$),(/32*$"g,e)*,?g&'1*4(+$&I/R"8*'*$"0'e2*'*"
%+$)*,2+01*"L&$/1'#31(&$"*($")*/+$)O&,,*'*/R")*9#$8*$*'*/"74(*,"0+/1")d$K,(32"+#/)*/32,&//*$R"
/(32"+$)**()$*1"2+9*6>""
!"
!
"
#$%"%&'()*+'%,"%&-./0+/1"*."23(1$4",01)3(4"*$(*"-(&"5%",01-%'&%,"0&"(--.+&*1".2"*$%"
67!81"$(9%"$%'%"-./)3%*%34",01())%('%,:"
"
#$%1%"%('34"/(&02%1*(*0.&1".2"*$%"2(/030('"0''0*(*0.&1"(11.-0(*%,";0*$"%0<$*%%&*$=
-%&*+'4"90'*+.10*4>0&";$0-$",0220-+3*")(11(<%1"('%"/('<0&(30?%,@"%A-3+,%,@".'",%2+1%,"
2'./",01-.+'1%>1..&"1)'%(,"*."*$%"&%;2.+&,"-'0*0-(3"9.-(5+3('4".2"
BC+10D;011%&1-$(2*E"0*1%32:"F&,".2"-.+'1%"*$%1%"(**0*+,%1"-.&*0&+%"*.,(4@"(1"G(&%*"
H%94"I(/.&<1*".*$%'1J";(1"K+0*%"'0<$*"*."'%/0&,"+1"0&"6L!7: MM"C+-$";'0*0&<".&"
N3%/%&*0O1",.+53%"*$0',1@"10A*$1@"(&,".-*(9%1"*%&,1"*."10,%";0*$"C.?('*O1"1.30*('4"
.)0&0.&"(&,"90%;"*$%1%"*%A*+'%1"(1"3('<%"-$+&D1".2"+&,022%'%&*0(*%,"B,0220-+3*=&%11:E MP"
Q&".+'"-+''%&*"/.,%".2"(&(34*0-"*$0&D0&<"0*"01"'%3(*09%34"%(14"*."/('<0&(30?%"*$%1%"
.-*(9%1"(&,"*$0',1@"1-'()0&<".22"*$%"%A-%11"*."'%9%(3"1./%*$0&<",01K+0%*0&<34>(&,"
,01/0110&<34>10/)3%:"#$%'%"01"(31."*$%"0/)'%110.&"*$(*"*$01"D0&,".2"/+10-"$(1"5%%&"
B-$+'&%,".+*E"'(*$%'"*$(&"-./).1%,: MR""
"
S.'"T3(&*0&<("0&"6L77@"N3%/%&*0O1"BN%3%5'(*%,"U-*(9%"H%11.&@E"$01"/.1*"2(/.+1"(&,"
/.1*"'%)'0&*%,";.'D"IU):"M"V.:"MJ"01"B*$%";%(D%1*".2"*$%1%"*$'%%"W1.3.X"1.&(*(1Y"
&%0*$%'".2"0*1"/.9%/%&*1"/(&(<%1"*."'%-.9%'"2'./"*$%")('(34?0&<"%22%-*1".2"
$('/.&0-(334"9()0,".)%&0&<"/(*%'0(31:E MZ"T3(&*0&<("10&<3%,".+*"2.'")'(01%"N3%/%&*0O1"
B[%%*$.9%&=30D%"W\X"141*%/(*0-"%22.'*1"*.;(',1"/.*090-"+&0*4E";$031*"-'0*0K+0&<"$01"
B$('/.&0-"!"#$%&'(&)E"(1";%33"*$%"B5%1%**0&<"10&1".2"N3%/%&*0O1"%('34"1*43%:E M]"
T3(&*0&<(O1"*$0&D0&<"'%/(0&%,"/+-$"*$%"1(/%"*;%&*4=209%"4%('1"3(*%'@";$%'%"$%"
-.//%&*1"*$(*"*$%"B90'*+.1."D%45.(',"20<+'(*0.&1"W0&"U):"7"V.:"MX"$(9%"/(0&34"
,01())%('%,Y"(,.2%&('.3-"$&."'&.".,&4.5&32%.+/.6#)($"-.&73'&))(+,"W/4"0*(30-1X:E"^0'*+.10*4"01"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
MM"G(&%*"C:"H%94@"BN.9%'*"(&,"N(1+(3"^(3+%1"0&"_%-%&*"`'0*0&<1"(5.+*"C+10-@E"*+#',"-.+/.0#)($+-+!1"

Z"I6L!7Ja"P=M7:"
MP"b+*-3022%@"_%90%;".2"82#5(&).",5.9'+)3&$2)@"ML7:"
MR"F"1(/)3%"2'./"G:"T%*%'"[+'D$.3,%'"0&"6L!Pa"B#$%"/(11=/('D%*"/+10-";(1"3.&<".&"1*43%"(&,"

).301$"5+*"1$.'*".&"5'(0&1:E"F&,"2.'"*$%"%('34"&0&%*%%&*$=-%&*+'4a"B*$%"1-%&%";(1",./0&(*%,"54"
90'*+.10"30D%"b).$'"(&,"c+//%3@";$."$%#',&5.+#2"<'%(*"K+(&*0*0%1".2"d5'0330(&*"5+*"&.*",0220-+3*O"
/+10-"2.'"*$%"/(11"/('D%*".2"(/(*%+'")3(4%'1E"W/4"0*(30-1X:"G:"T%*%'"[+'D$.3,%'@"BC+1%+/"T0%-%1a"
#$%"c01*.'0-01*"C(0&1*'%(/"0&"C+10-".2"*$%"H(1*"c+&,'%,"e%('1@E":%&.*+#',"-.+/.0#)($+-+!1"MfM"
I6L!PJa"66Z=6PR@"667:"
MZ"T3(&*0&<(@";-&6&,2(@"RZ:"
M]"Q50,:@"!L@"L6@"R]:""
!"
!
#$%$"&'($)#*+,")#-)"+$$.&")'"/$"$012+,$."'%"$0'%3*4$.5"67&$8#$%$"*+")#$"9::9"
3'(($('%-)*;$";'72($<"!"#$%&'()*)+,$-&.,"/$)0&1+/&23%04)5,0<"='%')#>".$"?-7"&1$-@&"
'A"B7$($+)*C&"D$(1)>";*%)2'&*)>E"-+."&'+-)-&"D#-11*7>"A%$$"A%'(",%-)2*)'2&"
1-&&-,$8'%@5E 9F"G*)#"&23#"7*))7$"1%'&1$3)<")#$%$"*&"7*))7$")'"&)2.>"*A"8$"8*&#")'"('%$"
1'&*)*;$7>"$0-(*+$"B7$($+)*C&";*%)2'&*)>5"
"
H77"'A")#$&$"-))*)2.$&"8$%$"A*%&)"1'*+)$."'2)"*+"G5"=$-+"I2)37*AA$C&"#*,#7>"1$%3$1)*;$"
%$;*$8"'A"!"#$%&'()*)+,$-&.,"/$)0&1+/&23%04)5,0<&8#$%$"#$"3'(($+)&"'+")#$"3'77$3)*'+C&"
';$%-77"7-3@"'A"D$+,-,$($+)"+')"J2&)"8*)#")#$"-$&)#$)*3"32%%$+)&"'A"#*&".->")#-)"
-77'8$."#*("&23#"&233$&&"-+."A-($"/2)"8*)#")#$"1%$&211'&*)*'+&"-+."1%*'%*)*$&"'A"
'2%"'8+")*($<"*+"-+"-))$(1)")'".*&3';$%"#'8"B7$($+)*"3-+"-,-*+"/$"(-.$"($-+*+,A27"
A'%"2&5E"K$"L2$&)*'+&")#$";'72($C&"D$L2-)*'+"'A";*%)2'&*)>"8*)#")#$"&21$%A*3*-7E"-+."
+')$&")#-)"D)%-.*)*'+-7")$%(&"'A"%$A$%$+3$<"8#$%$/>"1%'1$%"(2&*3"&#'27."$(1#-&*4$"
)#$($&"-+.")#$*%".$;$7'1($+)<"-+."&#'27.".$A7$3)"'2%"-))$+)*'+"A%'(")#$"A-3)")#-)"-77"
(2&*3"(2&)"/$"1#>&*3-77>"1%'.23$.<"-%$"+')"J2&)",$+$%-77>"L2$&)*'+-/7$M")#$>"#-;$"
/$$+"$&1$3*-77>"#-%(A27"*+"3'+&)%23)*'+&"'A"B7$($+)*C&"-3#*$;$($+)5E 9N""
"
O+")#*&".*&&$%)-)*'+"O")-@$"21"I2)37*AA$C&"3#-77$+,$"-+."-))$(1)")'"%$#-/*7*)-)$"-+."
%$-&&$&&"B7$($+)*C&"D1-&&-,$8'%@E"*+"-"8->")#-)"(*,#)"#$71"2&"2+.$%&)-+."*)&"
8*.$&1%$-."1'127-%*)><"32%%$+3><"-+."-,$+3>"8*)#'2)".$($-+*+,"'%".*(*+*&#*+,")#$"
1'8$%")#-)"7$."*)")'"-3#*$;$"&23#"&)-)$&"*+")#$"A*%&)"17-3$5 9!"B#-1)$%&"P")'"9<"*+"
1-%)*327-%<"1%$1-%$"-+"#*&)'%*3-7"'2)7''@")#-)"8*77"-77'8"2&")'"/$))$%"-+-7>4$"*+"B#-1)$%"
Q")#'&$"$-%7>"8'%@&")#-)"A*%&)"$&)-/7*&#$."#*&"%$12)-)*'+5"O+"B#-1)$%"R"8$"&$$"#'8"
327)2%-7"*.$'7',>"-AA$3)$."(2&*3-7",$+%$"-+."1$%A'%(-+3$"-+."*+"B#-1)$%"S"8$"
$017'%$"-+.".*&32&&"B7$($+)*C&"1$.-,',*3-7"&)%-)$,*$&5"
"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
9F"T$'+"U7-+)*+,-<"DB7$($+)*V")#$"W$)-('%1#'&$&"'A"-"W2&*3*-+<E"00*;"-+."='%')#>".$"?-7<"

DX#$"H&3$+)"'A"U-%+-&&2&V"U*-+'"W2&*3"A'%")#$"K'($<E"Y9<"YQ"*+".,"/$)0&1+/&23%04)5,05"
9N"I2)37*AA$<"Z$;*$8"'A".,"/$)0&1+/&23%04)5,0<"9N:5"
9!"H"&*(*7-%"3#-77$+,$"#-&"/$$+"7-*.".'8+"/>"Z'#-+"K5"I)$8-%)[W-3='+-7.5"DX#$"$-%7*$%"1*-+'"

&'+-)-&"\)#-)"*&<")#'&$"'A")#$"7-)$"PFF:&]"-+.")#'&$")#-)"/$-%")#$*%")%-*)&"\7*@$"^15"QQ<"+'5"Q"*+"B"
(-J'%<"'A)$+"&$$+"-&"-")#%'8/-3@]"-%$"&)*77"+$,7$3)$."-+."-%$"7$&&"'A)$+"1$%A'%($.5"X#*&"*(17*3*)7>"
1$%1$)2-)$&")#$";*$8")#-)";*%)2'&*)>"8-&"$&&$+)*-77>"-"+$,-)*;$")%-*)"'2),%'8+"/>"B7$($+)*"*+")#$"
PFN:&"_`a"H)")#$";$%>"7$-&)<"-"('%$"&$-%3#*+,"*+L2*%>"*+)'")#$"&'($)*($&"*.*'&>+3%-)*3";*%)2'&'"
3'+)$+)"'A")#$"$-%7*$%"1*-+'"&'+-)-&"*&"%$L2*%$.5E"I)$8-%)[W-3='+-7.<"6)7&2)304)5,$8)0<"R95"
!"#
!
$%&#'(&')()*+(,#*)-.-#/0#1%)'*&(#!#2+0-/-*#+3#4++./05#)*#+6(#')-*#)07#'(&-&0*#2(/*/2)4#
(&-'+0-&-#*+#&/5%*&&0*%82&0*6(,#.&,9+)(7#7/33/264*,#)07#/0*&((+5)*/05#+6(#+:&(*#)07#
2+:&(*#:)46&#;675<&0*-#/0#(&5)(7-#*+#:/(*6+-/*,#/*-&43=#>&2)6-&#*%&#2+((&-'+07&02&#+3#
*%&#?+@)(*#3)</4,#%)-#9&&0#-+#9(+)74,#/0346&0*/)4#3+(#14&<&0*/A-#4&5)2,#B#)**&<'*C#
*%(+65%#24+-&#(&)7/05-#+3#*%&#*&D*-#*%&<-&4:&-C#*+#9&**&(#607&(-*)07#*%&#%/-*+(/2)4#
2+0*&D*#+3#*%&#4&**&(-=#E-#?+@)(*#3)<+6-4,#4)9&44&7#14&<&0*/#)#F2%)(4)*)0CG#H&#
&D)</0&#%+H#*%&#3/56(&#+3#*%&#&/5%*&&0*%82&0*6(,#2%)(4)*)0#</5%*#9&#-&&0#*+#
&02)'-64)*&#2&0*()4#I04/5%*&0<&0*#2+02&(0-#+3#/(+0,#!"#$%&#*(6*%=#B#)4-+#+33&(#)#
2(/*/J6&#+3#+6(#'(&-&0*87),#6-)5&#+3#*%&#2+02&'*#+3#F:/(*6+-/*,G#/0#7/-26--/+0-#+3#
7/33/264*#<6-/2#/0#*%&#&/5%*&&0*%#2&0*6(,C#)(56/05#*%)*#*%&#*&(<#H)-#/0#3)2*#0+*#6-&7#/0#
I054/-%#60*/4#)3*&(#!KLM=#N&#</5%*#9&#9&**&(#-&(:&7#/0#6-/05#H+(7-#)07#2+02&'*-#*%)*#
H&(&#26((&0*#/0#7/-2+6(-&#+3#*%&#*/<&C#4/.&#F7/33/264*,G#)07#F&D&26*/+0=G#O+/05#-+#
607&(4/0&-#*%&#'&(3+(<)*/:&#'+H&(#+3#*%&#<6-/2#/*-&43#)07#%&4'-#6-#9&**&(#607&(-*)07#
*%&#2+0*(+:&(-/&-#*%)*#-6((+607&7#7/33/264*#<6-/2#/0#I054/-%#.&,9+)(7#264*6(&=##
#
B0#1%)'*&(#P#H&#&-*)94/-%#*%&#%/-*+(/2)4#2+0*&D*#3+(#14&<&0*/A-#&0*()02&#/0*+#I054/-%#
.&,9+)(7#264*6(&#9,#2%)(*/05#*%&#2%)05/05#/7&+4+5,#(&4)*/05#*+#3&<)4&#.&,9+)(7#
'&(3+(<)02&#)07#'&7)5+5,=#N&#7+#-+#9,#3/(-*#'(+:/7/05#)0#+:&(:/&H#+3#*%&#-*)*6-#
J6+#+3#.&,9+)(7#'&(3+(<)02&#/0#*%&#!QQ"-=#E-#*%&#&/5%*&&0*%#2&0*6(,#7(&H#*+#)#
24+-&C#H&#3/07#*%)*#2+0762*#9++.-#7+#/07&&7#(&34&2*R+(#)(&#<+(&#*+4&()0*#+3R*%&-&#
2%)05/05#'()2*/2&-#)07#*%&#(&-*(/2*/+0-#'4)2&7#+0#7&7/2)*&7#)07#-6-*)/0&7#.&,9+)(7#
'()2*/2&#)(&#4&--&0&7C#)07#-+<&*/<&-#&:&0#&:)'+()*&=#B0#*%/-#2%)'*&(#*%&(&#/-#)#24+-&#
(&)7/05#+3#)#(&'(&-&0*)*/:&#2+0762*8<)06)4#2+07&<0/05#*%&#'&(3+(<)02&#+3#7/33/264*#
<6-/2#)07#3(+<#*%&(&C#7()H/05#+0#H+(.#+0#&/5%*&&0*%82&0*6(,#(&)7&(-#)07#(&)7/05C#B#
/0*(+762&#*%&#2+02&'*#+3#F</-'4),/05CG#/0#H%/2%#*%&#/7&)4/-*/2#4/0&)(#7&<)07-#+3#*%&#
<6-/2)4#*&D*#)07#)2*#)(&#-69:&(*&7#9,#*%&#'4),&(=#B#)(56&#*%)*#7/33/264*#<6-/2#
&02+6()5&-#'&(3+(<&(-#*+#F</-'4),G#/0#*%/-#<)00&(#)-#*%&,#<6-*#(&'&)*#)07#/-+4)*&#
<6-/2)4#')--)5&-#/0#9&%):/+6()4#')**&(0-#*%)*#H&(&#7&&<&7#%/5%4,#-6-'/2/+6-#/0#'(&8
!QQS#I054/-%#.&,9+)(7#264*6(&=#$%/-#./07#+3#F</-'4),/05G#%)-#-/02&#9&2+<&#*%&#
-*)07)(7#H),#*%)*#<6-/2/)0-#'()2*/2&=#
#
!!"
!
#$"%&'()*+","-*".//0"1./2*.3"')")-/"-/+02"/4"%.*5*$)672"*'+.3"1'+**+8"962"46+2)"
(:;.61')6/$"6$"</$=/$>"'"2*)"/4"?'+6')6/$2"/$"'";'-=3"):$*"1'..*="@A&*"B.'10"C/0*>D"
'((*'+2")/"/:).6$*"'"+'=61'."'E*$='"4/+")&/2*"-&/"(.'3*=")&*"(6*1*8"A&*"?'+6')6/$2"
;*E6$"?*+3"265(.3";:)"*$="-6)&"?6+):/2/F.60*")*G):+*2":$('+'..*.*="6$"(+6$)*="
0*3;/'+="-/+02"/4")&')")65*8"#"'+E:*")&')"%.*5*$)672"1/$)+/?*+26'."(+/5/)6/$"/4"
)*1&$61'."'()6):=*"4/+"=/5*2)61"0*3;/'+=62)2"6$"@A&*"B.'10"C/0*D"62"1/$2/.6=')*="6$"
)&*"-/+0")&')"5/2)"*2)';.62&*="&62"+*(:)')6/$H&62"I(8"J"/4"!KKL8"#$")&62"26GF-/+0"
/(:2>"=64461:.)"2/./"2/$')'2"?6*"-6)&"+*.')6?*.3"265(.*"'11/5('$6*="/$*28"#$"
1/$)+'2)6$E"2/"=+'5')61'..3"@=64461:.)3D"-6)&"@*'26$*22>D"%.*5*$)6".'32"=/-$"'"
1&'..*$E*")/")&*"4*5'.*"5'M/+6)3"/4"N$E.62&"0*3;/'+="1:.):+*8"%.*5*$)672"2)+')*E3"/4"
1/$)6$:'..3"0**(6$E"I(8"J"6$")&*"(:;.61"'+*$'"-6)&"'$"*G)+'/+=6$'+3"'5/:$)"/4"
+*(+6$)2>"+*?626/$2>"'$="+*F-/+06$E2"&*.(*="(:;.616O*"'$=H;3"=6$)"/4"2&**+"
2'):+')6/$H$/+5'.6O*")&*"$*-"+*'.6)3"/4"=64461:.)"5:261":$=*+")&*"&'$=2"/4"'"$*-"
1.'22"/4")*1&$61'..3"(+/4616*$)"'5')*:+28"
"
#$"%&'()*+"P"-*"*G'56$*";*))*+"*6E&)**$)&F1*$):+3"1:.):+'."6=*/./E3"')"-/+0"6$")&*"
+*'.6)6*2"/4"N$E.62&"0*3;/'+="1:.):+*8"A&62"62"=/$*";3":)6.6O6$E"2/5*"/4")&*")//.2"'$="
1/$1*()2")'0*$"4+/5"Q6*++*"B/:+=6*:72"1/5(+*&*$26?*")&*/+3"/4"1:.):+*8"R*"
6$?*2)6E')*"4:+)&*+")&*")&*$F1.61&S="/(6$6/$"/4"@)'2)*D"/?*+"@*G*1:)6/$>D"/4)*$":2*="
:$)&6$06$E.3";3")&/2*"-&/"1+6)6T:*=")&*"(*+4/+5'$1*2"/4"/)&*+2>"'$="-*"*G(./+*"&/-"
)&62"/(6$6/$"62"(/+)+'3*=H'$="2/5*)65*2"1&'..*$E*=H6$"=621/:+2*"/?*+")&*"1/:+2*"
/4"%.*5*$)672"=*1'=*2F./$E"1'5('6E$"/4"(+/5/)6$E"=64461:.)"5:2618"R*"'.2/"*G'56$*"
)&*"65(/+)'$)"E*$=*+*="65(.61')6/$2"/4")&*"@'11/5('$6*="2/$')'D"'$="&/-")&*2*"
1/$26=*+')6/$2"56E&)"&'?*"(.'3*="/:)"6$"5:261'.")*G)2"'$="(*+4/+5'$1*2"/4")&*")65*8"
"
#$"%&'()*+"U"-*".//0"46+2)"')")&*"1/55:$61')6?*"(/-*+"/4"%.*5*$)672"@;+'$=>D"/+"&62"
5:261'."2)3.*8"#$"'"+')&*+"1./2*"+*'=6$E"/4"%.*5*$)672"I(8",K"#"6=*$)643"&/-")/(61'."
=6?*+26)3"56E&)"(.'3"/:)"6$"'$3"+*10/$6$E"/4"%.*5*$)672"-6=*2(+*'="(/(:.'+6)3"6$")&*"
.'2)"=*1'=*"/4")&*"*6E&)**$)&"1*$):+38"#$")&62"+*'=6$E>")&*"+61&"1/$2)*..')6/$"/4"
=644*+*$)")*G):+*2"'$="2)3.*2"6$")&62"/(:2"'+*":$=*+2)//=")/";*"2)+')*E61'..3"'((*'.6$E"
)/")&*"=644*+6$E")'2)*2"/4"5*$"'$="-/5*$8"V6$'..3>"-*"*G(./+*"%.*5*$)672"(*='E/E61'."
2)+')*E6*2"'$="&/-")&*"=64461:.)")*G):+*2"/4"'"$*-"(6'$625"-*+*"*44*1)6?*.3"=*16(&*+*="
!"#
!
$%#&'()%#*+$),-.'/#0,&1'2,&1-#3.43#'5*.4-,6'/#3.'#7&1),-.#!"#$%&'4**2849.:#(.,9.#
0+23.'2#049,),343'/#3.'#*28583,8&#4&/#)'1,3,5,643,8&#80#/,00,9+)3#5+-,9#+&/'2#'42)%#
94*,34),-5#,&#7&1)4&/;#
#
<&#7*,)81+'#)88=-#$2,'0)%#43#3.'#*'2082543,>'#.4$,3-#80#*2'-'&3?/4%#='%$842/,-3-#
*'20825,&1#@)'5'&3,#4&/#-='39.'-#8+3#-85'#80#3.'#98&+&/2+5-#4&/#9.4))'&1'-#3.43#
049'#*'20825'2-#4&/#-9.8)42-#38/4%;##
#
13
 

Chapter 1

Towards a New Approach to Difficult Keyboard Music of the


Late Eighteenth Century

Organicist Responses to Eighteenth-century Keyboard Difficulty

If we analyze a difficult piece for solo keyboard in the structuralist tradition of music
theory (the kind of theory generally practiced today), those sections that are difficult
to perform—octaves, thirds, doublings, and chromatic runs—are effaced (however
temporarily) in the search for a reductive sketch of structural unity. Many theoretical
systems partake in this kind of schematic empiricism, but the model par excellence is
Heinrich Schenker’s early twentieth-century theory of long-range structure, a “model
of music” which Robert Fink describes “as a skin-like surface stretched over
hierarchically structured depths. […] It demands that theories of musical structure be
reductive, since analysts feel obligated to map out structural levels by systematically
stripping away surface details.” 1

For the performer, however, hair-raising passages of extreme technical difficulty—


those “surface details”—inhabit a performative space that has been carved out of
years of cumulative labour (practice) which is additionally fraught, for the performer,
with all the vicissitudes of delivery. For the watcher and listener, these passages are
often the most visual as well as the most forceful. In a structuralist sense these
replications of voice-leading, these difficult “doublings,” are often construed as
ornamental encrustations upon the fundamental Urlinie. By way of example, Nicholas
Cook has related how Schenker regarded “interventionist” and interpretative musical
editions such as Bülow’s that “ornamented” the works of others “to be immoral:

                                                                                                 
1Robert Fink, “Going Flat: Post-Hierarchical Music Theory and the Musical Surface” in
Rethinking Music, ed. Nicolas Cook and Mark Everist (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999),
106. The “skin-like” metaphor derives from Schenker himself.
14
 
they substituted themselves for the composer’s work and so perpetrated a fraud.” 2
This finds an eerie echo in both Adolf Loos’ tenet (“cultural evolution is
synonymous with the removal of ornament from objects of use”) as well as a more
sweeping Modernist reaction against the excesses of Romanticism. 3

If we accept Schenker’s concept of the Urlinie as ultimate arbiter of musical meaning,


it means that we treat the “stripping away [of] successive layers of elaboration” as a
purgative act. 4 It means that motivically challenged and/or harmonically static
passages with technically challenging “surface” activity are generally inferior to those
passages that better express the organic whole of the composition, with its emphasis
on themes, motives, formal structure and so forth. This constitutes our current
approach to the analysis of eighteenth-century music in the university system of the
Western world.

Of course, the historical background to Schenker’s approach is that old bugbear


“organicism,” or “music as a vegetable,” as Lawrence Dreyfuss has rather witheringly
called it: “How glorious it would be if the beginning of the musical work—like one
of God’s creations—bore the germ from which the whole work emanated!” 5 This
idea of a musical seed that is imbued with a powerful entelechy that will ultimate
generate an entire “work” was the governing metaphor in Romantic musical

                                                                                                 
2 Nicholas Cook, “The Editor and the Virtuoso: or Schenker versus Bülow” Journal of the Royal
Musical Association 116/1 (1991): 91. For a more sympathetic view on Schenker’s view on
ornamentation in general, see Ian D. Bent, “‘That Bright New Light’: Schenker, Universal
Edition, and the Origins of the Erläuterung Series, 1901-1910,” Journal of the American Musicological
Society 58/1 (2005): 76 ff.
3 From Ornament und Verbrechen (1908), quoted in Werner Oechslin, Otto Wagner, Adolf Loos, and

the Road to Modern Architecture, trans. Lynnette Widder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002), 116. For an overview of the so-called Modernist performing style, see Bruce Haynes, The
End of Early Music: A Period Performer’s History of Music for the Twenty-First Century (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007), 48 ff.
4 Fink, “Going Flat,” 107. Another manifestation of Schenker’s uneasiness with the “messy”

foreground elements of virtuosity and performance is encapsulated in an unfinished essay in


which he outlines distasteful performative excesses: “On the Degeneracy of the Virtuoso.” See
David Gagné and Hedi Siegel, Review of Heinrich Schenker, The Art of Performance ed. Heribert
Esser (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), Music Theory Spectrum, 24/1 (2002): 140.
5 Laurence Dreyfus, Bach and the Patterns of Invention (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996),

101.
15
 
aesthetics. 6 In many ways, it explains why the more motivically coherent of
Clementi’s works (Op. 34 No. 2 is regularly cited) have received more attention than
other sonatas, where Clementi is less interested with “composing” and formal
teleology. Rowan H. MacDonald-Smith astutely recognizes this when he observes
that much of Clementi’s music is more circular than teleological. 7

I outline this background in order not to condemn Schenker’s approach or organicist


metaphors in general but rather to elucidate in scholarly responses to Clementi’s
difficult music some of what Janet Levy has labelled “covert and casual values.” 8 I
have already noted the foreclosing attitudes of “empty virtuosity” that Sutcliffe first
brought to our attention. But there are many others, too many, in fact, to enumerate.
Plantinga’s 1977 biography, still the most referred-to book of any present-day
university student engaging in Clementi research, is rife with negative assessments of
Clementi’s technical displays. Op. 2 “comprise[s] a kind of showcase of virtuoso
keyboard writing, sometimes at the cost of musical quality and continuity.” 9 The
“paralyzing effects” of the “harmonically vapid passages” of this opus—which
elsewhere Plantinga has acknowledged to be “the works which more than any others
established and nourished his reputation”—are understood to “constantly threaten
to become an end in themselves.” 10

Also lurking in the background with many commentators is the notion that
Clementi’s music is either kitsch or—worse—trash. This is somewhat allied with the
“churned out” approach, in that judgments appear to be motivated by industrialism
and/or the middle-class (kitsch) or more simply that Clementi composes badly

                                                                                                 
6 For a classic overview, see Meyer H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp (New York: Oxford

University Press, 1953). See also Leonard B. Meyer, Style and Music (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania, 1989), 190;; David L. Montgomery, “The Myth of Organicism: From Bad Science
to Great Art,” The Musical Quarterly 75 (1991): 17-66 and Ruth A. Solie, “The Living Work:
Organicism and Musical Analysis,” 19th-Century Music 4/2 (1980): 147-156.
7 Rohan. H. Stewart-MacDonald, “Towards a New Ontology of Musical Classicism,” 45.
8 Levy, “Covert and Casual Values in Recent Writings about Music.”
9 Plantinga, Clementi, 43. Also compare Plantinga’s 2008 liner notes to Howard Shelley’s complete

recording of the sonatas. Some sections of Op. 7 revisit “Clementi’s famous octaves [from Op.
2], but [do] so in the service of convincing expressive ends.” Leon Plantinga, liner notes to
Howard Shelley, Clementi: The Complete Piano Sonatas, Vol. 1, (Hyperion, CDA67632, 2008).
10 Plantinga, Clementi, 43, 45-6, 39.
16
 
(trash). Nicholas Temperley is a committed advocate of Clementi as the progenitor
of a legitimate school of English piano playing as well as a great admirer of his career
and work. But even some of his comments occasionally betray anxiety at what is
perceived to be the trashier facets of Clementi’s output: Op. 41 is a “competent but
not remarkable work,” the “popular” fantasies on “Batti, batti” and “Au clair de la
lune” are “hardly remarkable,” the coda of the former “feebly superfluous.” Some of
the Monferrinas (Op. 49) “descend to the silliest tinsel effects of the parlor piano style
that was becoming so popular.” 11 In other words, it is kitsch.

Dahlhaus points out that the attempts to mediate between good music and trash or
kitsch are interesting because of their fruitlessness: “The less factually backed and
legitimized they are by technical aspects of the compositions, the more clearly and
openly they reveal the moral and social-psychological tendencies by which they are
moved.” Elsewhere he makes the important point that “one may detest as kitsch
Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria’ in which piety presents itself as a salon attitude [...]. In terms
of compositional technique, however, the piece is impeccable. Whoever dismisses it
as ‘badly composed’ betrays an aesthetic-moral embarrassment which muddies and
distorts factual musical criticism.” 12 Thus, in Temperley’s defence, he does say that
the popular variations were written with “impeccable skill and correctness.” 13

There is also the looming shadow of Viennese composers. For works from 1785,
when Clementi was an assured 33 year-old, Plantinga commented that “Clementi
cannot yet consistently put together three strong movements to make a really good
sonata [my italics]” even as Clementi seemed to prefer, at this time, the Italianate
two-movement model. 14 There is “harmonic dullness, or too much literal repetition,
or humdrum passagework.” “With the Clementi of the Paris and Vienna years,” he
writes, “as with virtually all the composers of this period but Haydn and Mozart, one
feels a certain urge to pick and choose and rearrange individual movements [my
                                                                                                 
11 Nicholas Temperley, ed., Works for Pianoforte Solo by Muzio Clementi, Vol. 3 of The London
Pianoforte School (New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1984), xiii;; Vol. 4, xv.
12 Carl Dahlhaus, Analysis and Value Judgment (New York: Pendragon Press, 1983), 20-21, 34.
13 Temperley, London Pianoforte School, Vol. 4, xv.
14 The Italianate two-movement model was also used by Haydn in Hob. XVI:40-42 (1784) and

Hob. XVI:48 (1789), and by Beethoven in Op. 90 (1814) and Op. 111 (1821-2).
17
 
italics].” 15 The implication here is that a good sonata must be as “High-Viennese-
Classic” as possible and be in three movements. 16

William Newman also chose to underline the Viennese-as-pure principle in his


discussion of Clementi:

These [idiomatically pianistic] passages anticipate the more brilliant writing in the
sonatas of Beethoven and other late-Classic writers, although not of Clementi
himself, since he eventually turned to a simpler, purer, thinner style, probably under
Mozart’s influence. 17

It is unclear what Newman means by this simpler style;; if anything, Clementi’s final
works are generally “thicker” and more complex than his earlier ones. He may be
referring to a heightened use of canonic techniques, but this hardly seems a
Mozartian trait, even if Mozart appeared to share Clementi’s interest in the technique
in works such as K. 533/494 and K. 576.

Sutcliffe has commented on how some of these responses seem to function


aesthetically, again underlining the organicist bias:

The problem is most acute when virtuosity cannot be understood as ‘integral’ to a


musical argument but simply stares back at us from the page, in the form of mere
passagework, scales, arpeggios, elaborate divisions of notes, or registral extremes.
Unless they have been ‘deepened’ or ‘heightened’ in some way, such manifestations
cannot in all conscience be enjoyed, so many relevant discussions seem to imply.
The ideal condition of virtuosity, it would appear, is to aspire to a state of invisibility
or intangibility, where it is subsumed under the name of some higher musical
function or thought. Otherwise it all too easily occupies a sort of moral low ground,
like a heathen in need of conversion. 18

                                                                                                 
15 Plantinga, Clementi, 92.
16 On the pervasiveness of judging music against Beethoven’s in particular see Scott Burnham,
“Institutional Values: Beethoven and the Theorists” in Beethoven Hero (New Jersey: Princeton
University Press, 1995), 66-111.
17 William S. Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era: The Second Volume of a History of the Sonata Idea

(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1963), 89.


18 Sutcliffe, The Keyboard Sonatas of Scarlatti, 280.
18
 
Even the word “passagework” outlines a kind of odious laboriousness that
performers tend to associate with the painful and repetitive scales of our youth. 19

This relationship, in which “virtuosity must be subsumed under the name of some
higher musical function,” seems to be first articulated most forcefully in the 1790s at
precisely the time when Clementi retired from public performance to pursue a life in
the world of print and industry. Simon P. Keefe has noted:

Condemnation of excessive virtuosity […] peppered late-eighteenth and early-


nineteenth-century writings, representing a point of continuity from one century to
the next. The inference is clear: self-promoting (and self-regarding) composers and
performers pander to the worst instincts of the musical public, appealing to their
easy admiration of flashy musical trickery rather than their more sophisticated
appreciation of expressive, content-rich music. 20

Keefe demonstrates how English critics increasingly emphasized that “dexterity and
brilliance must be a means to an end, rather than an end in itself.” (We discuss this
cultural concept more in Chapter 4). Here the organicist metaphor coalesced more
tellingly with the biological implications of the representations of healthy bodies of
the time, in which everything is interdependent and functioning healthily without one
element or humour dominating (i.e. virtuosity over expression, or sanguineous over
melancholic, for example). 21

                                                                                                 
19 An 1880 edition of Grove’s makes this very clear under the term “PASSAGE.” “It is however

sometimes used in a special though not very honourable sense, of runs and such portions of
music as are meaningless except as opportunities for display of dexterity on the part of the
executants, which are therefore in fact and by implication nothing more than ‘passages.’ […] It is
possible that the musical use of the term originated in the amount of attention and labour which
executants have had, especially in former days, to apply to such portions of the works they
undertook, and common habit of speaking of practising what it is hardly worth the while of an
intelligent audience to listen to, except for the sake of the technique.” George Grove, ed.,
Dictionary of Music and Musicians (A.D. 1450-1880), Vol. 2 (London: Macmillan and Co., 1880), 661.
20 Simon. P. Keefe, “Across the Divide: Currents of musical thought in Europe, c. 1790-1810” in

The Cambridge History of Eighteenth-Century Music ed. Simon P. Keefe (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2009), 680.
21 Ruth Halliwell has demonstrated in close readings of the Mozart family correspondence in the

late 1780s that Leopold, Nannerl, and Wolfgang still conceived of healthy bodies as those that
were in humoral balance. See Ruth Halliwell, The Mozart Family: Four Lives in a Social Context
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), xxvii-xxviii, 70-1, 158 n. 66, 489-91, 492-4, 515 n. 37.
19
 
For us on the other side of this aesthetic shift, the problem seems most evident in
the works of Clementi that are the focus of this dissertation: those from the late
1770s to the 1790s that established his reputation, those with the difficult passages
and textures that have been suspiciously described. Devoid of the kind of
chromaticism or alteration that “deepens” the material for us, this figuration looks
somehow naked or bland. In short, it looks like something from a practice manual. If
it isn’t music, it looks more like practice—and laborious, menial practice at that.

An anxiety of labour is certainly central to understanding the few contemporaneous


responses to Clementi’s “excesses.” “Working” was something done by other classes,
not those leisured enough to enjoy music (more on this in Chapter 2). In rhetorical
terms, difficulty was often disdained because, by oratorical analogy, virtuosic
embellishments that showed off the skill of the orator or musician did not move and
persuade, it merely astonished.

We have touched on Mozart’s seminal influence on nineteenth-century and


twentieth-century attitudes on virtuosity as well as on Clementi—in fact, they are
inextricably linked in the latter’s reception history. It is worthwhile to revisit the
Mozart family correspondence on the matter and better examine what may be
described as Mozart’s racist and jealous attitudes. I will also trace the historical and
rhetorical background to Mozart’s utterances in regards to his conceptualization of
technique contra expression. The important point here is that it was Mozart’s
expression of this dichotomy—and not any earlier manifestation of it—that was
broadcast the most by late nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century critics.
Mozart’s music and the aesthetics expressed in his newly-published letters were
foremost in the minds of commentators who discussed and dismissed Clementi and
often by extension any “empty” and difficult keyboard music of the eighteenth
century. 22 In undertaking a close reading of these letters I want to outline the

                                                                                                 
22 Stewart-MacDonald points out the continuing frequency of Mozart’ remarks on Clementi in
“Towards a New Ontology of Musical Classicism,” “Appendix 1.” He outlines a chronological
sample of “twentieth-century literature that includes a reference to the keyboard contest between
Mozart and Clementi […] [with an aim] to demonstrate the frequency and the range of literature
in which the contest is cited.” 272 ff.
20
 
uniqueness of Mozart’s assessment of Clementi’s technical proficiency, which at the
time Mozart wrote the letters was otherwise universally applauded. We will see how
Mozart’s views on Clementi were shared neither by his father nor (perhaps) his sister.

“Clementi ist ein Ciarlattano wie alle Wälsche”: Reconsidering Mozart on


Clementi

Anglophone critics are generally familiar only with Emily Anderson’s translations of
the Mozart correspondence, reprinted many times since their original publication in
1938. 23 Inspired by the epistolary work of Ruth Halliwell and Tom Beghin I want to
present Mozart’s original text here with a new translation that more accurately
reflects the cadencing and punctuation of the original, in order to better understand
the rhetorical implications of Mozart’s references. 24 Halliwell in particular has called
attention to the many problems, omissions, and mistranslations found in Anderson’s
collection. She concluded that the “most urgent need of English-language Mozart
scholarship” is “a complete translation of the correspondence with a critical
apparatus.” 25 Since almost all of Clementi’s biographies since 1832 have contained
Mozart’s ungenerous remarks I want to take a closer look not just at Mozart’s letters
but those of his family as well. 26 My intention is to attenuate the still-present
illocutionary force of Mozart’s assessment of Clementi by placing the remarks in
historical context. This needs to be done by first enumerating all of the references to
Clementi in the Mozart family correspondence and not just singling out—as many
have generally done beforehand—the famous January 16 letter which describes the

                                                                                                 
23 Emily Anderson, ed. and trans., The Letters of Mozart and his Family (London: Macmillan, 1938;;

rev. 2nd edn. 1966, A. H. King and M. Carolan, eds;; rev. 3rd edn. 1985, S. Sadie and F. Smart,
eds).
24 Halliwell, The Mozart Family;; Tom Beghin, “‘Votre très humble & très obéissant Serviteur’:

Männliche und Weibliche Rhetorik in Haydns Sonate Hob. XVI: 40,” Haydn-Studien 9/1 (2006):
33-57.
25 Halliwell, The Mozart Family, xxxiii.
26 The first inclusion of quotes from Nissen’s publication that appeared in a Clementi biography

appears to be that in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung 40 (1832): 658.


21
 
competition, an affair that ever since has “attracted attention out of all proportion to
its importance.” 27

The first mention of Clementi in the correspondence comes in a letter dated


December 22 1781 but was in fact completed on December 26 (see Table 1.1). The
competition between Clementi and Mozart took place on the evening of December
24, so Mozart’s allusion to Clementi comes after the competition and not before. 28

Enfin an wem sie wollen, unterdessen will ich Enfin [Therefore] to whomever you wish,
ihnen nur sagen, daß der kayser lezthin bey der meanwhile I will tell you, that recently the
Tafel das grösste Eloge von mir gemacht hat;; Emperor at table gave me the highest
mit den Worten begleitet. C’est un talent Eloge [praise];; with the accompanying
decidè.—und vorgestern als den 24:ten habe ich words. C’est un talent décidé.—and the day
bey hofe gespiellt—es ist noch ein clavier before yesterday on the 24th I played at
spieller hier angekommen, ein Welscher er court—another keyboard player has come
heist. Clementi. dieser war auch hineinberufen. 29 here, a southerner, he’s called Clementi. He
was also summoned.
Table 1.1 Mozart to his father, “vienne ce 22 X:bre 1781.”

The first part of Mozart’s sentence beginning “Enfin,” refers to a previous sentence
in which Mozart tells his father that if he really believes him to be detested at Court
and by the old and new aristocracy then he should just write to Herr von Strack,
Countess Thun, Countess Rumbeck, Baroness Waldstädten and so on, and he will
get the true story. Clementi’s first appearance in the Mozart correspondence is
shadowy and blurry. Mozart piques Leopold’s attention with the story of the
Emperor’s praise, casually mentions playing at court (there is no suggestion of a duo
or duet, or any hint of a “competition”;; we also do not know who was present “bey
hofe”), and even more nonchalantly mentions another keyboard player—“ein

                                                                                                 
27 Oliver Neighbour, “A Manuscript from Clementi’s Early Years” in Haydn, Mozart, & Beethoven:
Studies in the Music of the Classical Period, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1998), 32.
28 For more details of the competition, see Katalin Komlós, “Mozart and Clementi: A Piano

Competition and its Interpretation,” Historical Performance 2/1 (1989): 3-10 and Niedermüller,
“Clementi und Mozart vor dem russischen Großfürsten,” 95-112.
29 Wilhelm A. Bauer and Otto E. Deutsch eds., Mozart: Briefe und Aufzeichnungen [hereafter MBA]

(Kassel: Bärenreiter-Verlag, 1963). All future references are to letter numbers followed by line
numbers. This reference, MBA, 651/110-114, means letter 651, lines 110-114. The translations
are my own;; I am especially grateful to Prof. Tom Beghin, Matthew Provost, and Matthias Maute
for their assistance.
22
 
Welscher” (a mildly derogatory term for a Non-Germanic southerner)—called
“Clementi.” Mozart’s assessment of Clementi as a performer is here entirely neutral.
In fact, on many levels it appears that Mozart’s encounter with Clementi was, at first,
barely even worth mentioning. The casually racist signifier of “Welscher” is the only
mitigating element in an otherwise bland account. “Welscher” was commonly used in
the Mozart correspondence when disparaging Italians (rarely were they praised), so
its informal use here does not mark Clementi out in any unusual way.

It is hard to precisely determine the illocutionary and contextual force of “Welscher”


and its cognates for German speakers in the eighteenth century. Nowadays the term
is offensive, much like the awful racial slurs of “wop” or “wog.” 30 I have translated it
in Table 1.1 as “southerner” because I want to emphasize that Mozart does not use
the more polite and acceptable “Italiener.” But in the eighteenth century it seemed to
indicate a general sense of “foreigness” and “otherness” that might be construed as
offensive only in context. Mozart’s mother, for example, uses the term
“Welschlands-Paroxismus” or “South-Italian Craze,” in a description of Italophilic
musical tastes of courts in a letter to Leopold of 29 September 1777. 31 On 4
October, Leopold refers to the same “Paroxismus für die Italiäner,” as if toning it
down a little, or refining the concept. 32 More tellingly, in Nissen’s 1828 translation of
Mozart’s 22 December 1781 letter (in fact Nissen conflated it with the letter of 16
January 1782), “Welscher” has completely disappeared. Nissen has printed: “Es ist
noch ein Clavierspieler hier angekommen, ein Italiener, er heisst Clementi” (my
italics—compare with Table 1.1). 33 The term may have become more offensive by
the 1820s, lost its cogency and meaning, or perhaps Nissen wanted to clean up

                                                                                                 
30 A point underlined in 1983 by a reviewer of Joseph Zoderer’s novel Die Walsche (Munich:

Hanser, 1982). “Olga knows that, when she wants to hurt him [Silvano], there is one epithet
which wounds more than any other – that abusive term for an Italian which figures in the novel’s
title, ‘Die Walsche.’” M. Swales, Review of Die Walsche, World Literature Today 57/3 (1983): 457. I
am also grateful to Prof. Andrew Piper of the Department of German Studies at McGill
University for answering some queries regarding the etymology of this word.
31 MBA, 339/18.
32 MBA, 343/29.
33 Georg Nikolaus von Nissen, Biographie W. A. Mozarts [1828] (Hildesheim: Georg Olms

Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1964), 448.


23
 
Mozart’s language (as he did, unthinkingly, with Mozart’s haphazard grammar and
spelling). 34

In a now lost reply, Leopold seems then to have asked Mozart of his opinion of
Clementi. Mozart’s answer is shown in Table 1.2.

der Clementi spielt gut, wenn es auf Clementi plays well, when it comes to the
execution der rechten hand ankömmt.— execution of his right hand.—His strength
seine force [sic] sind die terzen Paßagen— are passages in thirds—by the way, he has
übrigens hat er um keinen kreutzer gefühl not a penny’s worth of feeling or taste. In a
oder geschmack. mit einem Wort ein blosser word, completely a Mechanicus
Mechanicus.
—der friseur ist da.—ich muß schliessen. mit —The hairdresser is here—I must close.
nächsten mehr davon. 35 More about this next time.
Table 1.2 Mozart to his father, “Vienne ce 12 de Janvier 1782,” 17 days after previous reference.

Here, Mozart’s preliminary assessment is positive. Clementi “spielt gut;;” his right
hand is strong and his best passages are parallel thirds. Mozart then turns to the
negative;; “übrigens”(“by the way”) Clementi has “keinen kreutzer gefühl oder
geschmack.” Summing up, Mozart declares him to be no more than an automaton:
“ein blosser Mechanicus.” He promises Leopold more news on Clementi in his next
letter.

But the following letter, written four days later, simply repeats the same seemingly
off-the-cuff comments Mozart penned quickly as the hairdresser’s presence took his
attention away from epistolary matters. There is no new information on Clementi
apart from the oft-quoted description of the activities of competition (Table 1.3).
Here was the excerpt that caused such a scandal when it was published—slightly
altered and re-arranged with other letters—by Nissen during Clementi’s lifetime. 36
Mozart once again concedes that Clementi plays well, but he nuances (satirically?) for
Leopold the harpsichordistic nature of Clementi’s technique: “dieser ist ein braver
                                                                                                 
34 On Nissen’s editing see Halliwell, The Mozart Family, 476.
35 MBA, 657/9-12.
36 Compare Nissen’s 1828 version with Table 1.3: “Nun vom Clementi.—Dieser ist ein braver

Cembalist, damit ist aber auch Alles gesagt.—Er hat sehr viele Fertigkeit in der rechten Hand,—
seine Hauptpassagen sind dir Terzen,—übrigens hat er um keinen Kreuzer weder Geschmack
noch Empfindung—ein blosser Mechanicus!” Nissen, Biographie W. A. Mozarts, 449.
24
 
Cembalist.” Mozart makes the distinction between fortepiano and harpsichord
forcefully clear in this letter when he later writes in his description of the competition
with Clementi of the “Piano forte” on which they play. Going into detail about
Clementi’s playing, Mozart speaks now of “fertigkeit” and mentions again the thirds;;
but then comes the same passage again about not having a kreutzer’s worth of taste,
expression and so forth. But the words have changed and orders have been reversed:
“gefühl oder geschmack” (taste or feeling) becomes “geschmack noch empfindung”
(taste or emotion). “Ein blosser Mechanicus” remains. It smacks of a rehearsed story
or opinion that Mozart might have told a few times before writing to his father;; the
memorable part for both listener and storyteller being the phrase “ein blosser
Mechanicus”—pithy, devastating, and dismissive.

—mir thut die vermuthung weh genug daß —it hurts me very much to think that you
sie glauben können, daß ihr Sohn so ein believe that your son could frequent a house
hauß frequentiren könnte, wo es also where such things you conjecture go on—let
zugeht.—Nur so viel muß ich ihnen sagen, me say that you should believe exactly the
daß sie Just das gegentheil davon glauben opposite of what you have been told.—
därfen.—genug davon;;— enough of this;;—
Nun vom Clementi.—dieser ist ein braver Now to Clementi—he is a fine
Cembalist.—dann ist auch alles gesagt.—er harpsichordist.—That is all one can say—he
hat sehr viele fertigkeit in der rechten has very great facility in the right hand.—His
hand.—seine haupt Pasagen [sic] sind die best passages are thirds.—By the way, he has
Terzen.—übrigens hat er um keinen kreutzer not a penny’s worth of taste or emotion—
geschmack noch empfindung.—ein blosser completely a Mechanicus.
Mechanicus.
der kayser that |: nach dem wir uns genug The Emperor (after we had made enough
Complimenten machten :| den ausspruch, compliments) ordered that he should begin to
daß Er zu spiellen anfangen sollte. La santa play. La santa chiesa Cattolica, he said,
chiesa Catholica sagte er. weil Clementi ein Clementi being a Roman.—He preluded, and
Römer ist.—er præludirte, und spiellte eine played a sonata—then the Emperor said to
Sonate—dann sagte der kayser zu mir allons me “allons [let’s go!], hurry to it!”—I also
drauf los.—ich præludirte auch und spiellte preluded and played variations.—Then the
variazionen.—dann gab die Grosfürstin Grand Duchess gave us sonatas by Paisiello
Sonaten von Paesello [sic] her |: Miserable (miserably written in his hand) of which I
von seiner hand geschrieben :| daraus had to play the allegro and him the andante
musste ich die allegro und er die Andante and rondo.—Then we chose a theme from
und Rondò spiellen.—dann nammen wir ein them and worked it out on 2 piano fortes.—
thema daraus, und führten es auf 2 Piano Strange in this is that even though I had
forte aus.—Merkwürdig is dabey, daß ich für borrowed the piano forte of Countess Thun
mich das Piano forte der gräfin thun gelehnt, I but only played on it when I played
und aber nur |: als ich allein gespiellt :| alone.—
darauf gespiellt habe.—weil es den kayser Because the Emperor so willed it. And NB
also gewollt. und Nb: das andere war that the other one was out of tune and 3 keys
verstimmt und 3 Tasten blieben stecken.—es stuck.—it’s nothing, said the Emperor;;—I
25
 
thut nichts, sagte der kayser;;—ich nemme es thought as much and so put into it my best
so, und zwar auf der besten Seite, daß der side, as the Emperor knows already my art
kayser Meine kunst und Wissenschaft in der and science of music, and he has the right to
Musick schon kennt, und nur den fremden foreign taste.—
recht hat verkosten wollen.— Incidentally I have it from a very good
übrigens weis ich von sehr guter hand, daß source that he was right satisfied. The
er recht zufrieden war. der kayser war sehr Emperor was very gracious to me, and he
gnädig gegen mich, und hat vieles heimlich had lots to talk in secret with me.—He also
mit mir gesprochen.—hat auch von meiner spoke of my marriage—very pointed—
heyrath mit mir gesprochen.—ver wies— perhaps—what do you think?—one could
vielleicht—was glauben sie?—versuchen always try it [i.e. a court appointment]—
kann man es immer.—
mit Nächstem mehr.—leben sie wohl. ich More of this later.—Live well. I kiss your
küsse ihnen 1000mal die hände, und meine hands a 1000 times, and my dear sister I
liebeschwester umarme ich von ganzen embrace with my whole heart and am
herzen und bin Ewig dero eternally your most
gehorsamster Sohn obedient Son.
W: A: Mozart 37 W. A. Mozart
Table 1.3 Mozart to his father, “vienne ce 16 de Janvier 1782,” 4 days after previous reference.

Mozart once more attempts to divert Leopold’s suspicions about his behaviour in
Vienna with a description of his now rival, the tone suggesting that he is trying to
encourage a shared topic in which they can both gossip (“enough of the bad rumours
you’ve heard about me, let’s talk about this Clementi fellow”). Is Mozart growing
impatient with his father’s repeated questions regarding Clementi and the goings-on
of the competition? Or is he feeding Leopold’s paternal pride in gossiping about
other musicians? Leopold’s interest in Clementi might indicate even more strongly
the possibility that he did in fact own copies of the Clementi’s sonatas. But all this is
only speculation, for Leopold’s letters in this chain are missing.

The next reference to Clementi comes on 23 January, with Mozart discussing plans
for an academy concert. Wolfgang appears to tell Leopold that he will have a small
advantage over Clementi in that he will have scenes from Idomeneo performed, the
implication is that Clementi’s academy will not have singers (or an orchestra?) (see
Table 1.4). 38

                                                                                                 
37MBA, 659/36-65.
38Plantinga thinks that it was because Mozart was planning to improvise that gave him the “small
advantage,” but I disagree. Clementi was well-known as a master improviser, and would surely
feature this skill at an academy. Mozart himself testifies that Clementi “præludirte” in the course
of the competition. Plantinga, Clementi, 68.
26
 

—die gräfin Thun, Adamberger und andere —The Countess Thun, Adamberger, and
gute freunde rathen mir ich soll aus meiner other good friends of mine are advising me
Münchner Oper die Besten Sachen to select the best scenes from my Munich
herausziehen und sie alsdann in Theater auf- opera and have them performed in the
führen;; und nichts als ein Concert, und theatre;; and [for myself to play] nothing
zulezt eine Phantasie spiellen.— more than a concerto, and to close a fantasy.
Ich habe es auch schon im Sinne gehabt, und —
nun bin ich ganz dazu entschlossen, I have also already thought of this and now I
besonders weil Clementi auch eine am completely decided, particularly because
Accademie geben wird.—da hab ich folglich Clementi will also give an academy.—As a
schon einen kleinen avantage über ihn.— result I have already a small advantage over
besonders da ich es vielleicht zweymal geben him.—Particularly as I might give mine
kann. 39 twice.
Table 1.4 Mozart to his father, “Vienne ce 23 de Janvier 1782,” 7 days after previous reference.

Clementi stayed the entire winter in Vienna, from December 1781 to May 1782. The
next reference is a query to Mozart’s father, asking if he had seen any of Clementi’s
sonatas (see Table 1.5).

 
Clementi wird morgen wie ich höre von hier I hear that Clementi will leave from here
wieder abreisen;;—haben sie seine Sonaten tomorrow;;—have you then also seen his
also gesehen? 40 sonatas?
Table 1.5 Mozart to his father, “Vienne ce 8 de maj 1782,” 15 weeks after previous reference.

It is not clear if Mozart had seen Clementi’s sonatas and wants his father’s opinion
on them or whether he had at that stage not seen any of Clementi’s compositions
and wonders if Leopold has. The latter seems more likely, as it also comes across that
Mozart is seeking confirmation from his father that he has in fact seen Clementi’s
works. The only plausible European publications of Clementi’s that either father or
son would have seen in May of 1782 is Breitkopf & Härtel’s Op. 2 in 1781. 41

                                                                                                 
39 MBA, 660/13-20.
40 MBA, 673/54-55.
41 Barry S. Brook ed., The Breitkopf Thematic Catalogue: The Six Parts and Sixteen Supplements 1762-

1787 (New York: Dover Publications, 1966), 744. See also Neighbour, “A Manuscript from
Clementi’s Early Years,” 28.
27
 
In any case, the Wiener Zeitung announced the publication by Artaria of Clementi’s
Op. 7 on 25 September 1782. 42 This was followed eight months later by Op. 9 on 24
May 1783. So Mozart obviously procured or was able to consult a copy of either Op.
7 or 9 (which were weeks off the press) before penning the following (Table 1.6).

Nun muß ich meiner schwester wegen den Now I must have a few words to say to my
clementischen Sonaten ein paar worte sister about Clementi’s sonatas. That the
sagen;;—daß die komposizion davon nichts composition [of them] is worthless, anyone
heisst, wird Jeder der sie spiellt, oder hört, who plays or hears them will experience
selbst empfinden;;—Merkwürdige oder himself. Special or striking passages are
auffallende Pasagen [sic] sind keine darin absent except for sixths and octaves—and
ausgenommen die 6:ten und 8:ven—und mit these I ask my sister not to spend too much
diesen bitte ich meine schwester sich nicht time on them, lest she spoil her quiet, even
gar zu viel abzugeben, damit sie sich dadurch touch, and that her hand lose its natural
ihre ruhige, statte hatte nich verdirbt, und die lightness, flexibility, and flowing rapidity.—
hand ihre natürliche leichtigkeit, gelengigkeit, Because what is the end result?—She would
und fliessende geschwindigkeit dadurch nicht play sixths and octaves with the highest
verliert.—denn was hat man am Ende velocity (which no man can accomplish, not
davon?—sie soll die 6:ten und 8:ven in der even Clementi) she would only produce a
grösten geschwindigkeit machen, |: welches horrible hacking but nothing else in the
kein Mensch wird zuwegen bringen, selbst World!—Clementi is a Ciarlattano like all
clementi nicht :| so wird sie ein entsezliches southerners.—He writes on a Sonata Presto
Hackwerk hervorbringen, aber sonst weiter or even Prestissimo and Alla Breve—and plays
in der Welt nichts!—Clementi ist ein it [the sonata] Allegro in 4/4. I know it,
Ciarlattano wie alle Wälsche.—er schreibt because I have heard him. What he does
auf eine Sonate Presto auch wohl Prestißimo really well are his passages in thirds;; but he
und alla Breve.—und spiellt sie Allegro in 4/4 sweated over them day and night in
tackt;;—ich weis es, denn ich habe ihm London.—Apart from this he has nothing—
gehört.—was er recht gut macht sind seine absolutely nothing—not the slightest
3:ten Paßagen;; er hat aber in London Tag und expression or taste—still less, feeling.—
Nacht darüber geschwizt;;—ausser diesem
hat er aber nichts—gar nichts—nicht den
geringsten vortrag, noch geschmack,—viel
weniger Empfindung.— 43
Table 1.6 Mozart to his father, “Vienne ce 7 Juin 1783,” 13 months after previous reference.

This letter was sent to Leopold at a tense time in the summer when Mozart and the
heavily pregnant Constanze were attempting to plan a bridal visit to Salzburg, where
Leopold and Nannerl would meet Constanze for the first time. In fact, ten days after
this letter was penned, their first child, Raimund Leopold, was born. It is clear from
the letters that Mozart was reluctant to leave Vienna. He suggested to Leopold in

                                                                                                 
42 Alan Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of the Works of Muzio Clementi (Tutzing: Schneider, 1967), 43, 44.
43 MBA, 750/24-41.
28
 
May that they meet instead in Munich. Wolfgang was worried about the possibility of
being arrested in Salzburg as he had never been formally discharged from
Colloredo’s service. 44 He also saw his workload in Vienna increase, and wrote on 5
July that they were now planning to travel to Salzburg in September. That Leopold
must have understood these as groundless excuses is clear from the context of letters
from Mozart in July;; the father suggested baldly that the real reason for the delays
was that Wolfgang did not wish to see his father and sister. 45 By 29 July, Mozart and
Constanze were in Salzburg, having presumably left their newborn infant with a wet
nurse in Vienna. The child died on 19 August, while the couple was still in
Salzburg. 46

One of the running themes in the Mozart family correspondence around 1783 are
Nannerl and Leopold’s continuous requests for keyboard music, more specifically
that of Mozart’s. 47 In February, for example, Mozart had sent to Nannerl cadenzas
and Eingänge to the concertos in D K. 175 and in E-flat, K. 271. It is entirely possible
that in a now lost letter, Nannerl has asked if Mozart could bring or send her
Clementi’s latest sonatas. This kind of request might also explain why Mozart begins
with an account of Clementi’s sonatas and not Clementi’s playing style, as was the case
before.

We have determined that the only sonatas Mozart could have possibly viewed to
make such a judgment in June 1783 are those of Op. 2 (unlikely, given their Berlin
provenance), Op. 7, or Op. 9. Given that Artaria, who published Clementi’s Op. 7
and 9 in Vienna, had established a working relationship with Mozart in December
1781 with the publication of the six sonatas for piano and violin (K. 296, 376-380), it
could be possible that the firm had sent Mozart a copy of either Op. 7 or 9 or both,
as they had done with Haydn around the same time. A letter from Haydn to Artaria
dated 18 June 1783 (11 days after Mozart’s letter of Table 1.6) has the following:
“For the keyboard sonatas of Clementi, I give you many thanks, they are very
                                                                                                 
44 MBA, 747.
45 For further details see Halliwell, The Mozart Family, 401.
46 Ibid., 425.
47 Ibid., 402.
29
 
beautiful. If the author is in Vienna, please give him my compliments if the occasion
arises.” 48

What is unusual about Mozart’s assessment of Clementi’s printed sonatas is his


singling out of the passages in sixths and octaves—only these are “special or
striking.” Octave passages abound especially in Op. 7 No. 2/ii, Op. 7 No. 3/iii and,
to a lesser extent, Op. 9 No. 3/i. Remarkable is the novel texture in the central
section of the last (second) movement of Op. 7 No. 2, in which the left hand is
instructed to remain glued to the instrument (“il Basso sempre legato”) whilst the
right hand jumps around in consecutive octaves (see Ex. 1.1).

This remarkable outburst of minore muscularity is indeed difficult to perform. As the


central “trio”-like section in an already eccentric minuet-and-trio-like movement, one
might expect an unusual turn at this point, which was, as Elisabeth Le Guin has
pointed out, “a conventional site of alterity.” 49 The octave excursion is sandwiched
between two accounts of an “Allegretto con Espressione” which are punctuated with
consecutive octaves and strange, thick textures with fortissimi, pianissimi, and sforzandi.
Slurs and staccatos appear in formulations that mandate unusual hand positions and
unknown fingerings. For Mozart, whose left hand in particular was regularly praised
as being unusually strong, this passage might have presented a considerable technical
challenge. 50 A prima vista read-through on a Viennese instrument must indeed have
brought him to the conclusion that spending any time on these passages would
promote nothing more than a “horrible hacking.” 51 Mozart had done his practice as a
boy;; as an adult he seems to have disdained the thought of practising these unusual,
awkward, and yet fascinating passages.
                                                                                                 
48 “Für die Clavier Sonaten v. Clementi sage ich verbundensten dank, Sie sind sehr schön. solte

der Verfasser in Wienn seyn, so bitte bey gelegenheit an den selben mein Compliment.” Dénes
Bartha and H.C. Robbins Landon, eds., Joseph Haydn: Gesammelte Briefe und Aufzeichnungen (Kassel:
Bärenreiter, 1965), 128-9. Did Haydn request them or were they a gift?
49 Elisabeth Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body: An Essay in Carnal Musicology (Berkeley: University of

Califronia Press, 2006) 146.


50 On Mozart’s left hand, see Robert W. Gutman, Mozart: A Cultural Biography (New York:

Harcourt Brace & Co, 1999), 582.


51 This “horrible hacking” would have been heightened on instruments Mozart was familiar with

at the time, such as the Tangentenflügel or a Viennese fortepiano with Stossmechanik and lightly
leathered hammers.
30
 

More unusual is Mozart’s references to sixths. The only movement amongst all of
the sonatas in both sets that utilize extended passages of consecutive sixths is the
opening Allegro of Op. 7 No. 2 (you can see them at the close of Ex. 1.2). Sixths
alternate with thirds in passages in the Allegro Assai of Op. 9 No. 2 as well briefly in
the texturally rich first movement of Op. 7 No. 2.;; the instances of the former might
have particularly struck Mozart as a fairly novel texture. Mozart concedes that
Clementi does thirds “recht gut.” Clementi asks for the thirds in Op. 7 to be smooth,
emphasizing this kind of articulation with an overreaching slur and the word “legate”
(see Ex. 1.2). Also note the slurs over the parallel sixths at the close. From the wealth
of articulation markings on this page, few of them are choppy or short in the manner
Mozart suggests;; rather there is a preoccupation with varying degrees of legato
texture. The fingers of the performer are throughout generally directed to be in close
contact with the keyboard.

In any case, Mozart warns his sister away from Clementi’s sonatas. He emphasizes
the odious and unnatural practice that Clementi had to go through to play these
passages and contrasts it with the “natural” lightness of Nannerl’s own technique. In
closing, he reiterates to Leopold for the third time his damning critique on
Clementi’s lack of expression and feeling. This is the last comment on Clementi from
Wolfgang Mozart in the Mozart family correspondence.
31
 

 
Example 1.1 A facsimile of the “trio” section of the last movement of Clementi’s Op. 7 No. 2, an
example of the kind of octaves that Mozart mentions in his letter of 7 June 1783. The Artaria print
was not available;; this is from a London print of around 1784, “printed for the author.”
32
 

 
Example 1.2 A facsimile of the end of the exposition of Clementi’s Op. 7 No. 2. The Artaria print
was not available;; this is from a London print of around 1784, “printed for the author.”

The next reference comes less than three years later, and it concerns Leopold’s
protégé, Heinrich Wilhelm Marchand (1769-1812). Many writers have seen Heinrich
33
 
and his sister Gretl (Maria Margarethe Marchand, 1768-1800), whom Leopold also
taught, as Wolfgang and Nannerl substitutes. 52 With Heinrich and Gretl, Leopold
was perhaps hoping to recreate the spectacular financial successes he remembered
from his old touring days with his own children. He mentions to Nannerl that
Heinrich has been practicing (see Table 1.7).

zu meinem Vergnügen muß die sagen, daß It is my pleasure to say that Heinrich must
der Heinrich erstaunlich fleisig muß exerciert have practiced extremely hard, for you will
haben, denn du wirst dich verwundern, wenn be amazed when you hear him play your
du ihn wirst die Fantasie, und Sonata von brother’s fantasia and sonata [K. 475/475],
deinem Bruder, die dir geschikt habe, und er which I sent you and which he also has, and
auch hier hat, und die Sonaten vom Clementi also Clementi’s sonatas. He played them on
spielen hören. er spielte sie auf dem Herr von Hofstetten’s fortepiano so
Fortepiano beym H: v. Hofstetten so excellently that my heart laughed.
vortreflich daß mir das Herz lachte. 53
Table 1.7 Leopold to his daughter, “München den [15.] Hornung [February] 1786.”

 
Despite his son’s much earlier damning assessment, Leopold has in fact given the
seventeen year-old Marchand some Clementi works to learn and play. Both
performer and teacher think that they stand up to Wolfgang’s enough to be featured
side-by-side. By 1786, the potential works that Marchand could have played include
Clementi’s Op. 2, 7, and 9 but also 10, which had been advertised in the Wiener
Zeitung on 5 July 1783. 54 A month later he asks for Nannerl to send back to him some
Clementi sonatas that she had borrowed. Like Leopold, Nannerl has completely
ignored her brother’s advice to keep away from these pieces (see Table 1.8).

Schicke mir auch die Sonaten vom Clementi Send me the Sonatas by Clementi herein, that
herein, die wir vom Bullinger haben. 55 we have by Bullinger.
Table 1.8 Leopold to his daughter, “Salzb: den 23ten März 1786.”

                                                                                                 
52 For more on the Marchands, see the detailed accounts in Halliwell, The Mozart Family. Gutman
writes that “Heinrich would become a surrogate Wolfgang, in time even traveling with Leopold
and playing concerts en route.” Mozart: A Cultural Biography, 532. See also Maynard Soloman,
Mozart: A Life (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 387 ff.
53 MBA, 932/24-29.
54 Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 46.
55 MBA, 943/88-89. For more on Bullinger, see The Cambridge Mozart Encyclopedia, ed. Cliff Eisen

and Simon P. Keefe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 54-55.


34
 
Concerned that copies of the Clementi sonatas would not go astray in the copies that
were being passed from Nannerl in St. Gilgen and Leopold in Salzburg, Leopold
writes again to Nannerl in late 1786 and early 1787 (see Tables 1.9 and 1.10).
Clementi appears to be popularly featured among the precious copies of sonatas that
were shared around in the small domestic keyboard culture revolving around
Leopold in Salzburg and Nannerl in St. Gilgen.

H: Egedacher hatte mir schon zu meinem Herr Egedacher had already written to me
Namenstag wegen der Sonaten geschrieben, on my name-day because of the sonatas that
die du noch hast: ich vergas immer darauf dir you have: I kept forgetting to report it to
es zu melden;; sie müssen also das erste seyn, you: they must therefore be the first things
was du schreibst, wegen Heinrichs sachen you write [copy out];; regarding Heinrich’s
hat es keine Eyle, denn er hat erst itzt wider things [sonatas], there’s no hurry, for he only
anderer Sonaten vom Clementi aus München now again received other sonatas of
bekommen, die ganz entsetzlich schwer sind, Clementi from Munich, which are awfully
und er genug daran zu exercieren hat. 56 difficult, and in them he has enough to
practice.
Table 1.9 Leopold to his daughter, “Salz: den 8ten Decemb: 1786.”

Als heute um 2 uhr, ehe ich ausgieng, den Today at 2 o’ clock, before leaving, I
Brief sammt dem Geld erhielt, und durchlas, received and the read through the letter with
wunderte ich mich sehr, daß kein Wort vom the money, I wondered very much that there
H: Bruder vom Strobl darinn stand. Ich was no word therein from the brother of
hoffe doch er wird die dir zugehörigen und Herr Strobl. I rather hope that he will have
ihm übergebenen Sonaten vom Clementi dir given you the sonatas of Clementi that belong
eingehändiget haben? 57 to you and that you had given to him?
Table 1.10 Leopold to his daughter, “Salzb: den 26ten Jenner 1787.”

 
We can see already that it is a mistake to assume that Mozart’s assessment of
Clementi is synonymous with that of any German-speaking keyboard community,
either in Vienna or Salzburg. Mozart’s opinions are solitary and unusual, enough to
warrant seeking extra-musical reasons for his calumny. They were probably
motivated by jealousy and anxiety. They reveal his racist and syllogistic essentialism
(“like all Italians, he is a charlatan;;” “like all charlatans, he is an Italian”) and
oppressive views regarding the performance—even, it seems, a casual perusal—of
difficult music by his sister. Like the goings-on of the rich castrati that Mozart often
                                                                                                 
56 MBA, 1010/61-66.
57 MBA, 1026, 42-46.In a later letter [MBA, 1027, 34-35] Leopold writes “Daß H: Strobler die
[Clementi] Sonaten vergessen wo er sie hingethann, ist kein Wunder, den ohne Rausch ist er
sicher nicht schlaffen gegangen.” (“That Herr Strobler has forgotten where he put the sonatas is
no wonder;; because he wouldn’t have gone to bed without being drunk.”)
35
 
wrote about, Clementi is painted by Mozart as someone who is out to manipulate a
captivated public by deceitful means.

Before going into more detail about Clementi’s charlatanry (a concept which I also
want to interpret in a more positive light) we should explore Mozart’s dualistic
thinking regarding the performance of difficulties, which does indeed have a rich
historical background.

“Virtuosity” vs. “Difficulty”

I have been deliberately attempting to employ the word “difficulty” rather than
“virtuosity” as much as possible in my discussions so far, as it was the term that was
used in English when Clementi was establishing himself as a performer, composer,
and pedagogue. Consider Burney’s discussion of these kinds of textures in 1789 (the
context is a discussion of difficulties in the keyboard music of John Bull):

A new, but similar difficulty, has lately been devised for keyed-instruments, in the
rapid divisions for one hand, in octaves, which great application only can vanquish.
The execution of long and rapid divisions of thirds and sixths, and even of common
chords, is not frequently wanted in modern Music, and therefore they would baffle
and embarrass the greatest performers, who have not worked at such passages with
unremitting labour. 58

The concept of difficulty arises again in the context of idiomatic writing for different
instruments. “What is natural and easy on one instrument,” Burney writes, “is often
not only difficult but impracticable on an other [sic].” Certain passages which are
easy on one instrument (like arpeggios on the violin and harpsichord) are “almost
impossible” on the oboe and the flute. Instruments in which the pitch is determined
by the performer, like the violin, flute, and oboe, are more difficult than “keyed-
instruments, where the player is neither answerable for the goodness of the tone nor
truth of intonation.” But “there are difficulties on the harpsichord of another kind
[...] such as the two hands playing two different parts in dissimilar motion at once,

                                                                                                 
58Charles Burney, A General History of Music: From the Earliest Ages to the Present Period (1789), ed.
Frank Mercer, Vol. 2 (New York: Dover Publications, 1957), 97.
36
 
and often three or four parts in dissimilar motion at once, and often three or four
parts with each hand.” 59 Although Burney is describing strictly contrapuntal textures
found in il stilo antico, his description (“three or four parts with each hand”) can also
be applied to the difficult passages that contemporaries encountered in Clementi’s
sonatas of the 1780s.

Although “virtuoso” was current around this time, the cognates of “virtuosity” and
“virtuosic” do not yet appear in musical discourse. Susan Bernstein is slightly
misleading when she says that the “terms virtuoso and virtuosity first came to refer
specifically to music in the eighteenth century, in particular to the special ‘devotion to
[...] technique in playing and singing.’” 60 Presumably she is quoting the Oxford English
Dictionary, which has an entry under “virtuoso” that reads “One who has special
knowledge or skill in music;; spec., in modern use, one who excels in, or devotes
special attention to, technique in playing or singing,” and indeed, “virtuoso” with
that definition is found in English, French, and German literature of the eighteenth
century. 61 But “virtuosity” or “virtuosic” do not appear in any English literature that
relate to musical matters in the eighteenth century.

Although musicians are sometimes called “virtuosos” there is no concept yet for
music that is somehow solely the provenance of the virtuoso. The earliest usage of
“virtuosity” relating to music in the English language is 1865, according to both the
Oxford English Dictionary and the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary. 62
The latter has a list of terms for “power and skill in performing music” with their
respective termini a quo (see Table 1.11).

                                                                                                 
59 Burney, A General History of Music, Vol. 2, 9-10.
60 Susan Bernstein, Virtuosity of the Nineteenth Century: Performing Music and Language in Heine, Liszt,
and Baudelaire (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 12.
61 “Virtuoso” in The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 1989, OED Online, Oxford University Press.

<http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/entry/50278132> The Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English


Dictionary [hereafter HTOED]: edited by Christian Kay et al. (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2009) gives a terminus a quo of this usage of 1743.
62 “Virtuosity” in The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 1989, OED Online, Oxford University

Press. <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/entry/50278131>;; HTOED, 03.11.03.01.06|0.1 (n)


“Performing music, power & skill in.”
37
 
Concept terminus a quo
Conveyance 1597
Execution 1751ĺ
Musicality 1853ĺ
Executancy 1858, 1866
Virtuosity 1865ĺ
Musicianship 1867ĺ
Table 1.11 Synonymous terms relating to “power and skill in performing music” for the English
language (from HTOED, 2009). The arrow indicates continued evidence of usage after that date. 63

The Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary has been described as “the most
important English dictionary compiled in the second half of the twentieth century. 64”
A monumental work that has taken five decades to complete, it is the first historical
thesaurus ever produced in any language. As a reviewer has explained, “rather than
acting as a word-prompt for the verbally challenged, it is intended to allow the user
to ascertain, for any given period, ‘the exact state of the vocabulary (i.e. the “lexical
system”) which existed at this time.’” 65 This is an immense tool for scholars seeking
to establish what words, concepts, and ideas were circulating at any given historical
period in the history of English-speaking cultures.

The first usage of “virtuosity” in 1865 as determined by the editors of the Historical
Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary underlines its unfamiliarity and newness. “For
this sentiment, this type of art, as applied to matters musical, there is a special name.
It is called ‘virtuosity.’” 66 Certainly, “execution” surfaces regularly in English in
reference to a musician’s skill and dexterity at difficult passages, as in “her neat
execution,” but “her virtuosity” is a phrase never encountered. 67 The word’s pre-

                                                                                                 
63 HTOED, 03.11.03.01.06|0.1 (n) “Performing music, power & skill in.”
64 Arleta Adamska-Salaciak, Review of the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary,
International Journal of Lexicography 23/2 (2010): 227.
65 Charlotte Brewer, Review of the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary, Review of

English Studies 61/252 (2010): 801.


66 Reader: A Review of Literature, Science and Art 3 (1865): 321. The article was reprinted in The

Musical World 51 (1873): 450-451.


67 For just one example of “neat execution,” Burney’s discussion of difficulty ends thus: “Of a

good shake, a sweet tone, and neat execution, almost every hearer can judge, but whether the
Music is good or bad, the passages hard or easy, too much or too little embellished by the player,
science and experience only can determine.” Burney, General History of Music, Vol. 2, 9. Reviewers
used it constantly: “The 4th. var. is masterly, bold and effective, and excellent practice for the
38
 
1865 use only refers to manliness (c. 1470), love or study of the arts (1673ĺ) or
collectively to all the arts (1831ĺ). 68 “Virtuosoship” is as close as possible to
“virtuosic” in that it meant “like a virtuoso.” The Oxford English Dictionary defines it
as “the state or condition of being a virtuoso;; the profession of a virtuoso.” Its usage,
however, is not linked to music. First dating from around 1711, the word is tethered
to the world of philosophy, where the virtuoso was a person of “virtù” (virtue) and
excellence. 69

Another reason I avoid the term as much as is practicable in reference to late


eighteenth-century music is that by using the words “virtuosic” and “virtuosity” we
underline a kind of public persona that had not yet appeared in the 1780s and 90s.
“Virtuosic” or “virtuosity” call attention to the subject (the virtuoso) and not the
object (the difficult stuff itself), which, for discussions of eighteenth-century music,
seems to be better served by a word like “execution.” Without commenting on the
niceties of etymology, August Kahlert described in 1842 the radical change that had
taken place:

The result amounts to saying that if before one wanted compositions by the masters
explained and called into consciousness through the delivery of a virtuoso, now the
interest is reversed, and one would much rather admire the skill of the individual.
From the earlier perspective it was the object, but it is now the person that becomes
the main thing. 70

A case in point, in fact, is Nannerl and Leopold’s repeatedly asking Mozart his views
on Clementi’s sonatas and not about him. Mozart bolsters his view on the uselessness

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
acquirement of neat execution.” Anon., Review of “Maience Walse,” The European Magaize and
London Review 66 (1814): 429.
68 HTOED, 02.02.31.07, 03.11.03.00|13 and 0.3.11.03.00|13.02.01.
69 “Virtuosoship,” The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 1989, OED Online, Oxford University

Press. <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/entry/ 50278133> Gerhard speaks to the virtuoso


concept in English philosophy in “Die Erhabenheit des Virtuosen” in London und der Klassizismus
in der Musik, 57-78.
70 Quoted in Gramit, Cultivating Music, 142. August Kahlert, “Das Concertwesen der Gegenwart,”

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 16 (1842): 106: “Das Ergebniß läuft darauf hinaus, daß, wenn man früher
Compositionen der Meister durch den Vortrag eines Virtuosen erläutert und ins Bewußtsein
gerufen haben wollte, jetzt das Interesse sich umkehrt, und man vielmehr die Geschicklichkeit
des Einzelnen bewundern will. Auf den frühern Standpuncte war die Sache, jetzt wird die Person
die Hauptsache.”
39
 
of the sonatas with powerful appeals to his experience of the supposed charlatan at
the keyboard: “Ich weis es, denn ich habe ihm gehört.” But in the end Mozart’s
description of Clementi’s playing style does not deter Nannerl and Leopold in their
interest. In this case, these protestations probably said more to them about
Wolfgang’s behaviour than it did about Clementi’s sonatas (or Clementi himself). 71

Although it cannot be pinned down in the same way, the invention of “virtuosity” of
1865 can be paralleled with the invention of “homo-sexualilty” in 1892 by Charles
Gilbert Chaddock. Michel Foucault teased out the problematic connections between
sexuality and the physical and biological sciences and famously treated it instead as
“the set of effects produced in bodies, behaviours, and social relations by a certain
deployment [of] a complex political technology.” 72 David Halperin has taken
Foucault’s work further, pointing out the invention of “homo-sexuality” and noting
that, in real terms, “before 1892 there was no homosexuality, only sexual
inversion.” 73 Very much along the lines of Foucault, I am suggesting that virtuosity,
in many respects, is as much a cultural construct as the concepts homosexuality or
heterosexuality are. Before 1865 there was no virtuosity in music, only difficulty.

Virtuosos might have been those who performed difficult music more than most,
but difficult music was not “virtuosic” in the sense (as might be the case today) that
it was understood to be the sole prerogative of the professional musician (i.e. a
virtuoso). As such it is potentially misleading to more or less strictly bifurcate the
printed products of English keyboard culture into works destined for amateurs (non-
virtuosic) and works destined for professionals (virtuosic). It is certainly accurate to
say that works that contained difficult passages were more challenging for amateurs
than for professionals, but this should not obscure the fact that amateurs purchased
or borrowed many copies of Clementi’s “Favourite Octave Lesson,” for example.
James Parakilas and Gretchen A. Wheelock have noted before this Janus-like nature
                                                                                                 
71 Mozart had earlier expressed his disdain of difficulties to his father in 1777, discussing the
violinist Ignaz Fränzl: “Sie wissen daß ich kein grosser liebhaber von schwierigkeiten bin.” (“You
know how I am no great lover of difficulties.”) MBA, 377, 21-22.
72 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality. Volume I: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New

York: Vintage Books, 1990), 127.


73 David M. Halperin, One Hundred Years of Homosexuality (New York: Routledge, 1990), 15.
40
 
of Clementi’s technical prowess;; his sonatas were testaments of the brilliance of the
author’s own concert performances, a brilliance which was then reflected back upon
the owners of the works in their own efforts. Like the scowling busts of composers
that still adorn pianos in homes across the world, Clementi’s difficulties also look the
performer squarely in the eye, “challenging the general run of keyboard players to
practice until they could play them.” 74

Getting rid of the non-native and anachronistic ideological baggage of “virtuosity,”


with its emphasis on a particular and fairly rare kind of male professional, might also
aid us in better understanding eighteenth-century observations like the following:

Indeed, we should suppose that the pieces of Bull were composed to be tried, not
played;; for private practice, not public use;; as they surpass every idea of difficulty
that can be formed from the lessons of Handel, Scarlatti, Sebastian Bach;; or in more
modern times, Emanuel Bach, Müthel, and Clementi. 75

Burney is trying to get his head around the rhythmically and texturally complex
keyboard pieces of Bull. He has already candidly admitted at the beginning of his
discussion that “[t]hough I should greatly admire the hand, as well as patience, of any
one capable of playing his compositions, yet as Music, they would afford me no kind
of pleasure: Ce sont des notes & rien que des notes;; there is nothing in them which excites
rapture.” 76 But what is interesting about Burney’s discussion is that he always tries to
work out who this music was intended for and what its purpose was. He concedes
that “they fed the ear with pure and simple harmony in a manner which none but
keyed-instruments could effect” and posits that “perhaps their favour with
professional musicians was not a little augmented, by the learning of their contexture,
and difficulty of execution.” 77 But because no modern work seems to have these
kinds of textures (for rhythmic complexity, Bull was certainly unmatched, see Ex.
1.3), Burney concludes that as pieces they must have only been tried, not played.
Burney is assuming a culture of use that resembles his own and the difficulty of the

                                                                                                 
74 Parakilas and Wheelock, “Piano Revolutions,” 81.
75 Burney, General History of Music, Vol. 2, 98.
76 Ibid., 96.
77 Ibid., 98.
41
 
pieces interrupts and upsets this seemingly natural inclination for the works’ intended
purpose, i.e. as things to be performed or consumed. Sir John Hawkins is similarly
inclined to bypass an analysis of musical text in preference for a performer-oriented
viewpoint. In his discussion of Bull he digresses in a long footnote on the amazing
powers of “Signora Margarita De L’Pine”, Dr. Pepusch’s wife, who with “unwearied
application” was able to perform them. He even notes the evidence of the heavy use
of score she played from. 78 Obviously both writers knew what their readership
expected and so accented accounts of the performative power of the works and not
their textual stuff. So it is noteworthy that both writers do not speak of what the late
nineteenth century and us today would have understood of as virtuosity, but rather
instead of “difficulty of execution.”

Elisabeth Le Guin notes that in “interpreting virtuosity as grotesquerie, automatism,


or foreignness, one accomplishes a certain distancing from it, a location of its
seductive wonders into categories where human feeling is presumed to be distorted
or void.” 79 Mozart, like others, uses this automatism analogy and refers to Clementi
as a “Mechanicus.” What was so seductive about difficult music and its performance
and why was it seen as so threatening?

                                                                                                 
78 Sir John Hawkins, A General History of the Science and Practice of Music [1776] (New York: Dover
Publications, 1963), 481.
79 Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 138.
42
 

 
Example 1.3 Charles Burney’s examples of “Dr. Bull’s difficult Passages” from A General History of
Music: From the Earliest Ages to the Present Period (1789), Vol. 2, 115.
43
 
Cultural and Rhetorical Responses to Difficult Music

Mozart’s conceptualization of the “technique contra expression” dichotomy (or, in


Mozart’s words, “Mechanicus” contra “Empfindung”) has an ancient history. Many of
the diatribes against overt displays of technical excellence in the West are legitimized
by appeals to rhetorical, social, and hierarchical traditions. The low social status of
the musician throughout much of Western history has meant that any astounding
excellence in the craft would be marginalized at best. Distinguishing the noble
aristocrat’s interest in music from the lowly tricks of the professional virtuoso,
Aristotle writes that “the pupil shall not struggle to acquire the degree of skill that is
needed for professional competitions, or to master those peculiar and sensational
pieces of music which have begun to penetrate the competitions and have even
affected education.” 80 According to Plutarch, Philip once admonished a young
Alexander for playing so charmingly and skilfully, much in the same vein: “Are you
not ashamed to pluck the strings so well?” 81 Only a professional should play as
compellingly. Boethius echoed a similar sentiment that privileged the products of the
mind over the mere exertions of the body: “How much nobler is the study of music
as a rational science than as a laborious skill of manufacturing sounds!” 82

Analogously, in oratorical terms, excessive attention to florid figures and theatrical


embellishments threatened the legitimacy of the legal process itself. Fénelon asks his
reader:

Or, in a Trial at Law, where your Estate, or your Life were at stake, what would you
think of your Lawyer, if he should play the Wit in your Defense, and fill his Pleading
with Flowers of Rhetoric and quaint Turns, instead of arguing with Gravity, strength
of Reason, and Earnestness, to gain your Cause? 83

                                                                                                 
80 Aristotle, The Politics, quoted in Piero Weiss and Richard Taruskin, Music in the Western World: A
History in Documents (Belmont: Schirmer, 1984), 11.
81 Plutarch, The Life of Pericles, quoted in Geert Roskam and Luc Van der Stockt, Virtues for the

People: Aspects of Plutarchan Ethics (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011), 33.
82 Boethius, The Principles quoted in Weiss and Taruskin, Music in the Western World, 37.
83 François de Salignac de La Mothe-Fénelon, Dialogues on the Eloquence of the Pulpit [1715] in The

Young Preacher’s Manual (Boston: Charles Ewer, 1819), 68.


44
 
Musical treatises that explicitly link rhetoric and music similarly argue in the same
vein. Music’s main goal is to move the passions and so that which only astounds us
merely tickles the fancy and serves no higher purpose or function. 84

Quantz cautions that:

Your principal goal must always be the expression of the [correct] passion, and not
quick playing. With art a musical machine could be constructed that would play
certain pieces with a speed and exactitude so remarkable that nobody could equal it
either with his fingers or with words [la langue]. Indeed it would excite admiration,
but it would never touch us;; and after having heard it once or twice, and understood
its construction, one would cease to admire it. If one wants to touch and therefore
flatter the ear in the allegro, it is necessary to truly play each piece with a suitable
fire;; one should never rush the movement, because the piece would then lose
everything in its approval. 85

Here, in concentrated form, are all the contemporary Enlightenment concerns.


Expression is paramount. Difficult music is paradoxically facile as it could easily be
reproduced by a musical machine or automaton and so is fundamentally inhuman.
Agility and velocity only astonish, but do not move us.

The polarization of technique contra expression was one of the defining features of
eighteenth-century musical aesthetics. 86 In the pamphleteering of the mid-century
Querelle, the dichotomy of “French = expression” and “Italian = virtuosity” became a

                                                                                                 
84 For more on the “boundaries between substance and ornament” in the ancient world see
Sander Goldberg, “Performing Theory: Variations on a theme by Quintilian,” in Haydn and the
Performance of Rhetoric, ed. Tom Beghin and Sander Goldberg (Chicago: Chicago University Press,
2007), 39-60.
85 Quantz, XII § 11. “Il faut toujours avoir pour but la passion qu’on doit exprimer, & ne pas se

proposer seulement de jouer vite. L’art pourrait bien inventer une machine musicale, qui joueroit
certaines piéces avec une vitesse & une exactitude si singuliére, que personne ne seroit capable
d’en faire de même, ni avec les doigts ni avec la langue. On admireroit cela;; mais on n’en seroit
jamais touché, & après qu’on auroit entendu une pareille chose une ou deux fois, & qu’on auroit
par quel moyen cela s’exécute;; on cesseroit de l’admirer. Si l’on veut donc toucher & flatter
l’oreille dans l’Allegro, il faut à la vérité jouer chaque piéce avec un feu convenable;; mais il n’en
faut jamais précipiter le mouvement, parceque la piéce en perdroit tout son agrément.” Johann
Joachim Quantz, Essai d’une Methode pour apprendre à jouer de la Flute Traversiere (Berlin: Chretien
Frederic Voss, 1752).
86 “It would not be off the mark to say that performance, and especially performance as

personified in the virtuoso, was one of the most intense cultural preoccupations of Boccherini’s
day.” Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 134.
45
 
trope in a new pan-European musical discourse. 87 The protagonist in Diderot’s Neveu
de Rameau, whose quicksilver mimicry of instruments, actors, singers, and whores
attracts an enormous audience in a Parisian café, is a virtuoso of the highest order.
His burgeoning performative energy is reflected in the swelling ranks of his audience
as he awes all with his mimetic brilliance. He sweats, sways, jerks, and expostulates in
extreme contrasts. The narrator is suspicious of all these physical exertions: “Est-ce
ironie, ou vérite? [Is this irony, or truthfulness?]” 88 The “virtuoso” here highlights
important Enlightenment questions regarding seeming and being.

In the realm of music scholarship, C. P. E Bach seems to foreground the dilemma by


choosing the subject of “technique contra expression” to introduce his chapter on
delivery, the opening sentence of which reads: “It is undoubtedly a disadvantage
when a keyboard player’s strength is merely playing fast.” One might be able perform
all kinds of technical difficulties but technicians such as these “surprise the ear
without satisfying it and numb the mind without moving it.” 89 C. P. E. Bach is
strangely alone in being more sympathetic to technicians than most. (Perhaps the
result of years of service under a monarch whose musical skills and taste he might
have openly questioned, given the chance?)

But do not assume that I herewith want to justify those lazy and stiff hands who
favour us in putting us to sleep, whose cantabile is a pretence under which the
instrument is not enlivened, whose tiresome delivery of their yawning ideas deserves
far greater censure than that addressed to the swift players. At least the latter are still
capable of improvement;; their fire can be damped by explicitly slowing their speed.
The opposite remedy is either not at all or only somewhat applicable to the
hypochondriac disposition which is disclosed, to our disgust, by dull fingers. 90

                                                                                                 
87 Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 137.
88 Diderot, Le Neveu de Rameau, 1762. Accessed online
<http://www.mala.bc.ca/~Johnstoi/diderot/rameau_F.htm>
89 C. P. E. Bach, III, § 1. “Es ist unstreitig ein Vorurtheil, als wenn die Stärcke eines Clavieristen

in der blossen Geschwindigkeit bestände. […] Sie überraschen das Ohr, ohne es zu vergnügen,
und betäuben den Verstand, ohne ihm genug zu thun.” Carl Philip Emanuel Bach, Versuch über
die Wahre Art, das Clavier zu spielen [1753], (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1994).
90 Ibid. “Doch halte man nicht dafür, als ob ich hiemit diejenigen trägen und steiffen Hände

rechtfertigen will, die einen aus Gefälligkeit einschläfern, die unter dem Vorwande des sangbaren
das Instrument nicht zu beleben wissen, und durch den verdrießlichen Vortrag ihrer gähnenden
Einfälle noch weit mehrere Vorwürfe als die geschwinden Spieler verdienen. Diese letztern sind
zum wenigsten noch der Verbesserung fähig;; ihr Feuer kan gedämpfet werden, wenn man sie
ausdrücklich zur Langsamkeit anhält, da das hypochondrische Wesen, das aus den matten
46
 

Even if C. P. E. Bach recognizes with a professional’s eye the worth in technical


proficiency (in fact the opposite of this proficiency is “disgust” [Eckel]) the
conclusion still strongly revolves around a pro-Empfindung, anti-Mechanicus agenda,
which we find expressed in other treatises of the time. 91

Repeated over and over is the paradox—strange to us today—that it was perceived


to be easier to become a virtuoso than a heartfelt musician capable of moving one and
all in a sublime manner because all one had to do was learn, physicalize, and repeat
over and over, like an automaton. Stirring performances are brought about only by
musicians with “good heads, willing to subject themselves to certain intelligent rules
and perform their pieces accordingly.” 92 Textual authority—what Bach elsewhere
calls “content” (Inhalt)—is here the final arbiter of aesthetic experience. 93 But should
we, like C. P. E. Bach, be content with this explanation? Does it reflect accurately the
complexity of the eighteenth-century musical experience?

Tom Beghin and Sander M. Goldberg’s Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric has shown
a remarkable sensitivity to the cultural conundrums understood to be inherent in
musical performance and reception in the eighteenth century. 94 Contributors to this
volume make dedicated efforts to place eighteenth-century music into the social
context of the salon (Le Guin), understand different ways of listening and
understanding musical works (Bonds), as well as refine the many ways—and not only
“musical” ones—in which the eighteenth-century performer interacted with a
musical score (Somfai, Beghin).

Elisabeth Le Guin also takes the performer’s angle in her 2006 publication,
Boccherini’s Body: An Essay in Carnal Musicology. Speaking of Boccherini’s penchant for
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
Fingern bis zum Eckel hervorblicket, wohl wenig oder gar nicht durch das Gegentheil zu heben
ist.”
91 See Leopold Mozart XII § 2, for example. Gründliche Violinschule [1787], (Leipzig: Deutscher

Verlag für Musick, 1966).


92 C. P. E. Bach, III, § 1. “[…] da zu dem rührenden Spielen gute Köpfe erfodert werden, die sich

gewissen vernünftigen Regeln zu unterwerfen und darnach ihre Stücke vorzutragen fähig sind.”
93 I am grateful to Prof. Beghin for this textual insight.
94 Beghin and Goldberg, eds., Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric.
47
 
repeating material that is “not properly speaking thematic at all, but transitional,” Le
Guin posits that Boccherini “resorted to his hands’ memory of what had worked well
in a similar place before—and then, remarkably, he wrote it down.” 95 Le Guin
proposes the concept of idiom as an “alternative to teleological models of artistic
development” noting that in certain cases “idiom is the shaping force in creation, as
much as or more than any putative progress toward innovation, or greater
complexity, or transcendence.” 96 She delves further into the etymology of “idiom”
and proposes another concept, idiotism, in which the “composer’s process would
involve the presentation of his own, personal, private, peculiar, separate, distinct
mode of utterance, its distinctness not necessarily deriving from any generally
constituted standard of originality or novelty, but from a particularly constituted one
made of up of utterer’s own irreducible habits.” 97

Le Guin has arrived at these intriguing concepts of idiotism and idiom through her
own performances of Boccherini’s works, and with remarkable insight they may be
transferred to Clementi and his works. Nourished in private, his own peculiar and
distinct mode of utterance is reflected in his printed compositions with his dashing
octaves, thirds, and sixths, his astounding rapidity, and his “inimitable enthusiasm” as
documented in his shining plethora of legato and rinforzando markings.

But an important distinction separates Boccherini’s idiotism from Clementi’s. The


violoncello was a male instrument, whereas the keyboard was a female one.
Boccherini’s difficulties that might have been sanctioned to be tried in private by a
male amateur’s hand are not the same as Clementi’s difficulties, which were
ultimately destined for a controversial reception within a female domestic sphere
(more on this in Chapter 2). Because Clementi’s works appeared to force the female
pianist to labour at her instrument, his music was at first considered highly
transgressive by ideologues who attempted to discipline music’s place within the
environment of the family home. His highly individualistic idiom, “crammed” with

                                                                                                 
95 Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 130, 131.
96 Ibid., 131.
97 Ibid., 132.
48
 
octaves,” as a contemporary described it, did not, after all, remain private. 98 It was
expressly designed to be reproduced by others en masse, and so for the first time in
the history of European keyboard culture the tricks of the virtuoso were brought
into the drawing room.

For Clementi, idiotism is not enough to explain his oeuvre, for he wants others to
become fluent in the language of his hands. Here it seems to be less about the
kinaesthetic and empathetic experience of sensibilité (which Le Guin argues for with
Boccherini’s music) and more aligned with a new kind of industrial practice along the
lines of Rousseau’s Émile, ou De l'éducation (1762). Transcending speculative “games of
philosophy,” Rousseau’s Émile learns instead to put his hands and body to better use
and ultimately for the greater benefit of the mind. 99 Rousseau’s emphasis on simple
hands-on demonstrations to students for elementary physics resonates with
Clementi’s desire (discussed in Chapter 5) to similarly stimulate progressive
technique through simple exercises that develop to harder ones. Clementi’s advocacy
of practical beginners’ manuals over wordy treatises transcends the more speculative
“games of philosophy” of other writers like C. P. E. Bach.

What was a composer/performer’s private idiom in the late 1770s becomes by the
early nineteenth century part of a common tongue, a communal experience. Scales in
octaves, unthinkable in the early 1780s, are almost the first exercises one can find in
the practice manuals of the 1800s. James Parakilas notes:

In Milchmeyer’s Correct Method of 1797, almost immediately after piano students


have learned to round their fingers in that purely pianistic way, they are taught how
                                                                                                 
98 Clementi “[h]as composed some setts [sic] of lessons, which abound in passages so peculiar

and difficult, that it is evident they must have been practiced for years preceding their
publication. We particularly allude to the successions of octaves with which he has crammed his
lessons. Mr. C. executes these exceedingly well, and is a most brilliant composer.” Anon.,
“Clementi,” in ABC Dario Musico (Bath, 1780), 17.
99 After a discussion on how we should introduce physics to children by means of practical

demonstrations rather than by using measuring machines, Rousseau points out, however, that
“when we put the skill which used to take the place of these measures into manufacturing them
[...] we come more ingenious without becoming less adroit. If, instead of glueing a child to books,
I bury him in a workshop, his hands work for the profit of his mind;; he becomes a philosopher
and believes he is only a labourer.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emilé, or On Education, trans. Allan
Bloom (New York: Basic Books, 1979), 177.
49
 
to finger the passages of parallel thirds, sixths, and octaves that they will need if they
are to conquer, for instance, those test pieces of pianistic virtuosity, the Op. 2
sonatas of Clementi. It seems crazy that this instruction in virtuosic technique is
given in the second chapter of a work directed—according to its foreword—at
“amateurs and beginners.” But through this arrangement Milchmeyer suggests that
want defines a pianist, even an amateur or beginner, is the ambition, at least, to
become a virtuoso. 100

The alienation that comes as a result of wrestling with the difficulties of technical
demanding music, whether as a listener/viewer or as a performer, seems to have
exercised “a seductive force every bit as powerful as sensible commonality.” 101 It was
also a seductive force with great teleological power, as Milchmeyer suggests in his
nod to ambition. Mastering technical difficulties is one of our most goal-oriented
musical activities. The feeling of achievement that one feels after executing a difficult
passage to one’s liking, or that garners the approbation of a music-master, is a very
strong one.

The crowning achievement of sensible commonality was, in many respects, the


chamber music of the galant which required the participation of more than one
performer, although even this nod to community was not meant to be obligatory but
rather ad libitum. Much of this music remains unplayed nowadays since we appear to
have little sympathy for accompanying parts that appear to have little or no musical
consequence. I discuss the social ramifications and musical implications of this kind
of accompanied sonata in Chapter 4.

Le Guin makes an important connection between the “easy sensualism of galant


music” and “capitalism’s first flush”: what is pleasurable is also sellable. In regards to
Clementi’s relationship with his market, I would like to pick up on Le Guin’s more
subtle points and extend them even further. She notes that pain or agony is the
opposite of pleasure and was generally marginalized or ignored by Enlightenment
culture. But, of course, pain, agony, and torture suffused eighteenth-century culture
in a way that is hard for us to comprehend. Although there is no direct
representation of pain or agony in Boccherini’s music, Le Guin notes that in
                                                                                                 
100 James Parakilas, “A History of Lessons and Practicing,” in Piano Roles, 135.
101 Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 138.
50
 

galant music-making the definitional capacity of pain had a delicate threshold indeed.
I want to propose, however, that this delicacy was in no way a denial or evasion of
the realities of agony, which need not be directly inflicted nor even directly recalled
to be powerfully evoked through the exquisite sensitivity that it leaves in embodied
memory. Agony, filtered through that memory, perpetually contains and calibrates
sensibilité. 102

Le Guin goes on to show how Boccherini’s sophisticated array of performance


directions as well as his compositional choices often ironizes or distances the
performer performing his works. He writes music that is painful to execute and
humiliating to sight-read. It is music that raises visceral questions regarding the
differences between self and appearance, between being and seeming, and between
pleasure and pain. Clementi also writes music that is painful to play and also self-
reflexively shames those who attempt to sight-read them. But because he operates in
a keyboard culture, his audience vastly larger and less oriented towards the idealized
image of the male connoisseur with his flute, stringed instrument, or monochord.

In Chapter 3 I look at how pleasure/pain and being/seeming in this galant musical


environment might operate in one of Clementi’s earliest works. Mozart accused
Clementi of being a ciarlattano, a quack who misled the public with fakery. But the
charlatan lived also in a liminal world where Enlightenment questions of subjectivity
and objectivity were theatricalized, just like that in the world of the person
performing difficult music.

Charlatans and Virtuosi: Est-ce ironie, ou vérité?

Louis de Jaucourt defined a charlatan in the Encyclopédie as

a certain species of men who, having no education and principles and without
having taken a degree in any university, exercise medicine and surgery under the
pretext of secrets they possess and [which] they apply to everything. 103

                                                                                                 
102Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 11.
103“C’est cette espece d'hommes, qui sans avoir d’études & de principes, & sans avoir pris de
degrés dans aucune université, exercent la Medecine & la Chirurgie, sous prétexte de secrets qu’ils
possedent, & qu’ils appliquent à tout.” Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond D'Alembert eds.,
51
 

One must learn to distinguish the true Medecine from the charlatan, who is “worthy
only of contempt.” 104 Visual representations of charlatans were a favourite theme
amongst painters and engravers and they are usually depicted in a public square or
space hawking their love potions and cure-alls. The artist often depicts the charlatan
with a raised hand that holds aloft his promised cure, a distinctly noble oratorical
pose at dissonance with the spurious character of the charlatan himself. As such, it
played on Enlightenment themes of veracity contra beguilement. Often those who
most closely cluster around him, listening in awestruck fascination, are people
perceived to be have been the most gullible and easily led;; small children, peasants,
and women. 105 Who can tell the true doctor from the charlatan? Only those
enlightened to the truth, maybe. But even they can be taken in. The only person who
might know, in the end, is the charlatan himself.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
Encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, University of Chicago: ARTFL
Encyclopédie Projet (Winter 2008 Edition), ed. Robert Morrissey,
<http://encyclopedie.uchicago.edu/> 3: 208-10. According to Jaucourt, anyone practicing
medicine without a degree was a charlatan or an empirique (quack), and these terms are employed
interchangeably.
104 “Celle du charlatan n’est digne que de mépris.” Encyclopédie, 3:208.
105 Two classic examples are by Pietro Longhi (1757) and by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1754-5).

For a detailed overview of the theme see Matthew Craske, “Confronting the ‘common’
illusionist: magic lantern men, quacks, charlatans, magicians, and alchemists” in Art in Europe
1700-1830: A History of the Visual Arts in an Era of Unprecedented Urban Economic Growth (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1997), 192-217.
52
 

 
Figure 1.1 Hebnan (French, eighteenth century) after Bertaux (French, eighteenth century). Le
Charlatan Allemand (left) and Le Charlatan François, 1777 (right). Engraving: plate 25.4 x 19.4cm.

Fig. 1.1 shows two depictions of charlatans from 1777. Unlike earlier representations,
the artist here seems to underline the universal reception of the charlatan’s persuasive
trickery. No amount of enlightenment seems to deter the crowds from forming.
53
 
Whether in the country or in the city, with peasants or the nobility, the charlatan still
draws a large, fascinated crowd. We are all capable of being seduced at the outset, it
seems.

Enlightenment discourse held the same ambivalence towards visual illusion and
oracular trickery as it did towards the brilliant legerdemain of the virtuoso. Barbara
Maria Stafford has noted how this ambiguous attitude straddled the turn of the
century:

Eighteenth-century British empiricists and French Cartesians as well as nineteenth-


century creators of aniconic aesthetics [i.e. objects of worship symbolically and not
representationally potrayed] were simultaneously fascinated and repelled by trompe
l’oeil trickery and a new sensuous technology emitting fake simulations and delusive
special effects. 106

Just as C. P. E. Bach and later thinkers sought recourse from this ambiguity with the
fixity of textual authority (the work-concept and the composer), so too did a new
“mastery of texts” in a rising age of mass literacy guarantee a “privileged position”
against the visual quackery of illusionists and magic lantern men. 107 When one knows
how such tricks are produced, one can better negate the astonishment that is felt at
first seeing them. That is Quantz’s point with his virtuoso-flute machine.

But the stakes are high for the charlatan/virtuoso. Anyone playing difficult music
runs the heightened risk of making mistakes and alerting listeners to be on the look-
out for more. It is easy to judge neat execution, as Burney says, but it is harder still to
tell good music from bad, real from false. 108 To paraphrase William Hazlitt, high-and-
mighty intellectuals (in his essay, they are Indian Brahmins) can easily fool the public
with sophisticated (but incorrect) proofs and not be detected. But the juggler, rope-
dancer, and knife-thrower cannot persuade his audience in the same way, he must
perform his tricks “without actually giving proofs of what he says.” Do or die. As art

                                                                                                 
106 Barbara Maria Stafford, “Conjuring: How the Virtuoso Romantic Learned from the
Enlightened Charlatan,” Art Journal 52/2 (1993): 22-30, 22.
107 Stafford, “Conjuring,” 29.
108 See page 37, footnote 67.
54
 
historian Barbara Stafford has noted, all this legerdemain demanded a precision of
gesture and control that Hazlitt saw as being akin to “a mathematical truth.” 109

Another author in the Encyclopédie, Ménuret de Chambaud, also found something to


be said for these marginalized, mocked charlatans. Despite all their money-grubbing
deviousness, Chambord documents some puzzling cases in which charlatans
appeared to have actually obtained good results:

Mania is one of those diseases where the most skilful physicians ordinarily fail, while
the charlatans, the persons with secrets, very often succeed. 110

Nowadays we understand this as the placebo effect. The charlatan also understood
that the strength of his sales and the supposed efficacy of his treatment depended
purely on persuasive tricks. The better the performance, the more money he made.
The distinctions between irony and truth are further complicated as some of his
cure-alls appear to work, whereas others do not. Bedazzled by his virtuoso
performance we are as confused as Diderot in Le Neveu de Rameau (1762): “Est-ce
ironie, ou vérité?”

Clementi’s charlatanism was of a similar mould. Like the best charlatans it was
spectacular in all its manifestations;; in print, in person, in performance. But sceptical
people, including most famously Clementi’s student Cramer, asked themselves if all
the octaves meant anything. 111 Was it music? Did it fit into the pedagogical, social,
and compositional patterns that they saw music as best inhabiting? Unlike Cramer,
Mozart, and others, I would like to understand Clementi’s music as being

                                                                                                 
109 Stafford gives the Hazlitt reference in “Conjuring”, 22, noting how “performance challenges
and defies discourse.” William Hazlitt, “The Indian Jugglers,” in Essays, ed. Frank Carr (London:
Walter Scott Publishing Co., 1889), 217.
110 “La manie est une de ces maladies où les plus habiles medecins échouent ordinairement, tandis

que les charlatans, les gens à secret, réussiront très-souvent.” Encyclopédie, 10:33.
111 On an 1819 parody of Clementi’s “Octave lesson” Cramer placed the epithet: “Mens sine

pondere ludit.” This has been taken from Petronious, “On Dreams,” Fragm. 30. (“The mind
sports without any substance” or “Unburdened, the mind relaxes.”) This parody unleashed a
public and rather petty dispute between Clementi and Cramer, although the two appeared to
have made amends. Jerald C. Graue, “The Clementi-Cramer Dispute Revisited,” Music & Letters
56/1 (1975): 47-54 and Alan Tyson, “A Feud between Clementi and Cramer,” Music & Letters
54/3 (1993): 281-288. See Chapter 3 for more details.
55
 
evacuated—but perhaps, thankfully, not completely, since he was a master-performer
and teacher after all—of deviousness or duplicity, for reasons that will become clear
in Chapter 5 when we examine his pedagogical strategies. Clementi operated more
consciously in the charlatanesque/capitalist mode than that of his contemporaries in
that he strategically sought to amass a fortune from his trade without, on the whole,
the support of the nobility and the associated patronage system. Some writers have
taken to looking down at Clementi’s wealth, but I prefer to substitute for overt value
judgments on his activities with a search for music’s changing functions in an
economically prosperous period in England’s history. 112

Potential Critical Perspectives: Reconciling Difficulties

Difficult music, with its passagework, arpeggios, and scales, is often subjected to the
same kind of dismissive approach that Quantz took with his musical machine. It
might briefly excite us in a music-historical sense (a certain configuration of notes
never seen before), but it rarely seems to provoke a better understanding of its
reception in the society in which it was designed to operate. After having identified
the passages here and there, and understood how it functions musically (it is
generally “empty”), we pass over it.

David Gramit has noted before that “the habit overlooking the social relations of
musical production is so naturalized that it pervades the field of music
scholarship.” 113 Any potential critical perspective that might flourish in a university
class on eighteenth-century music, for example, needs to be one that is aware of the
social relations of musical production, and difficult music is a particular salient
example of these relations. Difficult passages in eighteenth-century music appear
here not as disinterested compositional choices, as musical “filler,” but rather as
complex phenomena that intersect notions of gender, class, nationalism, pedagogy,
taste, and ideals of musical progress.
                                                                                                 
112 Plantinga, for instance, never much liked Clementi’s money-making ventures. Speaking of the
revisions, he said that it “is disappointing to see a man of Clementi’s ability resorting to such
expedients in the apparent pursuit of financial gain and a higher score of opus numbers.”
Plantinga, Clementi, 160.
113 David Gramit, Cultivating Music, 164.
56
 

When approaching difficult to perform passages in eighteenth-century music, some


preliminary questions might be asked:

1.   Which market is the music destined for? Professional/amateur, male/female?


2.   Was it printed for widespread publication or copied for limited
dissemination?
3.   Does the difficult music in an opus function progressively (i.e. from easy to
difficult)? Where does the difficult music appear in a complete opus? Is it
pervasive or localized?
4.   Is the publication didactic or in any other respects pedagogical?
5.   Is the musical text meant to record the style of a particular performer?
6.   How is pedagogy ideally meant to function within the culture that the music
was intended for?
7.   Does the difficult music transgress or respect social or musical norms of the
period?

I have attempted to turn Mozart’s charge of charlatanism to Clementi on its head,


and have endeavoured to interpret the eighteenth-century charlatan/virtuoso in a
more positive light, painting him (I deliberately use the male gender here) as one who
inhabits, like many illusionists and tricksters, a liminal world of intersubjectivity in
which the listener apprehending him increasingly perceived the virtuoso as a subject
rather than just an object amongst other objects, a phenomenological situation that
coalesced rapidly through Clementi’s career to reach its “natural” state with the great
virtuosi of the early nineteenth century. 114 We have noted the tone of Mozart’s
family’s questions regarding Clementi in the 1780s;; they are not as interested in the
“subject” (Clementi) but rather in the “object” (the difficult music). But in the period
following Clementi’s late career, it is clearly the subject who captivates the public’s
attention (viz. Kahlert’s 1842 comments).

                                                                                                 
Dahlhaus raises some interesting points on intersubjectivity in Analysis and Value Judgment. See
114

“Value judgment and objective judgment,” 3-7.


57
 
The etymological gap between “difficult music” of the late 1770s and “virtuosity” in
the 1850s defines the beginning and end points of this kind of epistemological
distinction. Ostensibly “virtuosity” and “difficult music” both mean the same thing.
But only “virtuosity” describes truly the objectified stuff of the subject (i.e. the
virtuoso);; “difficult music” that was meant for a wide consumption by a more
variegated market carries no such distinction.

We now need to elucidate the social and musical norms of English keyboard culture
that Clementi’s music was first intended for, before virtuosity even existed. Chapter 3
then shows how radical Clementi’s vision was in the late 1770s, and Chapters 4 and 5
demonstrate how dedicated he was in the 1780s and 1790s in changing that culture,
in creating and promoting “virtuosity.”
58
 

Chapter 2

The Changing Ideology of Female Keyboard Performance and


Pedagogy in Late Eighteenth-Century London

Introduction

In the present chapter we address the disparity between the many women playing
Clementi’s sonatas and the regulatory ideologies in conduct books that expressly
forbade such music-making. Some of the questions posed here are also those asked
by scholars seeking to understand the rise of the novel against an identical
background of literature that condemned novel-reading. 1 How to account for this
dissonance? Were the behavioural proscriptions and lifestyle recommendations in
conduct-books taken seriously? Can we make explicit connections between the rise
of technical progress at the keyboard with the rise of literacy among women? 2 If we
accept Richard Leppert’s notion that the principal function of female
accomplishments such as music, needlework and painting was “containment,” can
                                                                                                 
1 For a good overview of current pedagogy on novel reading and conduct-book literature see
Bonnie J. Gunzenhauser, “Historicizing Communities of Reading in the Long Eighteenth
Century: A Report from the Classroom,” College Literature 31/3 (2004): 148-156. For an excellent
overview of the field together with some suggestions for future research see Ian Jackson,
“Approaches to the History of Readers and Reading in Eighteenth-Century Britain,” The
Historical Journal 47/4 (2004): 1041-1054. See also Barbara Benedict, The Making of the Modern
Reader: Cultural Mediation in Early Modern Literary Anthologies (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1996);; Guglielmo Cavallo and Roger Charter, eds., A History of Reading in the West (Amherst:
University of Massachusetts Press, 1999);; David Finkelstein and Alistair McCleery, eds., The Book
History Reader (London: Routledge, 2002);; Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge
in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998);; Trevor Ross, The Making of the English
Literary Canon from the Middle Ages to the Late Eighteenth Century (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s
University Press, 1998) and Jonathan Rose, The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (New
Haven, Yale University Press, 2001).
2 On literacy rates and their varied use in modern criticism see James Raven, “New Reading

Histories, Print Culture and the Identification of Change: The Case of Eighteenth-Century
England,” Social History 23/3 (1998): 268-287. Raven argues that literacy rates are often
exaggerated and romanticized, following David Cressy, “Literacy in Context: Meaning and
Measurement in Early Modern England” in Consumption and the World of Goods, ed. John Brewer
and Roy Porter, (London: Routledge, 1993) 305-319. The standard teleological narrative of
“progress” is best articulated in Richard Altick, The English Common Reader: A Social History of the
Mass Reading Public (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957).
59
 
difficult music be thus read as “liberatory” for a female pianist trapped in a cage of
enforced domesticity? 3 Or did endless scales and arpeggios on the contrary in the
pursuit of technical excellence entrap her further?

In fact a new kind of keyboard culture emerges in London in the last decades of the
eighteenth century in which intense pedagogy and rigorous practicing newly appear
as valuable status symbols, a situation that stands in sharp contrast to the earlier
suspicion accorded music lessons and the widespread practice of compulsory
passivity. A study of 36 conduct books shows a marked increase in the acceptance
and promotion of keyboard practice and female music education. As we will show,
keyboard playing in the 1770s and ‘80s is represented in conduct books and novels as
an ornamental “accomplishment,” but by the 1810s and ‘20s it has become part of a
larger and more holistic and widespread scheme of pedagogical “improvement.”

Previously viewed with suspicion, difficult music as performed was understood more
virtuously at the close of the eighteenth century, even if anxieties surrounding the
performative female are never entirely assuaged. By transforming the bodily gestures
and musical practices of female performers of the time in order to expand,
transform, and consolidate keyboard culture, Clementi here appears at the centre of a
web that intersects a variety of cultural fields and fulfils many of the emergent
demands of early capitalism in an age of urban expansion.

Women at the Keyboard in Eighteenth-Century England: An Overview

In eighteenth-century England, domestic keyboard music grew in complexity and


social status against a background of journalism and conduct-book literature that
condemned musical performance of difficult music on moral grounds. This paradox
can challenges us as scholars because to really attempt to acknowledge and

                                                                                                 
3Richard D. Leppert, Music and Image: Domesticity, Ideology, and Socio-Cultural Formation in Eighteenth-
Century England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) and The Sight of Sound: Music,
Representation, and the History of the Body (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 33.
Matthew Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t Stretch’: Music for the Fair Sex in Eighteenth-
Century Germany,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 52/2 (1993): 203-254, 217.
60
 
contextualize the tensions between performed music (Taruskin’s “act”) and an
abstracted, ideal music (Taruskin’s “text”) means facing up to some of the uglier
facets of Enlightenment culture. 4 The repression and manipulation of men and
women’s cultural activities, for one, is a topic that many studies of eighteenth-century
music have often ignored or glossed over. 5 One notable exception has been the
mutilated physiology of the castrato, who since the 1990s has received a sustained
critical discourse matched remarkably by a dramatic rise in performers who are
increasingly capable of executing the difficult repertoire that was destined for the
castrato’s use. The groundbreaking work of Leppert, Leslie Richie, Ruth Solie, James
Parakilas, Matthew Head, Regula Trillini, and Deanna Davis is slowly but surely
being incorporated into current discussions of eighteenth-century music. 6

In current pedagogy we neglect to underline the fact—or sometimes even mention—


that the vast bulk of printed music for keyboard in the eighteenth century was
                                                                                                 
4 Richard Taruskin, Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance (New York, Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 1995).


5 This is most frequently expressed in current surveys of eighteenth-century music where

keyboardists’ activities are subsumed under class rather than gender. Rohan Stewart-Macdonald
perceptively notes that “stylistic change in keyboard music […] was regulated to a significant
extent by the popularity of keyboard playing in the upper—and, increasingly, the middle—classes
that stimulated the production of a vast and diverse repertory of solo keyboard music.” But there
is no mention of men or women’s different musical tastes and activities. “Keyboard music from
Couperin to early Beethoven” in The Cambridge History of Eighteenth-Century Music, 457-491, 460.
Taruskin similarly neglects to mention the strongly gendered implications of the accompanied
sonata in Chapter 27 of his History of Western Music, 428 ff. Domestic keyboard music is often
portrayed as belonging to both genders, even if the bulk of printed scores that survive have
women’s names penned on their covers. In an important article, Michael Cole has statistically
demonstrated the dominance of women at the keyboard in domestic settings in England through
a survey of tuning account books. “Transition from harpsichord to pianoforte—the important
role of women” in Geschichte und Bauweise des Tafelklaviers, ed. Boje E. Hans Schmuhl with Monika
Lustig (Augsburg, Wissner, Blankenburg: Stiftung Kloster Michaelstein, 2006), 33-60.
6 Leslie Ritchie, Women Writing Music in Late Eighteenth-Century England: Social Harmony in Literature

and Performance, (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008);; Ruth Solie, Music in Other Words: Victorian Conversations
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004);; Parakilas, Piano Roles;; Regula Hohl Trillini, The
Gaze of the Listener: English Representations of Domestic Music-Making (New York: Rodopi, 2007);;
Deanna C. Davis, “The Veil of Fiction: Pedagogy and Rhetorical Strategies in Carl Czerny’s
Letters on the Art of Playing the Pianoforte” in Beyond The Art of Finger Dexterity: Reassessing Carl
Czerny, ed. David Gramit (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2008), 67-81. In addition to
these, there are many notable exceptions which deal sensitively with female performers and
dedicatees, prominent among them Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body;; Tom Beghin, “Männliche und
Weibliche Rhetorik in Haydns Sonate Hob. XVI: 40,” 33-57;; Tom Beghin, “A composer, her
dedicatee, her instrument and I: thoughts on performing Haydn’s keyboard sonatas” in The
Cambridge Companion to Haydn, 203-225, and the many insightful references to women performers
and intellectuals in Beghin and Goldberg, eds., Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric.
61
 
explicitly destined for performance by women. 7 Countless copies of extant
eighteenth-century scores have their owner’s names penned on their covers, silent
testament to women’s material use of them. Figs. 2.1 and 2.2 details a touching
palimpsest of women’s ownership on the cover of a copy of Clementi’s Op. 2
currently housed in the University of California at Berkeley. If we do incorporate the
wealth of evidence that suggests and supports a domestic keyboard culture
overwhelmingly dominated by women, how do we resituate our understanding of
these printed scores? We may be forced to rethink long-held assumptions about the
structure, uses and consumption of music in eighteenth-century England when we
better understand the restraints that women might have potentially faced in the
performance of these texts. We may also perhaps decide to take eighteenth-century
men such as Mozart seriously when, for example, he expressed to his sister Nannerl
that “overall, women with talent play with more expression than men.” 8 Just as
women’s cultural activities were fraught with contradictions so too do we find that
these struggles are reflected in the musical scores and novels that were explicitly
destined for female consumption.

                                                                                                 
7 Matthew Head makes the important point that the “denigration of ladies’ music in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries was closely linked to discourses of the artist-composer
as genius, and the emergent aesthetic of the artwork.” Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t
Stretch,’” 244.
8 Mozart’s letter to Nannerl, 7-9 December 1784 quoted in Daniel Heartz, Mozart, Haydn and

Early Beethoven, 1781-1802 (New York: W.W. Norton, 2009), 56. The translation is Heartz’s.
62
 

Figure 2.1 Title-page of Clementi’s Op. 2, together with the owners’ names, upper right-hand corner.
(University of California at Berkeley, reproduced in Temperley, ed., The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 1,
39.)

Figure 2.2 Detail of the palimpsest of owners’ names on a title-page of Clementi’s Op. 2: “Miss F.
Son[…?],” “Mrs: Adams,” “Miss Adams.”
63
 
English domestic keyboard culture for most of the eighteenth century was
dominated by one paradoxical and puzzling characteristic. Whilst lauded as a worthy
pursuit if practised in moderation, music also had the capacity to harm. A zealous
dedication to musical activities was viewed as suspect. Since keyboard music was for
most of the century understood primarily as a courtship ritual designed to catch the
attention of potential suitors, too much application gave rise to the suspicion that the
keyboardist had neglected other accomplishments. In domestic situations where the
woman is entertaining her family and friends or accompanying their dancing, the
woman who plays too well risks being marginalized as conceited, boasting and vain.
Both Head and Leppert have written persuasively about the “compulsory easiness”
of female music-making in the eighteenth-century, where the “untutored naturalness
of the lady at music was her ultimate artifice.” 9

This paradox of musical performance—described memorably by David Golby as


“damned if you do, damned if you don’t”—did not address women exclusively. 10
Gentlemen in eighteenth-century England distributed their anxieties about musical
expression and acceptable performance environments along lines of class, gender,
and profession. The derogatory words of “fiddling,” “piping,” “rattling,” and
“trifling,” 11 spat out by upper-class gentlemen in admonishment to their sons’
musical interests, took their contemptuous inflections from perfunctory impressions
of a music-making entirely evacuated of any real worth. 12 Any upper-class male
interested in music beyond rank amateurism had to publicly legitimize his interest in
the eyes of his peers by calling explicit attention to the so-called “science of music”

                                                                                                 
9 Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t Stretch,’” 221.
10 David J. Golby, “Music and the Moral Dimension: ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’” in
Instrumental Teaching in Nineteenth-Century Britain (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004), 27 ff.
11 For “trifling” see Roy Porter and Marie Mulvey Roberts, eds., Pleasure in the Eighteenth Century

(New York: New York University Press, 1997), 154 ff. Frances Burney uses the mocking
adjective “tudeling” throughout The Wanderer, or Female Difficulties, (1814) ed. Margaret Anne
Doody, Robert L. Mack, and Peter Sabor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991).
12 For fiddling, one eighteenth-century meaning linked inextricably to the low status of the

musician is “petty, trifling, unimportant;; contemptible, futile.” Fiddling, ppl. a. in The Oxford
English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 1989, OED Online, Oxford University Press.
<http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/entry/50084362> See also Golby, Instrumental Teaching in
Nineteenth-Century Britain, 28 ff.
64
 
in both casual and formal conversation, a fuzzy field which included a myriad of
topics such as “harmonics” (acoustical theory), history, and organology.

That this “scientific” angle was soon mapped directly onto the mathematical ideals
and aesthetics of counterpoint in treatises and composition manuals may in part
account for the late eighteenth-century presence, exemplified in Clementi’s music, of
semi-autonomous sections of counterpoint within larger musical forms traditionally
understood as belonging solely to the female domestic sphere, such as the sonata.
The presence of overt contrapuntal sections in music of the latter eighteenth-century
might indeed be part of a conscious strategy on the part of composers to cater their
music to both sexes.

The different tastes of men and women are especially clear in the realm of literature.
Novels were generally for women, poems and articles were for the men. Jacqueline
Pearson has commented that when a parcel of new books arrive in Peacock’s
Nightmare Abbey “‘Marionetta inspected the novel and Mr. Listess the poem,’ and this
seems to be regarded as natural.” 13 Ian Woodfield has shown how the repertories for
musical evenings in English environments as far afield as Calcutta were drawn up
along similar lines. Men preferred older, more contrapuntal music whereas women
preferred newer, galant fare. 14 Musical souvenirs penned by composers for their male
friends are invariably little contrapuntal fragments and quotations. 15 The
mathematical counting of bar-rests and off-beat rhythmic puzzles in many of the
relatively easy violin and ‘cello parts destined for male consumption in the late
eighteenth-century genre of the accompanied sonata, (in which the woman played
                                                                                                 
13 Jacqueline Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain, 1750-1835: A Dangerous Recreation (Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press, 1999), 19.


14 Ian Woodfield, Music of the Raj: A Social and Economic History of Music in Late Eighteenth-Century

Anglo-Indian Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 114ff. One female correspondent
bemoaned to her female friend “I attend your father’s concerts regularly where we have old
Corelli, Handel and Geminiani in perfection, notwithstanding which a concerto played by you
would be most gratefull [sic] to my ears.”
15 Beethoven’s souvenirs were frequently canonic. See Willy Hess, “Sonstige musikalische Späße,

Scherze in Briefen und Stammbuchkompositionen” in Verzeichnis der nicht in der Gesamtausgabe


veröffentlichten Werke Ludwig van Beethovens (Wiesbaden, Breitkopf & Härtel: 1955), 75-78. In the
Moldendauer Archives in the Library of Congress, Washington DC, we find a typical example
from Cramer to a male wellwisher: “Piccolo Canone di JB Cramer in Parigi 17 Agosto 1833 per il
Signor Dessauer.”
65
 
the more demanding keyboard part and the men accompanied on bowed
instruments), may indeed function strategically within this cultural phenomenon. The
gendered implications of counterpoint and the accompanied sonata will be discussed
more fully in Chapter 4.

One of the ways English culture legitimized the musical activities of men was their
practice of appending “Dr.” to respected composers and musicians. The doctorate
(often honorary, and so civic rather than academic) served to legitimize the musical
activities of gentlemen such as Burney, Haydn, Arne, and Crotch that otherwise
would be perceived as rather suspect. 16 Because musical performance was often
understood as a metonym for female virtue musical performance itself was often
understood as feminine. Instruments associated with women, such as the
harpsichord, were especially suspected. This is vividly illustrated in an anecdote from
the English physician John Berkenhout;; the account was published in 1790:

I once sat playing upon [the harpsichord], in a room next [to] the square where I
then lived. As two gentlemen were passing the window, I heard one of them
exclaim,ʊ“I hate to see a man at the Harpsichord!” I had never before annexed the
idea of effeminacy to that instrument;; but from that moment, I began to be of that
gentleman’s opinion. 17

The sound of the harpsichord acts as an immediate signal for the men in the street,
who peer into the room, hoping to see a lady within. When they see a man instead
they react with spitting anger at having their sexualized gaze deflected. Berkenhout,
immediately ashamed at attracting such attention, quickly realizes his transgressive
act.

Even carrying an instrument in the street was considered risky for men. Burney once
better adapted his clothing in order to hide his fiddle.

Being ashamed to carry my fiddle through the streets in an ostensible manner, I cut
a slit in the lining of my coat, and carried it unperceived. But in passing ... on a
                                                                                                 
16 On doctorates of music in England see Edward J. Dent, “The Scientific Study of Music in
England,” Mitteilungen der Internationalen Gesellschaft für Musikwissenschaft 2/3 (1930): 83-92.
17 John Berkenhout, A Volume of Letters from Dr Berkenhout to his Son at the University, Vol. 1

(Cambridge: [for the author?], 1790), 189. See also Leppert, Music and Image, 22, 24, 127, 129 and
Sight of Sound, 194.
66
 
market day, during that time when a poor bear was at the stake, and a great crowd of
spectators assembles, I c[oul]d not help stopping to see how the bear defended
himself;; when Ursa Major, breaking loose, put the mob to flight in such a panic, that
they tumbled over each other and over me among the rest;; when smash went my
instrument into shivers! 18

The many amateur musical societies based in large cities such as London, Dublin,
Norwich and Edinburgh as well as those in towns like Bath, Leeds, Manchester,
Hull, Liverpool, and Bristol similarly deflected and disguised suggestions of
effeminacy or class anxiety by concentrating on the “antient” music of canonically
sanctioned composers such as Corelli and Handel in a beer-soaked atmosphere of
homosocial revelry. The instrumental concerts and rehearsals of these societies
(which sometimes admitted women as listeners) were often depicted in prints and
drawings and appear infinitely more decorous than the all-male drinking binges that
characterized the singing of bawdy catches and glees, which took place later in the
evening. Excessive drinking, smoking and swearing here effectively annihilate any
potential accusations of effeminacy.

The musical instruments acceptable and proper to either men or women had been
long established within English society. In 1722, John Essex echoed many other
writers when he said:

The Harpsichord, Spinet, Lute and Base [sic] Violin, are Instruments most agreeable to
the Ladies: There are some others that really are unbecoming the Fair Sex;; as the
Flute, Violin and Hautboy;; the last of which is too Manlike, and would look indecent
in a Woman’s Mouth;; and the Flute is very improper, as taking away too much of the
Juices, which are otherwise more necessarily employ’d, to promote the Appetite, and
assist Digestion. 19

Transgressive acts, such as a leisured gentleman playing the harpsichord (mildly to


moderately eccentric) or a woman playing the violin (extremely eccentric), were on
the whole subject to ridicule and marginalization. Professional male musicians and
pedagogues born outside of these societal strictures were as a consequence better
able to navigate and so potentially challenge these ideologies due chiefly to their

                                                                                                 
18 Miriam Benkovitz, “Dr. Burney’s Memoirs,” Review of English Studies 10/39 (1959): 262.
19 John Essex, Young Ladies Conduct (1722) quoted in Leppert, Music and Image, 122.
67
 
foreignness. As Parakilas has noted, a certain alien freakishness might aid in the
temporary lifting of ideological sanctions that frowned on public performance by
women, whether it be blindness (Maria Theresia Paradis) or extreme youthfulness
(Nannerl Mozart). 20 Similarly, the “professional” female pianist in London of the
later century was in most cases compelled to give up her public career with her
virginity, obligated to set aside her career when she married and took her husband’s
name. 21

In many examples in literature and letters of the time we read of inappropriate


musical acts for which a transgressive performer was to be censured. Probably the
most inappropriate act was of overstepping one’s bounds and playing and practicing
music that was difficult. Difficult music, sophisticated ornamentation, and free
improvisation were only to be found in the realm of the professional. In 1790 we
read:

To a professional musician, whose aim is to raise admiration, to obtain applause and


to acquire popularity, [ornaments] may, in this age of frivolity, be allowed;; but very
little of attention should they have from an Amateur, whose task ought to be, by
careful study, by correct and chaste practice, to acquire a knowledge of music on its
rudimental and scientific principles. 22

An excerpt of conduct literature from around 1779 best expresses the most common
form the injunction against difficult music:

Let our daughters then be taught Music so as to understand what they perform, and
perform no more than what falls within the easy compass of their execution;; nor ever
attempt any thing but select pieces of familiar, easy, simple construction, such as may
delight the ear of their friends, and contribute to improve their own Hearts by
directing its influence to the proper object. 23

                                                                                                 
20 Wheelock and Parakilas, “The Piano Revolution in the Age of Revolutions,” 78-80.
21 Nicholas Salwey, “Women Pianists in Late 18th-Century London” in Concert Life in Eighteenth-
Century Britain, ed. Susan Wollenberg and Simon McVeigh (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2004),
273-290.
22 Anon., “Desultory Remarks on the Study and Practice of Music, Addressed to a Young Lady

while under the Tuition of an Eminent Master. Written in the Years 1790-1 and 2,” European
Magazine and London Review, (October 1796): 270 ff.
23 Anon., Euterpe;; or, Remarks on the Use and Abuse of Music, as a Part of Modern Education (Pall-Mall:

J. Dodsley, ?1779), 13-14.


68
 
Nothing should even be attempted but that which is “familiar, easy [and] simple.”
She is thus read as boasting and vain;; to play really well means dispensing with her
natural humility. “An immodest woman,” the Reverend Mr. Wethenhall Wilkes
preaches in A Letter of Genteel and Moral Advice to a Young Lady, “is a kind of monster,
distorted from its proper form.” 24

Difficult keyboard music was additionally viewed as morally bankrupt within the
eighteenth-century European world-view because the performance of such passages
appeared to titillate listeners and performers by virtue of physical exertions that
potentially deformed a woman’s posture.

It is a matter much deserving the attention of a Lady how she is to present and
deport herself while at the Piano-Forte. I have repeatedly noticed some Capital
Performers, who, while they highly gratified the Ear, have very much offended the
Eye, by a most ungraceful, not to say distorted, Position of their Body and a
disgustingly awkward motion with their arms and hands. 25

Erogenic parts of the body, like breasts or hair, were set in motion through the
actions of her jumping hands. Women’s physical exertions in general were often
portrayed in titillating language and so were simultaneously arousing and suspect. 26
Clergymen spoke of hypothetically transgressive female performers and preached
“the blessings of the mind were not bestowed solely for the pleasure of the body.
[…] Music is not an amusement for the careless or idle vulgar.” 27 Women’s
performative activities at the keyboard, like women’s reading, became “a site on
which one may see a variety of cultural and sexual anxieties displayed.” 28

                                                                                                 
24 Rev. Mr Wetenhall Wilkes, A Letter of Genteel and Moral Advice to a Young Lady (1740;; 8th edn.,
1766) quoted in Vivien Jones, ed., Women in the Eighteenth Century: Constructions of Femininity
(London and New York: Routledge, 1990), 30.
25 Anon., “Desultory Remarks on the Study and Practice of Music,” 272.
26 A fairly characteristic excerpt enumerates features thought attractive to a male from 1837: “[…]

and when she came bounding in like a young fawn, flushed with exercise, her fine luxuriance of
rich brown hair beautifully dishevelled, her deep blue eye[s] sparkling with joyous excitement, and
the mock-prayer for pardon on her coral lips, neither Sir Edmund nor Lady de Beauvoir could
ever hold fast their purpose of seriously rebuking the smiling culprit.” Blackwood’s Edinburgh
magazine, 41 (1837): 754.
27 Anon., Euterpe, 26.
28 Kate Flint, The Woman Reader, 1837-1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 22.
69
 
Ideally pieces should be sight-read with a relatively stagnant technique, or delivered
with the minimum of practice. In 1701, an anonymous author set the tone for much
of the century;; she should treat her performance at the keyboard “Carelessly like a
Diversion, and not with Study or Solemnity, as if it was a Business, or yourself
overmuch Affected with it.” 29 Premeditated practicing associated with the effective
performance of “difficult” passages was dangerous too. From the realm of German
literature, Head explains how Goethe paints an ominous portent of doom when the
character of Ottilie in his novel Elective Affinities secretly practices her part before the
performance of an accompanied sonata. Matthew Head has noted how the
character’s “facility, skill and sympathy in accompanying Edward’s less expert solo
line prefigure […] the future of an attachment between the performers that leads to
the breakup of his marriage.” 30 Richard Leppert has shown too how music teachers
and music lessons in England and on the Continent were viewed with great anxiety,
as the intimate nature of the lesson itself was perceived to give rise to the possibility
of seduction by the teacher to his pupil. 31 Moralists and religious leaders constantly
counsel that the music lesson should be strictly supervised at all times in order to
prevent such amorous encounters. Any opportunity, therefore, to extend one’s
technique beyond the bare minimum suggested by the keyboard ideology in place,
therefore, was laden with challenges and pitfalls.

Clementi’s Op. 2 dramatically bursts in on this ideology in 1779. Two musical


examples will serve to introduce its remarkable novelty. Ex. 2.1 is an excerpt from a
sonata by the renowned Johann Samuel Schroeter and was published in London in
1777. 32 This charming, galant piece has all the hallmarks of the graceful, well-

                                                                                                 
29 Anon. The Whole Duty of a Woman, or a Guide to the Female Sex. From the Age of Sixteen to Sixty. 3rd

ed. (London: 1701), 48-49. Leppert notes that the author was female. Leppert, Sight of Sound, 250.
30 Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t Stretch,’” 223.
31 Leppert, Sight of Sound, 161 ff. Also his “Music Teachers of Upper-Class Amateur Musicians” in

Music in the Classic Period: Essays in Honor of Barry S. Brook, ed. A. Atlas, (New York: Pendragon
Press, 1985), 133-158.
32 Schroeter was renowned for his graceful and natural performance. “His touch was extremely

light and graceful so that just to watch him play became a pleasure in itself,” wrote the
Musikalisches Wochenblatt (quoted in Grove). Even if his music conformed to ideological standards
of simplicity and grace, his lifestyle did not. He eloped with a weathly student and as Kidd
comments, “Her wealthy family, apparently distraught by the marriage, settled a yearly allowance
of £500 on Schroeter with the proviso that he abandon his career as a public performer.” Ronald
70
 
proportioned characteristics we associate with English music of the period. A
relatively thin texture pervades the whole. It is not technically difficult: the triplets
beginning at measure 12 are grounded by repetitive patterns in which the hand is not
asked to leap or jump much, and the scale at measure 17 is exactly like the scales a
music-master might teach her, straight up with no kinks or hairpin bends. The
sensitive second theme, beginning in measure 25 with sonorous sixths, is also not too
difficult to execute. Schroeter even builds in a little bit of practice into the piece
itself. The closing section, from measure 41, has a little pattern that is repeated six
more times;; which is itself patterned from three circulating figures. If our keyboardist
did not get it right the first time, she might the second, with a minimum of fuss.

It is a beautiful, elegantly wrought piece that would have pleased our Bath clergyman.
It is indeed of “familiar, easy, simple construction.” The sixths are just difficult
enough to legitimize the lessons that the piece demands. The texture is just easy
enough to allow a passable attempt at sight-reading. The piece makes no demands on
the prevailing keyboard culture and its complex network of constituents. It meets the
horizon of expectation of a contemporaneous listener, player, page-turner, teacher,
music engraver, music publisher and family member.

Ex. 2.2 shows the beginning of Clementi’s Op. 2 No. 2, later to be famously known
as the “Octave Lesson.” Highly difficult, due to its plethora of consecutive octaves,
its rapidity and its extroverted texture, such a work appears highly transgressive by
the standards outlined in the regulatory ideologies of conduct books. It does not, to
quote our clergyman again, “[fall] within the easy compass of their execution” and it is
not of “familiar, easy, simple construction.” The many parallel octaves found within
the piece are technically forbidden in formal counterpoint, so it could be said
transgress not only social norms but musical ones as well.

A compelling performance means a great amount of physical activity and practice,


the hands must fly quickly from one part of the keyboard to another and our
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
R. Kidd, “Schröter” In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online,
<http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/43982pg3>.
71
 
imaginary performer must constantly regard the outstretched fingers of her hands if
she wishes her execution to be as neat as possible. It is impossible here for the
performer to be disengaged with Clementi or his musical difficulties. In fact the
entire opus works actively against the ideology of obligatory passivity and
furthermore it went against the expectations of every agent that constituted 1770s
English keyboard culture. It was also music of the future.
72
 

Example 2.1 Galant characteristics in Schroeter’s Op. 1/1/I, (1777), mm. 1-53.
73
 

Example 2.2 The opening of Clementi’s Op. 2 No. 2 (the “Octave Lesson”) (London:Welcker, 1779), 10.

We turn now to the admonishments of difficult music in conduct books in order to


better contextualize the paradox of musical performance in English culture of the
1770s.
74
 

Reading Regulatory Texts: Ideologies of Behaviour

Comparatively fewer writers about eighteenth-century music have studied conduct-


book ideology than those in the disciplines of art history and English literature,
where a flourishing body of critical theory on the subject arose in the late 1970s and
early 1980s and continues today. 33

In his Music of the Raj, Ian Woodfield quite rightly questions whether we should take
the vast body of eighteenth-century conduct-book literature seriously at all.

The existence of a published tradition of prescriptive writing about behaviour,


whether seventeenth-century Puritan sermons or eighteenth-century courtesy
manuals, tells us nothing about whether such advice was actually followed. At times,
the frequency with which a prescription was repeated, and the extremity with which
it was argued, seem to point to the conclusion that it was not widely adopted. […]
How then were eighteenth-century commentaries on the appropriate place of music
in the lives of women, usually demeaning, often offensive in tone, regarded? Were
they accepted without question as the natural order of things? Did they cause
resentment? Were they the object of ridicule? As important, did men and women,
the old and the young, think alike on these issues? If there ever was a ‘golden age’ of
orthodoxy upon these matters, when did attitudes begin to change? To put it
another way, the reception history of an ideology may be as significant as its
dogmatic content. In Leppert’s study, troubling questions emerge at this critical
interface between ideology and real life. 34

Despite Woodfield’s assertion that “there is no reason to suppose that […] many
sought to follow [conduct-book] advice,” his fascinating descriptions of the “real
life” of eighteenth-century Calcutta (“effectively an English urban creation on Indian
soil”) actually conform in many ways to the very ideology that he rightly critiques. 35
His work in several respects serves to strengthen a historical reality of English culture
                                                                                                 
33 See Judith Fetterley, The Resisting Reader: A Feminist Approach to American Fiction (Bloomington,

IN, and London: Indiana University Press, 1978);; Nancy Armstrong and Leonard Tennenhouse,
eds., The Ideology of Conduct, Essays on Literature and the History of Sexuality (New York and Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1984);; Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain;; Nancy Armstrong, Desire and
Domestic Fiction: A Political History of the Novel (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1987). A still-presently influential treatment of the subject is best given by Vivien Jones in “The
Seduction of Conduct: Pleasure and Conduct Literature” in Pleasure in the Eighteenth Century, 108-
132.
34 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, xi.
35 Ibid., 1.
75
 
in which the ideology of the conduct books appears to reflect common practice as
well as contributing not a little towards regulating and influencing people’s
behaviour.

Not surprisingly, this Anglo-Indian musical culture was constituted along the same
lines as the one back home. Woodfield notes that gender “determined not only the
instruments appropriate for men and women, but also the manner in which music
was studied and performed.” 36 He details the gendering of ancient and new music in
the Calcutta Catch Club, where men preferred the “manly entertainments” (as
William Jones called it in 1784) of the so-called “antient [sic] music” of Handel and
Corelli whereas women preferred newer fare. 37 Many of the letters Woodfield cites
reveal conduct thoroughly consistent with conduct-book ideology. The men
legitimize their musical interest with references to “scientific” (and generally faulty)
discussions of Indian microtonal music and Woodfield acknowledges that in “a
woman the slightest hint of pedantry, which in a man might be taken as an
acceptable if dull demonstration of scientific learning, spelt social ruin.” 38

Woodfield’s subjects also reflect the anxieties associated with the problematic
performance of difficult music by women and the traditional associations of the
expression of difficult music with boasting, vanity, and pride. “You make a sensible
display of your talents,” writes Joseph Fowke to his daughter, and quoted by
Woodfield. “‘Nothing too much’ was a sensible proverb among the Romans, and
musicians shou’d always keep it in their head.” 39 In another letter to a Lady Brudenel
back in England, Fowke commends his daughter’s modesty: “She has the finger to
execute the most rapid movements;; but her good sense restrains the progress of it,
that she may not outrun the conceptions of her auditors.” 40 Woodfield closes his

                                                                                                 
36 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 121.
37 William Jones, Treatise on the Art of Music (1784) quoted in William Weber, The Rise of Musical
Classics in Eighteenth-Century England: a Study in Canon, Ritual, and Ideology (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1992), 147. Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 140ff.
38 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 126. See also “Musical Ratio, Science, and Social Harmony” in

Leppert, Sight and Sound, 93-102.


39 Quoted in Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 137.
40 Ibid., 181.
76
 
preface by declaring that “this study will thus not deny the existence of an ideology
of gender, as proposed by Leppert, nor will it refuse to acknowledge its influence,
rather it seeks to explore the complexities of its reception in the lives of amateur
musicians.” 41 It is a pity that Woodfield does not identify more precisely the
“troubling questions” that emerge for him in Leppert’s study, as so much of his book
complements the latter’s ground-breaking work on eighteenth-century English
musical culture.

Woodfield quotes Erasmus Darwin’s dictum that women should only practice “so
well as to amuse themselves and their friends” and not any further as a “great
apparent attention to trivial accomplishments is liable to give suspicion.” Woodfield
comments on this that “[f]or passionate devotees of music like the Fowkes, this kind
of advice would have seemed laughable.” He asserts that “most merely regretted
their lack of talent, which is quite different from their having deliberately curtailed
it.” 42 And yet Margaret Fowkes’ father quite deliberately praises her by saying that
Margaret’s “good sense restrains the progress” of her apparently rapid execution.
That is, she has the skill and the potential to play difficult music but has the modesty
to refrain from it. Margaret also represents to others that she believes that practicing
is vain: “Inspired by vanity I rose early, determined to conquer [the difficult
passages], to be au fait in some flourishes.” 43 For Mr. Fowkes, conduct books such as
Erasmus Darwin’s were in fact a mirror to their own views. And Margaret also
conforms to the view that excessive practice is vain and boasting, even in such a
laconic statement as this. It is uncertain how seriously these comments were taken by
people, but they were certainly voiced.

One of the greatest challenges to our present understanding of difficult music in this
period is musicology’s preference to generally bypass the performer and listener in
favour of a formal examination of the musical text that she performs. Performance is
often abstracted ahistorically;; like reading, we tend to think of it as embodying

                                                                                                 
41 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, xiii.
42 Ibid., 124.
43 Ibid., 106.
77
 
universal attitudes of free, unfettered, and “natural” expression. 44 This belief has
stemmed from much theoretical work that assumes that musical works, too,
somehow have transcendent, innate, and universal values. 45 Think, for example, of
the huge body of casual observations in musicology that denigrate virtuosic passages
as a matter of course (see Chapter 1). The assumption is often made that difficult
passages have and will always be vacant of meaning or musical worth. 46 The two
approaches—of “empirical” and of “cultural” musicology—need not be mutually
exclusive. To paraphrase Ian Jackson, who makes a strong case for “bridging the
gap” between literacy theory and social history in the realm of early modern reading
culture, if we are to understand why many in the eighteenth century took the activity
of performance so seriously, we must also understand the power of the musical text
in a social and cultural context. 47

I would like to propose that reading conduct-books both then and now is not as
simple or as straightforward as Woodfield might present it to be. For one, dismissing
conduct books as irrelevant would do injustice to a huge body of literature that was
obviously consumed, its content widely debated and read. In an influential article
entitled “The Seductions of Conduct: Pleasure and Conduct Literature,” Vivien
Jones has suggested that it may in fact be rather useful to suspend the quest to
categorize conduct books “according to an imprisoning binary choice between the
‘repressive’ and the ‘liberating.’” Jones advances the possibility of replacing the
                                                                                                 
44 For the ahistorical assumption of novel reading, now widely critiqued, see Gunzenhauser,
“Historicizing Communities of Reading,” 149.
45 Fredric Jameson has the same observation with “world literature:” “Rather than a

transcendental dimension in which works share the same henceforth universal values I propose
that we attempt to think of the enigmatic realm we call “world literature” as a space and site of
struggle, of competition and opposition.” Fredric Jameson, “World Literature” (lecture, Franklin
Humanities Institute, Duke University, Durham, North Carolina, November 10, 2008).
46 See Chapter 1 for a brief overview appraisal of musicology and music theory’s approach to

difficult music of the eighteenth century. A random quote suffices to make my point here. In the
midst of a “blow-by-blow” description of a work by the early Beethoven, Daniel Heartz,
comments on some “passagework” (a word laden with overt values) “but these amount to no
more than filler, the kind of ‘noodling’ at the keyboard in which Beethoven indulged to fill up
time when he could think of nothing better to stretch things out. This kind of passagework with
little thematic content may well preserve some of the composer’s manoeuvres while improvising
at the piano.” Heartz, Haydn, Mozart and the Early Beethoven, 655. In a classic move that is found
throughout music theory in particular, the “emptiness” (note his use of “nothing better”) of the
passage is thus transferred to the performer’s realm, that of the improviser at the piano.
47 Jackson, “Approaches to the History of Readers and Reading,” 1054.
78
 
conventional view of eighteenth-century women as “passive grateful recipients” of
conduct literature with another more pluralistic reading, in which “‘young ladies’ are
revealed as actively using and interpreting, rather than being used and defined by, the
books they read.” 48 Katherine Kittredge takes this notion further:

Readers of “literature” are trained to stay on certain coded paths of interpretation,


but the messages and the energy in the artefacts of popular culture are more likely to
go astray. In such an environment, a reader might easily ignore the overt intention
of the text’s author and find herself inspired to think about exploits wholly
unbecoming to the “proper” lady. This form of “misreading” is not a function of
ignorance or evidence of personal denial of negative forces;; it is a strategy that
allows women to draw nourishment from the material that was intended to stunt
their growth and curtail their activities until they fit comfortably into the niche that
society had prepared for them. 49

In other words, the moral discourse of conduct-books evokes in the reader precisely
the transgressive act that it claims to rebuke. It stirs up fantasies of representation
and enactment. It may indeed, as Woodfield suggests, provoke laughter and
dismissal, as is the case in a famous scene from Pride and Prejudice. Or it may provoke
anger and resistance. Consider Mary Hays’ 1798 Appeal to the Men of Great Britain in
Behalf of Women. If women were properly educated, she writes furiously, “they would
behold with astonishment and indignation, the arts which had been employed, to
keep them in a state of PERPETUAL BABYISM.” 50

A good way to begin to understand this ideology of “perpetual babyism” in order to


parallel these strictures with Clementi’s music and the demands it places on the
performing body is to trace remarks on music found in a representative conduct
book from 1779, which is also the date of Clementi’s radical Op. 2 set.

                                                                                                 
48 Jones, “Seduction of Conduct,” 115, 132.
49 Katharine Kittredge, “Contexts for the Consideration of the Transgressive Antitype,” in Lewd
& Notorious: Female Transgression in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Katharine Kittredge (Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2003).
50 Mary Hays, Appeal to the Men of Great Britain in Behalf of Women (London: J. Johnson and J. Bell,

1798), 97.
79
 
“Perpetual Babyism”: Compulsory Passivity at the Keyboard

Around 1779, a pamphlet was published by an anonymous author, probably a Bath


clergyman, who invoked the muse of lyric poetry by calling his book Euterpe;; or,
Remarks on the Use and Abuse of Music, as a Part of Modern Education. 51 Its content best
and most fully expresses contemporaneous anxiety about difficult music in the hands
of female performers. Understanding these anxieties helps us better chart the
changing ideology of female keyboard performance. The title-page of this pamphlet
is reproduced as Fig. 2.3.

                                                                                                 
51 The date of Euterpe has been variously given. Jamie Kassler identified the author as Claude

Joseph Dorat (1734-1780) and the date as around c. 1799 in “Burney’s Sketch of a Plan for a Public
Music-School,” Musical Quarterly 58/2 (1970): 210-234. Kassler later retracted this in 1979, dating it
to around 1778-9 and attributed it to an anonymous clergyman who “was active in the environs
of Bath and who flourished there between 1778-1813. The first critical response dates from 1779
(see below), hence why I have chosen c. 1779 over c. 1778. See Jamie Croy Kassler, The Science of
Music in Britain, 1714-1830: A Catalogue of Writings, Lectures, and Inventions, Vol. 2 (New York &
London: Garland Publishing Inc., 1979), 1107-1109.
80
 

 
Figure 2.3 The title-page to Euterpe;; or, Remarks on the Use and Abuse of Music, as a Part of Modern
Education (London: J. Dodsley, c. 1779).

Besides the mythological reference to Euterpe, the author also references two Psalms
from the Bible as well as outlines what appear to be harmonic ratios or string lengths
with a Latin sentence: “–– Quæ non fecimus Trini, / Vix ea pulchra voco ––” or “What
we haven’t made of [in] three, those things I scarcely call beautiful.” Psalm 19, bound
together on this frontispiece with the Latin snippet and the boxed harmonic ratios,
seems to underline the all-pervasive, colonizing power of tonality and physical
81
 
sound. 52 Simple mathematics is, for this author, at the root of all discussions of
music. “Trini” might also reference the Holy Trinity, thus interlocking the Divine
with the three ratios (more properly, string lengths, which are the inverses of the
frequencies more used today) of the octave, octave plus fifth and two octaves and a
major third;; i.e. a major triad. 53

The pamphlet was circulated in both London as well as Bath, effectively doubling its
potential readership. 54 Bath was a summertime destination for middle-class and
wealthy Londoners when the opera and theatre season had shut down. 55 The author
of Euterpe is concerned with “the present state of Music in our own country, and
howfar [sic] it may be made subservient to the ornamental part of education;; and at
the same time a means of inducing the mind to the sober pursuits of virtue and
religion, which ought to be the true intention of parents in forming the minds of
their children” (p. 3). He dedicates the pamphlet to the “the Nobility and Gentry,
SUBSCRIBERS to the CONCERT for ANTIENT MUSIC only, Lately established
in LONDON.” As a conduct book, Euterpe’s overt religious stance and emphasis on
education places it somewhat apart from other conduct books that are directed at
creating the perfect wife, even though the end product of the education that the
author of Euterpe advocates would of course be an idealistic domestic arrangement.

                                                                                                 
52 Susan McClary has recently called attention to the “story of tonal triumphalism” which
misleadingly informs our view of eighteenth-century. She is quite right to assert that we can
“perceive neither the dark side of eighteenth-century practices nor the ways they framed previous
procedures as obsolete or even ideologically dangerous, which is how Dryden viewed
Shakespeare.” She also considers the possibility of considering “diatonic tonality as a historical
anomaly, [as] a myth of common practice that masks particularities.” The author of Euterpe
supports McClary’s notion of eighteenth-century practices that suppress the obsolete: he prefaces
his conservative account with three string lengths ratios that refer to the major triad, and appends
a Latin quote dismissing earlier modal practices. Susan McClary, “Editorial,” Eighteenth-Century
Music 6/1 (2009): 3-5.
53 I am grateful to both Prof. Jonathan Wild for contextualizing the harmonic ratios and Remi

Chiu and Prof. Tom Beghin for the Latin translation.


54 Kassler notes that the pamphlet was serialized in the European Magazine in 1793 (XXII: 28-32,

103-105) where the author is identified as “Chiron”. The pamphlet was also listed in October
1806 in an advertisement of theological works being prepared for print. For more details see
Kassler, Science of Music in Britain, 1108.
55 For more on Bath, see Kenneth James, “Concert Life in Eighteenth-Century Bath,” (PhD

thesis: University of London, 1987).


82
 
The author of Euterpe begins by grounding his argument in the Platonic view that
“[t]he influence of Music over our affections is a truth established both by sacred and
prophane [sic] history” (p. 1). “If this Art has power to direct the emotions of the
heart,” he continues, “does it not deserve our most earnest attention to preserve its
proper influence, and direct it to the good purposes intended by the wise and kind
Author of all good things?” The implication here, and one often forgotten in studies
of eighteenth-century reception history, is that music was believed to have visceral
persuasive powers that affected mind and body in palpable ways, and as such, there
was the potential for music to be dangerous. 56 “I fear a general corruption has taken
place,” Euterpe laments. He then outlines his ideal of music as part of a religious-
oriented education for both sexes, and the ideological dualities that appear are
condensed in Tables 2.1 (for women) and 2.2 (for men).

TRANSGRESSIVE NORMATIVE
p. 4, 6: “by divesting herself of Simplicity, force … not feel”
to admire …
p. 6: Music yields to the “Tumults [of the rather than “repose for the mind after its
mind]” fatigues”
p. 6 “yield to astonishment and absurdity… … instead of chaste Beauty and delight”
p. 6: “imagination is now to be surprized … … whilst the Heart is totally neglected.”
p. 6: “set off the unnatural dimensions of a voice” “aid sense by expressive sound”
p. 6: “Every Passion is treated alike” [Implies that the passions should be
different]
p. 7: “In short, our Music must now be made … not the hearer.
for the performer …
p. 7: “its difficulties are […] encreased” “Music is thus divested of its Simplicity”
p. 7: “instead of acquiring an accomplishment … she sacrifices at the altar of vanity, and
to delight her acquaintance, on a visit, or too often becomes ridiculous by affecting
improve her own heart in the hour of retirement to be thoroughly accomplished.”

p. 8: [Implies that music is taught irregularly] “Since Music is a Language, it should be
taught as such”
p. 9: “But such is the prevalence of what is [Implies that the ideal taste is for older
called Taste, that nothing is allowed the music, simplicity and seriousness]
scholar, but what is new, however difficult to
be attained, or however insignificant when
                                                                                                 
56 James Jensen calls this kind of sensibilité “associationistic psychology,” explaining the
eighteenth-century worldview as one in which the perception “of reality instead of being external
and transcendent to the human mind, and shared by everyone, [was] defined in terms of the
linkages or associations of a person’s remembered images and sensations from that same
person’s individual human experiences.” James Jensen, Signs and Meaning in Eighteenth-Century Art:
Epistemology, Rhetoric, Painting, Poesy, Music, Dramatic Performance and G. F. Handel (New York: Peter
Lang, 1997), 77 ff.
83
 
performed.”
p. 10: “if the Music be too complicated, the “If singing has any power over our souls, it
sense is confounded, and the effect destroyed.” must arise from its assisting sentimental
expression;;”
p. 10: [Implies that complicated music in “It were to be wished, that the musical part
languages other than English is suspect] of a Lady’s education was so far limited
[sic], as to enable her to sing perfectly, some
plain, sweet melodies in her own Language”
p. 10: [Implies songs with complex “these [songs] should be in plain Counterpoint,
counterpoint/accompaniment with immoral and the words of moral tendency”
words are suspect]
p. 11: “conveying [our daughters] from house [Implies that musical performance is not for
to house, as Prodigies of execution and taste” public show]
p. 11: [Implies that playing solo music, playing “I could wish the Harpsichord was no
the melodic line of a song and spending too otherwise employed than by playing the
much time practicing is suspect] Harmony or Thorough-Bass to these simple
airs, but never to play the Song part as is
generally done;; and this acquisition might
easily be made in a short time and with little
pains, as the Basses of simple Airs are
generally (or should be) very simple
themselves.”
p. 13: [Implies premeditated practice is bad “It was then [i.e. a century ago, when taste
and also implies that it is affected.] was better] deemed a necessary part of
education to sing their part at sight [and]
their manners also were as unaffected as the
style of their Music.”
p. 18-19: “[T]he young part of the female sex, … but should so learn, so as to amuse their
who discover the least propensity for Music, own family, and for that domestic comfort, they
or shew any marks of having a good ear, were by Providence designed to promote;; -
should certainly learn Music, not for the sake to relieve the anxieties and cares of life, to
of rendring them fit for the fashionable world, inspire cheerfulness, and elevate the mind
not for parade and ostentation, not to rival to a sense and lover of Order,—Virtue,—
theatrical performers … and Religion;; She who can, by thus
improving her natural talents, effect these
good purposes, will not have misspent her
time”
p. 13: PERORATIO: “Let our daughters then be taught Music so as to understand what they
perform, and perform no more than what falls within the easy compass of their execution;; nor
ever attempt any thing but select pieces of familiar, easy, simple construction, such as may delight
the ear of their friends, and contribute to improve their own Hearts by directing its influence
to the proper object.”
Table 2.1 Ideological dualities for women in Euterpe;; or, Remarks on the Use and Abuse of Music, as a Part
of Modern Education, c. 1779. The ellipsis indicates a contiguous sentence.

The author of Euterpe feels he has to first address the important issue of music and
women, explaining “the present universal passion for this Art, and the fashion of
making it a necessary part of education, induces me to consider it, as relating to the
fair sex, more particularly” (p. 4). He underlines the ridiculousness of obtaining “most
84
 
eminent Masters” upon which too “much time and much expence [is] bestowed” (p. 4).
The reader is guided through dualistic rhetoric with the notational aid of italics and
capitalization that set off key terms and concepts. Consider this representative
passage, which outlines Euterpe’s central message that excessive attention to musical
training is dangerous:

The fond parent, anxious to embellish the darling child, and render her fit for polite
company, compels her to perseverance, without discriminating the propensity of her
own nature, but vainly imagines that a proficiency is certainly to be obtained in
proportion to the reputation of her Instructor;; Under this delusion the young Lady is too
often brought into public company, and exhibits her performance, to the well-bred
admiration and astonishment of the ignorant many;; but to the silent Pity of the judicious
few. (p. 5)

Sarcasm drips in the transitions between Roman and Italic font, as was typical in
conduct-book discourse. The adjectives “polite” and “well-bred” are used in mockery
and Euterpe takes it as a given that all this excessive learning goes against the innate
“nature” of the “young Lady.” Euterpe repeatedly emphasizes that novel musical
effects that merely astonish and surprise are worthless and morally bankrupt and
admonishes men and women who aspire to the level of their professional teachers.
Euterpe concludes his discourse on women and music by appealing to a return to
simplicity and domestic containment. Music is not for ostentatious public display;;
rather it should only be for the enjoyment of the performer and a select few listeners.
With its unrelenting accent on passivity, docility, and disengagement Euterpe falls into
those books that Marry Hays rightly accused of advocating “perpetual babyism.”

TRANSGRESSIVE NORMATIVE
p. 14: “they are never contented without [Do not imitate professionals and do not
rivaling the absurd extravagancies of our play difficult fast passages on the violin or
modern executioners of Music, and imitating violoncello]
the wonderful Powers of those, who have
unhappily reduced Music to the narrow limits
of three inches of the Bow, upon two inches
of the String.”
p. 15: [Imitating professionals] “As Gentlemen can hardly ever attain a
degree of practical Excellence equal to the
Professors, I would beg them to take this
method how to exceed them in other Points
both with Honour and Pleasure to
themselves.”
85
 
p. 17: “I am persuaded that half the time p. 15: “Music is a science established on the
bestowed by Gentlemen in the practice of most sublime parts of mathematical truths;;
very difficult and consequently not very good its theory founded on the doctrine of
Music, would render them masters of this Proportion;; on the most wonderful, though the
Art [i.e. music as a science], even so far as to most simple and few Principles”
read it as a language”
p. 16: [Indulguing in the purely mechanical “[T]he study of Music really as a science […]
arts/trades] is a pursuit worthy a Gentleman’s attention:
and this the knowledge which alone
distinguishes the Musician from the Fidler,
and the Architect from the Bricklayer.”
p. 17: [A just performance on an p. 17: “I would recommend to [Gentlemen]
accompanying viola] “has as good a claim to a practical knowledge of Thorough-Bass […] or
merit, and much better, than half the Solo such a proficiency on the Violoncello, as will
Performers we daily hear and requires the good render him a useful Performer in concerts of
judgment of the player, though not his great good Music, or to accompany a Song.
execution.”
p. 20: “[T]he increasing passion for [fantastic [Implies that simpler, old-fashioned music is
Levity], has increased the number of its better]
professors, and these fired with emulation on
their respective instruments, have extended
the powers of execution to such astonishing
a degree, as to win the applause of the
unthinking part of mankind, and impose
mechanical rapidity, and the wonders of difficulty,
as the perfection of Genius, and the only
triumphs of Music.”
p. 20: “This has induced every performer to … moved and persuaded.”
commence composer, and adapt the inert
crudities of his own brain to the active powers of
his own fingers, without any farther respect
to the hearer, than endeavouring to surprize,
where he ought to have …
p. 26: “Music is not an amusement for the … he should preserve his dignity, …
careless or idle vulgar;; the Musician is
somewhat more than a Mountebank or Rope-
Dancer;; …
… he must not trifle and play tricks, he must … he must be serious.”
not be gay …
p. 19: PERORATIO: “Let our young men maintain the dignity of the Gentleman and Scholar,
and thus render themselves able to communicate to their friends the pleasures of their
musical endowments, both by their Heads and Hands. Let the Philosopher conspire with the
Musician, to assist in the duties of Religion, and promote that complacency of mind which the
virtuous only know.”
Table 2.2 Ideological dualities for men in Euterpe;; or, Remarks on the Use and Abuse of Music, as a Part of
Modern Education, c. 1779. The ellipses indicates contiguous sentences.

Euterpe’s discourse on male musical performance runs along parallel lines. Whereas
simple delivery legitimatizes the performance of music by women, male musical
performance was only acceptable if accompanied by an interest in music as a science.
86
 
As with performances by women, surprising the listener with difficult passages was
to be strictly avoided. In order to avoid the temptations of difficulty, Euterpe goes so
far as to suggest that male performers take up the viola, as it “requires good
judgment of the player, though not his great execution.” (p. 17) Euterpe seems also to
suggest that amateur men are only acceptable as accompanists or as other members
of a larger group. Difficulty is again condemned: “mechanical rapidity, and the wonders
of difficulty” are applauded only by the “unthinking part of mankind.” (p. 20)

How was Euterpe received? Only two reviews have come down to us, both written by
men. Both appeared in well-read and widely-distributed journals—one somewhat
dismissive of the pamphlet, the other more in sympathy with the ideals of the author.
William Bewley in The Monthly Review parodied Euterpe as “blubbering.”

In this performance—as Virgil says,—Calamos Euterpe fletibus implet. Hear her—at


her first off-set.
‘How great the degeneracy of these times! When the unthinking daughters of
dissipation turned with a tearless eye, from the sweet persuasion of a Sheridan and a
Harrop;; and the relentless sons of folly lent but a careless ear to the unrivalled excellence
of a Fischer and a Lamotte!!!’
Those who admire such attitudes, and choose to see Euterpe blubbering, and
to hear her inconsistent declamations, we must refer to the pamphlet. We cannot
help lamenting, however, that the muse should have lost so much of her taste and
judgment in musical matters as to abuse the opera—the song part of which, she says,
‘is not a real tune, or pleasing melody;;’ and at the same to commend Handel for his
air. The lady must be deaf surely, or have kept bad company.—In fact, she addresses
her woeful plaints to ‘the subscribers to the concert of ancient music only.’ 57

There is no mention, however, of Euterpe’s restrictive educational ideology. Rather


the reviewer here highlights questions of taste familiar to a reader active within the
concert and opera culture of 1779. He quotes Euterpe’s preface, which singles out for
praise and emulation Sheridan, Harrop, Fischer, and Lamotte, contemporary singers
and instrumentalists. 58 But it is the references to the “daughters of dissipation” and “sons

                                                                                                 
57William Bewley, Review of Euterpe, Monthly Review, 61 (1779): 64.
58Thomas Sheridan (1719-1788) was an Irish stage actor, an educator, and an advocate for the
total reform of the British education system, which he believed neglected elocution and rhetorical
delivery. The reference to Harrop is probably to Sarah Bates (née Harrop) (c1755-1811). She was
admired for her interpretations of Handel and for many years was soloist at the Concert of
Ancient Music which her husband, Joah Bates, directed. Johann Christian Fischer (1733-1800)
was a famous German oboist and composer who settled in London in 1768. Franz Lamotte (c.
87
 
of folly” that appear to annoy the reviewer more, not the references to the
performers. There is a final dig at the conservative tastes of the subscribers to the
Concert of Ancient Music.

The other review found the author showed an “excellent taste for the true principles
of harmony, and a laudable zeal for the honour and improvement of his favourite
art.” He begins, characteristically, with the Platonic notion of music’s effects on
behaviour and emotions.

It is universally acknowledged, that music has a powerful effect on the human


passions;; that it is able to soothe the mind, in its greatest perturbations;; to inspire it
with serenity and joy;; and to elevate the soul to heaven. […]—Such being the
efficacy of music, the author of this essay endeavours to shew, that, when it is under
proper regulations, directed by taste and judgement, it may be applied to the noblest
purposes;; may be made an elegant and useful part of education;; may be the means
of improving the heart, and alluring it to the love of moral harmony, virtue, and
religion. But he observes, ‘that if singing has any power over the soul, it must arise
from its assisting sentimental expression;; that if music be too complicated, the sense
is confounded, and the effect destroyed: in a word, that the true pathetic is only to be
found in simplicity. Whatever may be the state of music in the present age, thousands
who frequent operas, oratorios, and concerts, are no better judges of music, than the
rural audience which attended old Orpheus. Our author therefore, without doubt,
has some reason, when he exclaims in these terms: ‘How great the degeneracy of
these times, when the unthinking daughters of dissipation turned with a tearless eye
from the sweet persuasion of a Sheridan and a Harrop;; and the relentless sons of
folly lent but a careless ear to the unrivalled excellence of a Fischer, and a Lamotte’!
The author of this essay, who seems to be a young writer, has shewn an
excellent taste for the true principles of harmony, and a laudable zeal for the honour
and improvement of his favorite art. 59

Again, this reviewer is more concerned with issues of contemporary taste, although
he does underline (and seemingly approve) of the author’s observation that “if music
be too complicated, the sense is confounded.”

Here we have two male perspectives on Euterpe, reviews destined for male
consumption in public journals. It gives us a good perspective on how conduct
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
1751-1780) was a violinist and composer, probably of Flemish origin. In 1776 he gave concerts in
London, including several subscription concerts with Rauzzini in 1778–9 and he seems to have
left London hurriedly around 1780. These references give greater credence to a pre-1780
publication date for Euterpe for Sarah Harrop married and changed her name to Bates in 1780
and Lamotte left London in that year and died in The Hague in September.
59 Anon., Review of Euterpe, Critical Review 47 (1779): 79-80.
88
 
books might reflect the culture in which they operated. One is lightly dismissive,
barely criticizing the restrictive viewpoint of the writer whereas the other is positively
approving.

But how did women react to conduct books? 60 Readership of conduct-books is hard
to investigate, but we do find that some reviewers expressly recommend them to
their male readers as being acceptable presents for ladies. 61 And they are to be found
in great abundance in the catalogues of libraries drawn up in estates of the deceased.
Were all these books unread presents? Towards the end of the eighteenth-century
and in the early nineteenth-century, some classical forms of “resistance” appear in
the behavior of women in novels as well as in the annotations of some conduct
books.

Resistance, Doubt, and the Anxiety of Practice

When Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice (1797) is invited to read to the ladies after tea
he chooses not a novel but rather the popular and constantly reprinted sermons of
Rev. James Fordyce, originally published in 1766. Lydia gapes in astonishment as he
reads three pages;; she then interrupts him with some neighbourhood gossip. The
others bid her to “hold her tongue,” but “Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his
book, and said,—”

“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious
stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;;—for
certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction.” 62

Austen makes it clear that the women find the content laughable and Lydia goes so
far as to interrupt the reading. Fordyce’s view on music, not commented on in Pride

                                                                                                 
60 For a good overview of conduct books, together with bibliographies and definitions, see The
Crisis of Courtesy: Studies in the Conduct-Book in Britain, 1600-1900, ed. Jacques Carré (New York: E.
J. Brill, 1994).
61 William Taylor in the Monthly Review 26 (1797): 361 concludes his review of Rev. Thomas

Gisborne’s An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female Sex, 2nd ed. (London: T. Cadell Jun. and W.
Davies, 1797) with the hope that many women might find the book an acceptable present. See
also Kassler, Science of Music of Britain, 1979, 392.
62 Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice [1797] (London: Spottiswoodes and Shaw, 1856), 60.
89
 
and Prejudice, was the traditional one echoed by the author of Euterpe. Music was a
domestic accomplishment on which no one should expend “a vast expence of time
and application.” Fordyce assumes that women will give up music when they marry,
when their time will be “directed with lasting benefit into some other channel.” 63

Resistance also took on more overt and permanent forms than Austen’s
representation of Lydia’s interruption. Jamie Kassler has identfied some fascinating
annotations by a woman in a copy of 1797 conduct book by the Rev. Thomas
Gisbourne. 64 Once owned by a Rebecca Morris of Milton Bryant it was annotated by
her friend “J. W.,” who appended “notes moral, philosophical, critical, & merry.”
Table 2.3 shows some of the annotations.

REV. THOMAS GISBORNE ANNOTATIONS BY “J.W”


The Power who called the human race into being A discrimination certainly results from the
has, with infinite wisdome, regarded, in the difference of the Physical Frame. But how far the
structure of the corporeal frame, the tasks which mental Powers differ or whether they differ at all,
the different sexes were respectively destined to [is] a very uncertain & difficult Question. So
fulfil. […] To me it appears, that He adopted uncertain an Opinion should not be made the
[…] with the most conspicious wisom, a Basis of Moral Duty.
corresponding plan of discrimination between
the mental powers of the two sexes.
[The] gay vivacity and the quickness of Scarcely is there one of these Qualities which
imagination, so conspicuous among the qualities may not be clearly traced to the peculiar Situation
in which the superiority of women is of women chiefly to the Want of important
acknowledged, have a tendency to lead to Occupations and interesting Objects—certainly
unsteadiness of mind;; to fondness of novelty;; to to no peculiar Organization.
habits of frivolousness, and trifling employment
to dislike of sober application;; to repugnance of
graver studies, and a too low estimation of their
work;; to an unreasonable regard for wit, and
shining accomplishments;; to a thirst for
admiration and applause;; to vanity and
affectation.
Table 2.3 Annotations by “J. W.” in Rev. Thomas Gisborne, An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female Sex
(London: Printed for T. Cadell Jun & W. Davies, 1797).

Anxieties related to practicing and pedagogy are particularly prevalent in conduct


books. Sarah Jordan has cogently investigated these sites of struggle in her
groundbreaking book The Anxieties of Idleness: Idleness in Eighteenth-Century British

                                                                                                 
63 Quoted in Ritchie, Women Writing Music in Late Eighteenth-Century England, 52-53.
64 Quoted in Kassler, Science of Music in Britain, 390-392.
90
 
Literature and Culture. Jordan notes how femininity was “ever more identified with
leisure in the eighteenth century.” 65 Women become personifications of leisure and
their leisured behavior was in fact linked directly to their husband’s class status;; the
higher the class, the more leisured the lady should be. 66 And yet conduct books
continually preach the dangers of idleness. Note Gisborne’s worrying that the “gay
vivacity and […] quickness of imagination” in women lead them to “fondness of
novelty,” “habits of frivolousness,” and an “unreasonable regard for wit, and shining
accomplishments.”

Too much keyboard practice was part of a dangerous path to “vanity and
affectation,” driven by a “thirst for admiration and applause.” 67 Women who took
too much pride in their playing were derided or marginalized. Consider this
description from Fanny Burney:

Miss Benson, I find, passes for a fine Harpsichord Player,—& when Lady Shelly
announced her abilities with strong commendation, she looked as though the praise
was all too little!—but I found it all puff,—she attempted Schobert & Boccherini,—
& played them much as Miss Coussmaker would have done.—
When she was gone, Mr. Selwin dryly said to me ‘Surely she was excellent—
by that air decidée with which she performed!’—She is, indeed, by no means
oppressed with humility,—but, let alone that, her Conversation is lively & agreeable
enough— 68

Women who were unassuming and modest are however singled out for praise. In
another description from Fanny Burney the Baroness Deiden finally deigns to sit
down at the keyboard after making a great display of refusing to play.

She played a Lesson of Schobert. I think her the best lady player I ever heard. She is
a good musician,—does not blunder or make false steps,—has a remarkable strong
left Hand—& plays with much meaning, as well as Execution. She is, at the same
Time, so modest & unassuming, & so pretty, that she was the general object of

                                                                                                 
65 Sarah Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness: Idleness in Eighteenth-Century British Literature and Culture
(Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2003), 20
66 Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness, 91.
67 Nancy Armstrong has similarly commented upon this passage in Desire and Domestic Fiction,

quoted in Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness, 93.


68 Lars E. Troide, ed., The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 3 (Montreal: McGill-

Queen’s University Press, 1990), to Susanna Burney, 8 November 1779, 425.


91
 
admiration. When my Father went to Thank her, she said she had never been so
frightened before in her life.
My Father begged her to favour us with some thing else. She was going to
play again—but the Baron, looking at my sister Hetty, said—‘après, ma chere.’ ‘Eh
bien, cried Miss Phipps, who is her intimate friend, après Madame Burney.’
She immediately, & very gracefully rose, & gave her place to Hetty, who, to
avoid the appearance of emulation, with great propriety chose to begin with a slow
movement, as the Baroness had been Exerting all her Execution. 69

Here are all the classic experiences of non-professional female English keyboard
culture of the late 1770s, namely,

1)   Make excuses not to play;;


2)   Show great humility and propriety in choice of repertoire (“nothing too
much, nothing too little”);;
3)   Appear unassuming and modest;;
4)   Experience or simulate the appearance of anxiety, fright or nervousness
at the experience of performing publicly.

In light of these engrained responses to musical aptitude, J.W.’s responses in the


conduct book (Table 2.3) appear all the more important in its uniqueness;; she
understands that these experiences are not innately programmed in a woman’s
constitution. Rather they are attributable to a “Want of important Occupations and
interesting Objects.”

One of those new occupations might indeed be a newly enlarged keyboard


proficiency, ushered in with Clementi’s Op. 2, that paralleled the newfound critical
voice women expressed in print culture. Indeed, Elizabeth Appleton makes the link
clear in her 1815 Private Education;; Or A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
After expressely recommending Clementi’s lessons as well as the exercises and drills
in his Introduction to the Art of Playing the Piano Forte, she cautions that practice at the
keyboard should not be haphazard or casual;; rather, it should follow Clementi’s

                                                                                                 
69Troide, ed., The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 3 to Samuel Crips, 22-5 May 1775,
132.
92
 
guidelines so as to generate good taste in music in the same way novels “raised the
mind to dignified and generous views of literature.” 70

Jordan importantly suggests that these “two ideological forces, the one requiring
ladies’ idleness and the other forbidding it, appear to be in opposition but actually, in
many ways worked together.” 71 As conduct books increasingly prohibited female
labour, they in turn created hours of “idleness,” which then of course had to be
meaningfully employed. Disapproved activies generally involve self-display and self-
aggrandisement. Approved activies were charitable, organizational ones. The best
women are those who are never bored, “who possessed inner ‘resources’ that
rendered her independent of the public realm.” 72

But as both Jordan and Nancy Armstrong observe, “since all ladies’ activities were so
circumscribed, the difference between approved and disapproved ways of spending
time could be subtle: as Burney’s The Wanderer (1814) indicates, for instance, playing
the harp could be a sign of both excellence and of imperfection.” 73 The anxiety and
uncertainty that gravitate around the discourse related to the time spent on
improving one’s musical performance was continually present. It is hard not to hear
the awe, for example, in Hannah More’s 1800 commentary of keyboard practice
when she writes hyperbolically:

Suppose your pupil to begin at six years of age and to continue at the avergae of
four hours a-day only, Sunday excepted, and thirteen days allowed for travelling
annually, till she is eighteen, the state stands thus;; 300 hours multiplied by four, the
number of hours amount to 1200;; that number multipied by twelve, which is the
number of years, amounts to 14,400 hours! 74

Is she impressed or disgusted? Or both? Later More contends that “a well-bred lady
may lawfully [sic] learn most of the fashionable arts” but further injunctions are put
in place (such as these arts “merely embellish life,” and music is not “the true end of
                                                                                                 
70 Elizabeth Appleton, Private Education, quoted in Kassler, The Science of Music in Britain, 19.
71 Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness, 92.
72 Ibid., 93.
73 Ibid.
74 Hannah More, Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education. With a View of the Principles and

Conduct Prevalent Among Women of Rank and Fortune, Vol. 1(Charlestown: [n.p.] 1800), 49.
93
 
of education”). 75 Mary Cockle in 1809 similarly admits she is a great admirer and
lover of music, calling attention to the “(almost celestial) attractions of this delightful
accomplishment” even though she describes four or five hours a day at keyboard
practice as being “stolen from the cultivation of the head and the heart.” That time
spent at the keyboard is “very dearly purchased,” she writes. In Mary Brunton’s
novel Discpline (1814) the protagonist is sent to a fashionable school where she
receives training in acquiring musical abilities “equal to any which the public may
command for hire” even though “this acquisiton (I blush whilst I write it) cost me
the labour of seven hours a day!—full half the time which, after deducting the
seasons of rest and refreshment, remained for all the duties of a rational, a social, an
immortal being!” 76

The accomplishments of music, needlework, painting and so forth that were


connected with courtship rituals became less ornamental as the century progresses
and increasingly associated with “improvements.” A practice-manual of the 1820s is
entitled “Festina Lente”—or Make Haste Slowly—thus nicely encapsulating the
paradoxical effects of idleness and labour in one neat cultural activity. The subtitle
makes it clear that it is an activity that virtuously fills a woman’s idle hours:
“Clementi’s Daily Practice for the Piano Forte;; being a series of Modulations and
Exercises through the Whole Circle of the Scales.” 77 Keyboard practice is not a mere
accomplishment anymore, something to be discarded with the loss of virginity;; rather
it is now truly an “Art” (as in Clementi’s title, “Introduction to the Art of Playing the
Piano”). 78

                                                                                                 
75 More, Strictures, 60.
76 Quoted in Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness, 102-103.
77 A copy owned by a “[Mrs.] C. S. Richardson” resides in the Library of Congress, Washington

DC, uncatalogued in M1. S35 Box 1, No. 11. Muzio Clementi, Festina Lente: Clementi’s Daily
Practice for the Piano Forte;; being a series of Modulations and Exercises through the Whole Circle of the Scales
(Baltimore: Published by John Cole & Son, 182-?). See Chapter 5 for more details.
78 We discuss Clementi’s Introduction more fully in Chapter 5. On the associations of the loss of

virginity and the subsequent decline in an interest in music, see Richard Leppert, “Men, Women,
and Music at Home: The Influence of Cultural Values on Musical Life in Eighteenth-Century
England,” Imago Musicae 2 (1985): 98. He quotes several revealing passages from Austen’s Emma
(1816) and George Colman’s The Musical Lady (1762).
94
 
W. S. Stevens, whose 1811 Treatise on Piano-Forte Expression is dominated by examples
from Clementi, Dussek and Samuel Wesley, notes acutely this change in perception
and attributes it partly to the great advances made in English piano technology.

The practice of the piano-forte as an accomplishment having become so general,


and the performance of it, even in a moderate manner, so very desirable, [that] to
attain a superior and finished degree of it must be equally and more justly so. This qualification
is not be acquired hastily, nor in the common way of teaching, much time being
necessarily spent in the attainment of a moderate knoweldge of the instrument,
notation, and the musical langauge, and but few teachers possessing the qualification
to give, or pupils the desire to receive, any further induction [sic] towards the higher
or finished part of the art. Therefore, as a moderate performance on the piano-forte almost
ceases to be an accomplishment, so the way to perfection, or what may in a degree approach to it, is
become a matter of great musical importance, and that which operates also very powerfully
to the same end, is the perfection of the pianofortes at the present day, both for
execution and effect, as made by several eminent manufacturers, giving opportunity
to professors of talents and every fine player to exhibit their powers of taste and
execution, in a manner quite superior and different from any thing that was or could be done on
the inferior and less perfect instruments of a former time [my italics]. 79

In short, thanks to the superior English technology and a rise in keyboard


proficiency, being a “moderate” player is no longer enough—one must strive rather
to “attain a superior and finished degree of it.” Usus promptos facit. Practice makes
perfect.

Conduct-books Reflect a Changing Ideology: 1740-1840

Fig. 2.4 charts the rise from 1741 to 1838 of conduct-books’ approval of the time
devoted by women in practicing the keyboard and attaining a musical education. A
necessarily subjective method evaluates their contents in search of references to the
approval or disapproval of women’s musical activities. Stevens’s 1811 observation
that attaining a superior technique is more desirable than a moderate one is echoed
by other overt approvals given to the keyboard practicing in conduct books and
manuals around the same time. We have included only musical treatises with
substantial written sections.

                                                                                                 
79William Seaman Stevens, A Treatise on Piano-Forte Expression, Containing the Principles of Fine
Playing on that Instrument (London: M. Jones, 1811), 2.
95
 

4.5

3.5
Regulatory ideology for practicing
0=advocates little or no pracitce
4=advocates intensive pracitce
3

2.5

2
Conduct
book
1.5
Linear
1 (Conduct
book)
0.5

0
1720 1740 1760 1780 1800 1820 1840
Year of Publication
 
Figure 2.4 Graph of ideological differences regarding keyboard practicing/music education in 36
conduct books and treatises, 1741-1838. See the Appendix for more details.

Leonard Euler receives the highest rating of 4 because he advocates unrestricted


access to music on all accounts, writing “wherefore preclude, to a woman, any source
of knowledge to which her capacity, and condition of life, entitle her to apply? […]
let her time be filled up, in the acquisition of attainable and useful knowledge.”

Richard Bacon’s 1818 “On the Objects of Musical Education”, for example, receives
a rating of 3 because the article advocates according unrestricted time to women’s
musical activities. He writes music “is likely to assist most materially in fixing the
attention, refining the taste, varying the powers, and warming the sensibility of
females.” But he does not receive a 4 because the object of all this practicing is not
for the woman alone but rather to “keep as well as win the husband.”

Elizabeth Hamilton in her 1803 “Letters on the Elementary Principles of Education”


receives a fairly neutral rating of 2 as she articulates the status quo: “Music, which is a
96
 
continuation of sounds, may, from the various combinations of which it is capable,
be rendered highly expressive of the tender, the plaintive, the melancholy, the
cheerful, or the gay. […] The person who is not susceptible of these emotions, may
attain a knowledge of the laws of composition, and acquainted with the difficulty
attending the execution of laborious passages, may admire the art of the performer;;
but this admiration is perfectly distinct from the emotion of taste.” Because this
admiration stems from the music’s persuasive properties and because music’s effects
were so palpable, musical activities should be controlled and supervised.

Charles Allen’s 1763 “The Polite Lady” receives a rating of 1 because he approves of
music but cautions that excessive skill in a lady implies that she had neglected other
more important accomplishments. “She who is a mere singer, a mere dancer, a mere
drawer, or indeed a mere any thing,” he writes, “has not title to the character of an
accomplished woman.”

Erasmus Darwin’s “A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education, in Boarding


Schools” receives a 0 as he places musical accomplishments lowest on his
curriculum, explaining, like Allen, that a “a great apparent attention to trivial
accomplishments is liable to give a suspicion, that more valuable acquisitions have
been neglected. And, as they consist in an exhibition of the person, they are liable to
be attended with vanity, and to extinguish the blush of youthful timidity;; which is in
young ladies the most powerful of their exterior charms.”

The Appendix details the remaining conduct books, together with representative
quotes that explain their position on the graph in Fig. 2.4.

One of the most interesting observations that emerge from this study is that as
women’s keyboard activities are given freer rein in terms of the time they are allowed
to spend perfecting their technical skills, their musical expression is increasingly
encouraged to better express the “needs of the composer” (in treatises from 1815,
1823, and 1829 for example). The belief in the Platonic worldview begins to waver,
and it is questioned more and more whether music really did directly affect the body
97
 
and the mind in the vital ways that had been hitherto described. 80 Increasingly it is
now the composer’s intentions that move the performer and not those from the
world of “mere tones”, which was the older belief. Women thus appear as
interpretative agents in a new culture of authorship and artworks. 81

These graphs and charts unfortunately represent women as abstracted shadows, as


ciphers jumbled up in a world suffused with regulatory ideologies. Mary Astell in
1694 and Mary Wollstonecraft in 1794, feminists from either end of the eighteenth
century, both refer to women as being reduced to a “mere cypher [sic].” 82 As Jordan
explains, “like a cipher, a zero, she was nothing: excluded from the world of work
and politics, she was to be passive and silent. Also like a zero, however, as
Wollstonecraft points out, she added to the value of the man to whom she was
united. The eighteenth-century lady was a cipher in another sense, also: she was a
puzzle, a message in code.” 83 Even through all these contradictions and paradoxes
she might also be tallied up as a cipher in a newly emerging economic sense that
businessmen like Clementi were able to harness and manipulate, much like his
colleagues did in the world of print.

The Reading Woman, the Performing Woman: “Misreading” and


“Misplaying”

How do we approach our study of eighteenth-century women at the keyboard within


the context of this changing ideology? One method, taken here, is to adopt the
multidisciplinary approach that Leslie Ritchie advocates in Women Writing Music in
Late Eighteenth-Century England: Social Harmony in Literature and Performance. Observing
that eighteenth-century writers had no qualms about traversing disciplinary and
scholarly boundaries, she notes the resistance that studies of Western “art” music

                                                                                                 
80 See page 82, footnote 56.
81 Mary Hunter, “‘To Play as if from the Soul of the Composer’: The Idea of the Performer in
Early Romantic Aesthetics,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 58/2 (2005): 357-398;; Mark
Evans Bonds, “Rhetoric versus Truth: Listening to Haydn in the Age of Beethoven” in Haydn
and the Performance of Rhetoric, 109-130.
82 Jordan, The Anxieties of Idleness, 84.
83 Ibid., 84.
98
 
have demonstrated to incorporating “data and concepts acquired via interdisciplinary
investigation.” She engages fruitfully with Leppert’s landmark study, and argues that
while

female-authored philosophical treatises expressly expounding the moral value of


music are indeed rare, as Leppert suggests, women did mark their participation in
the deviations from society’s notions of harmony in a number of forms, including
poetry, drama, conduct literature, novels, letters, and musical compositions. 84

Like Leslie’s study on female composers, this dissertation similarly uses


methodologies and primary evidence from areas outside musicology’s traditional
text-oriented confines.

One potentially illuminating family of methodologies can be experienced in the rich


world of literary studies. Jacqueline Pearson’s brilliant study, Women’s Reading in
Britain 1750-1835: A Dangerous Recreation, investigates the “pleasures and perils of
reading” in much the same way as we investigate the pleasures and perils of keyboard
performance. Like music, reading in the eighteenth-century was also a cultural
activity with a precarious and inconsistent status. Different critical approaches of the
reader abound in contemporary literary theory. 85 This dissertation aims to initiate the
beginnings of a critical counterpart in musicology to the wealth of reader-response
theory on women novel-readers of the period by writers as diverse as Pearson, Kate
Flint, Roger Chartier, James Raven, and Ina Ferris. 86

There are many parallels between the reading woman and the woman at the
keyboard. Both activities are based on texts (novels/scores), are performative (when
                                                                                                 
84 Ritchie, Women Writing Music in Late Eighteenth-Century England, 25.
85 Elizabeth Freund has listed the various characterizations of the reader in recent criticism: “the
mock reader (Gibson), the implied reader (Booth, Iser), the model reader (Eco), the super-reader
(Riffaterre), the inscribed or encoded reader (Brooke-Rose), the naratee (Prince), the ideal reader
(Culler), the literant (Hollant), the actual reader (Jauss), the informed reader or the interpretative
community (Fish).” Pearson adds “the resisting reader (Fetterley), the oppositional reader
(Chambers) and the conscripted reader (Stewart).” Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain, 10.
86 Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain;; Flint, The Woman Reader;; Roger Chartier, The Cultural Uses of

Print in Early Modern France, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1987);; James Raven, ed., The Practice and Representation of Reading in England (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1996) and Ina Ferris, The Romantic National Tale and the Question of Ireland
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).
99
 
the novel is read aloud to others or when the score is performed to others) and both
cultural activities were often enjoyed in solitude. One of the most powerful
manifestations of female novel reading and music making occurs in Samuel
Richardon’s Clarissa. At eleven o’clock at night, Clarissa feels “forced to compose my
angry passions at my harpsichord” and the resulting Ode to Wisdom was published as a
fold-out page of music that invited the reader to take the actual volume itself to the
harpsichord and try out Clarissa’s song. 87 Apart from contributing to Richardson’s
universe of editorial authenticity, the reader here is actually invited to become Clarissa
herself;; her comment to Miss Howe, that “[I] should be still more assured could I
hear it tried by your voice and by your finger,” is, in effect, a direct invitation and
challenge to the performative sensibilité of the reader herself. 88 The song is set by
Clarissa in the affecting key of E major, a key associated by Mattheson with
“hopeless love” and by Schubart with “pleasure not yet complete,” emotional states
that could be ascribed to Clarissa at this moment in the novel. 89

Both novel and score were subject to critical attention by others and both are spoken
of in conduct books and conduct dramas. But reading was more widespread than
keyboard performance. Armed with literacy and determination the female reader
could forge ahead in her reading as freely as her class and environment allow. To
become musically literate at the keyboard meant taking lessons, acquiring an
instrument, and having a family supportive of the idea. There are consequently many
more detailed descriptions of historical female readers than female keyboardists, a
fact acknowledged by Leppert when he went in search of written descriptions of
musicians. 90

                                                                                                 
87 Samuel Richardson, Clarissa, or, The History of a Young Lady, ed. Angus Ross (London: Penguin,

1985), 231 ff. A modern transcription of the piece can be found as an Appendix, 1534.
According to Ross the Ode was written by Elizabeth Carter (1717-1806), an acquaintance of Dr.
Johnson, 1514.
88 Richardson, Clarissa, 231.
89 Mattheson (1713) and Schubart (c. 1784). See Rita Steblin, A History of Key Characteristics in the

Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Rochester, N.Y: University of Rochester Press, 1996),
252.
90 “During the initial years of research [it became] apparent [...] that written references to music

by contemporaneous practitioners were many but almost invariably non-descriptive and brief.”
Leppert, Music and Image, 1.
100
 
Because of the complexity of this large reading culture, there were consequently
found to be a variety of different kinds of novels and written genres deemed
unacceptable for women. In the realm of novel-reading, misreading was as
analogously a female vice as inappropriate musical performances. One “misread” a
novel, for example, by skipping over and therefore misinterpreting or privileging
certain passages. 91 This kind of misreading was commonly gendered as feminine in
the eighteenth century, as Pearson has shown. 92 Women were understood to have
exhibited “false taste” as they skipped over apparently important prefaces in order to
access a “picturesque scene, or a tender letter.” 93

Can one misread a sonata? In many ways it appears one can. You might skip over the
“difficult” sections and play instead the prettier and more ingratiating second subject.
Or you might extract a movement from a sonata, or a sonata from an opus. The
circular nature of repetitive practice itself is a kind of misreading, as you stop and
repeat sections that are difficult (so as to perform them better next time) or repeat
sections that are pleasurable (because you find pleasure in the way you play it). This
kind of misreading or “misplaying” is obviously designed only for private solitude or
pedagogy and not for public performance. In the presence of listeners, both the
novel and the sonata, it seems, were understood to be performed in a teleological
and linear fashion. Here the phenomenon of privileging prima vista playing is revealed
as an important disciplinary agent. Writers and commentators stress the importance
of sight-read performances undertaken with the minimum of labour. 94 The

                                                                                                 
91 “Misreading” is not meant here in the sense made famous by Harold Bloom. Howard Bloom,

A Map of Misreading (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). Rather I mean it quite literally,
“misreading” by not “reading” in the linear and structuralist fashion that moralists seemed to
encourage. A parallel might be drawn here with Rose Subotnick’s description and critique of
“structural listening.” See Andrew Dell’ Antonio, ed., Beyond Structural Listening?: Postmodern Modes
of Hearing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).
92 Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain, 5-6, 31 ff.
93 Isaac Disraeli, Curiosities of literature. Consisting of anecdotes, characters, sketches, and observations, literary,

critical, and historical (London: printed for J. Murray, 1791), 45.


94 Sight-reading was an integral part of assessing a performer’s ability and so is often mentioned

in blow-by-blow accounts in letters and journals in which performers are described for other
readers. Burney’s description of Madame du Brillon is a classic example: “She plays with great
ease, taste and feeling—is an excellent sightswoman, of which I was convinced by her executing
some of my own music.” Charles Burney, Music, Men and Manners in France and Italy, 1770, Being the
Journal Written by Charles Burney, Ms. D., ed. Edmund Poole (London: Eulenberg Books, 1974), 19-
101
 
performer in these sight-reading scenarios does not have time to engage with the text
with the luxury that the kind of “misplaying” or rehearsing we have just outlined
affords. With a sight-read performance she is compelled to conform to the linear
narrative of the musical text. She cannot enjoy or engage with exploring the different
possibilities of supra-notational musical devices and effects such as harpsichord
registrations, hand stops, or pedals. These devices—if they are new to the player—
can only really be tried out in private.

Michel de Certeau, in The Practice of Everyday Life, is concerned with “the tactics of
consumption, the ingenious ways in which the weak make use of the strong.”
Consumption, in his view, is made up of “tricks,” opportunism, and tactics as
opposed to strategies. For de Certeau, consumption is allied more to “renting” rather
than owning, in that the consumer “transforms another person’s property into a
space borrowed for a moment by a transient.” 95 “Misreading” and “misplaying” do
exactly this;; the consumer is at liberty to subvert the text in ways perhaps unforeseen
to the object’s agents of production, its authors and publishers.

Like the misreading woman, the misplaying woman can engage with the text is an
anti-structuralist mode;; going from one passage to another she is at more leisure to
try out effects and feelings. Like the misreading and resisting reader who “might
choose to identify not with the hero but with the villain,” the misplaying performer
might start engaging with those maligned difficult passages that demand practice and
attention and cannot be sight read. 96 They may become alluring precisely because
they are forbidden. Misplaying in this vein can generally only be undertaken without

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
20. In 1797, Milchmeyer complained about sight-reading culture at length explaining that “this
mad desire to play everything immediately at sight results in nothing more than a monotonous
production of tasteless, meaningless music.” Johann Peter Milchmeyer, Die Wahre Art das
Pianoforte zu Spielen, ed. and annotated by Robert Rhein (DMA thesis, University of Nebraska,
1993), 13.
95 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, [Arts de faire] trans. Steven Randall (Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1984), xvii, xix-xx, xxi. James Parakilas uses de Certeau’s Theory
of Practice in his article, “The Power of Domestication in the Lives of Musical Canons,”
Repercussions 4/1 (1995): 5-25, 19-25.
96 Pearson, Women’s Reading in Britain, 17.
102
 
a male presence by her side, whether in the form of a teacher or indeed in the form
of the male accompanying string players that would join her in accompanied sonatas.

It is no accident, therefore, that Clementi’s accompanied sonatas—amongst others—


are much simpler and easier to sight-read than his solo sonatas. The presence of
accompanists forces a linear, teleological delivery. Misplaying in this context can only
be limited to the two extremes of embellishment:

a)   ornamentation, when the pianist is competent and the piece is simple;;


b)   simplification, when the pianist is competent but the piece is difficult.

In the realm of professional males, Czerny was once caught out by Beethoven for
misplaying by ornamentation his Quintet for Piano and Winds. Czerny “took the
liberty of complicating the passage work, of using the higher octaves, etc. Beethoven
rightly reproached me severely for it. 97” The youthful Mozart was also discovered
misplaying by simplification by André-Ernest-Modeste Grétry who “wrote him an
Allegro in E-flat;; difficult, but unpretentious;; he played it, and everyone, except
myself, believed that it was a miracle. The boy had not stopped;; but following the
modulations, he had substituted a quantity of passages for those which I had
written.” 98

For competent female amateurs, it may be argued, therefore, that the inclusion of
difficult music in the domestic genre of the sonata encourages women to misplay,
engage, and practice with textures that are anything but unassuming, modest, or
retiring.

                                                                                                 
97 Quoted as translated on p. 1 of the editor’s “Commentary” in Carl Czerny, On the Proper
Performance of all Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, ed. Paul Badura-Skoda (Vienna: Universal, 1970).
Also see James Parakilas, “Playing Beethoven His Way: Czerny and the Canonization of
Performance Practice” in Beyond The Art of Finger Dexterity: Reassessing Carl Czerny, 108-124,
111.
98 André Ernest ModesteGrétry, Mémoires ou essais sur la musique [1789] quoted in Maynard

Soloman, Mozart: A Life, 532.


103
 
Critically Engaging with the Eighteenth-Century Female Keyboard Performer

In musicology the critical departure on the study of female performers in domestic


environments is generally that of Leppert’s landmark study The Sight of Sound. In an
important article, Matthew Head has observed the challenges that surround Leppert’s
conclusion that musical accomplishments served only to contain and restrain the
female subject.

Danger lurks in the idea of a disciplinary function of art on women and female
subjectivity. As a critical tool, containment potentially freezes the historical subject
in official discourses;; the rhetorical status of such discourses, the contradictions that
attended them, or the possibilities of resistance are barely acknowledged. 99

He goes on to say that “the move from text and representation to embodied musical
performance is not one from containment to unbounded agency.” Rather, as
Foucault as emphasized, the new “disciplines” of the Enlightenment and beyond
were not regulated by overt forces, as in older practices, but rather by “‘subtle
coercion’ of a control that operated at the level of the individual and the bodily
mechanism to determine ‘movements, gestures, attitudes, rapidity.’” 100 Head goes on
to develop a useful methodology entitled “Resisting Containment.” He broadly
classifies three levels:

(level 1) internal contradictions in the musical text;; (level 2) the mediating processes
of performance and reception and (level 3) the existence of counterdiscourses and
dissent in the culture in which this music circulated. 101

For a study of Clementi, this methodology is highly illuminating. Head asks for level
1: “Does the repertory reveal contradictions that may have undermined its
effectiveness as a disciplinary instrument?” For Clementi, the answer is resoundingly
in the affirmative. We have a composer who in the late 1770s publishes extremely
difficult music intended for performance and consumption by female amateur
performers. Practicing the music is risky as it invites censure according to conduct-
                                                                                                 
99 Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand won’t stretch,’” 205.
100 Ibid. Bourdieu has theorized this kind of subtle coercion as bodily hexis, a concept we will
return to.
101 Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand won’t stretch,’” 226.
104
 
book ideology (paying too much attention to trivial concerns) and the music itself
quite flagrantly undermines the actual disciplinary purpose of music, which was to
harmonize the mind and spirits with undemanding music and song, “in many of
these ruffled or lonely hours, which, in almost every situation will be your lot.” 102 In
trying to perform Clementi, the amateur performer transgresses into the world of the
professional.

In the world of print, Frances Burney vividly represents the collisions of these two
worlds of amateur and professional in The Wanderer (1814). The protagonist, Juliet, is
in desperate need of financial support else she will become destitute. As Juliet is
adept at singing and the harp, a Miss Arbe cruelly proposes that she might perform
in public for money. Juliet is terrified and horrified at the prospect but accepts in a
desperate need for cash—in rehearsal she is “seized with a faint panic that disorder[s]
her whole frame” and causes her to sing poorly. 103 The day of the concert
approaches;; Miss Arbe buys her a tasteless pink dress in order to better “distinguish
us Dilettanti from the artists [i.e. Juliet].” 104 When a sympathetic suitor hears of the
concert he earnestly entreats her to reserve her “accomplishments” for the
“resources of [her] leisure, and the happiness of [her] friends.” 105 He implies in a
letter that if she sings in public he will not be able to marry her. The concert day
arrives: when Juliet gets up to sing, she is so terrified she faints dead away. How else
to resolve the paradox but with unconsciousness?

Did constant practice with demanding lessons on difficult music actually “liberate”
women from a drudgery of domestic life, a lifestyle convincingly represented as
depressing and restrictive in Leppert’s iconographic studies? Or did it entrap them
further in a cycle of endless exercises? Here the imprisoning binary choice of
“liberating” versus “repressive” is not helpful. Obviously Clementi’s “difficulties”
had different meanings and implications for different individuals. For burgeoning
                                                                                                 
102 John Bennet, Letters to a Young Lady on a Variety of Useful and Interesting Subjects Calculated to
Improve the Heart, to Form the Manners, and Enlighten the Understanding (Warington: for the author,
1789), Vol. 1, 243.
103 Burney, The Wanderer, 310.
104 Ibid., 314.
105 Ibid., 338.
105
 
female professionals, lessons with Clementi and engagement with his music were
essential if they wished to compete with others. For other, more fashionable ladies,
lessons with Clementi afforded them important cultural capital. The novelty of
difficulty was his most important weapon in a campaign for public attention and the
conduct books’ constant harping on the theme perhaps brought him greater
notoriety.

The immediate critical response to Clementi’s professional-sounding and


professional-feeling music is generally damning, and there is a constant worry that in
his music the worlds of amateur and professional were coming dangerously close.
One can also perceive the worrying notion that by destroying this distinction, class
distinctions will also be blurred.

An article in The European Magazine, first brought to critical attention by Peter A.


Brown, parodies Clementi’s playing and compositions as the lightly-disguised
“CELERIO.” 106The correspondent claims that Clementi can only flourish because of
the “vitiated Taste of the Age.” The author cannily observes that Clementi’s flashy
style was created precisely in order to create a craze for his instruction—a craze
which in fact took place, and which leads us into Head’s level 2, addressing the
mediating roles of performance and reception.

Thus having analyzed before you the merits of this famed Performer, you find them
to be composed of Brilliancy and Frivolity, of florid Embellishment, of superficial
Graces, of Fillagree Cadences, &c. en fin, of Rapidity and Vapidity. We cannot
therefore rank him as an Apostle of the Orthodox Church of Music, and it may be
truly said of him that his Talents are wholly at his Fingers ends, where, though not à
gauche, he certainly is adroit. Yet while thus we are freely censuring the stile of
CELERIO, some allowance should be made;; let us then to the vitiated Taste of the
Age in which CELERIO flourishes, attribute, in a great degree, the Inducements he
has to adopt that mode which promises success. The object with CELERIO is eclat;;
that admired as a Performer, he may be sought after as a Teacher. He is of Character
unblemished, respectful in Demeanor, and diligent in his Profession—so fair befal
[sic] his pursuits! There are, in abundance, young Ladies in affluent state, of whose
Liberality let CELERIO largely partake, and for whose purpose his manner adapted;;
that is, to become qualified to figure away, at a little Music, with much Velocity and

                                                                                                 
106For more details on the progeny and authorship of these letters see Peter A. Brown, “‘Celerio,
le Dieu de Clavecin.’ An Appraisal of Clementi?” The Musical Times 120/1638 (1979): 645-657.
106
 
Brilliancy of Finger, through some tasty Rondeau, with its multitudinous Variations
and Adornments. CELERIO, as an Instructor, is not however for our purpose—it
is enough that he has our good wishes, and our plaudits on his public Performances.
[my underlines] 107

The correspondent goes on to warn about the dangers of losing in a study of


Clementi’s music (or any difficult music) the noble “Amateur” epithet, the
increasingly old-fashioned idea of compulsory easiness:

The[se] decorative Parts of Music [i.e. “Velocity and Brilliance of finger] are not, I
have noted, belonging to the Composition, and therefore may be dispensed with,
nor are they deserving the least attention, unless introduced with strict propriety,
and executed in the highest stile of perfection. These cannot be Mechanically
infused. The Powers of Invention, with intense Study, are necessary to their
acquisition. But Correctness will attend on Diligence and good Instruction;; and this,
in the opinion of many prudent persons, is held as sufficient for a young Lady not
destined to become a Professor. I have, you see, gone far beyond this mark;; still
holding in mind, however, that the Time bestowed on Music more than is requisite
for attaining the Character of a true Amateur, is improperly applied, especially if
taken from those hours which ought to be employed on Studies absolutely necessary
to the forming [of] an accomplished Woman, in an age when Female Adornments,
mental and personal, are so much the objects of Parental Care and Solicitude. Yet,
where there shall be Genius inherent, with Good Sense to controul [sic] its
exuberances, the Predominant Passion may have encouragement. For instance,
should it be Music, the Fair inspired one may safely cherish her Propensity for it by
devoting to her darling Subject, a Portion of that Time which usually is allotted to
Dress, to Visits, and Public Amusements. [my underlines] 108

Even here, in 1796, we notice that the correspondent is ranking time spent on music
higher than that time spent on “Dress”, “Visits,” and “Public Amusements,” a
marked change from earlier discourses which dismissed music altogether.

The correspondent is also at great pains to comment on the new gestures and
attitudes of a performer playing Clementi. “PIANO-FORTE RACERS of the
present day, many of them are restricted to a few Pieces expressly calculated to
produce, as the Phrase is, Effect;; that is, to amaze us with the wonders of velocity and

                                                                                                 
107 Anon., “Desultory Remarks on the Study and Practice of Music,” 114 ff. All further quotes
are taken from this source.
108 Ibid., 357 ff.
107
 
dexterity of Finger.” Peter A. Brown believes the lady in question, her name only
lightly disguised as J——N, to be Therese Jansen, a famous pupil of Clementi. 109

[Therefore] [i]t is a matter much deserving the attention of a Lady, how she is to
present and deport herself while at the Piano-Forte. I have repeatedly noticed some
Capital Performers, who, while they highly gratified the Ear, have very much
offended the Eye, by a most ungraceful, not to say distorted, Position of their Body
and a disgustingly awkward motion with their arms and hands. I know one Lady,
whose demeanor, in general, is admired, but who places her Chair at a distance from
the Instrument, like a Rustic seated at the table of his Lord with a plate half a yard
from him;; whence the Body, in either case, is bent forward, and the Arms are on the
full stretch to reach their object. This Lady’s manner of applying her Fingers is also
unpleasing, and rather ludicrous, for, in their whole length, they drop perpendicular
on the Instrument with a laxity and tremulation of every joint, as if they had been
wetted and she was shaking them dry. It is, I allow, easier far to point out Defects
than to give Instruction in the case before us. Defects are obvious, and strike
instantaneously;; but to acquire a graceful deportment and a proper display of the
Hands and Arms while at the Desk, must depend greatly on making these a constant
object of regard—and though “herein the Patient must minister to herself,” yet can
the skilful and accomplished J——N afflict you with some prescriptions that will
prove efficacious. To me it seems that the most proper and becoming manner is to
bring the Chair near to the Instrument, to place the Body upright, the Shoulder’s
back, the Head as erect as a very little inclination of the Neck will admit of;; but in all
this with so much of ease and flexibility as will enable you gracefully to turn your
head on either side, the Body and Shoulders still retaining their position. The Arms
should be on a level line with the Keys, neither hanging in sharp angles below them,
nor fore-shortened in crippled state above them. The Fingers diverging a little, and
the Hands rather convexed, while the extreme Joints only of the Fingers drop on the
Keys, and are constantly kept near to them, not high up-lifted and ever jumping up
and down, in manner resembling the motion of the Jacks with inside the
Instrument, as you must have noticed during the Process of tuning it. 110

Female bodies in the eighteenth century were here read as having characteristics
which demonstrated their inferiority (weak, susceptible to sensibility, soft, and so on)
and were ideologically inculcated in public and private with what Pierre Bourdieu has
described as a “bodily hexis that constitutes a veritable embodied politics.” 111 Body
hexis is understood by Bourdieu as the physical dispositions which emerge in
individuals as a result of the relationships between particular fields and individuals’
“habitus.” Put simply, difficult music here causes the musician to alter her posture in
a way that induces the criticisms encountered here.
                                                                                                 
109 Peter A. Brown, “An Appraisal of Clementi?” 646 passim.
110 Anon., “Desultory Remarks on the Study and Practice of Music,” 270 ff.
111 Pierre Bourdieu and Loïc Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago: Chicago

University Press, 1992), 172.


108
 

A later corrective note by a reader emphasizes even more the visual pleasure that the
pianist should afford her audience, in stark contrast to the energized physicality that
any performance of Clementi’s music might engender. Instead of looking at her
hands and at the music in front of her, she should turn away towards her auditors,
“as will allow of a graceful, a Guidonic turn of the head.” 112 Such a posture is better
suited to the music of Schroeter (Ex. 2.1) than Clementi (Ex. 2.2), which demands
the utmost physicality.

Performance of difficult music was perhaps also viewed by contemporaries as


sexually alluring. 113 A licentious novel by Jean-Baptiste Louvet de Couvray has a
young woman boasting of all her attributes, in the hope that a certain Faublas, who
prefers “Mde. De B***”, might prefer her instead. One of her attributes is that she
could “at once, if you like, play on my piano all the sonatas of Edelmann and
Clementi.” The alluring part seems to be that she can immediately sit down and
perform, for his pleasure. 114 Ex. 2.3 is a page from Edelmann’s Op. 6 sonatas (1777).

                                                                                                 
112 In a later issue, another correspondent wrote to the editor claiming to have access to the
original document. He regretted that the editors did not have a chance to look at it before going
to press. He submits a number of corrections. For this passage he writes: “This and other
corrigenda, with some addenda, so far as to the close of Section 20th, are now too late for
attention from you: however, I will beg your permission to notice, that on the paragraph
respecting Deportment, after 15th, I have these alterations: “Indeed rather ludicrous, &c. defects,
such as I have noticed to you, are obvious, as will enable you gracefully to turn your head” read
“as will allow of a graceful, a Guidonic turn of the head,” &c. “The arms, &c.” read this passage
thus: “The arms should be on a level line with the keys, neither hanging in sharp angles below
them, nor yet foreshortened, in crippled state, above them;; else will the shoulders be raised up to the ears
in pinioned form, and all articulation of joint thereby prevented. The fingers should diverge a little, and the
hands be rather convexed, &c. to tuning it;; add, or like the dancing puppets at the end of an itinerant
dulcimer.” He also identifies “J––N” as “Mr. Jansen, eminent in his profession as a Dancing
Master, and an admired musical amateur performer.” Anon., “To the Editor of the European
Magazine,” The European Magazine (January, 1797): 7ff. The reference to “Guidonic” is a little
obscure, but probably refers to the attitudes of female subjects in the paintings of Guido Reni
(1575-1642). Certainly his work was respected in the eighteenth century, as noted by his influence
on the famous portraitist Pompeo Batoni (1708-1787), who was well-known in England at the
time. See Wendy Wassyng Roworth, “Review: Rethinking Eighteenth-Century Rome,” The Art
Bulletin 83/1 (2001): 140.
113 See also James Parakilas, “A Literary Excursus: Fictional Pianos” in Piano Roles, 103-109.
114 “Quel avantage a-t-elle donc sur moi, cette Mde. De B***, que tu me préferes? Est-elle belle je

suis jolie [sic]. A-t-elle des talens? Tu ne connois pas tous les miens;; je chante bien, je danse
mieux, & je vais tout-à-l’heure, si tu le veux, te jouer sur mon piano toutes les sonates
d’Hédelman & de Clementi. A-t-elle de l’esprit? Je n’en manque pas. Vous aime-t-elle beaucoup?
109
 
The textures throughout Edelman’s oeuvre are often quite similar to Clementi’s:
thirds, octaves and orchestral textures abound but not in profusion. Edelmann plays
on the performative sensibilité of the pianist. She is given a wealth of dynamic and
expression markings and the subtitles of some of the movements are overtly sensual:
Amoureusement, La Coquette, and La Caressante.

These observations engage with Head’s level 3, which examines the possibility of
dissent and resistance. Clementi’s music seems to have been particularly volatile
objects that reviewers constantly warn performers away from. His performative
activities are sanctioned in a 1786 review of Op. 9 in a somewhat circumscribed
manner and only if they are not distilled and disseminated in print format, which of
course better enables a reproduction of his style, which is anything but “familiar” and
“easy”;; in fact the reviewer finds it “cramp” and “disagreeable.”

As we have bound ourselves to the Public to review the works of musical authors
with candour and impartiality, we find ourselves obliged to pronounce Clementi’s
Harpsichord Sonatas to be Musick run mad! in which extravagance seems to be
preferr’d to sweetness, and forced modulation to taste. An unlearned ear cannot be
pleased with this stile of writing, and the polished musician will be more surprised
than pleased. We confess they have the merit of originality, in which we presume it
is as easy to be pleasant as uncouth. We are far from wishing to prejudice the world
against Signor Clementi, as we are fully persuaded if he was to turn his genius to a
familiar easy stile, preferring sweetness to forced extravagance, he would succeed in
a very masterly manner: at present we cannot help recommending to students to
copy his playing in preference to his compositions. […] As a composer, we do not
think Signor Clementi happy in his choice of his melody;; neither is his modulation
so chaste as we could wish: his harmonies often change with so much rapidity, that
the ear is not capable of digesting them;; and his discords frequently remain so long
unresolved, as to render many of his passages cramp and disagreeable. 115

Engaging with Clementi’s music and purchasing or borrowing his sonatas thus
appear as a small but significant act of resistance against a body of literature that
condemned music not in “familiar easy stile.” It altered their bodily gestures and
might potentially invite censure as well as the sexual gaze.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
Je vous aime davantage, & je suis plus jeune, plus fraîche, plus aimable.” Jean-Baptiste Louvet de
Couvray, Vie du chevalier de Faublas (London: [For the author?] 1795), 29
115 Anon., Review of Clementi’s Op. 9, The European Magazine and London Review 5 (1784): 365.
110
 

Example 2.3 Johann Friedrich Edelmann, “III Sonates Pour Le Clavecin,” (Paris: M. D’Argenville, c.
1777), 2.

Parakilas has perceptively observed that when “Clementi published his own piano
sonatas, he was playing to the desire of those amateurs to emulate the public
111
 
performance of the virtuoso in the privacy of their own homes.” 116 The only
description of Clementi’s Op. 2 being played in a domestic setting comes from
Fanny Burney’s account of Jane Mary Guest, one of the growing number of
professional female pianists in London in the 1780s. In 1783 Guest gave subscription
piano recitals in the capital and in 1784 she published Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord, or
Piano-Forte. In 1780, whilst at Bath, Fanny heard of Miss Guest, “a lady whose Piano
forte playing I have heard extolled by all here” and made arrangements to meet her
and hear her perform.

She began with playing the 3d of Eichner, —& I wished she had begun with
something else, for I have so often heard our dea [sic] Etty in this, that I was quite
spoilt for Miss Guest, or, I firmly believe, for any body;;—because in Eichner, as in
Bach of Berlin, Echard & Boccherini, Etty plays as if inspired, & in Taste,
Expression, delicacy & feeling leaves nothing to wish. Miss Guest has a very strong
Hand, & is, indeed, a very fine Player,—so fine a one as to make me think of Etty
while she plays,—though always, & in all particulars, to this poor Girl’s
disadvantage.
She next played the 2d of Clementi,—which seemed to want nothing but a
strong Hand, —& therefore I was full as well content with the Player as with the
music, but not enchantée with either. 117

Is she disgusted or impressed? Here again lies the uncertainty and anxiety. She is not
enchanted but rather “full content.” The “strong Hand” of Miss Guest repels Fanny,
who is wishes for the more “inspired” and familiar playing of her friend Etty. It seems
that Miss Guest’s playing—her “strong Hand”—is rather disconcerting and odd.
Clementi’s “2d”, presumably the famous “Octave Lesson”, here well on its way to
being “Celebrated,” literally pays back double the efforts of the performer in a
calculated exchange that offers sonority for effort and pleasure for physicality. But
what of the listener? Guest obviously enjoys it—she saves it for last in her little
concert—but what of those watching and listening? It seems to remind of them,
sickeningly, of the paradox. Fanny is enchanted with neither piece nor player.

                                                                                                 
116Parakilas and Wheelock, “The Piano Revolution in the Age of Revolutions,” 82.
117Troide, ed., The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 3, 56, 92. Fanny had heard
Clementi in person before in 1775, at the workshop of the harpsichord maker and inventor John
Joseph Merlin. See Vol. 2, 68.
112
 
Having now looked at the reception history of Clementi in conduct-book ideology,
journalism, and literature it is the task of the following chapter to address the power
of the musical text and to investigate more the textual qualities of Clementi’s
difficulties. There we will better investigate how Clementi is able to invoke public
spaces within the domestic genre of the sonata. Formal structures evoke concertos,
symphonies, and orchestras and pedal markings add “reverb” to an instrument in a
small room, thus evoking in the performer and listeners the expansiveness of a
public realm generally considered off-limits for the majority of female amateurs. 118
Clementi might be seen here to stimulate the fantasies of an aspiring pianist like Miss
Guest who, unlike the majority of her peers, is relished rather than revolted by the
idea of public performance.

Read against the evidence of conduct-book ideology, Clementi’s difficult pieces


appear to function in a radically liberatory way. Their difficulties encouraged
keyboardists to think in a sonorous manner that dramatically broke free from
contemporary aesthetics of galant pleasantness. It encouraged women to misplay and
perform against the ideological grain, just as a resisting reader might misread a novel
and identify with the villain rather than the heroine.

The new pianoforte benefited from the many thirds, octaves, and sixths that
Clementi employed in his works. This grander style, in which the instruments and
textures of the orchestra are imitated, made good the promise made by pianoforte
maker Americus Backers in a 1777 advertisement promoting the new instrument.
“By the Touch of the Finger,” he explained, “it may be played on like the softest
Instrument, and from that like a Band of Music according to the Fancy of the
Player.” 119 Clementi’s music exploded keyboard texture outwards towards the public
spaces inhabited by orchestras, just has the performer at the keyboard playing his

                                                                                                 
118We discuss pedal markings in Chapter 5.
119The Public Advertiser, February 5, 16 and 17, 1771. See also Michael Cole, The Pianoforte in the
Classical Era (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 117.
113
 
music made larger and more overt bodily gestures and sounds that connected her
more directly with an increasingly attentive audience. 120

We have seen how many women found performing odious and disagreeable to the
point of intense physical anxiety. Juliet in The Wanderer fainted when she found
herself on the threshold between amateur and professional. Clementi’s music can be
seen to negate any potential distress through pedagogy, ritual, and repetition. In fact,
the difficulty of his pieces at first probably precluded linear public performance by
non-professionals. Clementi’s solo sonatas in Op. 2 seems therefore to have at
designed from the outset for private lessons or non-linear performance in private.
The performer was additionally encouraged in this changing culture to better herself
on a technical regime—a “Daily Practice”—that evoked new industrial practices of
repetition and exercise. Pleasure might now be located in the virtuous repetition of a
hand guided by Clementi—either in person, as teacher, or in absentia, through his
manuals.

The results could be spectacular. A critic in 1788 noted that “SIGNOR


CLEMENTI, in these sonatas [op. 12], has evinced a talent for lesson-writing, that
adds much to the reputation he has long since acquired.” The peculiar English
euphemism for the sonata used here—the “lesson”—underlines the growing
understanding in London’s critical community of Clementi’s radical pedagogical role.
The critic goes on to say:

A spirit of execution as peculiar to this author’s composition as to his performance,


runs through this work, and distinguishes Clementi in this province of his
profession. A wildness of flight, and absence of connection, we must say, too
frequently occur;; yet easy it is to discern, that they spring from exuberance of fancy,
and not from the want of better information. 121

Clementi’s “wildness of flight” now has more depth attached to it;; it springs from
“an exuberance of fancy.” A far cry from “Musick run Mad!”
                                                                                                 
120 This was first made clear by Federico Celestini in “L’intelligenza di un virtuoso. Su alcune
sonate giovanili di Muzio Clementi” in Studies and Prospects, 261-282.
121 Anon., Review of Four Sonatas for the Piano Forte, and one Duett for two Piano Fortes, The Analytical

Review (1788): 210.


114
 

Tia DeNora, in a discussion on Beethoven’s music and gender, suggests that


Beethoven’s difficult music was “incommensurate with notions of feminine musical
decorum.” Noting the absence of accounts of women playing Beethoven’s music
after 1800, DeNora remarks that female pianists “rejected these novelties in
Beethoven neither because they were ‘too difficult’ nor ‘incomprehensible’ but, on
the contrary, because Vienna’s female pianists comprehended only too well the ways
in which these novel devices called into question their status as respectable feminine
musical beings and bodies. Women withdrew from Beethoven because too much
was at stake.” 122 In London the situation appears to be quite different. Salwey has
documented the rise of the female professional pianist at the time and we have seen
how conduct books began to change their tone regarding women’s activities at the
piano. There was a widespread acknowledgement that technical standards had
improved. The Harmonicon reported in 1831 that Clementi’s Op. 2

though it is now, from the immense progress which manual dexterity has made in the last sixty
years, within the powers of even second-rate performers—was, at the period of its production,
the despair of such pianists as J. C. Bach and Schroeter, who were content to admire
it, but declined the attempt to play what the latter professor declared could only be
executed by its own composer, or by that great performer of all wonders, and
conqueror of all difficulties, the Devil [my italics]. 123

If I have promoted a teleological reading of women’s domestic containment being


significantly affected in a positive, expressive way by technically difficult music, I
would like to think that such a narrative at the same time may be read in parallel with
(and even destabilize) more dominant ideologies sustained by studies of composers
and musical scores.

With this stance I am taking a cue from Fredric Jameson, who sketched out a similar
position in a lecture on “world literature”:

                                                                                                 
122 Tia Denora, “Embodiment and Opportunity: Bodily Capital, Gender, and Reputation in
Beethoven’s Vienna,” in The Musician as Entrepreneur, 1700-1914: Managers, Charlatans and Idealists,
ed. William Weber (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 193.
123 Anon., “Memoir of Muzio Clementi,” The Harmonicon (August, 1831): 183.
115
 
It is no longer here a question of a classic or of a universal literature;; this is a
complex contact between histories and concrete historical situations and if this idea
seems to perpetuate the old teleological conceptuality of “more advanced” or “less
developed” I think it does only to undermine that teleology as well. For what must
here finally emerge is the radical singularity in concrete difference of each of these
situations. None is more advanced along some teleological pathway to modernity,
each is marked as uniquely determined and specific, which is to say, “national.”124

English music of the eighteenth century has always been marginalized by problematic
comparisons with Austro-Germanic music of the same period, a historical
perspective that continues to characterize and inform our pedagogy. 125 Tracing the
impact that Clementi’s music made on continental composers and performers
underlines Jameson’s idea of national identity, in which each culture “is marked as
uniquely determined and specific.” 126

Acknowledging that neither Austro-Germanic, English, nor Italian music, for


example, was “more advanced along some teleological pathway to modernity” than
the other allows us to pursue lines of enquiry that approach each eighteenth-century
culture “on its own terms,” to borrow Daniel Heartz’ rationale from his influential
study of galant music. 127 The dominant reading of Clementi’s life and music has
generally been one informed by the assumption that Viennese music won the day in
the nineteenth century. Because Clementi only appears to have appropriated or
foreshadowed Beethoven’s style he therefore always to come off second-best. Yet
the reality appears to be that keyboard culture in England as well as in Vienna was a

                                                                                                 
124 Jameson, “World Literature” (lecture, Franklin Humanities Institute, Duke University,

Durham, North Carolina, November 10, 2008). A similar approach can be found in James
Webster’s now classic refutation of teleological models in Joseph Haydn and the “Farewell” Symphony.
125 For a virtuosic critique of Germanocentric discourse in musicology, see Richard Taruskin,

“Speed Bumps,” 19th-Century Music 29/2 (2005): 185-207.


126 Jameson’s four-fold model, which promotes active engagement with the prejudices and

assumptions of the reader (Jauss’s “horizons of expectations”), resonates with Samuel Johnson’s
rationale for his “Life of Dryden” in Lives of the English Poets (1779-81):” To judge rightly of an
author, we must transport ourselves to his time, and examine what were the wants of his
contemporaries, and what were his means of supplying them.” Quoted in Trevor Ross, “The
Emergence of ‘Literature’: Making and Reading the English Canon in the Eighteenth Century,”
English Literary History 63/2 (1996): 414.
127 “We cannot pretend to escape the intellectual heritage of the last two centuries, but let us at

least attempt to understand the settecento on its own terms.” Daniel Heartz, Music in European
Capitals: The Galant Style, 1720-1780 (New York: Norton & Co., 2003), xxi.
116
 
“space and site of struggle, of composition and opposition.” 128 In the next chapter
we look freshly at Clementi’s music within a domestic culture that at first
engagement with Clementi was at dissonance with his music but in the end was
radically altered by his musical, industrial, and pedagogical behaviour.

                                                                                                 
128I am also inspired here by Rohan Stewart-Macdonald in “Keyboard Music from Couperin to
Early Beethoven”, 488. “Dispensing with the traditional bifurcated perception of the eighteenth
century according to the ‘Baroque’ and ‘Classical’ eras and also centralizing repertory lying
outside the established canon is likely to stimulate renewed debate about seemingly familiar
issues, revealing as it does a landscape of eighteenth-century solo keyboard music that is
disorientating in its diversification but extremely rich.”
117
 

Chapter 3

Contextualizing Clementi’s “The Black Joke” (1777)


and Op. 2 (1779)

Introduction

Both Head and Leppert have written persuasively about the “compulsory easiness”
of female music-making in the eighteenth-century, where the “untutored naturalness
of the lady at music was her ultimate artifice.” 1 As we investigated in Chapter 2, the
ideal state of musical performance for women in the 1770s, as articulated by male but
also often by female writers, was one in which any effort or outward display of
technical aptitude was strictly to be avoided. It is a running theme in much literature
throughout the latter half of the century, but an increase of literature defending
women’s performativity, together with a recognition of the widespread improvement
made in technical progress at the keyboard in the early decades of the 1800s appears
consistent and contingent with the rapid diffusion and acceptance of difficult music
such as first practiced and produced by Clementi.

This change, discussed further in Chapter 5, took place within a larger economic and
cultural movement and is an integral part of the nascent values of an emerging early
capitalism exemplified in Britain in the last decades of the eighteenth century. How
strategic Clementi’s actions might be understood is a task we turn to now, which
highlights the first materialization of this kind of difficult music in print with the
composer’s “The Black Joke” in 1777 and Op. 2 in 1779 and traces some of the
cultural consequences that arose in these works’ wake. It is clear from commentators
of the period that the changing status of difficult music’s cultural and economic
capital is inextricably linked to the latter “work.” I write “work” because Op. 2 is not
and never was a stable or fixed entity. In fact Clementi delighted and excelled in
                                                                                                 
1 Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t Stretch,’” 221.
118
 
destabilizing the textural content of Op. 2 over the course of his career precisely in
order to highlight, refine, and outline his not insignificant cultural achievement.

Variations on “The Black Joke”

In the same year as Schroeter’s lesson (see Chapter 2, Ex. 2.1), a set of variations on
a tune called “The Black Joke” was published. 2 Francis Grose’s 1796 Dictionary of the
Vulgar Tongue defines the “Black Joke” as:

A popular tune to a song, having for the burden [repeat], “Her black joke and belly
so white;;” figuratively the black joke signifies the monosyllable. See
MONOSYLLABLE.

The curious reader flips to: “MONOSYLLABLE: A woman’s commodity.” The word,
which still shocks today, was variously known around 1796 and probably earlier as
the “Bottomless Pit,” “Brown Madam,” “Mrs. Brown,” “Buckinger’s Boot” (after a
famous man without arms or legs), “Bun,” “Mother of All Saints,” “Mother of All
Souls,” or the “Tuzzy-Wuzzy.” The final reference to the monosyllable is under
“VENERABLE MONOSYLLABLE: Pudendum muliebre.” 3

The tune and lyrics appears around 1728 and were sold in single-sheet editions (see
Table 1). Immediately, the tune became widespread and popular and there were
parodies and imitations. “The Black Joke” soon gained less bawdy respectability by
being set to other words, such as in Charles Coffey’s 1729 ballad opera The Beggar’s
Wedding where the song beginning “Of all the girls in our town” is marked as being
sung to the tune of “Coal-black Joke.” 4 The original tune, with its constant refrain of
“black joke, and belly so white,” also exists with a myriad of verses. Street singers
would invent their own scenarios, keeping only the burden: “Her black joke and belly

                                                                                                 
2 This is a revised and expanded version of a paper first presented at the AMS Regional Meeting
of the New York State-St. Lawrence Chapter at Wilfrid Laurier University on Saturday 30 April
2011
3 Francis Grose, A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 3rd edn. (London: Printed for Hooper

and Co., 1796), 31, 36, 39, 40, 43, 157, 226, 236, 238.
4 Edgar V. Roberts, “An Unrecorded Meaning of ‘Joke’ (Or ‘Joak’) in England,” American Speech

37/2 (1962): 137-140, 138.


119
 
so white.” Indeed, “The Black Joke” became so associated with sex, brothels and
prostitutes that William Hogarth has a woman singing it in Plate 3 of The Rake’s
Progress (see detail in Fig. 1). Tom Rakewell is about to be entertained by a stripper-
cum-prostitute who will dance for his pleasure on the shiny plate that the servant
holds up. The penny ballad sheet entitled “Black Joke” that the pregnant beggar-
woman holds as she sings makes it clear to viewers what Tom will see in the mirror. 5
The most common narrative seems to revolve around various men from different
countries and professions who come to seek the services of a prostitute, addicted as
they are to the alluring black joke and white belly. The prostitute always appears to
have the upper hand. 6 The men come away with a venereal disease (see Table 3.1,
verses 6 and 8) or can’t perform (verses 2, 3, and 4). Even if the tune was often set to
other words the original “Black Joke” melody seems to have been highly marked as
indecent and ribald. Edgar V. Roberts makes a strong case for the continuing
obscene associations of the tune, lyrics and meaning of the “black joke” itself
throughout the eighteenth century, and well into the nineteenth. 7

                                                                                                 
5 For more on Hogarth’s musical imagery and “The Black Joke” see Jeremy Barlow, The Enraged
Musician: Hogarth’s Musical Imagery (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 2005), 140-2, 156, 286-7.
6 Another version of the lyrics from 1735 paints the prostitute as a cunning pickpocket. See

Barlow, The Enraged Musician, 286-287.


7 That the song with the original bawdy lyrics remained known later in the eighteenth century is

made clear by a satirical dialogue in the Morning Post and Fashionable World, 7039 (August 22 1794),
where a witness called French Horn, under cross examination, is asked questions to which he
answers with snatches of popular song that the narrative pretends not to understand. “When
asked to describe his person, he answered ‘His bald pate Jove would cuff, he’s so bluff, for a
straw,’ which seems to allude to some person who is a little bald, and somewhat bluff;; and when
asked about his dress, he answered, ‘Black joke and belly so white;;’ alluding, as I suppose, to his
wearing black breeches, and a white waist-coat.” And in the Sun, 645 (October 22, 1794) a parody
of the Black Joke appeared by Danny Sheridan, apparently his “account of the Dinner given by a
Great Man at the Shakspear, where every Man paid for himself.” The repeated eponymous
refrain is once parodied with “With their Black Legs and Stocking so white,” indicating that the
words were still current. Roberts also uncovered usage dating to 1835 where a drunken Oxford
freshman sings the tune at this tutor’s door and the inference is that it is meant to be highly
offensive. Roberts, “An Unrecorded Meaning of ‘Joke’ (Or ‘Joak’) in England,” 140.
120
 

 
Figure 3.1 Detail from Plate 3 of William Hogarth’s Rake’s Progress (1735).
121
 

1. No mortal sure can blame ye man, 6. A rich Dutch skiper from Amsterdam
Who prompted by Nature will act as he can He came wth his gilt ready in hand,
Wth a black joke, and belly so white: To her black etc.
For he ye Platonist must gain say, He fancy'd himself very fit for ye game,
That will not Human Nature obey, She sent him to Holland all in a flame,
In working a joke, as will lather like soap, By her Coal black etc.
And ye hair of her joke, will draw more yn a
rope, 7. The good Irish Man he cou'd not forbear
with a black joke, and belly so white. But yt he must have a very good share,
Of her black etc.
2. The first that came in was an English boy, Madam said he for money I have none.
and then he began for to play and toy, But I'll play a tune on ye jiging bone
With her black etc.. Of your Coal black etc.
He was well vers'd in Venus's School,
Went on like a Lyon came off like a fool, 8. Then next came in a brave Granadeer,
From her coal black etc. and calls in for plenty of Ale and beer,
For her black etc.
3. Then Shonup a Morgan from Holly-head The cuning sly Jade show'd him a trick
Was stark staring mad to go to bed, and sent him away wth fire in his stick
To her black etc. From her Coal black etc..
His cruper her saddle did not fit,
So out of door she did him hit;; 9. Traverse ye Globe and you'l find none,
With her Coal black etc.. Who is nott addicted and very much prone,
To a black etc.
4. Then hastily came in a Hilland man, The Prince, ye Priest, ye Peasant do love it,
His chanter and pipe both in his hand, and all degrees of Mankind do covet
To her black etc. A Coal black etc.
But his main spring it was not strong
For he could only flash in the pan 10. The rigid recluse wth his meager face,
Of her Coal black etc. From fasting and prayer wd quickly cease,
For a black etc.
5. A Frenchman oh yh wth ruffles and wig Let ye Clergy Cant and say wt they will
With her he began for to dance a Jig They stop ye mouth and tickle the Gill
With her black etc. Of a Coal black etc.
and wn he felt wt was under her smock,
Begar said Mounsier 'tis a fine Merimot 11. The Bishop in his Pontifical Gown,
With a Coal black etc.. Wou'd tumble another Susanna down,
For her black etc.
The Lawyer his Clients cause wd quit
To dip his pen in ye bottomless Pit
Of a Coal black etc.
Table 3.1 Lyrics taken from “The Original Coal-black Joke.” Brit. Mus., G. 316. e. fol. 99.

The tune became associated with the sexual act itself, as a much-printed anecdote
from around 1731 seems to indicate:

Broadway, in Gloucestershire, Jan. 16. This Week a Fidler that had been playing here
pretty late, in his Way home, being sleepy, stept into a Barn to take a Nap, and was
122
 
no sooner laid down but in came a Man and a Woman, who presently became very
familiar with each other, and struck a Bargain;; the Man desir’d the Woman to pull of
her Petticoat, she answer’d, she would, if he pull’d off his Breeches, accordingly they
both agreed, and to it they went, and as soon as the Fidler heard they had done, he
strikes up the Black Joke, which they thought was the Devil, come to play them a
Tune to the Dance where they had been at, so out they both run, the Woman
without her Hoop, the Man without his Breeches, in which was 50 s. and a silver
Watch. The Fidler has had both cry’d, but nobody owns them. 8

The potency of the song was so strong that in 1770, and seven years before Clementi
publishes his set of variations, a performance of the tune without the words was
enough to carry with it all the weight of its many obscene connotations, as a
concerned reader related in the Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser.

A Protestant remarks, that the tune of the Black Joke, lately played on a Sunday
before some Soldiers at St. James’s Park, in their march to the Parade, was very
unsuitable to the day, and highly offensive to every hearer;; he therefore hopes,
through this hint the indecency will be corrected. 9

Bawdiness

Given this background, it appears a rather unusual choice for a set of variations
destined, not for a public space such as St. James’s Park rather a parlour or music
room. If a concerned writer was moved to take up his pen to write to his newspaper
about the impropriety of the tune in a public space, what would he think if he heard
his daughter play the tune in his home on a square piano in a private space he
understood as belonging to him? Can this really be an innocent choice of tune on
Clementi’s part?

It is possible that the twenty-five-year-old Clementi was aware of the ribald or


controversial connotations of the tune and sought to distance or disguise himself
from the work when it first appeared. 10 First, the first edition and newspaper notice

                                                                                                 
8 Read’s Weekly Journal or British Gazetteer 305 (January 23, 1731).
9 Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser 12/882 (June 14, 1770)
10 The much-reprinted biographical sketch of Clementi from 1820 does not refer to “The Black

Joke” by name, rather they were a “well-known popular air with variations.” The Quarterly Musical
Magazine & Review 2/7 (1820), 308-16. Clementi had no qualms recommending it by name in
123
 
of “The Black Joke” was advertised as being composed by a “Sigr. M: C:” whereas
his previous 1773 publication had his full name. 11 Second, when Clementi revised
“The Black Joke” around 1824, he renamed it “The Sprig of Shillelah, with
Variations, and a Coda for the Piano Forte.” 12 As the tune in a varied form was now
known by this name in some parts of the United Kingdom, perhaps Clementi
wanted, as a seasoned professional, to remove once and for all the stigma of the
name, his charlatan days of “The Black Joke” long behind him. 13

Unger, Plantinga, and Rowland have noted the hazy details that surround Clementi’s
move from Dorset to London. 14 It seems probable that he arrived in London in mid-
to-late 1774 and fairly soon was working at the King’s Theatre as a conductor and
opera harpsichordist. Since Plantinga’s research another early reference to Clementi’s
activities in London has surfaced in the journals of Fanny Burney. In February 1775
he was demonstrating keyboard instruments to potential clients at John Joseph
Merlin’s workshop:

We then proceeded with Mr. Twining to Mr Merlin, the famous mechanic, to hear
his new Invented Harpsichord [a combination piano-harpsichord], the tone of
which is the sweetest I ever heard. We found there a young man, Mr. Clementi, who
plays the second Harpsichord at the Opera, & he, very good naturedly, sat down &
showed the Instrument off to great advantage. He has studied & understands it, & is

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
1805, asking Collard to put into the case of an instrument destined for sale in Russia “my Black
Joke variations (the old Edition).” Rowland ed., The Correspondence of Muzio Clementi, 153.
11Morning Post, 24 April 1777. See Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 98. Clementi reused (and

heavily simplified) “The Black Joke” in his so-called 1780-1 “Oeuvre 1” printed in Paris. There
his name does indeed appear on the title-page;; the piece itself is part of a sonata and is marked
“Black Joke. Air anglais avec des variations: allegro.” See Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 34.
Were the French aware of its bawdy connotations? Or by including it was Clementi
acknowledging the so-called Parisian anglomanie, by now exercising not a little influence over the
spending habits of the bourgeoisie?
12 Barry Cooper, “A Clementi discovery,” The Music Review 44 (1983): 178-85. See also Barry

Cooper’s preface to the work;; “The Sprig of Shillelah with Variations and a Coda” in Coen et. al.
eds., Opera Omnia, Vol. 51, xi-xiii.
13 Other names for it include Darling Nedeen, Irish Dragoon, O! Love is the soul of a neat Irish man,

Paddy McShane, Sublime was the warning, Thistle sae green and When the bright spark of freedom. See ibid.,
xii.
14 Max Unger, Muzio Clementis Leben (Langensalza: Hermann Beyer & Söhne, 1914), 17-19;;

Plantinga, Clementi, 36-38;; Rowland ed., Clementi Correspondence, liv.


124
 
a very good player. Indeed, Mr. Burney excepted, I do not recollect ever hearing a
better. 15

We also know that Clementi played a concerto and then a sonata on the harpsichord
at the Hickford Rooms on 3 April and 18 May 1775 respectively. 16 These are the first
indications of Clementi’s presence in London.

“The Black Joke” was therefore his first publication after two, maybe three, years in
the metropolis. Ex. 3.1shows the bawdy tune with its original words and Clementi’s
adaption of it for keyboard. The tiny small ternary form is further marked by an odd
phrase structure, 6 measures + 10 measures. 17 Part of this is shock value;; the bawdy
burden comes in each time at an unexpected and asymmetrical place (two measures
early, as it were, if we expect a normative 8 + 12 measure phrase). The melodic
contours of the c. 1730 tune and the 1777 setting are very similar, although Clementi
eschews dotted rhythms in favour of sinuous eighth notes. This attenuates the
punchiness of a burden that paints for its listeners and singers the most attractive
and usually hidden parts of the prostitute: “Black joke and belly so white.” But the
characteristic ascent from the fifth to the eighth scale degree remains (“belly so
white”). The virtuosic coda that Clementi appended in the 1824 revision picks up on
this motif in preference to the remarkable slithering ending of the 1777 version,
which was cut. It may have stayed in Clementi’s fingers;; this particular “idiotism”
(see Chapter 1) occurs also at the end of the finale of Op. 33 No. 1 (1794). The
idiotism appears in 1794 as a synthesis of both the plain “belly so white” motif which
was emphasised in the 1824 version as well as the “black joke” chromaticism that

                                                                                                 
15 28 February 1775. ed. Troide, The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 2, 68. For more

on Merlin’s “new Invented Harpsichord” see Michael Latcham, “The combination of the piano
and the harpsichord throughout in the eighteenth century” in Instruments à claviers—expressivité et
flexibilité sonore, ed Thomas Steiner (Bern: Peter Lang, 2004), 142-144. The instrument in question
was patented in 1774 and Latcham describes it as having two separate actions but a single
soundboard.
16 Gazeteer, 31 March 1775;; Morning Post, 16 May 1775. See Plantinga, Clementi, 35.
17 Barry Cooper also notes the unusual phrase structure. “Its unusual 6-bar plus 10-bar structure,

with the form A2B4|C2C2D2B4, readily distinguishes it from most other Irish melodies.” “The
Sprig of Shillelah with Variations and a Coda” in ed. Coen et al. Opera Omnia, Vol. 51, XII.
125
 
ends the 1777 version, which appears to be conceived as a sour inversion of the
“belly so white” idea (see Ex. 3.2). 18

Example 3.1 The earliest “The Black Joke” and Clementi’s version compared.

                                                                                                 
18Plantinga also noted the similarity. Plantinga opines that “one cannot help feeling a bit uneasy
about such sallies of wit from Clementi—there are too many instances where he commits similar
violations of musical decorum with no humorous intent.” See Plantinga, Clementi, 169.
126
 

Example 3.2 Ending strategies in 1777 and c. 1824 versions with a “Black Joke” allusion in a 1794
sonata.

Plantinga picked up the most salient feature of “The Black Joke” in 1977;; it begins
simply, in two-parts, and then takes the player through progressively more difficult
and thicker textures. “After an innocent, thin-textured opening, complications mount
until both hands are playing octaves and wide-spread chords that use almost the
entire available range of the keyboard.” 19 Dynamic marks appear. Articulations
become more complex. A new world of sound and touch opens up. The final
variation ends with one of the most remarkable passages of music in the 1770s, a
highly chromatic, tonally ambiguous attempt at a musical “black joke” that laughs at
formal cadential closure and evaporates into pianissimo, returning to the sparse two-
part texture that opened the work, but a texture now utterly transformed (see Ex.
3.3). The player is astonished by the varied effects that can be achieved not only, as
we may expect from the “Father of the Piano-Forte,” with many voices and thicker
textures, but also with two-part writing. Between the simple harmonization of the
tune to the spectacular finale, Clementi runs the gamut of effects and possibilities.

                                                                                                 
19 Plantinga, Clementi, 40.
127
 

Example 3.3 Coda and final variations of Clementi’s 1777 “The Black Joke.” (London: Welcker,
1777)

What did a male listener think of his daughter or sister playing the tune of the “Black
Joke”? Was it scandalous? Or was it simply a pleasant tune, understood by players
128
 
and listeners as being completely evacuated of its controversial content? Most
accounts seem to suggest that the tune was still offensive and reviewers were
sometimes sensitive to the propriety of a theme and thence its variations. In 1820 a
reviewer thought that “MR. KLOSE’S air” for flute and piano “is coarse and common-
place, a great portion which censure devolves upon the choice of his subject [a
popular tune called “My native land, good night!”].” 20 But there is no direct charge of
impropriety at Clementi’s “The Black Joke.” No reviews exist of the work.

A Crude In-joke?

The possibility exists that the set of variations constitute an elaborate kind of “in-
joke.” Women were not aware of the ribald connotations, never having being
exposed to the tune or its lyrics on account of its impropriety. When they play the
piece it is only the men listening who “get it.” In this scenario, Clementi’s choice
appears cruel and manipulative, here making the female performer the unknowing
focus of a crude joke. In one anecdote, it is possible that a reference to “The Black
Joke” might very well have been meant to function in this way:

It is reported that a Lady is at the Expence of defending the Negroe Cause, and that
being asked her Reason for being so favourable to those Gentry, replied, it was her
Humour, and she conceived it a good Jest to puzzle the Lawyers;; I believe, says the
Gentleman who asked the Question, you do it for the Sake of the Jest, but give me
Leave to call it by its true Name, and say it is for the Sake of the Black Joke. 21

Is the gentleman here making a simple word pun or a lewd inference that the lady
really only wants to have sex with Negros, a scenario only meant to be
comprehended by his male companions? Did she understand the reference to the
Black Joke? It is impossible to determine, but the lady in the scenario was certainly
abreast of serious current affairs;; a month later Lord Mansfield gave his famous
judgment for Somersett’s Case that emancipated thousands of slaves within the

                                                                                                 
20 The Quarterly Musical Magazine & Review 2/7 (1820): 359.
21 Public Advertiser 11012 (18 May 1772).
129
 
United Kingdom. 22 In this case, the last laugh seems to be on the offensive
gentleman.

That women were craftier and more knowledgeable than most men gave them credit
for during this period is obvious when one considers the myriad characterizations of
women in the plethora of novels penned by women. Art historian Matthew Craske
discusses a male “in-joke” of this kind that backfired on a creator who
underestimated his audience. Johann Zoffany’s Tribuna at the Uffizi (1772-8), exactly
contemporaneous with Clementi’s “The Black Joke,” depicts a crowd of
connoisseurs in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Ostensibly designed to masquerade as
a virtuoso mass portrait piece, Craske points out that in fact most of the
connoisseurs crowd around the erotic prints. Their investigations of the artworks
with eyeglasses and magnifying glasses are motivated less by aesthetics and more by
prurience and lasciviousness. Commissioned by Queen Charlotte, consort to George
III, the painting did not find favour:

It seems to be a wholly upright image of worthy virtuosity but contains an encoded


piece of gentlemen’s club humour to which the worthy patroness was expected to
be entirely oblivious. She might not have been as naïve as expected. There were
reports that the Queen turned against the painting on the grounds that it was
‘improper’ and refused to have it in her state apartments. Although Horace Walpole
suggests that the impropriety was that of crowding the painting with men unworthy
of Royal attention, it may be that privately she realized the presence of subversive
sexual innuendo. 23

Clementi could not have afforded to have this kind of spectacular misjudgement
taint the beginning of his London career. Perhaps the fact that he signed “The Black
Joke” with his initials rather than his full name was a safeguard (however flimsy)
against precisely this kind of scandal.

                                                                                                 
R v Knowles, ex parte Somersett (1772) 20 State Tr 1.
22

Matthew Craske, Art in Europe 1700-1830: A History of the Visual Arts in an Era of Unprecedented
23

Urban Economic Growth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 179-180.


130
 
Radical Pianism?

Maybe women were aware of the tune’s ribald progeny and understood that its
impropriety precluded performance in courtship or family rituals and its overt
crescendo from simplicity to difficulty meant that it could only be attempted in
private. Clementi directs the performer to pound away at her square piano or
harpsichord. The repeated chords at the close makes a square piano literally sway on
its stand;; Clementi’s piece threatens to shake the very foundations of domestic
music-making with its ideological emphasis on a quiet hand, a retiring demeanour
and a stagnant technique only enlivened by occasional sight-reading.

Clementi takes the performer from banal simplicity to a high level of technical
challenge that flirts with pain. The final bars utilize a kind of strange notation that
Clementi was never to use again. Small notes indicate the dissonant leading tones
that are to be played by the left-hand’s second finger. Is it an ad libitum indication? Or
does he want the dissonant note to be softer? Does the small-note notation “excuse”
the extreme dissonance? In any case, the position itself is painful and challenging,
even more so on the wide, solid keys of a Zumpe square (see Fig. 3.2). At this stage
both hands have additionally been tired by the preceding passagework.
131
 

Figure 3.2 Awkward, painful hand position of the left-hand in the final fatiguing measures of
Clementi’s “The Black Joke” (1777). Clementi repeats the position for two measures and notates that
the first and fifth finger hold the octave as the second finger taps out the dissonant leading note.
Photo by author. Photographed on a square piano by Johannes Zumpe and Gabriel Buntebart,
London, 1776 (National Music Museum, University of South Dakota, Vermillion;; cat. no. NMM 3586;;
Rawlins fund, 1985) with the kind permission of John Koster, curator.
 
This acidic chromatic passage shares some musical characteristics with an anecdote
related by Susan Burney. Attending a rehearsal of the pasticcio Alessandro nell’Indie in
November of 1779, Susan related to her sister Fanny the chaotic situation: “The
Wind Instruments were all out of tune, & tho’ I pitied poor Cramer [the leader] ‘twas
impossible not to laugh.” 24 Cramer was forced to stop at one point when the

                                                                                                 
24Fo. 38r. Quoted in Curtis Price, Judith Milhous and Robert D. Hume, Italian Opera in Late
Eighteenth-Century London, Vol. I: The King’s Theatre, Haymarket 1778-1791 (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1995), 191.
132
 
bassoonist “was dreadfully & ridiculously out of tune.” Clementi, at the second
harpsichord, apparently made light of the mistake and

play’d over the passage wth. natural notes in the treble, & flat in the Bass. I don’t
know whether you can understand what I mean, but it had the most dissonant &
comical effect & produced the best imitation of their accompt. that can be
conceived. 25

Clementi’s waggishness seems to have been an integral part of his personality.


Samuel Wesley reminisced about Clementi in 1836: “He was a Person of a very lively
Mind, and cheerful Conversation, and had a Taste for Literature—He was however
too much given to Punning upon words, a Custom not indulged by a real, genuine
Wit.” 26 Maybe Clementi subjected Wesley to one of his puns in questionable taste,
like the suggestive pear-shaped hand position found at the end of “The Black Joke,”
where the straining index finger meets the thumb in pulsating movements. 27

It is possible that Clementi, after arriving in England, quickly became aware of the
vast potential for female amateurs to improve their technical abilities and widen their
keyboardistic vocabulary. His sly commentary in these “Black Joke” variations, with
its cultural crescendo from domestic docility to vigorous virtuoso-ship, appears to
outline a potentially revolutionary break with the prevailing ideology of the culture.
Clementi’s early foray into English keyboard culture leads the performer directly to
the paradoxes inherent in English keyboard culture, sites of pleasurable revulsion and
repulsive pleasure. The marked and masked contradictions associated with music,
sex, and difficulty are here all found in a remarkable concatenation.

As “The Black Joke” was a set of variations without an opus number and signed
semi-anonymously by Clementi with only his initials it might have been understood
and perhaps excused at the time as a stand-alone oddity by a virtuoso performer. But
                                                                                                 
25 Fo. 38v. Quoted in ibid., 192.
26 Samuel Wesley, Reminiscences (unpublished, c. 1836), British Library, add. MS 27593.
27 Tom Beghin has also pointed out that Haydn makes use of suggestive hand positions at a

keyboard instrument with a short-octave arrangement in his Capriccio on the popular tune “Acht
Sauschneider müssen sein.” Tom Beghin, “Short Octaves müssen sein! Hanswurst, Sauschneider and
Haydn’s Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII: 1,” paper presented at the Canadian Society for
Eighteenth-Century Studies, Montreal, 16 October, 2008.
133
 
Clementi’s next publication, his Op. 2 in 1779, even more strongly outlined his new
agenda of publishing and promoting difficulty. 28 It also contained the work that was
to most establish his reputation: Op. 2 No. 2, later to be known as the “Octave
Lesson,” became an instant hit. Perceived as highly difficult at the time, due to its
plethora of consecutive octaves, its rapidity and its extroverted texture, it also
appeared transgressive by 1770s cultural standards. Like the final variations of “The
Black Joke,” a compelling performance means a great amount of physical activity and
practice: the hands must fly quickly from one part of the keyboard to another and it
is hard to play the piece with the still and inert body that was the proper posture
recommended by conduct literature. 29

                                                                                                 
28 For a fuller account of Clementi’s Op. 2 see Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 13-16;;
Bernard Harrison, “The Revision of Clementi’s Op. 2 and the Transformation of Piano
Performance Style” in Studies and Prospects, 303-322 and Parakilas and Wheelock, “The Piano
Revolution in the Age of Revolutions.”
29 We remember from Chapter 2: “It is a matter much deserving the attention of a Lady how she

is to present and deport herself while at the Piano-Forte. I have repeatedly noticed some Capital
Performers, who, while they highly gratified the Ear, have very much offended the Eye, by a
most ungraceful, not to say distorted, Position of their Body and a disgustingly awkward motion
with their arms and hands.” Anon., “Desultory Remarks on the Study and Practice of Music,”
272.
134
 
Op. 1 Variations on Op. 2
“The Black Joke”
1773 1777 1779
Solo sonata Solo variations Solo and accompanied
sonatas
“Muzio Clementi” “M: C:” “Signor Clementi”
Dedicated to Sir Peter [Dedicated to No-One?] [Dedicated to Every-One?]
Beckford
Rural Rural becoming Cosmopolitan
Cosmopolitan
Galant Galant becoming Difficult Galant AND Difficult
Domestic Domestic becoming Public Domestic AND Public
Understated Understated becoming Understated AND
Outrageous Outrageous
Uncontroversial Controversial becoming Uncontroversial AND
even more so. controversial
Easy Easy becoming Difficult Easy AND difficult
Unmarked Marked by lewd Marked by difficulty (solo),
connotations and difficulty unmarked in easiness
(accomp.)
Progressive (easy to hard) Progressive (easy to difficult) Progressive in solo sonatas
(difficult to extremely
difficult)
Table 3.2 Op. 1, “The Black Joke” and Op. 2 compared.

Contextualizing Clementi’s Op. 2

The difficult passages in “The Black Joke” and Op. 2 do not appear ex nihilo.
Difficult keyboard music did not first appear in England in 1779. Immediate
predecessors are the many difficult keyboard transcriptions of orchestral works that
were printed from the 1750s to 1770s. Handel’s overtures were particular favourites.
These works seem deliberately designed to be “misplayed,” a concept we introduced
in Chapter 2 that outlines hypothetical performances that deliberately subvert or
ignore the demands of the printed text. Theatrical and operatic overtures, for
example, as transcribed by anonymous professionals and published en masse by
leading London houses are often characterized by a plethora of parallel thirds that
pedantically reflect orchestral textures (see Ex. 3.4).

But were all these notes actually meant to be played? It seems more probable that it
served instead as a kind of short score that, if attempted at the keyboard and perhaps
“misplayed” by simplification, conjured up for the player the sonic mirage of an
135
 
orchestra and perhaps brought back memories of a night spent at the theatre. 30
Perhaps the player simplified much along the lines suggested at the beginning of the
eighteenth century by Johann Christoph Bach, as can be seen in a copy made by him
of some transcriptions of pieces from Marais’ Alcide (see Ex. 3.5).

 
Example 3.4 Thirds in Pepusch’s “Overture in the Beggar’s Opera,” probably transcribed by Thomas
Arne;; this copy reprinted c. 1790 from many earlier editions.

Example 3.5 Johann Christoph Bach’s suggestion for simplifying orchestral textures. “You take these
6 [difficult] measures or the following [easier] 6.” 31

                                                                                                 
30 Margaret Fowke in Calcutta (1783) seems to have had this experience: “I attempted to
accompany Golding in ‘Honour and Arms,’ which if I were perfect would sound delightfully
upon the harpsichord. The symphony is so grand and full, that when I play it a whole band
vibrates upon my ear.” Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 104.
31 Marin Marais, “Overture Suite from Alcide, Marche” in Keyboard music from the Andreas Bach book

and the Möller manuscript, ed. Robert Hill (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991), 119.
136
 
The other great source of difficult keyboard music before Clementi was, of course,
Domenico Scarlatti, a favourite in England since the late 1730s. 32 As Todd Decker
has explained, the so-called “Scarlatti Cult” was not entirely made up of the elite
group of male connoisseurs that we have traditionally understood. He argues
persuasively that Scarlatti was in the “thick of the eighteenth-century musical
marketplace” and that there were cheaper publications as well as the famous
expensive, deluxe editions.

But even if Scarlatti had a wider circulation than previously thought, it is unclear, as
Decker acknowledges, if Scarlatti’s difficulties ever made it to the domestic music
parlour where the bulk of the keyboard-playing population resided. Whether
“amateur female players—among them Susan Burney—would have attempted to
play Scarlatti’s difficult sonatas in the context of domestic musical soirées remains an
open question.” 33 Certainly, the preface to a simplified edition of Scarlatti edited by
Ambrose Pitman that appeared sometime between 1785 and 1791 makes it clear that
the “many superfluous and studied difficulties” that characterized Scarlatti’s
“English” sonatas (as Decker calls those works that found favour in England) have
“obscured such admirable Lessons from Public Notice”—“public” here must surely
be understood as being comprised, for the main part, of female players (See Fig. 3.3).

                                                                                                 
32 For more on the English reception of Scarlatti see Richard Newton “The English Cult of
Domenico Scarlatti,” Music & Letters 20/2 (1939): 138-156 and Todd Decker, “‘Scarlattino, the
Wonder of his Time’: Domenico Scarlatti’s Absent Presence in Eighteenth-Century England,”
Eighteenth-Century Music 2/2 (2005): 273-298.
33 Ibid., 289.
137
 

Figure 3.3 Preface to Ambrose Pitman’s The Beauties of Domenico Scarlatti Selected from his Suites de Lecons. For the
Harpsichord or Piano Forte and Revised with a Variety of Improvements (London: [for the author], c1785-1791).

Why did Scarlatti’s difficult music not succeed in significantly altering English
keyboard culture? Compositionally, there are only a few imitators of his style and as
Decker confirms, only a handful of professional players (Clementi among them) used
Scarlatti as a “calling card.” 34 Conduct books from the late 1730s, when Scarlatti’s

                                                                                                 
34For more on Decker’s ingenious use of the idea of “calling cards” in relation to Scarlatti’s
“English” sonatas see Decker, “Scarlattino,” 286 ff.
138
 
work was first published, through to Clementi’s Op. 2 are remarkably equivocal
about female amateurs acquiring the dangers of a heightened technique. It is only
with Clementi and his vast promotion of that technique with a barrage of
publications that the culture becomes more sympathetic to difficulty. Why was
Clementi able to succeed where Scarlatti did not?

The answer lies in what Decker calls the “absent presence” of Scarlatti. 35 The
composer was never in England to regulate, control, or promote his works;; others
had to do that cultural work in his place. And as Lydia Goehr and others have
pointed out, it is uncertain if Scarlatti would have even wished to do these kinds of
“work”-related activities at all. Language (“regulate,” “control,” “disseminate”) and
behaviour (promoting, advocating, popularizing) such as this seems more common
amongst musicians with the emergence of Werktreue attitudes in the later eighteenth
century. And the cultural work in popularizing difficult music was an uphill battle.
Decker cites in relation to this a revealing anecdote of Burney performing some
Scarlatti to Pepusch in 1746:

The first time I had the honour to play to him, I ventured to attempt a very difficult
lesson of Scarlatti;; and when I had done, he both flattered and frightened me
extremely, by saying: “pray young man play me that bagatelle again.” What a great
man this must be, thought I, who calls a lesson that has cost me such immense
labour to execute, a bagatelle! But it was neither a fugue nor a canon. 36

Similarly, Clementi’s own improvisations in 1804 received a chilly reception from the
renowned contrapuntist Albrechtsberger. Again it demonstrates how engrained the
attitude of unquestioningly privileging counterpoint contra difficulty was among male
professionals.

One morning Kalkbrenner took this father of pianists to see his old master,
Albrechtsberger. The contrapuntist became naturally desirous of hearing what a man
of so great reputation could do on his instrument, and requested Kalkbrenner to ask
Clementi to play something. “With the greatest pleasure,” replied Clementi, and
immediately sitting down to the instrument, expatiated for a considerable time in the

                                                                                                 
35Decker, “Scarlattino,” 298.
36Slava Klima, ed., Memoirs of Dr. Charles Burney 1726-1769 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
1988), 55-56. Quoted in Decker, “Scarlattino,” 287.
139
 
masterly style for which he was so eminent. Albrechtsberger heard him with great
tranquillity, without uttering the least expression of admiration—and when Clementi
had concluded, he said, “that is very well,” but turning to Kalkbrenner, said to him
in German, “can he play a fugue?” 37

Even Ambrose Pitman in the late 1780s had to resort to academic consecration to
legitimize his simplified edition of Scarlatti. Any lingering doubts about their status as
legitimate lessons should be put to rest because among the “enthusiastic admirers of
SCARLATTI’S Lessons, was the late Dr. ARNE.” Once again, a Doctor of Music was
proscribing the dosage, so these non-contrapuntal bagatelles could be understood as
being beyond all reproach. But Pitman’s edition came much too late to effectively
make the impact it might have achieved in—say—the 1750s, precisely because
professionals like Pepusch raised questions concerning difficult music’s legitimacy.
Scarlatti himself was nowhere to be found apart from in his works, whereas Clementi
in his manifold identities was very much in the thick of the eighteenth-century
marketplace, to borrow Decker’s phrasing.

Another issue with why Scarlatti’s music never altered the English keyboard culture
as effectively as Op. 2 was understood to have done was the problematic issue of its
reproducibility. Clementi himself was available for lessons and thus knew the secret
tricks of fingering difficult passage and additionally had strategies for practicing
them. The only pedagogical resources an amateur had in learning to effectively play
Scarlatti’s “English” sonatas would be her music-master or a professional musician
who would deign to teach her a virtuoso’s tricks, highly unlikely in the 1750s.
Certainly no evidence survives that details talented amateurs reaching the technical
heights Clementi’s students appear to have reached.

Imaginary First Contact with Clementi’s Op. 2

The female amateur in 1779 who had had one of the first copies of Op. 2 bought for
her (see Table 3.3), or perhaps borrowed from a circulating library, would probably
have first apprehended them in the solitude of her music room, at her large

                                                                                                 
37 Quarterly Musical Magazine 6 (1824): 506. Quoted in Plantinga, Clementi, 212.
140
 
Kirckman harpsichord. The distribution of solo and accompanied sonatas is shown
in Table 1. Michael Cole and others have shown that in England “during the 1770s
and early 1780s harpsichords and pianofortes enjoyed equal popularity.” 38 Square
pianos were the most popular kind of piano, with wing-shaped grands extremely rare
and expensive. “The Black Joke” and Op. 2 were therefore mostly played on either
squares or wing-shaped harpsichords. 39 Leppert has shown how the large
harpsichords of the time had more cultural capital than squares simply because they
were more expensive and hence luxurious. 40

Op. 2 No. 1 E-flat major Allegro;; “Easy” accompanied


Allegro con spirito sonata
Op. 2 No. 2 C major Presto;; “Difficult” solo
RONDEAU sonata
Spiritoso
Op. 2 No. 3 G major Moderato;; “Easy” accompanied
Allegretto sonata
Op. 2 No. 4 A major Allegro assai;; “Difficult” solo
Spiritoso sonata
Op. 2 No. 5 F major Allegro;; “Easy” accompanied
Allegretto sonata
Op. 2 No. 6 B-flat major Allegro di molto;; “Difficult” solo
Prestissimo sonata
Table 3.3 Order of the original 1779 Welcker print of Op. 2.
 
Our imaginary amateur may very well have sat down and, having opened the volume
to the first sonata, sight-read fairly successfully the first sonata in E-flat, noting that it
would do very well with the accompaniment of her husband or brother as there is an
extra stave above the keyboard part. 41 They are also advertised as having “an

                                                                                                 
38 Cole, “Transition,” 45.
39 A penetrating discussion of the organological issues relating to Clementi’s early career is a
subject for another paper. Suffice to say that Eva-Badura Skoda’s recent arguments in Studies and
Prospects (“Clementi e il “cimbalo con piano e forte”, 247-260), in which she argues for a more
widespread presence of pianos in England than has been previously thought, has been criticized
by organologists and musicologists including Sutcliffe, Review of Studies and Prospects, 298 and
others. See also Virginia Pleasant, “The Early Piano in Britain (c.1760-1800)” Early Music, 13/1
(1985): 39-44 and Warwick Henry Cole, “The early piano in Britain reconsidered” Early Music,
14/4 (1986): 563-566.
40 Richard Leppert, “Music, domestic life and cultural chauvinism: images of British subjects at

home in India,” in Music and Society: the Politics of Composition, Performance and Reception, ed. Richard
Leppert and Susan McClary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 82 ff.
41 Sonatas or lessons in England occasionally had an extra staff printed above the solo for the

accompanist. In addition to this staff a separate detachable part was often also made available.
141
 
Accompanyment for a German Flute or Violin.” She may have noted at this point
that only the oddly-numbered sonatas have accompaniments. The others appear to
be solo sonatas and it is to the first of these that she now turns.

Perhaps the first musical element that she would have struck her is that the piece is
extremely fast. Marked “Presto”, our female keyboardist might have remembered
from previous music lessons that the presence of the cut-common signature gives
added momentum to this marking—making it very fast indeed. 42 The left hand has a
familiar texture—the “Murky”—which she can execute very well. In fact, she rather
enjoys the feeling of it in her left hand when she has come across it before, in other
pieces.

But now she notices a new texture completely alien to her: the right hand is entirely
made up of octaves, and since she has never tried anything like this before, she is not
even sure if her hand can stretch that far for an extended period. 43 She now attempts
to read the sonata, but well under the speed indicated, and the feeling of the parallel
octaves is strange. She has learnt that parallel octaves are forbidden in counterpoint,
so it feels even more ‘wrong’, but somehow satisfying as well. Because with a little
practice she is soon able to produce an exciting and sonorous sound that gets better
and better every time she attempts it. Perhaps she now wonders how it might sound
on one of those new pianofortes. She engages all the registers of her Kirckman, and
opens full her Venetian swell in order to try the opening passage again, now with
more determination and confidence. She finds she might be able to look down at her
outstretched hands in order to hit the right notes, and momentarily she takes her
eyes off the score to consider her outstretched right hand on the keyboard. When
she doesn’t make a mistake, she feels a strange glow of success. When she makes a
mistake, she repeats the passage. Usus promptos facit, she thinks, learnedly,
remembering her book of popular proverbs. Practice makes perfect.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
Most often, however, the accompanying part was only to be found in a separate part. Welcker’s
print of Op. 2 has the accompanying part in the score;; no detachable part survives.
42 See, for instance, the New Instructions for Playing the Harpsichord (London: 1790?), 5: “c is for slow

movments, and ¢ […] for brisker airs.”


43 I allude here to Matthew Head’s discussion of eighteenth-century German music for women.

Matthew Head, “‘If the Pretty Little Hand Won’t Stretch,’” 203-254.
142
 

The entire opening period, from measure 1 to 23, has only two accidentals (F-sharp
in the left hand at 18, and C-sharp in the right at mm. 19 and 21), so Clementi has
made sure that it is as “easy” as possible for her to traverse the keyboard and depress
the correct notes as she carves out an orchestral sound that encompasses the entire
five-octave tessitura of her instrument. She accompanies herself at mm. 7, 9, 11 and
13 with horn-like figures. At m. 23 is she able to indulge in a little sensible melody. It is
at this point where her sight-reading ability is activated again. But at m. 35 the
rhythmic movement suddenly doubles, and her right-hand is required to play scales
and repetitive patterns (mm 37 ff.) that seem to require a strange fingering that she is
unfamiliar with (see Ex. 3.6).
143
 

Example 3.6 Imaginary first contact with Clementi’s Op. 2/2/i (1779), mm. 1-39.
 
144
 
Flicking ahead, she notices that there are no slow movements at all. The most lyrical
piece seems to be the fourth sonata, in A major. She observes again the fast tempo
marking (“Allegro assai”) but is pleased that it works equally well at a slower tempo
that allows some languishing at moments of piquant chromaticism. The thirds here
feel much different to the earlier ones in G and C major (see Ex. 3.7). Her long third
finger rests nicely on the third of both the tonic (C-sharp) and dominant (G-sharp).
In the second movement of this sonata she comes across another figure that is
extremely hard to play, almost painful. She finds she has to divide the muscles of her
right hand almost in two—or, in the words of Clementi’s much later Gradus ad
Parnassum, “render the fingers independent.” 44 She also comes across another
repeated note figure that seems to require some new kind of fingering as well, if it is
to be executed at speed (see Ex. 3.8). Charles Burney in 1770 noted, in the context of
his encounter with Madame du Brillon, that the more common way to execute these
patterns was with one finger, rather than with the modern alternating pattern that he
then taught her. 45

 
Example 3.7 Comparisons of the implied fingerings in Op. 2/2, 4, and 6.

                                                                                                 
44Muzio Clementi, Gradus ad Parnassum, Op. 44, Vol. 1, 1817, Exercise 27.
45“I presented Madame Brillon my harpsichord sonatas and lessons which she sat down to play
with great avidity. I showed her my manner of fingering the capriccio in the 3rd lesson, which she
otherwise, I found, would have done in the common way with one finger instead of two.” ed. H.
Edmund Poole, Music, Men and Manners in France and Italy, 1770, Being the Journal Written by Charles
Burney, Ms. D. (London: Eulenburg Books, 1974), p. 19-20.
145
 

Example 3.8 Clementi, Op. 2/4/ii, mm. 44-56.


146
 

The last sonata she peruses is the hardest. In fact, in hindsight all three solo sonatas
demonstrate a kind of “progressive” difficulty, to borrow a term from Clementi’s
similarly constructed Progressive Sonatinas (Op. 36, 1797). Op. 2 No. 6 begins
immediately with thirds in B-flat major. Unlike the other solo sonatas in C and A,
there is no preparatory bar in which one can get one’s bearings before setting off
with the theme (see Ex. 3.9). And how to finger such a difficult sequence of thirds?
The awkward and non-agile thumb sometimes finds itself on a raised key. And the
contrasting cantabile melody that begins in measure 20 is totally unlike the
corresponding one in Op. 2 No. 2. Now there are octaves even when it appears to be
piano and lyrical. Stopping now in her exertions, she turns to the front page to see
who the composer is. She makes a note to find out if this “Signor Clementi” is
available for lessons. How exciting it would be to perform this for her friends! How
they might thrill at her command of the instrument!
147
 

 
Example 3.9 Clementi, Op. 2/6/i, mm. 1-23.
148
 
In this imaginary reckoning I am taking my cue from Tom Beghin’s account of
Haydn’s Menuet de Rovescio, which, just like the technical demands of Op. 2, must be
puzzled out by the performer. 46 Beghin imagines—as well as memorably enacting for
us in an accompanying multimedia demonstration—a prima vista performance of the
puzzle, with the performer scratching their head in reflection before tackling the task
ahead, which is of course, rather stumbling and cautious. The performer is being
asked to engage in a musical act that is entirely unfamiliar (in Haydn’s case, reading
the score backwards, in Clementi’s case, heightened difficulty). In Beghin’s
imaginative scenario a successful solution of the puzzle stimulates the performer to
practice it again, with one imagines to be no little delight at her achievement and
Beghin enacts a learned performance that is the polished product of practice. Here,
the proud performer demonstrates her own ingenuity by making sure that even her
ornaments are perfectly mirrored. Haydn’s performative challenge has been taken up
and artfully integrated. Cautious sight-reading has become practiced virtuous
delivery.

In the context of a modern performance though, as Beghin notes, something is lost.


The essence of Haydn’s piece is to be found precisely in the act of puzzling it out.
Unlike a puzzle canon, which is worked out on paper, this menuet is “worked out” or
“got” (to use vocabulary of the time) at the keyboard in a uniquely personal,
embodied relationship between reader and text, between performer and composer. 47
One can sense here the medium of empathy and sensibility that famously links the
reader and protagonist in Richardson’s Clarissa (see Chapter 2).

In the bustling virtuoso-like Clementi sonata, full of challenges and performative


puzzles, we are in a different world quite apart from sensible rapport. 48 But at the same

                                                                                                 
46 The Menuet al Rovescio is the second movement of the 1773 Sonata in A (Hob. XVI: 26) and is
discussed in Tom Beghin, “‘Delivery, Delivery, Delivery!’ Crowning the Rhetorical Process of
Haydn’s Keyboard Sonatas” in Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, 131-171, 145-147.
47 For “got” see Chapter 4’s discussion on the repertoire of a “Miss Orr.”
48 At least from the perspective of those listening, virtuosity could be construed as a hindrance to

sensible interactions. “To audiences of the period, virtuosity was indeed the perfect antithesis of
sensibilité, for by its nature it makes the absorptive maneuver impossible.” Le Guin, Boccherini’s
Body, 138.
149
 
time, some transference does take place—even if an amateur cannot play Op. 2 at all,
even attempting it (“misplaying” or not) means that she must enter, even briefly, into
Clementi’s world of difficulty. It means entering into traditionally male realms of
professional performance and into the public arenas of opera and theatre, concerto,
and symphony. Successful performances of Op. 2 necessitate “misplaying” in the
form of practicing. What made it easier for Clementi, of course, is that there was
indeed a precedent in transcription for these kinds of textures. Although later
commentators emphasized the extreme novelty of Op. 2—an attitude that Clementi
helped promote and encourage, both through his journalism and pedagogy as well as
his revisions (see Chapters 4 and 5)—orchestral textures of thirds and octaves had
appeared on keyboard music desks for decades, played or misplayed. They were not
in abundance, but they were there. What is really new about Clementi is that he
places these kinds of textures in the sonata/lesson sphere, and not in the somewhat
marginal genre of transcription.

Plantinga nicely explains why Op. 2 was thought so original:

The solo sonatas of Op. 2 in fact present a parade of brilliant figurations much more
extreme than anything in Scarlatti, and of course they occur in quite a new context:
transplanted into the simplified, periodized harmonic syntax and typical ornament of
the full-dress galant style, the novelties of Scarlatti’s keyboard writing sounded novel
again. 49

Certainly it seems to have been the consecutive octaves which struck English
contemporaries as the most original texture. It was Op. 2 No. 2—soon to be known
as the “Octave Lesson” or the “Celebrated Octave Lesson”—that became the most
famous sonata of the set. The 1780 A. B. C. Dario Musico mentions not the thirds or
sixths but only the octaves. Mozart, by contrast, first mentions Clementi’s prowess in
thirds. 50 Table 3.4 charts all of the references and events relating to Op. 2 no. 2
(“Octave Lesson”) during Clementi’s lifetime.

                                                                                                 
49Plantinga, Clementi, 50.
50See Chapter 1. Mozart’s execution of octaves was pretty decent, judging by those found in his
Grétry (K: 352) and Gluck (K: 455) variations. By contrast, a quick run of thirds only appears
once, in the Dezède variations (K: 264). These are in C major and may have been intended (like
the run of sixths preceding them) to have been performed as glissandi.
150
 

DATE EVENT DESCRIPTION


1770 Supposed date of composition of Op. 2. As described in the 1820
biographical sketch and the 1820
commentary on Cramer’s parody. 51
1773 Supposed publication date of Op. 2. See above.
1779 Actual publication of Op. 2 by Welcker, Accurate dating first determined by
London. Alan Tyson in 1967. 52
1780 Commentary in A. B. C. Dario Musico “Has composed some setts [sic] of
(published in Bath). lessons, which abound in passages
so peculiar and difficult […] We
particularly allude to the successions
of octaves with which he has
crammed his lessons.”
1780 Publication of Op. 2 by Bailleux, Paris. First appearance on the Continent.
1780 Fanny Burney witnesses Jane Guest’s “She next played the 2d of
performance of Op. 2 No. 2. Clementi,—which seemed to want
nothing but a strong Hand, –&
therefore I was full as well content
with the Player as with the music,
but not enchantée with either.” 53
1781 Incipits of Op. 2 appear in the Breitkopf
Thematic Catalogue.
1786 Corrected reissue of the first edition
published by J. Dale, London.
c1790 Publication of Op. 2 by Le Duc, Paris.
1790s Publication of Op. 2 by Naderman, Paris.
1793 “A favorite sonata for harpsichord or First reference to “favourite.”
piano forte … from op. 2” Op. 2 No. 2
published by Bland & Weller, London.
c1794 “Six / SONATAS / for the / Piano Violin part missing.
Forte / or / HARPSICHORD / With a
Violin Accompaniment / composed by /
Muzio Clementi / Opera II.” Printed for
the author, London.
1794 Revised version of Op. 2 No. 2 with an “With New Accompaniments, / AN
additional slow movement and a violin / ADDITIONAL MOVEMENT, /
accompaniment. Op. 30. Dale, London. & Alterations, as / Now Performed
& Revised / BY THE /
AUTHOR.”
1794 Revised version of Op. 2 No. 4 with an “With New Accompaniments, / AN
additional introduction and a flute / ADDITIONAL MOVEMENT, /
accompaniment. Op. 31. Dale, London. & Alterations, as / Now Performed
& Revised / BY THE /
AUTHOR.”
c1800 “Clementi’s 2d celebrated sonata from First reference to “celebrated.”

                                                                                                 
51 Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 13-16 has more details on the dating of Op. 2.
52 Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 13-16.
53 Troide, ed., The Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 3, 56, 92.
151
 
this 2d opera for the pianoforte or
harpsichord” published by Anne Lee,
Dublin.
1803 The solo sonatas of Op. 2 are published The series was advertized in the
as the “première suite” in Hans Georg Allgemeine musikalische Zeuting in
Nägeli’s Repertoire des Clavecinistes, Zürich. August 1803: “It is well known that
a new, most remarkable and highly
consequential epoch in this branch
of the art began with Clementi.” 54
c1803 T. Latour composes a parody/homage of
Op. 2/2 in his “IMITATIONS / of
many of the most / Eminent Professors”
(London: Robert Birchall, 1803?).
Variation 20 is subtitled “A la
CLEMENTI.” 55
c1805 “Clementi’s celebrated Octave Lesson” First reference to “Octave Lesson.”
published by Corri, Edinburgh.
1807 "NOUVELLE EDITION / des / Trois
Sonatas, / Oeuvre II. / Pour le Forte-
Piano / composées par / MUZIO
CLEMENTI / Avec des Augmentations
et Améliorations considéerables, / faites
par l’Auteur, pendant son Séjour à
Vienne 1807." Artaria, Vienna.
1807 Publication of Op. 2 by Johann Cappi, Given erroneous Op. number of 37.
Vienna.
1807 Mention in satirical poem by William “Next, to ensure the brilliant sortie,
Henry Ireland, Stultifera Navis;; or, The Miss strikes the grand piano forté;;
Modern Ship of Fools (William Savage for Knows lessons, airs, duets, in plenty,
William Miller: London, 1807), 88. And plays the octave of Clementi.”
1808- “Clementi’s octave lesson” published by First appearance in North America.
1810 Carr’s Music Store, Baltimore.
1810s “Clementi's celebrated octave lesson for
the piano forte” published by G. Walker,
London.
c1810 Reprint of the 1807 “NOUVELLE
EDITION” by Johann André,
Offenbach.
c1810 “The favorite octave lesson from op. 2”
published by Goulding, Phipps &
D’Almaine, London.
c1819 “ New Edition, / WITH / Considerable
Improvements / of / SONATA. No.
[2]/ from / Opera, II.” Clementi & Co.,
London.
1819 Cramer’s parody of Op. 2/2 is published Cramer’s first movement has the
as “A grand sonata for the piano forte” dismissive epithet: “Mens sine

                                                                                                 
54 “Es ist bekannt, daß sich eine neue, höchst merkwürdige und folgenreiche Epoche dieses
Kunstfaches von Clementi an datirt.” Allgemeine Musiklischer Zeitung 5/23 (1803): 785.
55 Graue, “The Clementi-Cramer Dispute Revisited,” 48.
152
 
by the Regent’s Harmonic Institution, pondere ludit.” This has been taken
London. from Petronious, “On Dreams,”
Fragm. 30. [“The mind sports
without any substance” or
“Unburdened, the mind relaxes (is
playful)”].
1820 The Quarterly Musical Magazine & Review “[…] at the age of eighteen he had
2/7, (1820): 308-16. [Biographical sketch] not only surpassed all his
“Mr. Clementi.” contemporaries in the powers of
execution and expression, but had
written his opera 2, which gave a
new aera to that species of
composition. Three years afterwards
this celebrated work was submitted
to the public. The simplicity,
brilliancy, and originality which it
displayed, captivated the whole
circle of professors and amateurs. It
is superfluous to add what all the
great musicians of the age have
uniformly allowed, that this
admirable work is the basis on
which the whole fabric of modern
sonatas for the piano-forte has been
erected.” 56
1820 The Quarterly Musical Magazine & Review “It is now fifty years since MR.
2/7, (1820): 353-58. [Review] CLEMENTI’S Opera 2, of which this
“New Edition, with considerable improvements, sonata is part, was written, and
of Sonata No. 1 [sic], from Opera 2, composed forty-seven since it was first given to
for the Piano Forte by Muzio Clementi. the world: from its appearance we
London. Clementi, Collard, Davis, and may date a new æra in compositions
Collard. of that species. […] These
A Grand Sonata, for the Piano Forte, composed testimonies, which are authenticated
by J. B. Cramer. London. Regent’s and generally known, are principally
Harmonic Institution.” important, because they speak the
sense of eminent men concerning
the merits of the work at the time it
was produced. We of this day
cannot, without an effort of great
difficulty (if we can at all) free our
judgment from the embarrassments
and prejudices which the
progression of half a century lays
upon us. If the sonatas still seems to
possess the excellences we have
enumerated, what must have been
its value at date so remote?—of
what height and capacity the ability
that at so early a period of art, and
                                                                                                 
Tyson has shown that this sketch was probably written by Clementi’s business partner, W. F.
56

Collard. See Tyson, “A Feud between Clementi and Cramer,” 284.


153
 
so immature an age of eighteen,
could have invented it?”
1820 Cramer’s Clementi parody is reissued in These reissues were probably
both London (Royal Harmonic Institute: motivated by the scathing QMMR
“Composed expressly in the Style of / review, above, which thought
Muzio Clementi’s / Celebrated Octave Cramer’s sonata was a scandalous
Lesson”) and Leipzig (C. F. Peters: case of plagiarism, and not—as is
“Grande Sonate, in C, dans le Style de more likely—a satirical parody.
Clementi”) with a different title-page that
acknowledges “The Octave Lesson” as its
model and the offensive Latin motto is
effaced. 57
Table 3.4 Historical time-time of the “Octave Lesson’s” cultural legacy.

The 1820 biographical sketch was reprinted verbatim in a myriad of 19th-century


English biographical dictionaries;; the first to do so was John Sainsbury’s A Dictionary
of Musicians From the Earliest Times in 1825. 58 Any casual perusal of a biographical entry
on Clementi after 1820 repeats the incorrect early dating of Op. 2 but more
importantly relates the central point Clementi undoubtedly wanted to emphasize:
“this admirable work is the basis on which the whole fabric of modern sonatas for
the piano-forte has been erected.” Op. 2 ushered in a “new aera.” This statement
echoes the historical awareness expressed by Nägeli in 1803;; “eine neue, höchst
merkwürdige und folgenreiche Epoche” could be dated to Clementi’s “brand” of
difficulty—his consecutive octaves, thirds, and sixths.

By 1830, the “Octave Lesson” was a canonized object. A correspondent in The


Harmonicon related a decades-old conversation with the composer Gaetano Latilla:

One day I showed him the celebrated Muzio Clementi’s production, Op. 2, known
as the Sonata dei ottavi, which my friend Attwood had lent me. After examining with
attention the first allegro, he exclaimed, ‘This is, indeed, delightful music;; but if
                                                                                                 
57 Graue identified the Leipzig edition in 1975 but the London print has never been referenced.
Graue, “The Clementi-Cramer Dispute Revisited,” 48. I am grateful to Penelope Crawford for
her help in locating the London print at the University of Michigan and for whom I warmly
thank for photographing the title-page.
58 John Sainsbury’s A Dictionary of Musicians from the Earliest Times to 1825, Vol. 1, (London:

Sainsbury & Co., 1825), 161. Further verbatim reprints include The Gentleman’s Magazine 102/1
(1832): 466;; The Day 1/112 (1832): 300;; Edmund Burke, The Annual Register […] of the Year 1832,
Vol. 74 (London: Baldwin & Cradock, 1833), 195;; William Jerdan, National Portrait Gallery of
Illustrious and Eminent Personages of the Nineteenth Century (London: Fisher, Son, & Jackson, 1834),
230;; Rev. Hugh James Rose, A New General Biographical Dictionary, Vol. 6 (London: B. Fellowes et
al., 1848), 358;;
154
 
Clementi can execute things of this kind, Clementi is no man, but the very old One
himself. I have no hesitation in saying that this will be the Durante of future
pianists.’ What would Latilla have said had he known the fact, that Clementi was as
perfectly acquainted with literature and the sciences, as he was with music;; and what
would he now say, could he start for a moment into life, and see the very sonata in
question easily executed by some dozen of noble ladies? 59

What was problematic for female pianists in 1779 is here considered commonplace.
There is also a proud sense of historical progress.

An extraordinary cultural legacy was created in the wake of the “Octave Lesson.”
Publishers reprinted the work in an astonishing variety of forms and some
composers parodied and copied it. Even without the overt markers of Latour (“a la
Clementi”) and Cramer (“Composed expressly in the style of Muzio Clementi”) it
seems possible that many young composers were drawn to emulate Clementi to try
their own hand at ushering in “a new aera in compositions of that species.”

The “Octave Lesson’s” format of easy brilliance, or as it came to be understood by


the time of Cramer’s parody, seems to have served as a model of imitation for many
sonatas by emerging composer/performers. 60 C-major octaves, thirds, and sixths are
easier in that tonality as the performer is generally on lowered-key territory. The so-
called brilliant style is best and most easily expressed, therefore, in that key and post-
Op.2 any composer essaying in this style will naturally appear to emulate Clementi’s
brand of difficulty. 61

                                                                                                 
59 Giacomo Ferrari, “Aneddoti Piacevoli & Interessanti,” The Harmonicon (1830): 371.
60 That Clementi’s difficulty was considered no longer difficult after his death is made clear in a
funny satirical dialogue between Weber and Clementi whilst in Charon’s boat on the Styx. Weber,
in an aside, says of Clementi, “He believes that his sonatas are difficult!”(“W.—(à part.) Il croit
que ses sonates sont difficiles!”). Anon., “Dialogue des Morts. Clementi, Weber et Caron,” Le
Pianiste 1/11 (1834): 170-71.
61 Indeed, in a biographical sketch of Moscheles of 1850, the correspondent uses “The Octave

Lesson” as a benchmark, remarking, “[Moscheles’s] well-known piece, called The Fall of Paris, may
be ‘symbolised’ as the acorn which afterwards expanded into the wide spreading oak of modern
fantasia. Its appearance was hailed with much the same astonishment that Clementi’s celebrated
Octave-Sonata had created, so many years before, on a very different and a much more serious race
of men.” The Musical World, 25 (1850): 30.
155
 
The young Hummel’s first published sonata, for example, Op. 2 No. 3 (1793) is, like
Clementi’s “The Octave Lesson,” in C major and filled with the kind of textures first
found in there (see Ex. 3.10). Similarly, Beethoven’s own Op. 2 No. 3 (1796)
immediately references Clementi’s by now-legendary prowess in thirds at the very
outset. Beethoven’s left-hand fingering in m. 3 leaves no room for “misplaying” of
the type we discussed earlier;; if the pianist follows Beethoven’s fingering she must
perform the consecutive thirds with the right hand alone. The novel fast succession
of parallel 6/3 chords in the last movement of the sonata may even constitute
Beethoven’s attempt to introduce into piano music a new kind of figuration that he
may have hoped to be understood, as Clementi’s octaves were, to be ushering in an
even newer “aera” (see Ex. 3.11). Certainly their effect to a contemporary listener or
player in 1796 must have been every bit as stunning as Clementi’s octaves were in
1779. In this post-Op. 2 culture, composers’ first essays in published sonatas were
invariably difficult and flashy works. Simple domestic lessons of the kind that
Schroeter and others had published no longer appears to have sufficed.

 
Example 3.10 Tonality and textures reminiscent of Clementi's "The Octave Lesson" in Hummel's
Op. 2/3/i (1793).
 

 
Example 3.11 Clementi-like thirds in Beethoven’s Op. 2/3/i (1796).
 

 
Example 3.12 Novel parallelisms in Beethoven’s Op. 2/3/iv (1796).
 
156
 
We should therefore not automatically dismiss the astounding claim that Op. 2 was
“the basis on which the whole fabric of modern sonatas for the piano-forte has been
erected.” The “Octave Lesson’s” textural qualities quickly became the technical basis
for the athletic and highly influential male pianism that emerged from Paris’s post-
Revolutionary Conservatoire. 62 Jean-Louis Adam, a great devotee and acolyte of
Clementi, for instance, composed a sonata “pour le Concours des Elèves du
Conservatoire de Musique” in 1810 that puts the student through all the paces—in a
heightened bravura form, of course—that Clementi put female amateurs through in
the 1780s. It is C-major brilliance of the “Octave Lesson” type;; thirds, octaves, and
sixths. Even Beethoven’s new 6/3 parallelisms are there, the only textural element
that Clementi did not invent in the “Octave Lesson.” (See Ex. 3.13)

What is striking about the data from Table 3.4 is the marked increase in activity
relating to publications of the “Octave Lesson” from 1795 onwards. For the ten
years after its actual publication date, Op. 2 as a 6-sonata set was only reissued once,
by Dale in 1786. Op. 2’s difficult sonatas could have easily been forgotten if it was
not for Clementi’s first reworkings of the set in 1794, in which he adds
accompaniments for flute and violin and begins to dispense with the three “easy”
accompanied sonatas of 1779. These new additional accompaniments to the solo
sonatas are especially interesting as Clementi now appears to invite male amateurs
into Op. 2’s new landscape of sonic brilliance. The “easy” accompanied sonatas of
Op. 2, in which both parts are relatively sight-readable, are soon lost forever. We
now need to turn to the genre of the accompanied sonata and better understand how
these works functioned in the domestic environment, in order to form a clearer
picture of the solo sonata. Understanding the totality of the late eighteenth-century
musical experience means exploring all of the gendered genres of domestic music
without concentrating unduly on one genre at the expense of another and finally
contextualizing them all within in the system of social relations that sustained them.
Because the English genres of accompanied and solo sonata were intended for

                                                                                                 
62For a good overview of this culture see Katherine Ellis, “Female Pianists and Their Male
Critics in Nineteenth-Century Paris,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 50/2-3 (1997): 353-
385.
157
 
radically different audiences and markets, in the next chapter we employ Pierre
Bourdieu’s theory of the cultural field which situates artistic works and objects within
the social conditions of their production, transmission, and consumption.

 
Example 3.13 “Octave Lesson”-type brilliance in Jean-Louis Adam’s “Sonate Pour le Forté Piano
composé Pour le Concours de Elèves du Conservatoire de Musique,” (Paris: Pleyel, 1810), 22.
 
158
 

Chapter 4

Male Theoria and Female Praxis: Eighteenth-Century Cultural


Ideology in Practice

Introduction

This chapter maps out an analytical and investigative mode of the field of cultural
production pertaining to English keyboard music both pre- and post-1779, using
some of the theoretical apparatus suggested by Pierre Bourdieu. A more holistic
understanding of Clement is better achieved by understanding the material and
economic conditions surrounding the consumption of his music. Focusing on the act
of consumption or performance not only accentuates the material conditions of
consumption and production but also accords a new perspective into the nature of
Clementi’s music that differentiates itself from another kind of approach that might
limit analysis to the music itself.

Pierre Bourdieu’s comprehensive theory of culture emphasizes the construction of


the cultural network from which status objects are evaluated. Bourdieu argues that a
process of legitimization additionally reinforces the cultural meaning and prestige of
objects, a value that Bourdieu terms “symbolic capital.” 1 Class behaviour and values
are further reinforced and disseminated through the subconscious absorption and
repetition of these values by individuals within the society. Understanding Clementi’s
sonatas and pianos as status objects, for example, (and not just as “works” or
“instruments”) affords a perspective on their condition within English society that
contrasts with previous, more text-oriented, studies on Clementi. The chapter on

                                                                                                 
1Pierre Bourdieu, “The Field of Cultural Production, or: The Economic World Reversed” in The
Field of Cultural Production, ed. Randal Johnson (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), 29-
73.
159
 
Clementi by Parakilas and Wheelock in Piano Roles is an example of what such a
radical contextualization can achieve. 2

Even if Bourdieu's theoretical apparatus grew out of his studies in nineteenth-century


French literature and twentieth-century French culture, his theoretical ideas can be
also seen to apply to similarly market-driven cultures of earlier periods. Bourdieu's
theoretical concepts revolve around sophisticated notions of capital, and are
particularly appropriate to an English culture that was beginning to become aware, as
we shall see, of the modes of power inherent in newly appearing relationships of
class, status, and wealth. Furthermore, Bourdieu encourages evaluating the precise
historical conditions that created the creator of a work. Work-oriented modes of
analysis, Bourdieu argues, take part in what he calls the “charismatic ideology of
creation” and by focusing so much on the creation these analyses effectively prevent
us from asking questions relating to the constitution and agency of the creator.
Bourdieu's theory of cultural production is used here as an alternative mode of
analysis that both complements and contrasts with previous work-oriented studies
on Clementi. 3

Pre-Clementi musical culture demonstrated a set of acquired patterns of thought,


behaviour, and taste. 4 For Bourdieu, these patterns are manifested in the habitus of
the agents involved in that culture. The habitus is sometimes referred to as the “rules
of the game,” (Bourdieu himself described it as sens pratique) and is the result of a life-
long process of inculcation that begins in childhood. As we saw in Chapter 2, the
great bulk of keyboard music was meant primarily for performance by women (at the
keyboard) and secondly called for the participation of men in its consumption (the
                                                                                                 
2 Paralikas and Wheelock, “The Piano Revolution in the Age of Revolutions,” 77-132.
3 Another eighteenth-century scholar who engages with Pierre Bourdieu is Emily Dolan in “A
Patron among Peers: Dedications to Haydn and the Economy of Celebrity,” Eighteenth-Century
Music 8/2 (2011): 215-237.
4 Richard Jenkins offers a concise summary of Bourdieu’s principle thesis: “(a) objective conditions

of existence combine with position in social structure to produce (b) the habitus, “a structured and
structuring structure,” which consists of (c) a “system of schemes generating classifiable practices
and works” and (d) a “system or scheme of perception and appreciation” or taste, which between
them produce (e) “classifiable practices and works”, resulting in (f) a life-style, “a system of classified
and classifying practices, i.e. distinctive signs.” Richard Jenkins, Pierre Bourdieu (New York:
Routledge, 1992), 141-142.
160
 
funds for the printed material came from the male, not the female, domain) as well as
its performance (with men occasionally acting as accompanists, on stringed
instruments, or as audience members or pedagogues). Ideally, music of this kind
before Clementi’s arrival was meant to be galant, sight-readable, and performable
without much effort. This kind of music became a part of the acceptable life-style of
the consumer, and one supported by the ideological apparatuses in print (conduct
books).

Clementi’s Op. 2 radically challenges the pre-existing life-style of the keyboard player.
It corresponds to the kind of music discouraged by conduct books of the time. It
demands much time from the people who consume it, in the form of practice, and it
goes against the grain of acceptable modes of performance for courtship rituals in
that it employs virtuoso-like figures of great difficulty. He appears here as what
Bourdieu would have classified as a doxa breaker—a heresiarch—with doxa here
understood as referring to shared and unquestioned opinions and perceptions that
are internalized and “natural.” 5 As an agent in the field of cultural production,
Clementi and his music begins to alter perceptions pertaining to the system or
scheme of perception and appreciation;; in other words, “taste.” Parakilas points out
Clementi’s particular talents, and sketches out the modalities of the cultural field
under investigation:

In this cultural revolution Clementi showed a particular genius for understanding


how apparently different systems of production and marketing could be coordinated
so that each promoted and expanded the others: concert life and domestic music
making;; piano manufacture and piano instruction;; music publishing, musical
journalism, and the musical canon. 6

These activities in turn lead to a structure of fame and reputation which ultimately
leads to Clementi’s complete edition, the third such edition for Breitkopf & Härtel
after similar projects for Mozart and Haydn. 7

                                                                                                 
5 Cécile Deer, “Doxa,” in Pierre Bourdieu: Key Concepts, ed. Michael Grenfell (Stocksfield: Acumen
Publishing, 2008), 120 ff.
6 Parakilas and Wheelock, “The Piano Revolution in the Age of Revolutions,” 93.
7 We discuss the Breitkopf & Härtel complete edition in more detail in the Epilogue.
161
 
One of the central tenets of this dissertation is that music marked by its culture as
“difficult” does cultural “work.” 8 By that, I mean that it implicates its constituent
agents in a network of preconceived dispositions and attitudes. Difficulty implies
easiness. It also implies dedication, labour, decipherment, decoding, or any other
strategy that makes it more understandable or manageable. A central way of
understanding what difficult music does is to situate its “working” in the broader
ideology of English culture. By ideology, I mean here a “systematic scheme of ideas,
usu[ally] relating to politics or society, or to the conduct of a class or group, and
regarded as justifying actions, esp[ecially] one that is held implicitly or adopted as a
whole and maintained regardless of the course of events.” 9

For Bourdieu, the cultural field is a theoretical arrangement in which agents and their
social positions might be determined. The location of each agent in the field is
regulated by the relations between the specific rules of the field (or its ideology, in
the sense I have just outlined), each agent’s habitus (his or her expectations,
sensibilities, taste etc.), and finally each agent’s capital (symbolic, economic, and
cultural). The two forms of symbolic and cultural capital are paramount in the field
of cultural production. Symbolic power is based on invisible forms of capital that are
not immediately or obviously reducible to economic capital. Hence symbolic capital
refers to layers of accumulated prestige, honour, and consecration that surround
individuals, genres, and institutions. Bourdieu defines cultural capital as a form of
knowledge. Those individuals who possess it have both the means and the empathy
in deciphering and decoding culture and its artefacts. This decoding ability comes
from the confluence of domestic pedagogy (or parenting), the availability and
promotion of educational institutions and norms, and class. Bourdieu also described
cultural capital as existing in three forms: in the embodied state, “in the form of long-
lasting dispositions of the mind and body,” in the objectified state, in the form of
cultural artefacts (like sonatas, treatises, instruments, and books), and also in the
institutionalized state, in the form of academic recognition and qualifications which
                                                                                                 
8 In this I ally myself with Deanna C. Davis’s study of rhetorical strategies. “Carl Czerny: The
Veil of Fiction,” in Beyond The Art of Finger Dexterity: Reassessing Carl Czerny, 67-81, esp. 77 ff.
9 OED. ideology in The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. 1989, OED Online, Oxford University

Press. <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/entry/50111233>
162
 
confers certificates of “cultural competence.” 10 Like economic capital, cultural and
symbolic capitals are unequally disposed among social classes and class populations.

Difficult music is implicated in interesting ways because, as I have shown in Chapter


2, the restrictions against practicing in female domestic music-making decline from
the 1770s to the 1820s. The “work” that difficult music did, which previously was
uncommon and unusual, is here transformed into something common and rather
usual. One traditional explanation for this partakes in the teleological argument of
developmental musical texture, where music becomes thicker, richer, more complex,
sophisticated, and chromatic. Clementi and others additionally promoted difficult
music as it began to generate, remarkably, both economic and symbolic capital for the
dominant agents in the field.

Clementi probably bargained that the novelty of his new musical textures would
eventually override, neutralize, or circumvent old-fashioned ideological apparatuses
associated with musical difficulty. After the semi-anonymous publication of “The
Black Joke,” Op. 2 openly delineates a agenda that begins to newly associate solo
with difficult and accompanied with easy. Clementi continues to issue playable,
sellable, and fun music throughout his entire career, but the output of difficult solo
music—however, not so much difficult accompanied music—increases dramatically
as it appears to pose less problems for female pianists, or its novelty continues to
ensure its marketability. Before looking more closely at how this difficult music
became popular in Chapter 5, we necessarily need to determine the population
parameters of the field. How many female pianists actually were there in the 1770s?

Preliminaries: An Overview of English Keyboard Culture in the late 1770s

Michael Cole has shown that a tuner and local music-master by the name of Thomas
Green had a clientele in rural Hertford (20 miles north of London) of around 46

                                                                                                 
Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory of Research for the Sociology of
10

Education, ed. J. F. Richardson (New York & London: Greenwood Press, 1986), 241-258.
163
 
piano players (1770-1779). Around 80% of these were female. 11 In 1839 the
population was 5631. 12 Assuming a reasonable growth rate of 1.2% with limited
immigration, in 1770 it was probably around 2473. So Green directly serviced about
1-3% of the population.

The account books of the London-based Broadwood firm (1771-1813) that currently
reside in the Bodleian Library document hundreds of clients and transactions in the
1770s. In 1774, their best year, the firm sold almost 750 harpsichords and squares to
almost as many clients (their worst year in the 1770s was 1776, when British markets
were reeling from the effects of the first year of the American Revolution;; they sold
only 650 instruments). 13 This gives a good reckoning of the market demand, if we
take into account the number of other instrument makers based in London. Overall,
including hypothetical outputs from the smaller shops of Merlin, Backers, and
Stodart, perhaps around 900-1000 instruments were bought by clients each year.
Assuming that one performer only played each instrument, a conservative estimate
would then take into account Michael Cole’s 80% figure and we would calculate
around 720-800 active female pianists in London in the 1770s. The reality was
probably much higher, in the thousands. 1500-2000 potential customers for
publications and instruments are probably good figures to reckon with. Already we
can see that the field of musical production is vastly smaller than that of literary
production. 14 Women read far many more novels than they “read” sonatas which
explains the larger amount of evidence that charts the anxiety related to women’s
reading practices.

                                                                                                 
11 Cole, “Transition,” 48-51.
12 “The borough of Hertford: Introduction,” A History of the County of Hertford, Vol. 3 (1912), 490-
501. <http://www.british-history.ac.uk/report.aspx?compid=43648>
13 Account Books of the Broadwood Family, Piano Makers [1771-1813], MSS. Eng. misc. b. 107, c. 529,

e. 663, (Bodleian Library, University of Oxford). See also David Wainwright, Broadwood By
Appointment: A History (London, Quiller Press, 1982), 61.
14 For an excellent overview of printers, publishers, and print runs in eighteenth-century Britain

see James Raven, “The Book Trades” in Books and Their Readers in Eighteenth-Century England: New
Essays, ed. Isabel Rivers, (London: Continuum, 2001), 1-35. See also James Raven, The Business of
Books: Booksellers and the English Book Trade, 1450-1850 (London: Yale University Press, 2007).
164
 
Even so, for this not insignificant market for music there were quite a few
harpsichord and square-piano makers. Zumpe, Broadwood, and Kirckman
dominated the market with many sales. But between 1760 and 1778 about 43
instrument builders set up shop in London, selling their wares. 15 With ledger books
missing and with often only a single extant surviving instrument testament to their
very existence, it is impossible to determine the full extent of their output. Between
1746 and 1787, there were at the most about 24 music-publishing firms active in
London at any one time. 16 This does not include the many music dealers, book
sellers, and composers who sold music that had been printed elsewhere, usually
indicated by copies that have the inscription: “For the author.”

What kind of repertoire did the average female keyboardist play in the 1770s? Music
bound in a now-lost volume of music with the inscription “Miss Orr 1778”
contained a fairly typical variety of genres;; lessons, sonatas, overtures, and
accompanied pieces. With the exception of Abel (a German émigré) and Burton (a
Yorkshireman) all the composers are Italian. Elizabeth Orr also proudly noted which
lesson she “got” and in what order. The fact that she consistently uses the word
“lesson” might imply that she employed the assistance of a music-master. Table 4.1
documents the repertoire of Elizabeth Orr. 17

TITLE MISS ORR’S ANNOTATION


THREE \ FAVORITE LESSONS \ FOR “The second lesson I got”
THE \ HARPSICHORD \ viz \ The
Courtship, the Chace and Tit for Tat & c \
Compos’d by \ MR. BURTON. London
Printed for Henry Thorowgood at the Violin

                                                                                                 
15 See Donald H. Boalch, Makers of the Harpsichord and Clavichord 1440-1840 (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1995), 694-695.
16 Charles Humphries and William C. Smith, Music Publishing in the British Isles from the Beginning until

the Middle of the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1970), 30-31.
17 Her harpsichord, by the Dublin maker Ferdinand Weber, also survives. For more information

on the harpsichord see


<http://www.cph.rcm.ac.uk/Catalogues/keyboard%20catalogue/Harpsichord%20family/RCM
%20319%20Harpsichord.htm> For more details on both the instrument and the repertoire see
Jenny Nex and Lance Whitehead, “The Stringed Keyboard Instruments of Ferdinand Weber” in
Aspects of Harpsichord Making in the British Isles, ed. John Koster (Hillsdale: Pendragon Press, 2009),
117-154, 146 ff.
165
 
& Guitar under the North Piazza of the
Royal Exchange… 18
SONATA BY WAGENSEIL Publish’d by “This the first lesson I got in this book!”
Elizh. Rhames (No.16) Upper Blind-Quay
A FAVOURITE LESSON FOR THE
HARPSICHORD Compos’d by D. Alberti,
publish’d by Elizh. Rhames …
GUGLIELMI’S FAVOURITE III “The third lesson I got”
SONATA. For the Harpsichord. Opera 3. \
Dublin Printed by Elizabeth Rhames …
OVERTURE TO THE ROYAL “The fourth I got”
SHEPPERD
A FAVOURITE LESSON FOR THE “The fifth lesson I got”
HARPSICHORD. Composed by Sigr.
Castrucci.
A FAVOURITE LESSON FOR THE
HARPSICHORD By Galluppi [sic]
C. F. ABEL’S 3d. OVERTURE. (Elizh.
Rhames)
SONATA 3d. DEL VINTO 7th SET. Elizh. “The sixth lesson I got”
Rhames (No16) EXCHANGE-STREET.
THE DUENNA \ OR \ DOUBLE
ELOPEMENT \ A \ COMIC \ OPERA \
As performed at the \ Theatre Royal in
Covent Garden \ for the \ Voice,
Harpsichord or Violin \ Price 10/6d \
London Printed for C and S. Thompson
No.75 St. Paul’s Church Yard …
Table 4.1 Typical repertoire of a female keyboardist in the 1770s. Music (now lost) belonging to
“Miss Orr 1778” as documented by Eric Halfpenny in 1946.

Bourdieu’s basic theoretical model of a social field would theoretically symbolize all
of these participants and agents (Mrs. Orr and other players, the composers,
instrument makers such as Ferdinand Weber, publishers such as Thompson,
instrument buyers, and so on) in two dimensions with two axes;; economic capital for
its x-axis and symbolic capital as its y-axis. The economic axis is vertical because
economic capital brings more status and power than symbolic capital, although both
together are advantageous in the field of power. 19 The social world is made up of
multiple and overlapping fields with larger fields being subdivided further into
                                                                                                 
18 These famous lessons are good reminders of domestic English music in its courtship function.
“The Courtship” is a kind of crossed-hands dialogue between bass and treble, simulating
conversation or music-making of a man and a woman. Busby relates how this lesson was “for
many years, upon the harpsichord desk of every practitioner in England.” Thomas Busby, A
General History of Music From the Earliest Times to the Present (London: Whittaker, 1819), 517.
19 Patricia Thomson, “Field,” in Pierre Bourdieu: Key Concepts, 61.
166
 
subfields. For Bourdieu, the economic field dominated all fields and subfields of the
cultural field and this situation is nowhere more keenly felt than in the mercantile
environment of 1770s London, which at the end of the decade began debating Adam
Smith’s hugely influential The Wealth of Nations, published there in 1776.

In the larger social field of “art,” the two subfields of music and theatre enjoyed
fairly low symbolic capital in comparison with painting, which had enjoyed
institutionalized and formalized legitimacy in the form of the establishment of a
Royal Academy of the Arts in 1768, founded expressly “for the purpose of
cultivating and improving the arts of painting, sculpture and architecture.” Clementi
was involved in the first aborted attempts to found a Royal Academy that its
advocates hoped would consecrate musical activities as the other academies
legitimized the other arts. 20 A similarly organized Royal Academy dedicated to music
was first established only in 1822. Indeed, Burney had expressed a hope that music
might enjoy the same symbolic capital as painting in 1777:

It is hoped, however, that the great strides which the executive part of Music, at
least, makes towards perfection, in this metropolis [London], abounding at present
in a greater number of capital performers, of almost every kind, than any other in
Europe, will soon render such remarks as these [i.e. how to accompany a melody
properly] useless;; and that something analogous to Perspective, Transparency, and
Contrast in painting, will be generally adopted in music and be thought of nearly as
much importance, and make as great a progress amongst its students, as they have
lately done in the other art. 21

By comparing music to painting and hoping that the former “be thought of [with as]
nearly as much importance” as the latter, Burney attempts to transfer in the reader’s
mind some of the objectified and institutionalized symbolic capital enjoyed by
painting to that of music.

                                                                                                 
20 For more details see David Rowland, “Viotti and Clementi: Friendship, Publishing, the
Philharmonic Society and the Royal Academy of Music,” in Giovanni Battista Viotti. A Composer
Between the two Revolutions, ed. Massimiliano Sala (Bologna: Ut Orpheus Edizioni 2006), 377-394.
21 Charles Burney, Four Sonatas or Duets For Two Performers on One Piano Forte or Harpsichord

(London: Bremner, 1777), Preface [i].


167
 
A salient feature of the music field in the so-called “long eighteenth-century” is that
only men can fully enjoy economic capital whereas women can only enjoy symbolic
capitals in the forms of cultural or social capitals (see Fig. 4.1). 22 Only men are
privileged enough to enjoy both economic and cultural forms of capital. Women may
possess the refinement that comes with elite education and training, but possess
economic power only through their association with men. Some oft-quoted musical
references in familiar Jane Austen novels can help serve as examples here. In her
1811-16 Emma, Jane Fairfax receives the anonymous gift of a square piano. It is
understood to have been purchased by a male donor, whose identity is then the
subject of much speculation. Only the male has the purchasing power, the economic
capital, to procure an instrument. This is obviously and abundantly clear from the
Broadwood account books;; all the instruments are sold to men. Cole’s investigation
into the account books of Thomas Green reveals the hidden side to the use of keyed
instruments in that he unusually (but non-systematically) records the name of the
female player, and not the male owner.

Publisher and/or
Composer/Author Instrument maker
Distributor

Agent with
Agent with cultural
economic capital
capital (FEMALE)
(MALE)
SOLOIST
ACCOMPANIST

Figure 4.1 Loosely autonomous participants in the economics and culture of English domestic
keyboard culture, pre-1779.

                                                                                                 
22I am discounting here female members of royalty who sometimes had degrees of limited
economic control.
168
 
Cultural capitals in the female domestic sphere are expressed in subtler and less easily
accountable ways. Once again the paradox relating to music’s precarious status
comes to the fore. In Austen’s 1797 Pride and Prejudice, the narrator makes it clear
who has more cultural capital;; the keyboardist who was modest, “easy and
unaffected” (Eliza) and not showy, “pedantic and conceited” (Mary).

[Eliza’s] performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a


song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would
sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who
having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for
knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste;; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which
would injured a higher degree of excellent than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and
unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half
so well;; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and
gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters. 23

As visual appearances also appear as a form of cultural capital, Mary, who is plain, is
forced to seek elsewhere and Austen makes it clear that she has therefore “worked
hard for knowledge and accomplishments.” She chooses to perform a “long
concerto,” which is either a concerto in which she played the tutti sections (a
common practice) or a concerto-like sonata (Clementi’s Op. 25 No. 1 from 1790,
often castigated for its truculent virtuosity and long cadenzas, might be a good
example to imagine). 24 It is clear from the narrator’s tone that Mary’s decision to do
so is to be understood by readers to be vain, pedantic, and conceited. Capitalistic
language infuses English discourse of the time. Austen describes how Mary was only
able “to purchase praise and gratitude [my italics]” by resorting to music that pleases
the others.

And yet elsewhere in Austen’s later work, characters we are meant to be sympathetic
with sincerely regret a lack of musicality. In the later Emma, the protagonist, in
comparing herself with the more accomplished Jane Fairfax:

                                                                                                 
23Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice [1797] (Rockville: Arc Manor, 2008), 16-17.
24David Rowland shows how a tradition of playing concertos as solos in Britain was established
from the middle of the eighteenth century and lasted well into the nineteenth. David Rowland,
“Clementi and the British Concerto Tradition,” in Studies and Prospects, 179-190.
169
 

did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and
singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood and sat
down and practiced vigorously an hour and a half. 25

Some kind of skill in music beyond the bare minimum exemplified by Eliza in 1797
is here most definitely felt as a form of cultural capital, by which one can better one’s
position in the social field. Jane Austen’s own embodiment of the musical paradox
has been commented on before. As Arthur Loesser pointed out in 1954, towards
music Austen “seemed to blow hot and cold: she scorned the polite pretense
associated with it, yet she herself played the pianoforte apparently with some
conviction.” 26

This musical paradox of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” and its related
trope of “taste vs. execution” consequently makes it difficult to map out with clarity
the position of agents in the field of power, as music’s ability to confer cultural
capital is itself treated variously and ambiguously by different agents. Sometimes it is
an asset and sometimes it is a liability—transposed into the economic mode this was
highly precarious. Such an unstable situation is obviously a significant problem for
anyone seeking to increase his or her position in the field of power, as decisions
related to the attempted increase of cultural capital become perilous, risky, and
uncertain. One potential solution is first to radically gain some kind of capital in
order to then become a doxa breaker or a heresiarch and change the rules of the game
altogether (in common parlance today, literally a “game changer”).

In Bourdieu’s theoretical apparatus doxa (from the Greek “opinion”) are shared
opinions and unquestioned or little-debated truisms. As Cécile Deer points out:

Doxa is the cornerstone of any field to the extent that it determines the stability of
the objective social structures through the way these are reproduced and reproduce
themselves in a social agent’s perceptions and practices;; in other words in the habitus.
The mutual reinforcement between field and habitus strengthens the prevailing power

                                                                                                 
25 Jane Austen, Emma [1811-16] (London: Richard Bentley & Sons, 1882), 196-7.
26 Arthur Loesser, Men, Women and Pianos (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1954), 275.
170
 
of the doxa, which guides the appropriate “feel” for the game of those involved in
the field via presuppositions that are contained in doxa itself. 27

Bourdieu himself focussed a great deal of his critical writing on heresiarchs who
rupture the doxa and flout conventions. In particular he concentrated on the works
of writers such as Flaubert and Baudelaire, artists such as Courbet and Manet, and
political and social figures like Pascal and Spinoza. 28

At the heart of the doxa of eighteenth-century English culture is the clichéd


preference for taste over execution (a sentiment that many share to this day, who say
of technically proficient musicians that they have “all chops but no soul”). A
reference to your personal preference to taste over execution in an eighteenth-
century context would ensure your superior taste in a conversation in the female
sphere, just as by referencing Corelli or Handel as the greatest composer might
ensure your taste in the male sphere. Both of these attitudes inhabit domains that
represented superior cultural capital in the late 1770s.

Simon McVeigh has pointed out before the particular pride the English took towards
the end of the eighteenth century in “rejecting empty virtuosity and excessive
embellishment, preferring instead melodic directness and music that ‘spoke to the
heart.’” 29 Musical execution, for the English, was to be judged not in the Allegro but
rather in the Adagio. McVeigh sketches out the many clichés that pervaded private
and public journals. “Expression and simplicity are too often sacrificed to
execution.” “The heart is excited and astonished, not pleased and delighted.” It
became fashionable to express these kinds of sentiments. But despite the injunctions,
people were still thrilled by virtuosi and their difficult music and flocked in droves to
hear them, as McVeigh points out.

A Mrs. Harris wrote to her son in 1775 recounting the performance of the virtuoso
soprano Lucrezia Aguiari (1741-1783) and describing this kind of two-faced attitude:
                                                                                                 
27 Cécile Deer, “Doxa” in Pierre Bourdieu: Key Concepts, ed. Grenfell, 121.
28 Ibid., 125.
29 Simon McVeigh, Concert Life in London from Mozart to Haydn (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1993), 144.


171
 

She is a most surprising singer, and in my opinion a pleasing one;; she goes two
notes higher in her voice than the notes of the harpsichord. The ton is to say “she is
more surprising than pleasing,” but I do not subscribe to that, for she has a very
good method. 30

Similarly the progressive pro-galant/anti-Handel Burney was probably getting closer


to the truth of the matter when he pointed out that a great bulk of anti-virtuoso
discourse was motivated by “envious professors, and perhaps dilettanti” who were
unable to execute the difficulties others were amazed at. 31 For these reasons, it is
important to approach anti-virtuoso discourse in newspapers and fashionable
journals with an eye to identifying clichéd material. This is not to deny its
illocutionary force, but rather to take note of its pervasiveness in the cultural field
and better evaluate its critical stance in historical context.

For discussions of performance by women in their own domestic sphere, consider


this characteristic exchange in Emma:

[Harriet] “Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!
[Emma] “Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her’s,
than a lamp is like sunshine.”
“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as
well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body last night said
how well you played.”
“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s
is much beyond it.”
“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if
there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste

                                                                                                 
30 Partly quoted by McVeigh, Concert Life in London, 144. James Harris, Earl of Malmesbury, A
Series of Letters of the First Earl of Malmesbury, ed. by his grandson, the Earl of Malmesbury, Vol. 1
(London: R. Bentley, 1870). Mrs. Harris to her son at Berlin, March 21 1775., 297.
31 Quoted by McVeigh, Concert Life in London, 148. “But to lovers and judges of Music who

constantly attend the opera, it seems desirable that the performers, during the run of a musical
drama, should have the power of stimulating attention to an air often repeated, by a variety of
new graces and ornaments, which, in some measure, renovate a song every time it is performed;;
yet though Pacchierotti possessed this power far beyond any singer I had heard, the public,
frequently poisoned by the shafts of envious professors, and perhaps dilettanti, was always more
included to censure than duly commend this talent;; for which I can no otherways account, unless this
seeming injustice still proceeded from the wishes of an audience to hear more of the sweet tones
of his natural voice, undisturbed by art or science [my italics.]” Burney, A General History of Music,
Vol. 2, 888.
172
 
you had;; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he
valued taste much more than execution.”
“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”
“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste. Nobody talked about it.” 32

When one can’t say much, or when one wishes to support a friend and marginalize
another (in this excerpt, Harriet is supporting Emma and denouncing Jane through
comparisons of their playing styles) the clichéd opinion—the doxa—was ready at
hand. In the same vein, we recall Fanny Burney’s comments about her friend Etty in
preference to Miss. Guest, almost identical in sentiment to Harriet’s: “Etty plays as if
inspired, & in Taste, Expression, delicacy & feeling leaves nothing to wish. Miss Guest
has a very strong Hand, & is, indeed, a very fine Player […] though always, & in all
particulars, to this poor Girl’s disadvantage.” 33 The only thing Etty lacks, it seems is
“execution.” But no matter, for “in all particulars”—a reference to the doxa itself—
Fanny prefers Etty’s playing to the disturbingly virtuoso-like “strong Hand” of the
proficient Miss Guest.

Kathryn L. Shanks Libin has noted that Burney in 1789 tried to unpack the clichéd
approach in 1789 in his short but revealing article “Essay on Musical Criticism.” 34 (It
is important to remember that doxa was already being transformed by Clementi’s
saturation of difficult music, particularly the “Octave lesson,” in the field at the time
of writing.) 35 He began:

As Music may be defined the art of pleasing by the succession and combination of
agreeable sounds, every hearer has a right to give way to his feelings, and be pleased
or dissatisfied without knowledge, experience, or the fiat of critics;; but then he has
certainly no right to insist on others being pleased or dissatisfied in the same degree [my italics]. 36

                                                                                                 
32 By quoting Emma here I am tracing a similar argument made briefly by Kathryn L. Shanks
Libin in “Music, Character, and Social Standing in Jane Austen’s Emma,” Persuasions 22 (2000):
15-30.
33 Troide, ed., Early Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, Vol. 3, 92. See Chapter 2, page 111.
34 Libin, “Music, Character, and Social Standing in Jane Austen’s Emma,” 27-28. Charles Burney

[1789], “Essay on Musical Criticism” in A General History of Music, Vol. 3, 7-11.


35 See Table 3.4 in Chapter 3.
36 Burney, “Essay on Musical Criticism,” 7.
173
 
Burney, like C. P. E. Bach before him, hoped that a better study of the “specimens
of good composition” would allow those who wished to pass judgement on music be
more critical and intelligent. He opined, naturally, that we “grow nice and fastidious
by frequently hearing compositions of the first class, exquisitely performed.” 37 The
sentential privileging of the composition (the text) over the performer (the act) here
outlines the growing conceptual presence of the work-concept. 38 But note that
Burney does not, however, go so far as to recommend that we study scores in detail,
but rather just listen to them (i.e. the compositions) carefully. 39 Burney recognizes
also that performers have differing and various talents, just as musical compositions
have different “qualities” or “ingredients.”

Here is a telling bifurcation of text and act. In comparing “compositions” and


performances (the “executive part”) he establishes them as different and separate
entities, just as Clementi could be said to have conceptually used “difficulty” to newly
define “easiness” and vice versa:

If a complete musical composition of different movements were analysied [sic], it


would perhaps be found to consist of some of the following ingredients: melody,
harmony, modulation, invention, grandeur, fire, pathos, taste, grace, and expression;;
while the executive part would require neatness, accent, energy, spirit and feeling. 40

He legitimizes his analysis and criticism of the prevalent doxa by comparing his
method to the scientific one, and specifically that of chemical distillation;; a telling
reference not lost on his readership, as chemistry was very much in vogue and widely
practiced amongst male amateur naturalists:

But as all these qualities [melody, neatness, harmony, accent etc.] are seldom united
in one composer or player, the piece or performer that comprises the greatest
number of these excellences, and in the most perfect degree, is entitled to pre-
eminence;; though the production or performer that can boast of any of these
                                                                                                 
37 Ibid., 7, 11.
38 Burney does not say “We grow nice and fastidious by listening to performers of the first class,
playing exquisite compositions.”
39 The “Young Lady’s Book” of 1829 articulates the work-concept in its complete manifestation

by wishing that more great compositions were in print so that women could better study their
scores. See Appendix.
40 Burney, “Essay on Musical Criticism,” 8.
174
 
constituent qualities cannot be pronounced totally devoid of merit. In this manner, a
composition, by a kind of chemical process, may be decompounded as well as any
other production of art or nature. 41

Composer or player, piece or performer, art or nature. Descriptive attributes generally


confined to discussions of performers are now mapped directly and analogously onto
the composition itself. Rational Enlightenment discourse here paves the way to the
ultimate conceptual privileging of a situation where a musical work is best
comprehended by distilling or analyzing the composition in ways that had previously
been used only to describe performers and performances.

By outlining the path that might be taken in music criticism Burney is also asking his
readers to break with the prevailing doxa. He asks us to get rid of our bags of clichés
that dismiss difficult music and its concomitant neat execution in favour of taste.
Too often, as we saw in Pride and Prejudice, having “taste” was an attitude that only
disguised the reality of playing simple national tunes to enliven domestic settings of
courtship and the commonweal, as Emma, in the context of a later novel, discovered
to her misfortune when confronted with the superior accomplishments of Jane
Fairfax, who was able to perform, among other difficult composers, Clementi’s
student Cramer. 42 “Of perfect performance on an instrument,” Burney writes, “who can
judge accurately but those who know its genius and powers, defects and
difficulties?” 43 Amateurish dismissals of “empty virtuosity” by those who spout
conventional doxa do not convince any more. “Brilliancy of execution in quick
movements,” Burney reminds us, is as important as “touching expression in slow.” 44
On the road towards the autonomous musical artwork in which text and act are

                                                                                                 
41 Ibid.
42 I am using “commonweal” in the sense understood by Maynard Solomon in relation to the
concept of the “ideal family.” Solomon first uses the term in his discussions of the Mozart family.
See “Mozart: the Myth of the Eternal Child,” 19th-Century Music 15/2 (1991): 94-106. For more on
the character of Jane Fairfax, see Libin, “Music, Character and Social Standing in Jane Austen’s
Emma.” Libin sees Jane as embodying the ancient idea linking virtue with virtuosity: “Jane
Fairfax is a virtuoso – and in the old sense of the term, this implies someone with great and
noble virtues,” 28.
43 Burney, “Essay on Musical Criticism”, 9.
44 Ibid., 8
175
 
conceptually separated we encounter a wider promotion of compositional and
performative strategies, both brilliant and touching alike.

Male Theoria , Female Praxis , and the Accompanied Sonata

As is clear from descriptions, iconography, and commentary of the period, male


amateur music-making in both the United Kingdom and on the Continent was of
two kinds. Either he performed with other male amateurs on stringed instruments in
clubs or societies in the public sphere or he performed with female amateurs in the
private sphere at home, accompanying them in keyboard sonatas on either the flute
or other stringed instruments. 45 In the 1770s, the scientific study of music was an
acceptable pastime for men, as were disengaged performances of the “ancient”
contrapuntal music of Corelli and Handel (in the United Kingdom, these orchestral
readings were often enlivened by much drinking).

That male amateurs were musically inept and deliberately—indeed, almost proudly—
disinterested in intonation, time, or expression is clear from exasperated accounts of
the time, mostly articulated by women. Consider this representative description from
Margaret Fowke in 1783:

McArthur made a capital mistake in the accompaniment, returned to the wrong


place after the first part was finished. I abruptly broke off, and told the violins they
were all wrong. Mc. was in an obstinate humour and maintained they were right. I
told him I would begin my solo again. He played a different part again. I was obliged
to break off a second time. The obstinate fellow still maintained we were right. 46

As Leppert notes, the occasional competent male amateur elicits descriptions that
prove the rule. A Mr. Tindal, Thomas Twining related to Charles Burney, “plays in a
very ungentlemanlike manner, exactly in tune and time, with taste, accent, and meaning;;
and true sense of what he plays [my italics].” 47 Regula Hohl Trillini in The Gaze of the

                                                                                                 
45 For an overview of the situation, see Leppert, Sight and Sound;; Trillini, The Gaze of the Listener,
92-103 and Leppert, “Men, Women, and Music at Home.”
46 Margaret Fowke to Francis Fowke, Calcutta (1783) in Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 106-7.
47 Thomas Twining, A Selection of Thomas Twining’s Letters, 1738-1804: the Record of a Tranquil Life,

ed. Ralph Walker (Lewiston: E. Mellen Press, 1991), 368.


176
 
Listener: English Representations of Domestic Music-Making has documented how the
musical interests of male characters in fiction are tropes commonly used by writers in
order to construct a negative impression of that character in the reader’s
understanding, simply because musical interests are marked as feminine. 48

As the knowledgeable musician who knows how to correct errors in ensemble but is
not listened to, Margaret Fowkes, just quoted, was the victim of what Bourdieu
would call symbolic violence. 49 But some women turned the tables and used the cultural
perception that women were more musically talented than men to their advantage,
even if they were not themselves actually musical. In Mary Ann Hanway’s Ellinor, or
The World As It Is (1798), one female player has learnt

from some lady players of her acquaintance, when she had put [the men] to fault, to
frown, shake her head, and attempt to mark the time, […] making her audience
believe, that they had misled her, instead of she them, in this musical chase. 50

Elsewhere in the novel her meek father at the ‘cello is silenced by her with a
bellowing “piano!” before a solo passage. Here, symbolic violence is on the other foot.

Fig. 4.2 attempts to summarize the predominant characteristics and genres associated
with the musical activities of the male and female amateur around the 1770s. Men
were expected to prefer their music to be “old” and canonically sanctioned. As the
author of Euterpe made clear, a scientific understanding was essential:

As Gentleman should be Scholars also, and not ignorant of such a valuable part of
learning, as the simple elements of plain Geometry, and practical Arithmetic, I would
recommend them to read Doctor Holder’s treatise on the principles of Harmony.—
Mr. Stillingfleet’s remarks on Tartini’s works, and if they have no objection to a little
Greek, they may look into Ptolemy, published by Dr. Wallis, or the five Greek
writers on Music, by Meibomius. 51
                                                                                                 
48 Trillini, The Gaze of the Listener, 82 and passim. See also Head, “‘If the Pretty Hand Won’t
Stretch,’” 223 and passim.
49 The concept of symbolic violence was formulated by Bourdieu to explain day-to-day unconscious

modes of social and cultural domination. See Pierre Bourdieu, “Gender and Symbolic Violence,”
in Violence in War and Peace, ed. Nancy Scheper-Hughes and Phillipe Bourgois (Cornwall:
Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 339-342.
50 Mary Ann Hanway, Ellinor, or The World As It Is (1798), quoted in Trillini, 71, fn. 45.
51 Anon., Euterpe, 15-16.
177
 

In keeping with the academic consecration that legitimized any male’s interest in
music, he is encouraged to approach music as theoria, the Aristotelian concept of the
rational comprehension of objective truth.

The female amateur, on the other hand, is understood to be actualizing and


performing music composed by others (men). As such, she is understood to exist
only in the domain of praxis, the corresponding process of putting theoretical
knowledge into practice. What is essential in this distinction is that theoria and praxis
are completely separated and bifurcated. The only person who embodies both
concepts and synthesizes them with the goal-oriented process of poiesis is the male
professional composer/performer. Praxis is a goal unto itself;; the pleasurable act of
playing evaporates at the end of the performance with no creation of a “work” other
than the tangible memory of the performance. Theoria is the pleasurable objective and
contemplative study of the world without practical application. Only the professional
uses his experience of theoria and praxis to make “works” (i.e. poiesis). And only one
kind of work, only one genre, was considered appropriate for simultaneous
performance by both sexes: the accompanied sonata. 52

                                                                                                 
52On the accompanied sonata in general and for a good overview of the literature see Howard
Irving, “‘Music as a Pursuit for Men’: Accompanied Keyboard Music as Domestic Recreation in
England,” College Music Symposium 30/2 (1990): 126-137.
178
 

 
Figure 4.2 Predominant characteristics of the musical preferences of male and female amateurs in
English domestic keyboard culture, c. 1770.

Because it overlaps both the male and female spheres, the accompanied sonata
reflects more than other genres ideological apparatuses in operation. The male is
provided with simple accompanying parts that contrast greatly with the
autonomously structured sonata of the woman at the keyboard. Accompanying parts
were often designated ad libitum so the work could be adequately performed with
them. In some rare cases, composers supplied the soloist with directions on how to
do this. In a telling formulation, William Jackson explains how to turn his “Sonatas”
(i.e. as accompanied) into “Lessons” (i.e. as unaccompanied). The English
predilection for calling sonatas lessons additionally underlines an agenda that
undermined what could be a pleasurable “sounding” of the instrument—sonata as
coming from the Italian sonare, or “to sound”—by replacing this concept with a
pedagogical signifier—lesson—that emphasizes and legitimizes music’s real function
as a disciplinary agent. Jackson is careful to emphasize that the “Performer on the
Violin will be pleased to consider his Part as an Accompaniment only [my italics]”
(see Fig. 4.3).
179
 

 
Figure 4.3 Sonatas vs. lessons: “Advertisement” to William Jackson’s Six Sonatas for the Harpsichord
accompanied with a Violin (op. 2), (London: John Johnson, 1757).

Jackson’s unusually detailed directions can only work if the female soloist has the
accompanying part inscribed on a staff above her own part, a format which appears
to have been more prevalent in England than on the Continent, and one that
characterized Welcker’s 1779 print of Clementi’s Op. 2. Most often, however, the
accompanying parts (particularly for trios) were in separate, detachable parts. Here
180
 
the music takes on its complete form for listeners and performers only in
performance;; there is no score for any of participants to peruse. 53 This characteristic
is the genre’s most charming and magical attribute. Performers are highly sensitive to
other players, to silences, solos, accompaniments, changes in mood, textures, and
dynamics. 54

In fact, a full score of the modern type which lays out all the parts at once for us to
peruse is in fact detrimental to the entire praxic process and might even be contrary
to the genre itself, with its emphasis on discovery and invocation. Poorly proofed
editions and inaccuracies in the parts caused confusion and annoyance and this very
magic of summoning up a sonata’s sound-world in the mixed company of others was
destroyed. 55 Careful, experienced composers must have been aware of these
catastrophic moments and so tried to ensure that the parts were correctly engraved.56

Difficult Music and the Male Gaze

Since the accompanied sonata was the only genre that permitted mixed company in
performance, it is no accident that the genre is often used as a metaphor for
courtship, confirming or forecasting matrimonial bliss or—occasionally—prefiguring
matrimonial doom. Frances Burney relates the successful performance of a duet
given by Hester and Charles Rousseau Burney, a married couple. Mr. Boone remarks
“See what can be done by a man and wife who live in harmony together!” whereas
the Dean of Winchester observes how unusually matched the pair are, musically
                                                                                                 
53 For an important discussion of parts vs. score in the context of Haydn’s string quartets, see
László Somfai, “Clever Orator versus Bold Innovator” in Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, 215
ff.
54 For an evocative discussion of exactly this kind of performance see Elisabeth le Guin, “A Visit

to the Salon de Parnasse,” in Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, 14-38.


55 Margaret Fowkes again provides a telling anecdote of just such an occasion: “The

accompaniment of Genius of England happened to be incorrectly marked, in consequence of


which McArthur did not repeat.” Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 107, see also 111-112.
56 viz. Haydn’s furious letter to Artaria on December 10 1785. The engraver had bungled the

engraving to the parts of some accompanied sonatas. “A whole bar is missing in the violin part.”
Haydn is perceptive in noting that it “bring little honour to me and little profit to you […] Even a
professional would have to study before disentangling this passage, and then where would the
dilettante be.” H. C. Robbins Landon, ed., The Collected Correspondence and London Notebooks of Joseph
Haydn (London: Barrie and Rockliff, 1959), 51, 52. The translation is Landon’s.
181
 
speaking. In most cases, he says, “husband and wife cannot give too much time and
trouble to show each other to advantage.” 57 A duet in Ann Radcliffe’s Sicilian Romance
(1792) is, according to Trillini, a “rare instance of non-verbal musical communication
which prefigures marital harmony.” The “impassioned tenderness” of the heroine’s
performance takes everyone’s breath away, including that of the performing suitor:
the “breath of [Vereza’s] flute trembled.” 58 And finally, the “masterly manner” in
which Henry Neville plays the harpsichord (!) in Jane West’s The Advantages of
Education (1793) make it clear to the courted Maria that he is eminently unsuitable as
a match: “Attentions of this delicate kind,” the protagonist concludes, “were […]
infinitely more dangerous than the most passionate address.” 59

Page-turner
(sister, friend,
male
acquaintance)

The Accompanists
Listeners
(friends and
female (husband,
brothers,
family) domestic friends)
soloist

Pedagogue
/music-
master

 
Figure 4.4 The late 18th-century English domestic soloist and those who might be involved in her
musical activities.

Fig. 4.4 is a schematic representation of those individuals directly involved in the


performance of the accompanied sonata. The soloist, with her sonata/lesson, sits at
the centre. Her performances at the keyboard are always understood to be complete
by themselves, if she chooses to play by herself. But the presence of others will
                                                                                                 
57 Frances Burney, The Early Diaries of Frances Burney, 1768-78, ed. Annie Raines Ellis, Vol. 2
(London: G. Bell & Son, 1889), 111-112.
58 Trillini, Gaze of the Domestic Listener, 83.
59 Ibid., 82.
182
 
create a mini-performance environment that can be augmented by performers if
parts are available and the men are obliging. Hovering in the background is the
pedagogue/music-master. He may also participate as an accompanist in an
accompanied sonata but it appears that this was only sanctioned for pedagogical
purposes. In the 1770s and 80s, the audience admitted to participate in this genre
appears to have been fairly select due to the strong associations of music-making
with courtship. 60 The accompanied sonata was a medium of the highest sensibilité,
destined for intimate interactions between performers, the commonweal, and invited
guests. Trillini enumerates instances of how the practice of page-turning granted “the
enjoyable proximity of chamber music-making to gentlemen of minimal musical
literacy.” 61 Often the man turning pages, of course, pays, as in Peacock’s Crotchet
Castle (1831), “more attention to the lady than the book.” 62 No wonder, as Mr. Darcy
points out to Elizabeth in a musical context in Pride and Prejudice, that “we neither of
us perform to strangers,” so vulnerable is the performing keyboardist to the gaze of
others. 63

In the context of accompanied music-making, Trillini has observed that the visual
impressions a woman makes at the keyboard or in singing begin to take on added
significance in novels and conduct-books of the 1780s and 1790s as difficult music
becomes popular. There is an increase in descriptions and discussions of the male’s
observant gaze. In 1800, the essayist Vicesimus Knox commented:

                                                                                                 
60 One example out of many confirms the genre as an opportunity for courtship. Mrs. Harris

wrote to her son on July 27, 1771: “Your friend, Sir William Blackstone, was highly pleased with
the books. His brother Nains is musical so while Sir William was deeply engaged in a book, they
[her daughter Louisa and Nains] with mutual consent left the room to repair to the music, and I
was left to guard Sir William [who was acting as Nain’s chaperone]. He did not hear them go.
Some minutes after, he took his eye off the book, and when he saw only me in the room, he
started and asked what was gone of all the company, and begged to be conducted to them.” A
Series of Letters of the First Earl of Malmesbury, Vol. 1, 235.
61 Trillini, The Gaze of the Listener, 84.
62 Thomas Love Peacock, Crotchet Castle, (1831) in The Novels of Thomas Love Peacock, ed. David

Garnett, Vol. 2 (London: Rupert Hart-Davis, 1973), 695. Quoted in Trillini, ibid., 84.
63 Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice [1797], 115.
183
 
Music seems of late to be addressed to the eye as well as the ear. Dexterity of
execution, the wonderfully expeditious motion of the fingers, the hand and the arm,
cause an equal share of applause with the tones of the instrument. 64

Writers conjure up connotations of ostentatious shallowness when they write that a


lady prefers “empty” visual effects (“To heave the breast, and roll the eye”) at the
expense of “true” musical ones. 65 Trillini also notes how the pejorative term for
female keyboard playing in the 1750s to 1770s is invariably “tinkling” whereas for the
latter part of the century and the early decades of the nineteenth it becomes
“rattling.” Trillini comments:

The essential currency on the marriage market consisted of spectacular runs, Alberti
basses and octave passages. It is the near-industrial rattle of showy accomplishment
that resounds loudest both through Regency fiction and the turn-of-the-century
debate about female education. 66

For Trillini, this “rattling” period where difficult music becomes popular is
representative of the “paradoxical phenomenon of widespread musical practice and a
general lowering of musical standards in Britain after 1780.” The music is “emptily
virtuosic” and the associated keyboard culture is “musically shallow.” To bolster her
claim of “lowered standards” Trillini quotes Kotzwara’s programmatic Battle of Prague,
the most popular piano piece of the century, which she calls a “trashy bit of
programme music.” 67 Like many writers who refer to this piece, it is summarily
dismissed as kitsch. 68 It could be argued, however, that the rich extramusical content
of the piece, its dramatic shifts from effect to effect and its memorable juxtaposition
of contrasting moods could be seen to have conjured, in combination and in
performance, powerful tableaux vivants in the minds of listeners and players.

                                                                                                 
64 Vicesimus Knox, Essays Moral and Literary (Basil [sic]: James Decker, 1800), 78. Quoted in
Trillini, Gaze of the Listener. 74.
65 George Croly, May Fair in Four Cantos (London: William M. Ainsworth, 1827), 154. Quoted in

Trillini, Gaze of the Listener, 73.


66 Trillini, Gaze of the Listener, 66.
67 Loesser even goes so far as to claim that “among the English and their cultural dependents, it

remained for more than half a century the best known, most played long piece of pianoforte
music in existence.” Loesser, Men, Women and Pianos, 244.
68 An exception is James Parakilas, who acknowledges its importance in a facsimile of some pages

of the score in Piano Roles, 90-91.


184
 
I think Trillini’s interpretative approach falls into the unfortunate trap of
marginalizing and dismissing the great popularity shown towards difficult music by
essentializing its effects and allure. This approach means refusing to believe Clementi
and others when they say (and truly believe, it appears) that a new work in a revised
version is “improved” by being more difficult. Ahistorically abstracting all difficult
textures and summarily dismissing them as shallow or empty only serves to limit our
sympathy and understanding for this kind of music.

Trillini’s use of the trope of “lowered standards” appears to ally itself with the too-
often quoted line of England as the “land without music.” This incorrect assumption
of an artistically impoverished musical culture mechanically churning out shallow
performances of works with little redeeming compositional value rests on little to no
historical evidence. The claim were rebuffed with considerable skill and rigour by Ian
Taylor in his book, Music in London and the Myth of Decline: From Haydn to the
Philharmonic. 69 Trillini quotes, but apparently does not believe (she finds it
“misleading”), contemporaries who thought the exact opposite to this charge of
“lowered musical standards.” Allatson Burgh in 1814 wrote that “the endeavour to
approach as nearly as their opportunities will permit to professional excellence” (my italics)
made the “British Female Dilettanti […] universally acknowledged […] to have
surpassed, in their exquisite execution upon keyed Instruments, all their
competitors.” 70

Trillini, however, provides another interpretation that provides the potential for a
positive, rather than negative, portrayal of difficult music and one that partly explains
its allure. Trillini documents some telling “counter-narratives” in which difficult
music was an outlet for other types of expression or emotion that contrast with the
more commonly satirized visual gymnastics and aural fireworks associated with it.
Most of these counter-narratives occur when the female is by herself, playing

                                                                                                 
69 Ian Taylor, Music in London and the Myth of Decline: From Haydn to the Philharmonic (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2010).
70 Allatson Burgh, Anecdotes of Music, Historical and Biographical, in a Series of Letters from a Gentleman

to his Daughter (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown, 1814), vii. Quoted in Trillini,
Gaze of the Listener, 65.
185
 
unaccompanied music. In some of them, simple music provides a perhaps welcome
antidote to the newly popular scales, thirds and octaves. In others, difficult music and
the consequent successful performance of technically challenging music can be seen
to express defiance and confidence and appears to offer a unique opportunity for
emotional outlet.

In Mary Wollstonecraft’s 1797 posthumously published Maria: or, The Wrongs of


Woman, both of these seemingly contrary attitudes can be found side-by-side in one
scene. Conceived as the novelistic counterpart to her 1792 A Vindication of the Rights
of Woman, The Wrongs of Woman revolves around the story of a woman (Maria) who is
imprisoned in an insane asylum against her will after a series of horrible trials
perpetuated by her cruel husband (Mr. Venables). A central portion of the unfinished
work is a narrative intended for her daughter, who has been forcibly taken from her
(in the quote below, the narrative is indicated by the open quotation marks).
Wollstonecraft describes a tense situation with her husband in which the heroine

went to the piano forte, and began to play a favourite air to restore myself, as it were,
to nature, and drive the sophisticated sentiments I had just been obliged to listen to,
out of my soul.

“They had excited sensations similar to those I have felt, in viewing the squalid
inhabitants of some of the lanes and back streets of the metropolis, mortified at
being compelled to consider them as my fellow-creatures, as if an ape had claimed
kindred with me. Or, as when surrounded by a mephitical fog, I have wished to have
a volley of cannon fired, to clear the incumbered atmosphere, and give me room to
breathe and move.

“My spirits were all in arms, and I played a kind of extemporary prelude. The
cadence was probably wild and impassioned, while, lost in thought, I made the
sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.

“Pausing for a moment, I met Mr. Venables' eyes. He was observing me with an air
of conceited satisfaction, as much as to say—‘My last insinuation has done the
business—she begins to know her own interest.’ Then gathering up his letters, he
said, ‘That he hoped he should hear no more romantic stuff, well enough in a miss
just come from boarding school;;' and went, as was his custom, to the counting-
house. I still continued playing;; and, turning to a sprightly lesson, I executed it with
uncommon vivacity. I heard footsteps approach the door, and was soon convinced
that Mr. Venables was listening;; the consciousness only gave more animation to my
186
 
fingers. 71

What is so striking about this passage is the beleaguered Maria’s recourse to the
piano as an outlet for her torment. At first simple music (“a favourite air”) restores
her to “nature,” and helps drive the horrid conversation she has just had with her
husband from her mind. The curious reference to the “squalid inhabitants” of the
metropolis seems to echo the disgusting and commonplace compromise that Mr.
Venables has just suggested;; “might not we, like many other married people, who
were above vulgar prejudices, tacitly consent to let each other follow their own
inclination?” Maria is not seeking any such compromise from a cruel patriarch, rather
she has decided upon a “firm resolution to free myself from my ignoble thralldom.”

But suddenly the “favourite air” is swept aside in favour of improvisation, a


decidedly unusual musical act for a female amateur. Real (and not feigned)
improvisation was generally understood to be the select domain of the male
professional. She fantasizes in a “wild and impassioned” style, and makes “the
sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.” Then, in a curious pause, she meets
her husband’s gaze. She imagines from his observant face (which shows “conceited
satisfaction”) what she supposes him to be thinking;; that her change in playing has
signalled a change in her state of mind. She imagines him to think that she has given
up on her resolution to leave him and begin knowing “her own interest.” He gathers
up his letters and speaks, telling her that her playing style is “romantic stuff,” one
would think she was an immature, boasting girl: “just come from boarding school.”
This affront seems to Maria even more cause for these rebellious textures;; she turns
to a “sprightly lesson” (might we imagine Clementi’s “Octave Lesson”?) and
executes “it with uncommon vivacity.” The most peculiar part of this scene is that
Mr. Venables, who can no longer see Maria exerting herself at the keyboard, is
nonetheless still taken with her playing. She is convinced that he is listening, and the
fact only makes her play faster and con fuoco. Trillini is right to describe this passage as
a truly “revolutionary scene” in which “music does not only solace [the protagonist]

                                                                                                 
Mary Wollstonecraft, The Wrongs of Woman;; or, Maria in Posthumous works of the author of “A
71

Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” Vol. 2 (London: J. Johnson, 1798), 72-74.


187
 
but express emotional defiance—a purpose that was not to reappear in fiction before
the 1890s.” 72

In this novelistic scenario, the unaccompanied textures of the air and the lesson, two
classic domestic genres, are used to complement Maria’s highly volatile subjectivity
(see Table 4.2). Not only does she read Mr. Venables thoughts from his gaze when
she is improvising but she further imagines him listening when she plays the lesson.
But the domestic genres are roundly subverted. Taken out of their
courtship/commonweal context they appear to the reader as troubling and unstable.
Is she feigning these schoolgirl textures in order to irritate him? And why would he
return to listen at the door? Is her virtuoso-like playing alluring?

It is impossible to definitively answer these questions;; multiple interpretations can be


found in the literature. Defiant and loud piano playing that seeks to efface the male
presence occurs in Mary Shelley’s Falkner: “But I hear [the odious Sir Boyvill]
coming. Do play something of [Henri] Herz. The noise will drown every other
sound, and even astonish my father-in-law.” 73 So Maria could be “rattling” as a
gesture of defiance, hoping her husband will leave.

Difficult music and its performance seem also to be erotically charged, as we saw in
Chapter 2 with the licentious French novel, published in London, in which the
seductress promises that “I sing well, I dance better and I can at any hour, if you
want, play on my piano all the sonatas of Edelmann and Clementi. 74” Maria’s
husband has already encouraged his friend, Mr. S, to partake of Maria sexually,
without her consent. Maria’s prowess at the keyboard, which fills her with élan, could
as an unwanted side-effect bring the lascivious Mr. Venables to listen at the door, in
order to gloat. The global point here is that difficult music offers the female subject

                                                                                                 
72 Trillini¸Gaze of the Listener, 102.
73 Mary Shelley, Falkner;; A Novel (London: Saunders and Otley, 1837), 282. Quoted in Trillini,
Gaze of the Listener, 67.
74“ Je chante bien, je danse mieux, & je vais tout-à-l’heure, si tu le veux, te jouer sur mon piano

toutes les sonates d’Hédelman & de Clementi.” Louvet de Couvray, Vie du chevalier de Faublas, 29.
188
 
an expressive scope and provides opportunities for subtle emotional states such as
those exhibited by the beleaguered protagonist in The Wrongs of Woman.

Simple air (e.g. folk song or Improvisation Difficult lesson (e.g. “Octave lesson”)
canonic music, such as Handel)
“drive the sophisticated sentiments “My spirit were all in “I executed it with uncommon
[…] out of my soul” arms;;” “wild and vivacity;;” “Mr. Venables was
impassioned;;” “I listening;; the consciousness only gave
made the sounds a more animation to my fingers.”
kind of echo to my
train of thinking”
RESTORATIVE/CALMING TO ARMS! RESOLVE/CONFIDENCE
Male gaze piqued Male gaze excited Male gaze and hearing excited
Table 4.2 Maria’s subjectivity and complimentary musical genres in Wollstonecraft’s The Wrongs of
Woman (published posthumously in 1798).

One of Trillini’s most salient points regarding the perceptive female subject’s
interrogation and criticism of the male gaze arises in a close reading of Mr. Darcy
and Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy has been listening to Elizabeth playing
for Colonel Fitzwilliam with “a full view of the fair performer’s countenance.”
Elizabeth cannot take the scrutiny any longer and accuses Mr. Darcy of meaning to
“frighten me.” “My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me,” she
counters. “Well Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she continues, “what do I play next? My
fingers wait your orders.” Trillini notes here that

Elizabeth’s use of the hackneyed metonym ‘fingers” playfully accuses Colonel


Fitzwilliam of several stereotypes at once, hinting as it does at mindless keyboard
rattling and the male ‘listener’s’ primarily visual perception. Her seemingly
conventional remark to a second man who is conventionally watching her implicates
Darcy in the solidarity of seeing through such clichés and intimates that it is merely
her fingers that are at Fitzwilliam’s command. 75

I part company with Trillini only in describing these difficult textures as “mindless.”
In fact, when put in historical context they appear to be anything but mindless but
instead appear to exerted considerable influences in an elaborate framework of
cultural activities that embraced physicality and pleasure.

                                                                                                 
75 Trillini, Gaze of the Listener, 108.
189
 
Pleasure must surely be the primary reason why difficult music because so popular. It
feels good to play. It feels good to repeat passages and not make mistakes. It feels
good to set oneself a standard for delivery and then raise that bar at every subsequent
performance. The conquering of the difficulties in a lesson/sonata also serves as a
behavioural prototype for other activities in life (i.e. planning, strategizing, cultivating
patience etc.). Here is the crux, of course, for those debating female performativity;;
too much “mindless” attention to such pointless but pleasureable activities will then
cause the lady to similarly map this “mindlessness” onto her other social duties and
obligations.

Clementi and Feigned Innocence in the Accompanied Sonatas

For some novelists, difficult textures and “rattling” were considered “mindless”
pursuits, and were consequently satirized as such. Another more subtle kind of
“mindlessness” appears as a musical marker in English domestic music, often
denoted by the term innocente or its cognate innocentemente. Here, feigned innocence, or
a purging of “sophisticated sentiments” (to quote Maria) is not transgressive but
instead understood as rather charming. 76 Innocence here might be understood as a
kind of air-headed vacuity where the woman and her accompanying male friends play
at being rather dumb. The irony, of course, is that they—and particularly the well-
trained keyboardist—are anything but innocent. In the context of English society in
the 1790s, with its newly strong culture of highly competent female performing
keyboardists, the innocente marking appears as doubly ironic and distancing. Why ask a
performer to temporarily lay aside her bag of technical tricks, her sophistication, and
her sensibilité and play at being completely innocent of all of these things?

The innocentemente marking does appear every now and then in accompanied sonatas
published for the English market. The pieces are often in 6/8 and are characterized,
at least at the outset, by a kind of artless naivety. Haydn designated innocence as a
                                                                                                 
76Elisabeth Le Guin briefly discusses the “dissonance between an ‘innocent’ performance
indication and its executed effect” in Haydn’s Hob. XV:29/ii in “This Matter of Smorf—: A
Response to Beverly Jerold and Marco Mangani,” Journal of the American Musicological Society, 59/2
(2006): 465-472, 472.
190
 
performative indication in three prominent movements in three different genres: an
Andantino et innocentemente (in the rather sophisticated key of B major) as the slow
movement of a piano trio in E-flat major dedicated to the great English pianist “Mrs.
Bartolozzi” (Hob. XV:29), an Allegretto e innocente as the opening movement of his
solo keyboard sonata in G major first published in 1785 in London by Bland (Hob.
XVI:40), and an Andante ed innocentemente as the opening movement of his string
quartet in D minor, Op. 42, destined primarily for the Viennese market (Hob.
III:43). 77 These three genres were destined for three different groups of performers;;
men and women for the piano trio, a female keyboardist for the sonata and four men
for the quartet. For Haydn, artlessness could be an attitude feigned by many different
types of performers. 78

In Clementi’s oeuvre, it appears three times, all in slow movements: “Allegretto


innocente” (Op 21/1/ii, 1788), “Siciliano: andante innocente” (Op. 27/1/ii, 1791),
and “Calemba. Arietta alla negra. Andante innocente” (Op. 28/1/ii, 1792). Tellingly,
the term never appears in the solo sonatas, when the woman is by herself at the
keyboard. There is no ironic play-acting here. Rather we encounter strong Italian
directions destined for a confident performer: “con spirito,” “con molto spirito,”
“con espressione,” “con vivacità,” “con brio,” “con fuoco,” “con energia,” “con
sentimento” and for the Dido sonata, “con disperazione,” amongst others. 79
Clementi’s mother tongue, of course, was Italian and he sometimes wittily uses these
performance indications with his tongue in his cheek. His tour-de-force parody of
Sterkel in his Musical Characteristics, for instance, consist of the marked contrast
                                                                                                 
77 James Webster notes how “Haydn’s use of innocentemente (or innocente) normally applies to the

surface style only;; the underlying rhetoric is usually serious.” “The Rhetoric of Improvisation in
Haydn’s Keyboard Music,” in Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, 172-212, 207.
78 There is another kind of innocence that Clementi and Haydn are referencing and that is the

innocence of children. Haydn wrote of an extremely moving performance at St. Paul’s in London
of 4000 children singing a simple chant. He made particular note of a “low B” that “brought
forth a fearsome quality that gripped the heart, as the notes died away in the delicate throats of
the children and ended in a hovering breath of a tone.” Here, it appears to be the tugging strain
at the lower end of a child’s tessitura that elicits Haydn’s emotional response. Landon ed., Haydn
Correspondence, 174 ff. The translation is Landon’s.
79 On the feminine connotations of “innocentemente” and the masculine qualities of the

performative descriptions here enumerated see Matthew Head “‘Like Beauty Spots on the Face
of a Man’: Gender in 18th-Century North-German Discourse on Genre,” The Journal of Musicology,
13/2 (1995): 143-167, esp. 153-4.
191
 
between extremely precise performance directions and a rather bland and very simple
musical texture. 80 A similar excessive approach to performance indications in an
otherwise unassuming context occurs in the Op. 39 Waltzes with accompaniments
for tambourine and triangle. The tenth Waltz is predicated on a cute bit of Spielfreude,
in which the right hand crosses over the left for a vacillating motive that is very
effective and idiomatic (in fact, all the Waltzes indulge in unadulterated Spielfreude;;
glissandi and idiomatic keyboard textures predominate in luxuriousness.) Over this
little bit of charlatanry Clementi writes wordily and in mock seriousness, “Non
troppo allegro, ma naturalmente,” the joke being that all these effective and easy
techniques that end up sounding “hard” and flashy are of course anything but
“natural” and instead wonderfully artificial. 81

Returning to the piano trios, fast movements marked by serious formal constructions
and considerable motivic complexity frame Clementi’s and Haydn’s innocente
movements in this genre. As such, the sudden shift in mood is often quite striking.
In Clementi’s Op. 21, the “innocence” of the movement is underlined by what
appears to us at the beginning as neat and simple rondeau, structured correctly in
groups of symmetrical regular phrases. After the rambunctious and extroverted
triplets of the first movement, the keyboardist and her accompanists in this
movement suddenly revert to the kind of tune one would might expect in a
beginner’s practice manual (see Ex. 4.1).

The men accompany very well. They diligently copy a rinforzando marking initiated by
the keyboardist at m. 13. The long held D at m. 9 presents a good opportunity for
the flautist to correct and perfect his intonation, if needed. The ‘cellist can use his
open A, D, G;; not much skill is required. The lady keyboardist plays the part of the
“innocent” student at her lesson. But things take on a different colour at m. 17;; the
men harmonize the dominant of ii at m. 19 without any tricky accidentals but

                                                                                                 
80 See Eva Badura-Skoda, “Clementi’s ‘Musical Characteristics’ Opus 19” in Studies in Eighteenth-
Century Music: A Tribute to Karl Geiringer on his Sevntieth Birthday, ed. H. C. Robbins Landon and
Roger E. Chapman, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970), 53-67;; for the Sterkel parody,
whose playing was described by Wegeler as “lady-like,” see 62-63.
81 Op. 39 No. 10 (London: Clementi & Co, c. 1800 and Vienna: Artaria, c. 1804).
192
 
chromaticism in the piano at mm. 18 and 19 prefigures a turn towards a more distant
harmonic landscape.

Example 4.1 Clementi, Three Sonatas for Piano-forte or Harpsichord with Accompaniments for a Flute and
Violoncello, Op. 21/1/ii (1788)

Instead of a normative half cadence at m. 24 we have instead a Phrygian feint into V


of vi in G major. The ‘cellist plays his first accidental at m. 21 and the flautist has an
ascending chromatic slither that involves an A-sharp, a sequence that could sound
potentially sour if reports of men’s inept performances are to be believed. But all this
is swept away by a return to the rondo theme;; the ‘cellist is now directed to pluck his
193
 
strings and the flautist murmurs away, pianissimo. If the A-A-sharp-B sounded poorly
against the piano’s tuning the event is quickly forgotten, except perhaps by the
keyboardist, who of course has been feigning innocence the whole time, as cued by
Clementi. “Quoi, moi?” 82

In Op. 27 innocence is marked by otherness. Here the title is “Calemba. Arietta alla
negra. Andante innocente.” 83 It appears to be a transcription of a native song from
Jamaica, where the Calemba was a series of dance and ritual activities originally
imported to the Caribbean from Louisiana. The term calemba (sometimes spelled
calembe or calinda) was most “commonly applied to a stick dance or mock battle dance
done at wakes.” 84 Innocence may not be the most appropriate sentiment for a
vigorous stick dance or mock battle but Clementi was almost certainly unaware of
the progeny of the tune, using it only as an exotic spice, novel and unusual.
Innocence is here the innocence mapped onto a black culture by a white one;;
unknowing and unsophisticated, the native song is innocent of all Western culture,
civilization, and—presumably—the anxiety of modern life. The tune itself is
characterized by non-ornamental and unmelodic rhythmic repetitions that suggest
chanting in a foreign tongue.

In Op. 28, innocence is again feigned against a rather unusual topical genre;; that of
the love serenade. The exotic topic is here not a “negro” song but rather the old-
fashioned strains of the siciliano. A recurring passage with pizzicato string
accompaniments and pianissimo staccatissimi in the piano, however, appears to mark
the siciliano out as a kind of serenade (see Ex. 4.2). It is clear that Clementi is evoking
the dry sounds of a guitar or mandolin, the traditional instruments of the serenader.
In fact, the pizzicato refrain mimics nicely the textures and shapes of Don
Giovanni’s seduction serenade, “Deh vieni alla finestra,” with its obbligato mandolin

                                                                                                 
82 The pianist might well imagine Clementi saying “don’t worry, Madam, I know that you can
play, and very well too;; let’s keep this joke between ourselves and make the men look respectable,
for once.”
83 Clementi revised this work as a solo in his Appendix to the Art of Playing the Pianoforte, where

there are fingerings and added expression marks.


84 Olive Senior, Encyclopedia of Jamaican Heritage (St. Andrew, Jamaica: Twin Guinep Publishers,

2003), 92.
194
 
part (K. 527). One could thus read Clementi’s movement as a kind of “innocent”
serenade. Is such a thing possible? Furthermore, who in this movement is the
serenader? Traditionally it was the man, but here it is hard to tell. There is one
possible clue.
 

Example 4.2 Clementi, Three Sonatas for Piano-forte or Harpsichord with Accompaniments for Violin and
Violoncello, Op. 27/1/iii (1791).
195
 
At m. 38 we encounter a fermata, at m. 39 another and then in m. 40 the female
keyboardist lets loose with a fortissimo bravura sweep of the keyboard that contrasts
starkly with the surrounding material (see Ex. 4.3). A burst of passion on the part of
the serenader? Or a desire to be done at ironic, innocent play-acting and return to
“real” music-making? It is possible that the accompanied sonata in the 1790s had lost
some of its reputation as a locus for courtship. That it to say, it still provided
opportunities for intimate music-making of the highest sensibility, but the overt
connotations as a courtship genre par excellence might have dissipated. Perhaps the
serenade topos could here be read through a veil of nostalgia as a quaint relic of a
more “innocent” past, romanticized and sentimentalized. Clementi could be evoking
pre-Op. 2 keyboard culture, with its accent on simplicity and docility. The brief
reminder of the new reality is the fermata outburst.
 

Example 4.3 Clementi, Three Sonatas for the Piano-forte or Harpsichord with Accompaniments for Violin and
Violoncello, Op. 27/1/iii, mm. 37-43 (1791).

The scenarios that I have just outlined make the keyboard-playing woman rather
than Clementi the focal point of the drawing room. It is she, and not Clementi, who
196
 
directs the proceedings through her movements, expression, and musicality. 85 Any
number of descriptions in novels bear out this late eighteenth-century reality. When
there is music-making, the woman at music is described and the textual context and
composer of the work is not of any particular interest, unless those features are
heightened by the performing female. And just like in Ex. 4.3 with the fermatas, the
male performers must follow the woman’s cue, and not vice versa. 86 Composers like
Clementi and Haydn were aware of this and used it to telling effect in their
accompanied sonatas.

Counterpoint for the Men, Octaves for the Ladies

Fig. 4.5 shows an English square piano of around 1791 with an unusual feature. The
bifurcated lid has a fold-out section that doubles as a music desk. A male flautist or
violinist would have placed his part on this ingenious feature in the performances of
accompanied sonata. It is a wonderful example of the practicality of English design
in the 1790s and a good piece of technology to imagine within any discussion of the
accompanied sonata.

                                                                                                 
85 For the Parisian and Viennese context of exactly such scenarios, see Elisabeth Le Guin, “A

Visit to the Salon de Parnasse” in Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, 14-38.
86 The question of who “speaks” in an eighteenth-century composition has been debated—with

different conclusions—by both Tom Beghin and László Somfai in their respective chapters in
Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric. For Somfai the “master orator was solely the composer
himself” (p. 228) whereas for Beghin makes a case for rich “relationships among listener,
performer and composer, who reposition themselves even as the performance develops.” (p.
145) I think the two writer’s different conclusions are partly due to the fact that two separate
cultural spheres are being referenced;; for Somfai it is the all-male domain of the string quartet
whereas for Beghin it is the all-female sphere of keyboard culture.
197
 

 
Figure 4.5 Square piano by Jacob Ball, London, c. 1791 (Colonial Williamsburg Foundation,
Virginia). The music desk to the right of the keyboard in the bifurcated lid is part of the original
design. This photo generously supplied by John Watson, curator, and reproduced with his kind
permission.

How did composers accommodate the different tastes of men and women in this
genre? We have already noted how men were understood to have best approached
music through science (theoria) whereas women best apprehended it through
performance and pedagogy (praxis). A mathematical and “scientific” justification for
an interest in music partakes in contemporary ideals about the scientific method and
may in part contribute to the equally contemporaneous privileging of counterpoint
over “mere rattling,” along the lines expressed by Pepusch, Albrechtsberger, and
others;; sentiments expressed by musicologists and performers to this day.

Fig. 4.6 attempts to map out some musical genres within the sphere of gender that
was associated with them in the musical/social field around 1779 along the lines of
Bourdieu’s graphic representation of the literary field in his study on late nineteenth-
century French literature. 87

                                                                                                 
87 Bourdieu, “The Field of Cultural Production,” 49.
198
 

 
Figure 4.6 A schematic map of the social field of English keyboard culture around 1779.

Bourdieu’s concept of the field is understood as an arrangement of agents (such as


individuals such as Burney or Miss Guest and institutions such as circulating libraries
or piano manufacturers) seeking to maximise their position in that field. Agents are
defined by their relational position within the field’s distribution of capital (resources
conferring power or status). In “The Field of Cultural Production,” Bourdieu himself
uses several terms, but most often “symbolic capital” (sometimes called “specific
capital”) is synonymous with “autonomy” in this graph and “economic capital” is
synonymous with the “heteronymous” pole. The same opposition obtains between
the “field of restricted production (symbolic/specific capital, autonomous) and the
“field of large-scale production” (economic capital, heteronymous). People with
“cultural capital” are those with a combination of education and economic resources
199
 
who have the power to confer legitimacy on artworks, or, alternately, stake a new,
highly autonomous position. 88

The question of autonomy is central in understanding the structured principles of a


field. Given that the majority of participants in English keyboard culture were
women, it is no accident that the performing praxic female sphere and their
associated genres can be graphed towards the more heteronomous part of the field
of cultural production. Bourdieu understands the “heteronomous principle of
hierarchization” to be “success” and includes works that find favour with the “mass
market,” their relative success being measured by print runs and so forth. The
opposing compositional theoric male sphere and their associated genres inhabit the
autonomous end of the spectrum. Bourdieu notes that the “autonomous principle of
hierarchization [...] is degree specific consecration (literary or artistic prestige), i.e. the
degree of recognition accorded by those who recognize no other criterion of
legitimacy than recognition by those whom they recognize.” 89 Here can be found
historians and composer/performers and even smaller elite of which are “doctors,”
their musical activities generally legitimized and consecrated.

There are fields within fields, and we have seen how even within one field of
legitimate cultural activities some are more respected (i.e. have more symbolic
capital) than others. These relativistic reckonings are understood by Bourdieu as
being either dominant or dominating. Perversely, the male “fiddler” (the gentleman)
who drinks, plays ineptly and treats music as a lowly diversion is in the dominant
position in the larger field of cultural life in England and can look down from a
secure position at those “beneath him,” namely male dilettantes, like Thomas
Twining. 90 Dilettantes are sincerely interested in music but are not as safely
legitimized in their interests as are consecrated professionals. Male keyboard
dilettantes in England were often clergyman. Thomas Twining is a famous example,
                                                                                                 
88 I am grateful to Prof. David Brackett and François Hudon for clarification on some of
Bourdieu’s subtler distinctions.
89 Pierre Bourdieu, “The Field of Cultural Production,” 38-39.
90 Thomas Twining was remarkably effusive and enthusiastic about keyboard instruments and

Michael Cole has published a revealing set of extracts between him and Burney in his The
Pianoforte in the Classical Era, 90-95.
200
 
as is Rev. John Cleaver Banks, to whom Clementi dedicated his Op. 35 and 41. Their
profession here might be said to excuse their somewhat eccentric taste in music.
Before Burney was a doctor of music, he was a dilettante—the story he relates,
quoted in Chapter 2 (p. 66), of secreting his violin beneath his coat is a good example
of the shame he felt. Conversely, in the more autonomous part of the schematic
graph the music-master was considered “beneath” that of a Doctor of Music (we
look at the maligned music-master more in Chapter 5).

Clementi himself was never granted an honorary Doctorate of Music in England;; due
to self-imposed limits on the parts of universities regarding the number of honorary
doctorates awarded, that honour went instead to Haydn. In 1813, however, the death
of Grétry left a vacancy in the membership of the Swedish Royal Academy of Music
and Clementi was elected to the position on 24 December 1814. Clementi and his
publishers often proudly noted his new academic credentials on the title-pages of his
late works. 91 Even if Clementi might have craved academic consecration such as this
(in fact, who didn’t?) he also appears to have mocked and questioned the legitimacy
the doctorates were understood to have consecrated. Throughout his
correspondence he often refers repeatedly to his rival Haydn as the “good Doctor” or
just “the Doctor” as if to unnecessarily draw attention to Haydn’s honorary degree.
One letter to his business associate Collard discusses the imminent publication by the
firm of two songs, one by the “Doctor” and another dedicated by “Dr. Harington
[sic] by Dr. Haydn.”

The first Dr. [Harrington] having bestowed much praise on the 2nd Dr. [Haydn], the
said 2nd Dr. out of doctorial gratitude returns the 1st Dr. thanks for all favours recd.,
and praises in his turn the said 1st Dr. most handsomely.
Shall I ever be a Dr.? 92

Clementi concludes by mocking all of these doctors, but the letter actually ends with
a telling rhetorical question that underlines the continuing importance of the
symbolic capital associated with the degree.

                                                                                                 
91Plantinga, Clementi, 233-234.
92John South Shedlock, “Clementi Correspondence,” Monthly Musical Record 32/380 (1902): 141-
144, 142-3.
201
 

Like Bourdieu’s famous schematic representation of the French literary field in the
second half of the 19th century, some genres in different positions are understood as
somewhat analogous, even if diametrically opposed in the field of power. Here I
consider the male genre of the fugue/canon, with its accent on theoria, as somewhat
analogous to the female set of variations, with its accent on praxis, because both
“work a theme.” They are also both somewhat marginal and unprecedented in a late
eighteenth-century composer’s output, with sets of variations rarely receiving opus
numbers, for example. Music treatises/histories destined for male consumption are
comparable to practice manuals and didactic works destined for female
consumption. Both set out to discipline, organize, systematize, and regulate.
Improvisation is the performative activity par excellence that was used to judge the
male composer/performer;; for the female pianist of a high technical standard who
performs in semi-public settings it is performances of the new genre of the grand
sonata that are used to assess her playing. In each case the male activity is “older”
and so has a higher degree of historical justification, precedent, and consecration (as
graphed on the vertical axis);; similarly, genres in the female domain have the greater
heteronomy as they go beyond the field’s specific compositional activities (as
Bourdieu describes it in the context of the nineteenth century “Art for Art’s sake”)
towards economic success and widespread cultural exposure. 93

The genre of the accompanied sonata, in which men accompanied a female pianist,
might be understood to represent the flip-side of theoria and scientific sentiments and
so represents one of the few opportunities in which male musicians had an
opportunity to express a more heartfelt sensibility more consonant with the

                                                                                                 
93 Bourdieu give a good explanation for the marginalization in scholarly writing of works like, for

example, The Battle of Prague or indeed the “Octave Lesson,” that were destined for widespread
consumption. “The more autonomous the field becomes, the more favourable the symbolic
power balance is to the most autonomous producers, and the more clear-cut is the division
between the field of restricted production, in which the producers produce for other producers,
and the field of large-scale production [la grande production], which is symbolically excluded and
discredited (this symbolically dominant definition is the one that the historians of art and
literature unconsciously adopt when they exclude from their object of study writers and artists who
produced for the market and have often fallen into oblivion.)” Bourdieu, “The Field of Cultural
Production,” 39.
202
 
performative inclinations of his wife or sister. To balance out these moments of
sensibilité clever composers like Clementi and Haydn were careful to also include
“scientific” elements in their parts (i.e., to legitimize, moderate, and balance out the
sensibilité). Moments of sensibilité for men generally occur when they are given the
melody (admittedly a rare occasion) or when they are deferentially accompanying
(which is common). The “scientific” elements I am alluding to are these: rhythmic
puzzles that necessitate counting rests, rhythmic hemiolas, and accompanying lines
of contrapuntal significance and harmonic interest.

Examples of all of these phenomena can be found in Clementi’s accompanied


sonatas as well as Haydn’s English piano trios. Ex. 4.4 shows a fairly typical page
from the ‘cello part of an English print of Haydn’s accompanied sonatas. The male
‘cellist must here reckon with many puzzles: some more active, “scientific” and
relating to harmony and counterpoint, others more passive, in which he must
tastefully accompany and complement the lady at the keyboard. He must be diligent
in calculating the counting of rests, judicious in his accompaniment, and sensitive to
the negotiation of fermatas, as directed by the keyboardist’s gestures. This deferential
nod to galant social practice is also appropriate behaviour for a gentleman. He
additionally must sort out which sections are accompanying and which are more
melodic or imitative. The chromatic line in the second half of Ex. 4.4 telescopes to
the ‘cellist that he is in control of the harmony here whereas the B-flats at the
beginning are probably dabs of discreet tonic colour to the other parts.

Notationally, accidentals and numbered rests signal to the reader the importance of
“scientific” chromaticism and patterns of harmony and phrase structure, appropriate
manly interests in the field of music. It is no accident that the analytical reviews in
contemporary journals destined for the readership of exactly these kinds of men are
interested in precisely these musical characteristics. The ‘cellist is further aided in
deciphering rests with the nifty eighteenth-century constellations of whole-note rests
and vertical breve, long, and large rests, a kind of mini-visual puzzle (see Ex. 4.4).
203
 
Interesting hemiola rhythmic shifts also appear throughout the English accompanied
sonatas of Clementi and Haydn. These metrical tricks again seem to emerge from the
scientific domain of puzzles and numbers. The possibility of the three players being
derailed in their sight-reading endeavours by the composer’s sudden rhythmic tricks
must surely have added to the sheer fun of music-making. Haydn made sure to give
the players every opportunity for correct delivery in a sudden shift from 3/4 to 2/4
with a detailed direction given to the female keyboardist in the “Finale in the
German Style” of Hob. XV:29:

It is necessary to observe that the Figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 in the 5th Stave only allude to
the Time which is Presto and Performer will find great facility by reckoning the
Numbers in mind while playing the passages thus mark’d.

Here, it is the female keyboardist who partakes in a bit of manly learnedness with
numbers and patterns (“reckoning the Numbers in mind”), but it is all good fun
within the rousing context of an Austrian Ländler.
204
 

 
Example 4.4 A page of “puzzles” for the male ‘cellist in a Haydn accompanied trio. Three Sonatas for
the Harpsichord or Piano-Forte with an Accompaniment for a Violin and Violoncello;; Composed by Giuseppe Haydn
(London: Birchall & Andrews, 178-?), 5.
 
205
 
 

Example 4.5 Clementi, Three Sonatas for the Piano-forte or Harpsichord with Accompaniments for Violin and
Violoncello, Op. 27/1/ii, mm. 1-40 (1791).

Clementi used hemiolas and rhythmic shifts to destabilize the ends of regular,
normative phrases in the second-movement Allegro of Op. 27 No. 1 (see Ex. 4.5).
Here, the sudden shift from a normative 2/4 to the suddenly confusing combination
of 3/8 in the right hand and a syncopated and displaced kind of 2/4 in the left hand
at mm. 6-9 may have, in the context of performance, caused the violinist and ‘cellist
to miscount in their diligent observance of their rests. At m. 10 the egg might have
206
 
been on the ‘cellist’s face as he came in at the wrong place (the keyboardist could
have cheekily exacerbated this effect by slowing down before the return of the theme
at m. 9) but if the violinist laughed at his friend’s misfortune he has a turn to be
confused himself at m. 19. Throughout, the keyboardist—the charlatan/trickster
performing Clementi’s text—is really the one in control.

Clementi rarely put his specific brand of difficulty in the realm of the accompanied
sonata. But on two occasions he sensationally brought revised versions of the
difficult solo sonatas in Op. 2 into the parlour and placed an accompanying part on
the stand for a male violinist (Op. 2 No. 2—the “Octave lesson”—revised in 1794 as
Op. 30) and a male flautist (Op. 2 No. 4 revised in 1794 as Op. 31). 94 Both were
advertized as having “New Accompaniments, An Additional Movement, &
Alterations, as Now Performed & Revised by the Author.” The additional
movements in both are actually unaccompanied. In Op. 30 is it a slow second
movement whereas in Op. 31 it is a long prelude. In performance the male
accompanist must sit or stand politely aside for a moment and join the audience for
these movements, highlighting only still more the great difference between the
soloist’s technical brilliance and the relative simplicity of his own part and his overall
dispensability. In many respects, the male’s presence in these accompanied sonatas
may have served to openly and publicly legitimize the difficulty on display in the
parlour. By 1794, Clementi had firmly established himself as London’s leading
pedagogue and performer. These “new accompaniments” may have constituted, for
Clementi at least, the last nails in the coffin of the debate on of the problems of
female virtuosity. Clementi might be suggesting in highlighting the extreme—almost
embarrassing—difference between solo and accompaniment that the debate could
only be reinitiated if men were able to match a woman’s technical ability.

                                                                                                 
94 London: John Dale, 1794.
207
 
 

Example 4.6 Clementi, Six Sonatas for the Piano Forte or Harpsichord with an Accompanyment for a German
Flute or Violin, Op. 2/3/i, mm. 1-8 (1779).

Clementi did occasionally put the male accompanist in the soloist’s seat;; this occurs
most spectacularly in Op. 2 No. 3, which, remarkably for the time, is a real duo (see
Ex. 4.6). In fact, the woman at the keyboard never really gets the main theme,
although when she does Clementi gives it to her in imitation;; a little bit of male
learnedness for her and a little bit of female sensibility for him (Ex. 4.7). 95 In the last
movement this sensibility is taken to its extreme;; the minore part of the rondo
suddenly slows down from allegretto to non tanto allegro and the male soloist is suddenly
and rather shockingly put on display in a solo (which is dutifully marked in the score
as such) (Ex. 4.8). Here is the perfect sonata for a male dilettante.
 

Example 4.7 Clementi, Op. 2/3/i, mm. 34-38.

                                                                                                 
95A good example of where gender represents their corresponding musical genres in a normative
way can be found in Beethoven’s Trio for clarinet or optional violin, ‘cello and piano in E-flat
major (Op. 11, 1797). The first two variations on the tune “Pria ch’io l’impegno” have the female
pianist initiate a virtuoso-like brilliant variant by herself (Var. I) before she pauses to let the men
play. Their variant on the tune is a very correct canon at the octave (Var. II).
208
 

 
Example 4.8 Clementi, Op. 2/3/ii, mm. 53-70.

 
The other accompanied sonatas are more of the “fiddler” type. Again, the most
interesting parts of the accompaniments contain key accidentals that signal applied
chords, modulations, and other touches of “science.” There are no tunes here;; just
intriguing matrices of vertical and horizontal fragments, each with decidedly different
functions;; all must be puzzled out. In Ex. 4.9 the G-sharp is left out of the keyboard
part but is an important leading tone for the violinist. (And if their intonation was
poor, the transparent and non-doubling texture of the keyboard part makes sure that
the gaff be as veiled as possible.)

 
Example 4.9 Clementi, Op. 2/5/i, mm. 45-50.
209
 
Of course, Clementi did not just give contrapuntal puzzles to men and technical
display to the women. His unusual interest in counterpoint has been well-
documented, and it first arises in a curious hodge-podge of genres published when
he first set foot in France around 1780-1. Opus 5 and 6 are each constructed in the
usual six-work format but Op. 5 is a mixture of three accompanied sonatas and three
standalone fugues and Op. 6 contains a duet at one keyboard for four hands, two
accompanied sonatas, and three standalone fugues. 96 It might be said that if Op. 2 in
England was a testament to praxis prowess then the six fugues of Op. 5 and 6 are a
testament to theoric skill. The standalone fugue was incredibly rare in the 1780s and
Clementi was only to revisit the genre by revising them for inclusion in Gradus ad
Parnassum. The considerable complexity and difficulty of the fugues, with their large
stretches, puzzling and dense notation and texture, and self-conscious archaisms
makes it difficult to work out who the fugues were intended for. The female
dedicatees, Melanie de Rochechouart (Op. 5) and the Countess of Sayn and
Wittgenstein (Op. 6)? Or for serious male connoisseurs?

It is important to note that the associative connections that I am outlining here


between the male sphere and that of counterpoint do not replace pertinent historical
and analytical discussions of counterpoint, such as those outlined by Sutcliffe,
Stewart-MacDonald, and Yearsley, but rather instead nuance counterpoint’s
relationship with technically difficult music. 97 It is certainly true that counterpoint
served—and in many respects, still serves—to legitimize and demonstrate a
composer’s compositional skill. But it could also symbolically legitimize other things
too, like people. Mozart felt compelled to continually legitimize Constanze in the
eyes of his father and sister by repeatedly referring to her love of fugues. 98 Whether

                                                                                                 
96 For more details, see Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 40-41.
97W. Dean Sutcliffe, “Chopin’s Counterpoint: The Largo from the Cello Sonata, Opus 65,” The
Musical Quarterly 83/1 (1999): 114-133;; Rohan H. Stewart-MacDonald, “Canonic Passages in the
Later Piano Sonatas of Muzio Clementi: Their Structural and Expressive Roles,” Ad Parnassum. A
Journal of Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Instrumental Music, 1/1 (2003): 51-107 and David
Yearsley, Bach and the Meanings of Counterpoint (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).
98 Mozart to Nannerl, 20 April 1782. “die ursache daß diese fuge auf die Welt gekommen ist

wirklich Meine liebe konstanze.—Baron van suiten zu dem ich alle Sonntage gehe, hat mir alle
Werke des händls und Sebastian Bach |: nachdem ich sie ihm durchgespiellt :| nach hause
gegeben—als die konstanze die fugen hören, besonders aber |: in diesem fach :| nichts als Händl
210
 
this was actually true or not is beside the point;; he obviously hoped that Constanze’s
unusual and superior taste in this theoretical side of music-making would endear her
to his antagonistic family who were bent against the match. Fugues here are used by
Mozart as a way to imbue Constanze, in his family’s eyes, with superior cultural
capital.

Just as fugues could be construed by others as conferring cultural capital on those


who played and composed them, by the time Clementi’s saturation campaign of
reprints of Op. 2 (see Chapter 3, Table 3.4) had run its course, difficult music now
shared this property with the fugue, a marked change from its previous status.
Consider this satirical description from Mary Ann Hanway’s Ellinor;; or, the World As It
Is:

They now retired to an elegant apartment, fitted up with great taste, where might be
seen, most ostentatiously displayed, “the pride, pomp, and circumstance of
fashionable acquirements”;; a grand piano-forte, the most difficult music of the
greatest masters, scattered upon it in studied confusion;; recesses of books filled with
the best authors, glittering in gold and morocco;; a celestial and terrestrial globe,
elegantly mounted;; all the apparatus for drawing, &c. &c. 99

The author, of course, is highly sceptical of the objects in this “elegant apartment,”
but the protagonist (and perhaps the reader too) is wide-eyed and not a little bit
envious at these glistening marvels. All the latest technology is there: a grand piano-
forte, “the most difficult music of the greatest masters,” novels, books, drawing
tools—even a globe of the planet. As the subtitle of the book relates, this is the state
of “the world as it is” in 1798 and serves as a good example of what was considered
to be fashionable and hence understood as superior cultural capital—for good or
ill—at the time.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
und Bach;;—weil sie mich nun öfters aus dem kopfe fugen spiellen gehört hat, so fragte sie mich
ob ich noch keine aufgeschrieben hätte?—und als ich ihr Nein sagte.—so zankte sie mich recht
VHKUGDƢLFKHEHQGDVNünstlichste und schönste in der Musick nicht schreiben wollte;; und gab
mit bitten nicht nach, bis ich ihr eine fuge aufsezte, und so ward sie.” MBA, 668/18-29. Halliwell
and Heartz both raise the possibility that Mozart has exaggerated Constanze’s refinement and
taste. Halliwell, The Mozart Family, 381 and Heartz, Mozart, Haydn and early Beethoven, 63.
99 Mary Ann Hanway, Ellinor;; or, the World As It Is (London: Minerva Press, 1798), 107.
211
 
Parakilas picked up on the salience of Op. 2’s cultural capital in Piano Roles:

[Op. 2] may have been a desirable item for musical amateurs to buy and display on
their music stands, as a sign of their musical culture, just as people buy best-sellers
to put on their coffee tables or leather-bound classes to put on their shelves,
whether or not they ever expect to read them. 100

Indeed, Op. 2 may have functioned throughout its lifetime in the way Parakilas and
Hanway suggest: lying about on music desks, “scattered in studied confusion.” 101

Counterpoint often “balances” out difficulty, in Clementi’s oeuvre. He may have felt
compelled to seek out counterpoint as a kind of necessary antidote-like texture of
“anti-difficulty” because of satirical references to difficult music and the new
pejorative term of “rattling” in the 1790s. (Of course the reverse is true as well, he
may have designed difficult passages in the late 1770s as a counterpart to
counterpoint.) The two textures together coalesce to portray greater variety and
interest. Besides being associated with gender in the ways I have just described, it is
clear that theoric counterpoint and praxic difficulty were associated as being
conceptually located at the opposing ends of a musical spectrum from a satirical
“musical definition” published by the music theorist A. F. C. Kollmann in 1812.

Kollmann was a great admirer of J. S. Bach, as the satire shows (see Ex. 4.10). The
performative excesses of the “great number of Players” are mocked in the “rattling”
of the first piano interlude and the ludicrous marking “with the elbow” and the
glissando indication. As Kollmann himself explained,

the words of the first and second line contain mere general remarks, without regard
to any particular person. But the last line alludes to John Sebastian Bach, the
beginning of one of his fugue subjects (that of No. 1 in the first part of his Well-
temper’d Clavier), introduced by right and reverse imitation in the introductory
                                                                                                 
100 James Parakilas, “1700 to 1770s: The Need for the Piano” in Piano Roles, 28.
101 Similarly, Stephen W. Hawking once addressed criticisms that A Brief History of Time was
nothing but a “coffee-table book.” “It has been suggested that people buy the book because they
have read reviews of it or because it is on the best-seller list. But they don’t read it: They just have
it in the bookcase of on the coffee table, thereby getting the credit for having it without taking
the effort of having to understand it.” Stephen W. Hawking, “A Brief History of A Brief History,”
Popular Science 235/2 (1989): 70-72, 72.
212
 
symphony, and to the last line of the words;; and treated as a Fughetta, in the final
symphony.” 102

It is clear who wins in the end;; J. S. Bach and his style would go on to occupy an
extremely special and privileged status in the nineteenth century and beyond.

                                                                                                 
102Michael Kassler, A. F. C. Kollmann’s Quarterly Musical Register (1812): An Annotated Edition
with an Introduction to his Life and Works (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), p. 80 of the facsimile.
213
 

 
Example 4.10 “A Musical Definition” from the Quarterly Musical Register (1812). Reprinted by
permission of the publishers from A. F. C. Kollmann’s Quarterly Musical Register (1812): An Annotated
Edition with an Introduction to his Life and Works (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008) by Michael Kassler, p. 80 of
the facsimile edition. © 2008.
214
 
Novelty and Shame in Post-Op. 2 Keyboard Culture

How strategic or pre-planned was Clementi’s Op. 2? He may have decided to publish
the fruits of his unparalleled technique on a whim. He may then have capitalized on
the notoriety that it brought by banking on the English love of novelty. In this
scenario his safeguard appears to be the continued dissemination of sight-readable or
moderately demanding accompanied sonatas, destined for domestic environments
with mixed sexes in which the reception of difficult music was still rather volatile, or
at the least, mildly controversial.

In another scenario, Clementi appears as a supreme strategist. Arriving in England he


perceives the great potential for female keyboardists to improve their technical skills.
The only thing holding them back is what he may have perceived as an outdated or
defunct ideology. Banking on novelty, Clementi publishes his semi-anonymous
“Black Joke” which outlines his rather radical technical agenda and then consolidates
his position with Op. 2, in which difficulty and easiness face each other off in
alternating sonatas. He takes on pupils who achieve notoriety and fame. He
democratizes the tricks of the virtuoso by publishing technical manuals with
descriptions on how to practice and provides the fingering for difficult passages
(more on this in Chapter 5).

In either scenario, what sparks Clementi’s career is the novelty of his particular
“brand” of difficulty. The importance of novelty in eighteenth-century English
culture is hard to overestimate. All foreign composers who arrived in England
banked on winning over the English by presenting them with something new and
fashionable. Indeed the English felt an almost overriding duty to keep abreast of the
latest novelties. James Harris, for instance, in 1775 wrote, “I do not love crowds,
even though they are fashionable ones;; but I must attend these fêtes on account of
their novelty.” 103 Handel’s English-language oratorios are the most well known
examples of musical novelties. Johann Christian Bach also tried new concert formats.
Some of them involved multimedia. Performances of his symphonies, sinfonies
                                                                                                 
103 The Letters of the First Earl of Malmesbury, Vol. 1, 315.
215
 
concertantes, and concertos in 1775 included transparent pictures by Benjamin West,
Thomas Gainsborough and Giovanni Ciprini that were then lit from behind. Mrs.
Harris relates how “that light is sufficient to illuminate the room without lustres or
any candles appearing. […] ‘Tis a great stroke of Bach’s to entertain the town so
elegantly.” 104 Novelty and newness are factors that strongly influenced the
consuming habits of female keyboardists. William Crotch noted around 1800 that the
obsession with novelty was “displayed in the daily practice of our young females
who, on entering a music shop, simply enquire if any thing new is published.” 105

Besides the powerful appeal of novelty for the English, shame or embarrassment at
not being able to play difficult passages or pieces must also figure in any reckoning of
Clementi’s reception. We have seen in Austen’s Emma how shame prompted Emma
to practice diligently;; the more musically accomplished Jane Fairfax was her model.
An interesting dialogue published in 1830 by Friedrich Rochlitz called “The Organist
and the Doctor” also highlights how shame or symbolic violence worked at altering
musical behaviours, tastes, and attitudes. It was first published in English in 1842. 106
Difficult music had of course been present in domestic culture for some decades by
the 1830s;; the dialogue is revealing in how much attitudes had changed.

The organist is the music-master of the doctor’s daughter, Clementine. He comes to


the doctor’s study, anxious and worried. Clementine’s musical studies have been
progressing very well;; she is a “firm, exact, pianoforte player” and the organist has
been supplying her with “noble, simple compositions, yet full of soul and spirit.” 107
But soon she is presented at a musical party where she sat at the piano and “sang
with some diffidence;; not so boldly, with such silver purity and clearness, and with
                                                                                                 
104 Letters of the First Earl of Malmesbury, Vol. 1, 287. On the taste for novelty among the English

see also Simon McVeigh, Concert Life in London, 64-101.


105 William Crotch, Substance of Several Lectures on Music, Read in the University of Oxford and in the

Metropolis (London: Longman et. al., 1831), 72. Annette Richards notes how these lectures were
originally given at Oxford and London between 1800 and 1804 even if published later. Annette
Richards, The Free Fantasia and the Musical Picturesque (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2001), 110.
106 Friedrich Rochlitz, “Der Organist und der Doctor,” Für Freunde der Tonkunst, 3 (1830): 437-

458 and “The Organist and the Doctor,” The Musical Magazine 76/3 (1842): 369-378. All
quotations are from this English translation.
107 Rochlitz, “The Organist and the Doctor,” 370, 371.
216
 
such expression as at home;; yet she sang well, very well, and her innocent diffidence
gave her new charms.” 108 But the fashionable company is appalled by her simple
music. The ladies “looked stiffly down into their laps, as though they felt
embarrassed for the dear child” and give her “looks of patronizing encouragement,
that spoke of patience with her bad taste.” The musical party continues, the organist
relates, with “bravura variations, and other pieces of that kind […] at every pretty
cadence there was such sweet sighing;; at each tolerably neat passage such an
ejaculation of ecstasy;; after the close of each piece such a prattling and flattering,
such a kissing by the ladies, such a pressing of hands.” 109 Clementine is marginalized
by the others and made to feel excluded and out-of-fashion. She is the recipient of
symbolic violence.

Clementine is ashamed at being considered old-fashioned and soon the organist finds
that in her next lessons “our old classical pieces did not please so well as hitherto.”
One day, the organist, whilst looking for some music in the parlour, finds hidden
away “a whole bundle of the most modern bravura airs, with once cadence after the
other.” 110 In subsequent lessons “she sang what I gave her […] but I cannot fail to
perceive that private practice is turned towards that Baal [i.e. difficult music].” 111 The
organist pleads with the doctor for advice on what to do.

What the doctor does next is highly revealing. He very sensibly recommends a dual
course of action. He will henceforth hold his own musical parties at home where
they will have “the best [music] of all kinds and times, not mere virtuoso
compositions.” Clementine will be “obliged to apply to those beautiful pieces;; and
being such, they, and withal classical music, will again take that place in her heart,
which the other music had usurped.” 112 Recognizing their prestige, the doctor tells
the organist that he cannot “withdraw my wife and daughter entirely from those

                                                                                                 
108 Rochlitz, “The Organist and the Doctor,” 372.
109 Ibid., 373.
110 Ibid., 374.
111 Ibid., 375.
112 Ibid., 377.
217
 
[other] parties.” 113 He advises the organist to choose some modern bravura pieces,
“half a dozen of the latest and prettiest;; practise them nicely and neatly with
Clementine, and we all shall like to hear them—even you yourself, my old friend—
and in those parties they will pass a good deal more than they are.” The doctor
reminds the music-master that there “is a kind of music that, although not of very
high character, is yet really valuable, and is appreciated everywhere when well
performed, giving a passing but lively enjoyment.” He reminds the teacher that these
bravura pieces can “spoil neither her voice, her taste, nor style;; nor can it stimulate
her vanity.” 114 It is moderation that carries the day.

The prevailing doxa here is quite different from earlier models. Clementine is made to
feel ashamed at choosing old-fashioned, simple music of the kind that shows off her
modesty. She begins to secretly practice and collect the more fashionable bravura
pieces. The old-fashioned music-master discovers her contraband collection and
seeks advice from her father. The seductive, alluring, and yet potentially dangerous
qualities of difficult music could not be better summed up than in this image of
Clementine hoarding them away in a secret place, at once something to look forward
in moments of solitude but also to be guarded from the eyes of her music-master.
Her father, a sensible, modern man, realizes, however, that these bravura pieces have
their place and she should not be denied access to them (although it should be
regulated—the music-master is to choose what is acceptable, not Clementine). At the
same time the father promises to create a social space more congenial for Clementine
and performances of “classical music,” a new phrase in cultural discourse that
continues to resonate to this very day.

Conclusion: Clementi as Heresiarch

Clementi in later life certainly painted himself as a radical;; he even exaggerated the
progeny of Op. 2 by predating its composition by nine years (or at least, he did not

                                                                                                 
113 Rochlitz, “The Organist and the Doctor,” 376.
114 Ibid., 378.
218
 
correct the mistake when it appeared in print). 115 But Op. 2 certainly made its mark;;
its presence legitimized and to some extent normalized all succeeded manifestations
of keyboardistic difficulty. In this respect, by so profoundly affecting the prevailing
doxa Clementi can rightly be described as a heresiarch. As Bourdieu comments in
“Being Different” in The Field of Cultural Production:

To ‘make one’s name’ [faire date] means making one’s mark, achieving recognition (in
both senses) of one’s difference from other producers, especially the most consecrated
of them;; at the same time, it means creating a new position beyond the positions presently
occupied, ahead of them, in the avant-garde. 116

Certainly Clementi sensationally differentiated himself from more consecrated and


sanctioned composers in the late 1770s.

In the last four chapters I have attempted to show how female pianists and
Clementi’s music are intertwined. Regardless of the paucity of physical evidence that
explicitly documents women’s experiences with Clementi beyond the occasional
observer’s viewpoint I think—and not unreasonably, I hope—that Clementi’s music
was at first apprehended, understood, and physicalized by women. This approach has
been construed from the research of Cole, Leppert, Head, and others into the
important, if not overriding, role of women in keyboard culture at the time.

But at some point I have to detach a discourse on women’s activities from a


discussion of Clementi’s music and this is only because evidence disappears. There
are no records of women explicitly relating their experience of difficult music—there
are no further comments on how it might have liberated, constrained, challenged, or
frightened them beyond the traces that we find in the conduct books and novels.
These are generally second-hand reports mediated by doxa and ideology;; their often
paradoxical narratives I have already enumerated. The unwritten history of these
performing women constitutes a silent accompaniment to the music that was
designed for their use.
                                                                                                 
115See Chapter 3, Table 3.4.
116Pierre Bourdieu, “The Production of Belief: Contribution to an Economy of Symbolic
Goods” in The Field of Cultural Production, ed. Randal Johnson (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1993), 106.
219
 

Now I turn, in conclusion, to two more issues characteristic of late eighteenth-


century culture, issues that are exemplified in Clementi’s early career. The first is that
of music’s relationship to the economic spheres and detail issues of dissemination,
pedagogy, and reproducibility. Prefacing this is an all-important discussion of the
phenomenology of Clementi’s extraordinary musical style (his “brand”). Clementi
was especially canny in recognizing the extraordinary potential that existed in an
emerging capitalist system.
220  
 

Chapter 5

The Pedagogical Promotion and Strategic Commodification of


Difficult Music under Early Capitalism in England

Introduction

The only composer of difficult music that enjoyed any legitimacy and favour in
England before Clementi was Scarlatti. We saw in Chapter 3 how his music had a
limited impact in keyboard culture of the 1750s and later because the composer
himself was not present as an active advocate and promoter of his style. Clementi, by
contrast, was a palpable presence in the English keyboard culture in which he found
himself in the late 1770s.

But Op. 2 risked becoming a stand-alone oddity, quickly forgotten and discarded by
the English, who were renowned for their voracious appetite for novelties. Besides
the many revisions of Op. 2, Clementi had to continue promoting and legitimizing
difficulty and this chapter explores some of the successful strategies that he came up
with.

First, we better investigate Clementi’s trademark “brand.” What exactly makes up


Clementi’s style and why was it so popular? Second, we briefly investigate the
maligned music-master and how the profession might be seen to have benefitted
from Clementi’s introduction of difficult music in the domestic sphere. Third, we
look at the pedagogical strategies that Clementi and others used to promote difficulty
and so legitimize and normalize the pursuit of technical aptitude for both male and
female pianists.
221  
 
In essence, Clementi’s “brand” of difficulty and its attendant culture of industrious
practice were quickly, efficiently, and strategically commodified. 1 Difficult music
intended for widespread consumption had little to no symbolic capital in the 1770s
(Chapter 2). But after arriving in London, Clementi essentially identified a niche
market of keyboardists and then stimulated a need for which he himself could supply
the new demand, composing and publishing difficult sonatas (the software), the
didactic instruction manuals for their use (the manual), as well as having a hand in
the construction of instruments (the hardware)—all these designed to best show off
both the sonatas themselves as well as the performer’s hard-won technique (Chapter
3). Only the emerging culture of capitalism—unique to England—enabled Clementi
to so effectively maintain control over and profit from all of these elements. 2

Indeed, Clementi’s vast wealth at the time of his death is testament to his success in
these fields of production. Frederic M. Scherer in a study of 23 eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century musicians has shown that Clementi’s comes in second (after
Rossini) for the largest estate at the time of his death, even after adjustment for
inflation (in real terms, £45664 at the time of his death). By contrast, Mozart’s estate
at the time of his death was in debt (in real terms) by £99 whereas Haydn had
savings of £950. 3

Matthew Craske has explained how many of the factors that we understand to have
formed the tenets of early capitalism in eighteenth-century Britain were actually
already in place by the mid-century, even earlier. He comments further:

                                                                                                 
1 For a fuller account of Clementi’s promotional activities see Rohan H. Stewart-MacDonald,

“Clementi, the Market Place and the Cultivation of a British Identity during the Industrial
Revolution” and David Rowland “Clementi & Co. in International Markets” in Instrumental Music
and the Industrial Revolution, ed. Roberto Illiano and Luca Sala (Bologna: Ut Orpheus Edizioni,
2010), 471-510, 525-542;; Dorothy de Val, “Clementi as Entrepreneur” in Studies and Prospects,
323-335.
2 See also Dorothy de Val, “Clementi as Entrepreneur,” in Studies and Prospects, 323-335 and

William Weber, ed., The Musician as Entrepreneur, 1700-1914: Managers, Charlatans and Idealists
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004).
3 Frederic M. Scherer, Quarter Notes and Bank Notes: The Economics of Music Composition in the

Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 105.
222  
 
The enthusiasm for variety and novelty in mid-eighteenth-century English elite
culture cannot, however, be understood simply as a by-product of growth of world
markets, and improvement in the mechanics of raw materials supply. More
fundamentally, it was dependent upon profound alterations in polite society’s
attitude to visual pleasure, upon the emergence of a social ethos which disposed the
public towards searching out the pleasures to be obtained from various and novel
sensations. 4

Take out “visual” from the quote above and we have the beginnings of an
understanding as to how difficult music could find such a ready place within a
domestic culture that had previously shunned it. It is no accident that a mania for
English pianos and Clementi sonatas coincided with the so-called anglomanie on the
Continent for English novels, gardens, furniture, and porcelain. Clementi’s industrial
activities resonated with his that of his compatriots in a calculated display of
nationalistic fervour. 5

Craske comments further on the intrinsic nature of “design” in eighteenth-century


England, and some of his observations are pertinent by analogy to Clementi’s
designs both in the musical sphere (i.e., his compositions) as well as those in the
entrepreneurial.

One of my principal arguments is that the study of English ‘design’ should be


broadened to embrace wider cultural concerns with the related concepts of ordering,
planning and scheming. British society from the early eighteenth century onwards
was particularly noted for its appetite for economic ‘schemes’ and ‘projects.’ 6

Considerable energy was expended by Clementi in planning and designing, efforts


more clearly understood now that the totality of Clementi’s correspondence is newly
available in an edition by David Rowland. 7 Not only can we now better determine
Clementi’s “schemes” in the constant attention he paid to the industrious conduct of
his piano and print company, but we can also see how long-term planning might
figure in the musical revisions to his works that he undertook when his
                                                                                                 
4 Matthew Craske, “Design and the Competitive Spirit in Early and Mid-Eighteenth-Century
England,” Journal of Design History 12/3 (1999): 193.
5 Josephine Grieder, Anglomania in France, 1740-1789: Fact, Fiction, and Political Discourse (Geneva:

Droz, 1985).
6 Craske, “Design and Competitive Spirit,” 189.
7 Rowland, Clementi Correspondonce.
223  
 
compositional and performing activities of the 1780s and 1790s had appeared to
have run their course. Clementi’s ultimate act of planning would manifest itself in the
lengthy revisions that accompanied the Breitkopf & Härtel Oeurves Complettes project,
itself a “scheme”—a collected edition—of immense proportions that was predicated
on ideals that would have far-reaching consequences for the history of Western
music.

Furthermore, as Craske relates, skill in designing became a central concern for those
in England who “sought to wield power in the public realm by the practice of ‘useful’
trades or professions.” Skill in designing was understood to be a vital skill for any
businessman “who needed to plan, to master the physical environment, or to take
charge of others.” 8 Like Handel, J. C. Bach, and Abel before him, Clementi initially
used his foreign provenance to advantage in his trajectory to excel in this arena;;
because he was not a native “leisured” Englishman trades such as piano
manufacturing or publishing were not seen as being “beneath him,” and so were ripe
for the picking, as it were.

Finally, more and more reviews of Clementi sonatas at the beginning of the
nineteenth century call attention to the combination of superlative counterpoint,
brilliant passage-work, and skill of design. “Such profound and consistent
craftsmanship” is one phrase from a German review. 9 In the new journals that were
dedicated to exposing better for a male readership the “scientific” underpinnings of
music, Clementi’s skill moved some of their correspondents to analysis:

These Sonatas display so much genius, such consummate art, and such profound
scientific knowledge, that we deem it incumbent on us to enter into an elaborate
analysis of their construction. 10

Craske notes how the “capacity to judge whether objects were tastefully designed
gradually passed from an élite of connoisseurs and practitioner to that portion of the
                                                                                                 
8 Craske, “Design and Competitive Spirit,” 190.
9 “[…] in der Ausarbeitung so tief greifend und beharrlich […]” Allgemeine Musiklischer Zeitung 24
(1821), 261-2.
10 Anon., Review of Clementi’s Op. 50, Quarterly Musical Magazine 4 (1822), 483.
224  
 
public with the education to read periodical and pamphlet literature.” 11 Anselm
Gerhard also argues that English philosophy and criticism encouraged a refashioning
of musical connoisseurship in London along the same lines. Music was slowly
encouraged to be appreciated on its own terms, and not by analogy to poetry,
rhetoric, or mimesis. 12

Alexander Ringer has noted that the

seeds of musical capitalism were [first] sown in industrial England when Muzio
Clementi put together and managed the first effective musical conglomerate,
composing the music he published, constructing the instruments for which it was
destined, organizing a far flung distribution set-up, including traveling salesmen who
spread the fame of his products all the way to the very heartland of Russia. 13

Clementi’s enterprising attitude here seems all the more marked when one considers
the feudal arrangement of Clementi’s late teens, in which he was purchased almost
like a slave. Clementi’s great wealth at his death might explain the precipitous decline
in the composer’s canonic status, seemingly stabilized by the English musical and
business elite in Clementi’s old age but rapidly unsettled as Clementi was no long
there to control it. All of his capitals, economic, cultural, and symbolic, were either
rapidly dispersed or transformed when he was no longer present to control them, an
inherent problem of capitalism itself. The canonic project that he had helped set up
rapidly fell away, leaving only his pedagogical legacy. As such, as Stewart-MacDonald
has noted, once young pianists of the 1830s, 1840s and beyond had utilized
Clementi’s works in their juvenile, formative years, he was discarded in favour of
other composers whose oeuvres were understood to be untainted by mechanical and
didactic impulses. 14

                                                                                                 
11 Craske, “Design and Planning,” 190.
12 Gerhard, “Die Erhabenheit des Virtuosen” in London und der Klassizismus in der Musik, 57-78.
13 Alexander L. Ringer, “Musical Taste and the Industrial Syndrome. A Socio-Musicological

Problem in Historical Analysis,” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music, 25/1, 2
(1994): 80-81. For an overview of “musical capitalism” in England see Anthony A. Olmsted,
“The Capitalization of Music in London, 1660-1800,” (MArts diss., University of Alberta, 1993).
14 Stewart-MacDonald, “Clementi’s Historical Reputation: Towards a Re-Evaluation,” in New

Perspectives, 1-56.
225  
 
Clementi’s Musical Self-Portraits

Clementi left us a series of remarkable musical portraits in a rather unusual collection


of preludes and cadenzas from 1787: the Musical Characteristics (Op. 19). 15 The title-
page of the first London print is reproduced as Fig. 5.1. Understood by English
critics at the time to be tiny musical portraits of the improvisatory habits of their
subjects, Clementi’s work might have brought to learned minds Lord Shaftesbury’s
famous and similarly-titled Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, hotly
debated since 1711. If Shaftesbury’s book, as an attempt in promoting practical
(rather than purely speculative) philosophy, was meant to make its readers “effective
participants in the world,” Clementi’s work might be seen to provide (on a purely
pragmatic level) a collection of varied and interesting preludes and cadenzas in
different styles of famous authors to those unable to improvise on the spot, thereby
making them “effective participants” in a difficult genre. 16 In this regard, as Nicholas
Temperley points out, Clementi was following closely in the footsteps of his fellow
countryman Tommaso Giordani, who had published a similar collection of
preludes—the first of their kind—in London in 1773. 17 Giordani followed up the
success of this edition with another Fourteen Preludes or Capriccios and Eight Cadences in
1785. Clementi’s Musical Characteristics, published two years later, might reflect his
contribution to this growing practical genre.

                                                                                                 
15 For more on the Musical Characteristics see Alan Tyson, “Clementi as an Imitator of Haydn and
Mozart,” Das Haydn Jahrbuch 2 (1963/4): 90-92;; Eva Badura-Skoda, “Clementi’s ‘Musical
Characteristics’ Opus 19” in Studies in Eighteenth-Century Music: A Tribute to Karl Geiringer on his
Seventieth Birthday, 53-67 and Thomas Baker, “Two Lectures on Clementi’s ‘Preludes and
Cadences,’ Op. 19” (DMA thesis: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1982).
16 Lawrence E. Klein, “Introduction,” in Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury,

Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, ed. Lawrence E. Klein (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1999), viii. Ian Woodfield quite rightly identifies that the root problem with
amateurs improvising was their “lack of knowledge of simple harmony.” There is a fascinating
account of Margaret Fowkes wrestling with preluding and improvising in Music of the Raj. She
used Giordani’s collection as templates for her own attempts at cadenzas. Woodfield, Music of the
Raj, 93-96.
17 Nicholas Temperlery, “Preluding at the Piano,” in Musical Improvisation: Art, Education, and

Society, ed. Gabriel Solis and Bruno Nettl (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009),
323-342, 327-328. The didactic intention of Giordani’s publications is made clear by their author:
“N.B. This is intended as an assistance to Young Performers, as the beginning any Song or lesson
without Touching in the Key has a very Awkward appearance & often disconcerts the
Performer.”
226  
 

Figure 5.1 Title-page to the first print of the Musical Characteristics, op. 19, (London: Longman &
Broderip, 1787).

But Clementi’s “Preludes and Cadences” are not arranged by tonality, as in


Giordani’s case, but rather by style. For each prelude and cadenza is purportedly
composed in the manner of contemporary famous composer/performers on the
Continent: Haydn, Kozeluch, Mozart, Sterkel, and Vanhal. 18 It is not clear precisely
what Clementi’s intent was in imitating these composers. Whether the preludes and
cadenzas were actually understood to have been written for inclusion in sonatas or
concertos of the composer that Clementi imitated, or whether it was simply a clever
bit of imitative display on Clementi’s part is not clear. One English reviewer in 1788
thought it was more of the latter, declaring that “Signor Clementi has certainly
displayed a minute and intimate acquaintance with the several authors he has had

                                                                                                 
18For more details on the composers and Clementi’s imitation techniques, with the identification
of motives from specific works, see Baker, “Two lectures on Clementi.” It is curious that no
English composer/performers are included in Clementi’s collection;; also not included are dead
composer/performers, like Scarlatti.
227  
 
before him.” 19 And there does seem to be some parodistic and satirical intent in the
preludes alla Sterkel, as Thomas Baker, Plantinga, and Eva Badura-Skoda have
pointed out. One 1790 German review called the collection “nothing other than a
humorous parody.” 20

But more interesting is that Clementi has included three revealing self-portraits;; two
preludes (in B-flat and C) and a cadenza (in E-flat) in the style of himself. The
English reviewer thought this was a bit rich, declaring:

Perhaps, by the way, it is no compliment to his modesty that he has chosen to place
his own portrait with those of the first living authors;; not that we rank him beneath
the company he has chosen, but that the sphere he has allotted himself would have
been marked out for him with a better grace by any other person. However, he has
done that justice to his own talents, that few, perhaps, will be displeased. 21

A unique musical document, Clementi outlines those elements of his style that he
thought most defined his improvisatory spirit. In the B-flat prelude there is richness
of harmony, rapidity, and parallel thirds. In the longer C-major prelude there is great
“spirit and brilliancy of execution,” as the 1788 reviewer put it, adorned with parallel
thirds, broken octaves, and brief, expressive excursions into foreign keys. 22 In the
short E-flat cadenza we see some two-part imitation, another aspect of Clementi’s
playing and composition that he may have picked up from Scarlatti.

In 1807, while in Rome, Clementi took it upon himself to revise the Musical
Characteristics, ostensibly destined for forthcoming inclusion in Breitkopf & Härtel’s
Oeuvres Complettes [sic]. Travel, trade, and the postal system were highly problematic in
Europe in 1810-1815 due to the Napoleonic Wars, and Clementi’s revised versions
never made it to Breitkopf & Härtel. The revisions are housed today in the Library of
Congress in Washington DC. Ex. 5.1 is a photograph of Clementi’s autograph of the

                                                                                                 
19 Anon, Review of Clementi’s Op. 19, The Analytical Review, I (1788): 350.
20 Planting, Clementi, 129-133. The translation of the review, from the Musikalische Korrespondenz der
teutschen Filharmonischen Gesellschaft, is Badura-Skoda’s, 62-63.
21 Anon., Review of Op. 19, 350-351.
22 Ibid., 351.
228  
 
1807 work. Ex. 5.2 shows Clementi’s first prelude “alla Clementi” in both its original
1787 format as well as in its 1807 revised state.

Example 5.1 Preludio I alla Clementi, Musical Characteristics (Op. 19), revised in Rome, 1807, Library
of Congress, Washington DC, Albrecht 582 (ML96.C72), photo by author.
229  
 
230  
 
231  
 

 
232  
 

Example 5.2 “Preludio I alla Clementi” from the Musical Characteristics, Op. 19. The original 1787 and
revised 1807 versions compared.
 
What has changed? First, Clementi takes advantage of the enlarged range of pianos
available to him. In m. 18, the “additional keys” (as they were called) are used for the
first time and so Clementi expands the passagework and rewrites the right hand of
m. 17 in order to better effect the change in register. The same technique can be seen
in mm. 19 and 20. Second, Clementi indicates his expressive intentions with the aid
of the increasingly popular notation of the hairpin. In mm. 5 and 6, although he
fundamentally keeps the slur pattern of the 1787 version, he adds a forzando and a
hairpin marking;; a chromatic rewriting in m. 6 is emphasized with this notational
combination. Like slurs, hairpin markings give good graphic representations of units
and phrases by virtue of their long horizontal appearance. In fact Clementi often uses
the diminuendo hairpin to replace or augment what was a slur in the earlier version
of the work;; this is most prominent in the “sighing” figures in mm. 11-17. 23 Third,
Clementi changes the beaming of some of his units. Like the slur or the hairpin,
beaming patterns can suggest to the keyboardist clues of fingering, phrasing or
metrical inflection. The continuous beaming of the opening measures, for instance,
suggest a long and sweeping gesture;; Clementi nuances the end of the second gesture
in the 1807 version with a sextuplet figure and a break in beaming;; this may have
been intended to warn the keyboardist of the upcoming, more metrical, section. In
m. 9, beaming played a subtle role in the 1787 version, oscillating between groups of
eight and four sixteenth-notes that helps suggest differing metrical inflections. In the

                                                                                                 
23 Clementi transfers some of the original connotations of the slur (i.e. a slight accent at the
beginning followed by a diminuendo) to the decrescendo hairpin in his Introduction to the Art of Playing
on the Piano Forte (London: Clementi, Banger, Hyde, Collard & Davis, 1801), 9. The decrescendo
hairpin “often devotes an EMPHASIS, where it is WIDEST, and then DIMINISHING.”
233  
 
1807 version, all but two groupings at the close are in eight. Fourth, Clementi re-
writes or inserts additional material.

Much of the additional material in the 1807 version stems from Clementi’s desire to
utilize the entire range of pianos of the time (mm. 18, 19 and 20). In m. 9, he decided
to extend time spent in outlining diminished harmonies. The parallel thirds are also
remarkably expanded;; beginning with an applied chord in m. 21 that better sets off
the expanded passagework, Clementi romps away at his speciality. By 1787, thirds
were Clementi’s “calling card.” By 1807, they constituted part of his claim to the new
“æra” of pianistic writing. The passage at mm. 24 and 25, with an additional dynamic
range, nuanced by hairpins, is in fact a direct quote from another famous Clementi
work—his Toccata from Op. 11 of 1784. Ex. 5.3 shows the close of this difficult work
in its original printing. The passages quoted by Clementi in his 1807 revisions are
marked with arrows.

Example 5.3 Closing measures of Clementi’s Toccata from Op. 11 (London: Kerpen, 1784), p. 15.
The passages marked with arrows are those that can be found quoted in the 1807 revised version of
Clementi’s “Preludio I alla Clementi.”

Clementi claimed in 1804 that this toccata had been “played by the author before His
Imperial Majesty Joseph II in 1781;; Mozart was present.” 24 This is the event of the
famous competition between the two keyboardists. Like Clementi’s “Celebrated
Octave Lesson,” his “Famous Toccata,” as it became known, acquired some
notoriety for its difficulty. It does not appear to have had the same cultural impact as
                                                                                                 
24 “Cette Sonate, avec la Toccata, qui la suit, a été jouée par l’auteur devant S.M.I. Joseph II. en
1781;; Mozart étant présent.” This quote appears above the revised versions of both pieces in the
6th volume of Breitkopf & Härtel’s Oeuvres complettes [sic]. See Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi,
48.
234  
 
the “Octave Lesson,” probably because it is truly difficult and incredibly fatiguing to
play. The work never attained the staggering number of reprints that the “Octave
lesson” enjoyed, but the few reprints of the Toccata certainly re-advertize the
“famous” claim, printing it directly on the title-page, as the original did (see Fig.
5.2). 25

Figure 5.2 Title-page of the first London edition of Op. 11 (London: Kerpen, 1784). The “NB:
Corrected by the Author” on this title-page, emphasizing the authenticity of the print, might refer to
the fact that a previous, pirated and “surreptitious copy, full of errors” had appeared on the Continent
without Clementi’s knowledge. 26

The quote from the Toccata in the 1807 version of the prelude might have been
included by Clementi in order to underline his association with the now famous
Mozart. Parts of the could even be a re-creation or invocation of some of Clementi’s
improvisatory tactics. It might also be understood as a distillation of Clementi’s
technique into a kind of “trademark.” Clementi’s famous octaves make an
appearance at the close of the 1807 version. The 1787 version concluded graciously

                                                                                                 
25 The score with the “famous toccata” subtitle was reprinted in 1792 by Dale, c. 1800 by
Longman and Broderip, and c. 1803 by Clementi & Co.
26 Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 18, 47.
235  
 
with a repeat of the opening gesture, a circular move of particular elegance. 27
Clementi decided in 1807 that this motivic reference could be jettisoned in favour of
a display of octaves. If Clementi’s 1787 self-portrait at the age of 35 demonstrate his
theoric skill then his 1807 self-portrait can be seen to emphasize, through self-
quotation and virtuoso-ship, his praxic skill. At the age of 55, Clementi may also have
been more capable of self-irony.

Another artist who was fond of making differing versions of what was ostensibly the
same “work” was Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin (1699-1779). 28 Diderot remarked
that “Chardin copies himself frequently, which make me think that his works cost
him dearly.” 29 Two versions of a self-portrait exist, one from 1771, when the artist
was 72, another when he was 80. Both are reproduced as Fig. 5.3.

                                                                                                 
27 And one that we associate with Haydn, for example, most famously in the opening allegro of

his String Quartet in G major Op. 33 No. 5. The nineteenth-century nickname of this quartet,
“How Do You Do?,” which was understood to be the “words” of the opening/closing motif,
underlined the perceived politesse of this gesture.
28 Like Clementi, Chardin has also been criticized for revising his own works. A 1999 article in

The Economist noted: “A cautious, practical artist, Chardin liked to repeat himself: no less than 100
out of the 300 of his known works are in fact copies of his best efforts, so immaculate that they
are sometimes almost indistinguishable from each other. This apparently was not done in order
to improve his technique but to help maximise his financial return.”
<http://www.economist.com/node/325970>
29 Quoted in Philip Conisbee, Chardin (Oxford: Phaidon Press, 1986), 88.
236  
 

Figure 5.3 Two self-portraits of Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin, left: from 1771, pastel, 46 X 37.5 cm,
Musée de Louvre, Paris;; right from 1779, pastel, 40.5 X 32.5 cm, Musée de Louvre, Paris. These
images are courtesy of ARTstor;; procured and used under their terms of conditions for dissertations
and theses.

Like Clementi’s “self-portraits,” Chardin’s are remarkably similar yet markedly


different. The beautiful depiction of the patterned scarf in the 1771 version
demonstrates Chardin’s skill with his pastels, but the hands that did the work are not
visible. In the 1779 version we behold the instruments of his art (the pastel) as well
as the easel and hand that did the drawing. Like Clementi, Chardin could be said to
be revealing his praxic skill in the later portrait by drawing the viewer’s attention to
the instruments he wields. 30 Clementi’s octaves at the close of his later “self-portrait”
similarly draw attention to his own promotion of technique as well as the
instruments he helped design (his “easels,” as it were). If one plays the work and
chooses to depress the right foot pedal of a Clementi piano for the final descending
octave arpeggios and strategically observes the indicated diminuendo and rallentando a
beautiful aura of sound emerges from the piano once the hands have finished
playing;; a sonic fingerprint of the instrument itself.
                                                                                                 
30Chardin’s 1779 self-portrait was of course drawn in the year of his death. Other critics have
noted the prominence of the pastel and easel: “Whereas the two preceding self-portraits showed
no tools of his trade, Chardin here emphasizes the instruments of his craft, leaving his face in
shadow. The very final self-image he left to posterity is that of an artist at work.” Pierre
Rosenberg and Renaud Temperini, Chardin, (Paris: Prestel Verlag, 2000), 166.
237  
 
Clementi’s “Brand” and its Communicative Power

Alan Tyson has noted before the remarkable popularity of Clementi’s music from
around 1785 onwards. 31 Something besides the novelty of his notorious difficulty
must have been responsible for this. I believe it to be Clementi’s remarkable and
idiomatic understanding of the keyboard and the keyboardist’s hands. His sonatas
can be understood as physical and aural “lessons” that reward difficulty and pain
with sensibilité and pleasure. As one’s technical ability improves, the rewards are
greater and with judicious practice any initial discomfort begins to dissipate. It is
this—unabashedly capitalistic—phenomenon that constitutes the communicative
essence in Clementi’s works of this period of surging popularity. Just as the capitalist
accumulates and strategically invests capital, so too does the middle-class keyboardist
of this period accumulate technical prowess in order to relish the reward of
“spending” it wisely in the pleasurable give-and-take of a Clementi sonata.

W. Dean Sutcliffe has noted before what others have perceived as restlessness in
Clementi’s work, a kind of vacillation, a curious refusal to settle down. He goes on:

Such restlessness [...] is just the sort of critical quantity that needs to be developed if
Clementi and his many achievements are to be anchored in our imaginations. It is
indeed a paradox to this lover of Clementi that for all the memorable moments I
know in his music, all the wonderful touches of wit and cleverness, the oracular
gravity of many slower movements, the unfailing sense for texture and registral
colour, I find it hard to grasp a communicative essence. It would be more
paradoxical still were such apparent creative uncentredness to act as a focal point for
greater understanding. 32

The “communicative essence” that Sutcliffe finds hard to pin down here might be
Clementi’s tendency to vacillate between a still somewhat suspect difficulty (his own
speciality) and its antipoles of counterpoint (legitimized on account of its
learnedness) and heartfelt sensibility (legitimized on account of its emotional power).
It is this restless trade-off between textures and attitudes, I’d like to argue, that spoke
most to those who bought and played Clementi’s sonatas in the 1780s and 90s.

                                                                                                 
31 Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 18.
32 W. Dean Suttcliffe, Review of Studies and Prospects, 300.
238  
 
Binding all of these aspects together is Clementi’s profound, assured, and idiomatic
writing for keyboard instruments. He excels at writing material that sounds harder
than it actually is;; an attractive feature for consumers. Temperley notes how
Clementi is able to “derive maximum advantage from the muscular powers of the
hand and from the potential of the pianos of the time.” 33

A striking juxtaposition between differing textures appears in the opening Allegro of


Op. 7 No. 2 from around 1783 (see Ex. 5.4). The “development” of this movement
does not actually develop earlier material. Instead there is a proliferation of new ideas
and gestures. First up is a difficult passage of parallel sixths with a widely leaping and
hence visually active left hand. As the dominant of F major is prolonged in this
manner, the phrase stops dramatically. The left hand takes up a soft variant of an
Alberti bass and the right hand commences a singing melody of great beauty that
seems straight out of the opera house;; it sighs and breathes as a singer might.
Towards the close of this texture there are even breathless sospiri figures embedded in
an urgent crescendo. The sudden shift in unrelated ideas here, from difficulty to
sensibility, has the quality of an improvisation. Cut loose from the bonds of more
formalized sonata templates, Clementi indulges in the “development” with melodies
and textures that are completely unrelated to the material that surrounds it. And the
luscious pleasure of the cantabile tune is surely well worth the passagework that
surrounds it, for both performer and listener alike.

                                                                                                 
33 Temperley, The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 3, xi.
239  
 

Example 5.4 Clementi’s Op. 7/2/i, Allegro (London, Printed for the Author: c. 1783), p. 10-11.

The opening movement of Op. 8 No. 2 (1782), dedicated to Victoire Imbert, has a
similar middle section that contains an extended section that does not use themes
presented earlier (see Ex. 5.5). The triplet figure that begins in the right hand is one
of those passages that we unhesitatingly label “pianistic” because of the melody that
emerges from the top voice of the triplet arpeggio. On a keyboard instrument with
hammers it is possible to accentuate the melody and attenuate the accompaniment in
a highly expressive manner. Once mastered in a technical sense, the next phase for a
performer is to swell and recede according to Clementi’s detailed dynamic markings,
as well as bring out the new motif that shifts from voice to voice and finger to finger.
It is precisely this kind of passage that shows off the dynamic potential of a
hammered instrument and may indeed have been the main reason for motivating a
consumption and/or performance of both the sonata and the instrument. It is the
kind of texture that the young Clementi may have demonstrated in the mid-1770s on
the hammered stop of Merlin’s combination harpsichord/piano, perhaps with the
dampers raised, in order to woo potential clients.
240  
 

Example 5.5 Clementi’s Op. 8/2/i, Allegro assai, (London: Printed for the Author, c. 1790), p. 9. (The
earlier French edition from 1782 was not available for consultation.)

Another kind of idiomatic keyboard device occurs in the sonatas of Op. 12,
dedicated to “Miss Glover,” probably one of Clementi’s star pupils. Here, Clementi’s
famous octaves make appearances in radically different contexts. Ex. 5.6 shows the
opening of the first movement of the third sonata. Consecutive octaves begin in the
right-hand’s staff at m. 5. But a clever keyboardist works out that the octaves might
actually be divided between both hands. 34 In this scenario, the left hand will play two
roles at once, participating in the smooth legato octaves in the right-hand’s staff, as
well as interjecting with the somewhat cheeky two-note figure in the left-hand
staff—a two-note motif that that has played an important role from the very outset.
This extraordinary technique has the effect of tricking an ear that is not paying
attention to the hands (“how is she playing those octaves so smoothly and
expressively?”).

On the next page of the sonata the octaves predictably reappear, now thickened with
thirds and sixths (Ex. 5.7). These are the more familiar kinds of octaves, in the
“brilliant” style. But even here there is significant nuance. The first time they appear
(in an easy C major) there is a crescendo and diminuendo and the quarter-note octaves
have expressive portato markings attached. In the second system of Ex. 5.7, the portato
octaves in the right hand, piano, are contrasted with a bassoon-like, staccato figure in
                                                                                                 
34Nicholas Temperley notes in his “Suggestions for Performance,” which in the print
reproduced in Ex. 5.6. is indicated by the triangle: “Legato is best achieved by taking the lower
octave in the left hand.” Temperley, The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 2, xix.
241  
 
the left hand, forte. The cadential 64 arrives, a traditional site for brilliance, and finally
Clementi gives Miss Glover permission to show off her elegant wrist. But if the
listener thinks that more brilliance might follow, she is mistaken. The coda that
follows is once again marked out as extremely expressive, with forte passages suddenly
quietening to pianissimo. Part of the fun challenge of Op. 12 is to try and match
Clementi’s dynamics, measure for measure. When Clementi revised these kinds of
expressive indications twenty years later in other sonatas, he almost always discarded
the Italian words “Dimin.” and “Cres.” in favour of hairpins, which more accurately
and with increased visual clarity indicates the start and end points for swells such as
these.

Example 5.6 Clementi’s Op. 12/3/i, Allegro di molto (London: J. Preston, 1784), p. 22.

Example 5.7 Op. 12/3/i, Allegro di molto (London: J. Preston, 1784), p. 23.
242  
 
After the dense and difficult Parisian fugues of the early 1780s, Clementi’s significant
store of contrapuntal tricks begins to emerge slowly and cautiously in the London
sonatas. But one often gets the impression that he is only barely holding his
contrapuntal desire in check. In the works of the late 1780s and early 1790s, marked
contrapuntal moments are almost always reserved for final movements in which
these learned tricks seem to balance out the keyboardistic “fun” of the finales, which
are mostly fashionable rondos with idiomatic and pleasurable themes that beg for
repetition.

The “Rondeau” of Op. 11, for example, printed by Kerpen in London in 1784, has a
curious kind of second theme in the third system that seems rather bizarre at first
appearance (see Ex. 5.8). It has an odd rhythmic profile, with a fragmentary, almost
gasping, quality. It might pass fairly unnoticed under the fingers of a sight-reader, but
to learned male eyes it is, of course, the opening theme in exact retrograde. 35 This is
precisely this kind of contrapuntal device that male critics pointed out in their
reviews of printed music in gentlemen’s magazines. 36 Might it have been included by
Clementi for precisely this reason?

                                                                                                 
35 First pointed out by Temperley in The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 2, xi.
36 English reviews of Clementi’s works in the 1820s in particular received lengthy and detailed
bar-by-bar analyses, with learned terms in Latin and Greek. See esp. Anon., Review of Clementi’s
Op. 46, Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review 2/8 (1820): 491-97 and Anon., Review of Clementi’s
Op. 47, Quarterly Musical Magazine & Review 3/10 (1821): 237-43. See also Plantinga, Clementi, 268
ff.
243  
 

Example 5.8 Clementi’s Op. 11/iii (London: Kerpen, 1784), p. 8.

As Temperley points out, even in a piece as populist in tone as La Chasse (Op. 16),
with its “predictable hunting horns, barking dogs, and galloping horses” Clementi
turns the opening four-measure tune of the finale on its head almost immediately, in
a neat trick of melodic inversion (see Ex. 5.8). 37 One gets the impression that
Clementi can barely resist the “temptations” of counterpoint. 38 To male eyes, like
those of the music-master teaching the piece, the dabs of counterpoint in these
examples might be seen to legitimize and balance out the rich topical references of
La Chasse, which by themselves might have been considered as rather empty. Even if
her music-master was pleased with himself for having identified Clementi’s
contrapuntal devices, to the female player actually performing the piece,
counterpoint was here probably just another topical element (which she understands
to have been a “learned” one) in a rich conglomerate of idiomatic and pleasing ideas.

                                                                                                 
37 Temperley, The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 2, xii.
38 See the Introduction, page 2.
244  
 

Example 5.9 Clementi’s La Chasse, Op. 16/iii (London: Longman and Broderip, 1786), p. 5.

Topical Diversity and the Legitimization of Pleasure in Op. 37

Clementi incorporated counterpoint into fashionable rondos and programmatic


pieces. He also included other stylish topics into sonatas cast in the grand style,
thereby mixing high and low, brilliant and learned with an assured hand. The central
analytical theme of Anselm Gerhard’s London und der Klassizismus in der Musik is
Clementi’s superlative use of this kind of “unity in diversity” (“Einheit in der
Mannigfältigkeit”). 39 Gerhard concentrates on Clementi’s monothematicism, which
was exactly the kind of learned compositional texture that appealed to male critics
and the new musical connoisseurship. 40

But it was Clementi’s topical diversity—as opposed to his monothematicism—that


confused and shocked traditionally more severe German critics (Haydn was also in
their targets for precisely the same reason). Clementi’s willingness to put
counterpoint (here laudable) side-by-side with more fashionable topics (here modish
and shallow) was puzzling.

The one thing, in our opinion, that could be criticized in these sonatas is the
indulgence in a whim that has recently arisen in England: the imitation of
bagpipes—known as the favourite and almost the only instrument of the Scots.
Joseph Haydn too, in one of his newest symphonies composed in London, has
taken up this Burleskerie. But such a thing should be introduced very cautiously (and
more importantly) very seldom—certainly not so often as in these sonatas. In this
context we take note particularly of the 3rd movement of the 5th [recte: 3rd] sonata;;
it contrasts strangely with the beautiful preceding Allegretto, and the brief, unforced
imitations and inversions that are woven through it. 41
                                                                                                 
39 Gerhard, London und der Klassizismus in der Musik, 69 and passim.
40 Gerhard, “Die Erhabenheit des Virtuosen” in London und der Klassizismus in der Musik, 57-78.
41 “Das Einzige, was unsers Bedünkens an diesen Sonaten getadelt werden könnte, ist das

Nachgeben gegen eine jezt in England aufgekommene Grille – die Nachahmung des Dudelsacks
(Bagpipe), bekanntlich des Lieblings und fast einzigen Instruments der Schotten. Auch Joseph
Hydn [sic] hat in einer seiner neuesten in London geschriebenen Sinfonieen diese Burleskerie
245  
 

The work being critiqued here is the three-sonata set of Op. 37, published first in
London by Longman & Broderip in 1798. It is also the first opus in which Clementi
indicates the use of the “Open Pedal.” Not surprisingly it underlines those passages
in imitation of bagpipes. The mixed tones and harmonies that emanate from the
undampened strings add an extra layer of delicious reverberation, and it is a texture
that is reserved for the close of each repeated section, something to be savoured and
caressed (literally: dolce e legato). The reverberation, here vibrating softly rather than
loudly, suggests something otherworldly or even nostalgic;; a rural calmness perhaps,
or bagpipes as heard from a distance (see Ex. 5.10). 42

[...]

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
aufgenommen. Aber es will so Etwas äufserst behutsam und vornehmlich gar nicht oft
angebracht seyn – ja nicht so oft, wie in diesen Sonaten. Man vergleiche hierüber besonders den
3ten Satz der 5ten Sonate, welcher, gegen das ihm vorgehende, mit kurzen ungezwungenen
Nachahmungen und Umkehrungen durchwebte schöne Allegretto, einem seltsamen Abstich
macht.” Friedrich Rochlitz, Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung 6 (1798): 87-88.
42 Open pedal reverberations also bring to mind the sounds of the damper-less harp. Madame

Krumpholtz was especially admired for her diminuendi in passages exactly like those in Ex. 5.10.
Fanny Burney remarked that “the effect of distance w[hich] she is able to produce in her
diminuendo have [sic] an effect that I cannot describe – but w[hich] seemed to lift me to another
sphere.” Fanny Burney, The Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney, ed. Joyce Hemlow (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1972), Vol. 1, 180n.
246  
 

Example 5.10 “Bagpipe” codas at the close of Op. 37/1/i and Op. 37/3/i (London: Longman &
Broderip, 1798). Should the open pedal indication of the first example be repeated for the second?

All things Scottish and Irish appear to have been voguish in English keyboard culture
for some time before Op. 37, perhaps the nascent nationalism associated with
Napoleonic Wars in the late 1790s reinvigorated their attractiveness. Indeed, the
head joints of many of the flutes that were manufactured by Clementi & Co. at this
time are distinctively decorated with numerous incised rings, “in Clementi fashion,”
notes a curator at the Library of Congress, “similar to Scottish bagpipe décor.” 43
Clementi & Co. also sold bagpipes from the late 1790s through to the 1830s,
according to the advertisements on bagpipe tutors published by them. 44
 
In the final sonata of the set, one would normally expect by comparison with the
others a slow movement after the opening one. Instead we have a fast movement
marked Allegretto Vivace that is a rich distillation of Clementi’s stylistic markers: his
well-established brand of difficulty (the octaves and the hand-crossings) and his
newly confident imitative style (see Ex. 5.11). The printer (or Clementi?) has chosen
to present this in a markedly smaller format than the other pages in the volume, with
eight systems to the page rather than the usual six. As such, the movement
                                                                                                 
43 A good example of Clementi’s distinctive bagpipe design is the c. 1802 Flute d’amore in A
(DCM 0826) in the Dayton C. Miller Flute Collection at the Library of Congress, Washington
DC. <http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.music/dcmflute.0826>
44 John Geoghegan, The Compleat Tutor for the Pastoral or New Bag-Pipe, (London: Longman,

Clementi & Co, c. 1799). “Printed and sold by Longman, Clementi & Co., 26 Cheapside, where
may be had bagpipes.” It was reprinted with the same advertisement around 1805 when the
company became Clementi & Co. in 1801.
247  
 
conveniently fits on one page (compare Ex. 5.11 with Ex. 5.12, which is the next
page). The performer must indeed squint a little to read and decipher this page;; it is
difficult to make out all the complexities of this movement while you are playing it,
as hand-crossings complicate matters even further. 45 This suddenly smaller format
marks this page out from all the others in Op. 37, as if laying out Clementi’s
craftsmanship for global and analytical perusal by a male reader, the eye taking in
Clementi’s formal strategies in one glance. 46

This was the movement which Rochlitz in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung called
“beautiful,” referring specifically to the many “unforced imitations and inversions
that are woven through it.” Like Haydn’s “Avvertissement” printed in the sonatas
dedicated to the Auenbruggers, Clementi’s contrapuntal page could have been
installed in Op. 37 to preclude the quibbles of pedantic critics. 47 Clementi’s inclusion
of counterpoint here in concentrated form both visual and musical conveys an intent
to answer the concerns of critics that could be considered more efficient than
Haydn’s wordy “avvertissement.” The page’s learned imitative moments may have
also been understood by many in London’s keyboard culture to legitimize or balance
out the pleasurable topical diversity of the other movements.

                                                                                                 
45 When I play the piece I find myself suddenly stymied by the new format and move my entire
body closer to make out all the notes, slurs, marks, and words. It brings you into a posture more
akin to study (theoria) than play (praxis). Suddenly one becomes near-sighted, as you examine the
text of the page. It reminds us of a poor posture that Milchmeyer described: “I would like
recommend eyeglasses to nearsighted players, for otherwise their body will always be too close to
the keyboard, the head will hand too low, the elbows will be too far back, and the hands will not
turn out enough. All this hinders them from assuming their proper position, and consequently
good playing will also be hindered.” Milchmeyer, Die Wahre Art das Pianoforte zu Spielen, 7. In
short, p. 35 of this London print of Op. 37 changes the bodily hexis of the performer.
46 Op. 37 is reproduced in full in facsimile in Temperley, The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 3, 249-

289.
47 “Incidentally, I find it necessary, to forestall the criticisms of any know-it-alls, to print the

following sentence, here underlined, on the reverse side of the title-page.” (“Unter anderen finde
ich notwendig, um der Kritik einiger Witzlinge auszuweichen, auf der anderen Seite des
Titulblatts folgendes unterstrichen beizudrucken.”) The sentence alerts readers to the fact that
the author has intentionally included the same idea in two of the movements of the opus, in
order to show different methods of treatment. Georg Feder, ed., Joseph Haydn: Klaviersonaten 2.
Folge (Duisberg: G. Henle Verlag München, 1970), viii.
248  
 

Example 5.11 Clementi’s Op. 37/3/ii (London: Longman &Broderip, 1798). Compare the small
format chosen here with the following page (Ex. 5.12). Was this done to present the movement on a
single page in order to better appreciate its craftsmanship? Or is it because there was no appreciable
pause in the music for the typesetter to facilitate a page turn?
249  
 

Example 5.12 The “Bagpipe” finale to Op. 37/3. Clementi saturates the work with pedal effects that
accentuate the drone. Together with gradual as well as sudden shifts from loud to soft and soft to
loud Clementi simulates the dynamic effects peculiar to the folk instrument.

If Clementi had been hinting at bagpipes and open pedal effects in the first two
sonatas, the finale of the third and last is a tour-de-force of these topics (see Ex.
5.12). It immediately follows the fleeting and diversely patterned Allegretto Vivace;; the
250  
 
sudden descent into a low, populist style annoyed Rochlitz. All of the bagpipe
markers are here present in splendid profusion;; the alteration between a sharpened
and naturalized seventh-degree, the drone in the left hand, the sudden and gradual
shifts from soft to loud and vice versa. In a remarkably cohesive example of intra-
opus unity, this final movement also ends with a bagpipe coda, which, unlike the
other movements, cyclically sums up proceedings in that its theme is related to the
opening subject of the movement (compare with Ex. 5.10 ). 48 For a contemporary
English reviewer, this finale “fixes the attention of the hearer” and “pursues […] an
address which bespeaks the real master.” In fact this anonymous commentator seems
to have seized on the dominant characteristic of Op. 37, its “unity in diversity,”
commenting:

Mr. Clementi is frequently striking and forcible in his ideas, but never studied the
first and great quality in music, effect, with more success than in some movements of
the present publication. 49

Op. 37 switches effortlessly from topic to topic and effect to effect, from soft
bagpipes (Op. 37/1/iii) to a heartfelt adagio (Op. 37/1/ii) to an agitated and brilliant
Polonaise-like rondo (Op. 37/1/iii);; and turns from a finely-constructed
monothematic allegro (Op. 37/2/i) to a churchy adagio, “In the solemn style” (Op.
37/2/ii). 50

                                                                                                 
48 On intra-opus unity, or tertiary rhetoric, see Elaine Sisman, “Rhetorical Truth in Haydn’s
Chamber Music: Genre, Tertiary Rhetoric, and the Opus 76 Quartets” in Haydn and the Performance
of Rhetoric, 281-326.
49 Anon., Review of Clementi’s Op. 37, The Monthly Magazine and British Register 5 (1798): 218.
50 For more on Clementi’s mixture of high and low styles in Op. 37 and other works see

“‘Authentische’ Melodien” in “‘A Character of Solemnity and Simplicity’” in Gerhard, London und
der Klassizismus in der Musik, 157-169.
251  
 

Example 5.13 The “bagpipe” coda of Op. 37/3/iii. Compare with Ex. 5.10.

Clementi was pioneering in Op. 37 in the thorough and systematic designations


“open Pedal” and “without Pedal.” Women appear to have had an especial
relationship with the open pedal or raised damper effect from the very earliest days of
its invention and Clementi may have indeed been aware of this phenomenon. One of
earliest accounts of the device being used comes from Charles Burney, describing
Madame du Brillon in Paris in 1770, who, on an English square sent to her by J. C.
Bach, refused to play with the “stops on—c’est sec, she said.” Burney opined privately
in his journal that “with them off unless in arpeggios, nothing is distinct—‘tis like the
sound of bells, continual and confluent.” 51 Madame Brillon was an especial advocate
of keyboard technology, composing a trio for her English square, her German wing-
shaped piano, and her French harpsichord. She also owned (and presumably played)
the first French editions of Clementi’s Op. 2 and 3. 52

Regardless of Burney’s criticisms, female performers like Brillon appeared to have


included the pedal in their own compositions far earlier and with more gusto than
male professionals. 53 A duet of Brillon’s for harp and keyboard in G minor from
around 1775-1785 contains extensive pedal markings, and appears to predate
Steibelt’s famous 1793 Parisian publications, generally considered the “first music
                                                                                                 
51 Charles Burney, Music, Men and Manners in France and Italy, 1770, ed. Edmund Poole (London:
Eulenberg Books, 1974), 19-20.
52 Bruce Gustafson, “Madame Brillon et son Salon,” Revue de Musicologie 85/2 (1999): 297-332,

312, 324.
53 In this respect, one presumes that their compositions would also outline elements of their

playing style.
252  
 
with pedalling indications.” 54 Jane Mary Guest, in a composition of around 1807, also
provides extensive and intelligent open pedal markings that demonstrate an idiomatic
knowledge of English keyboard technology. Guest was an early proponent of
Clementi’s Op. 2 and by all accounts an impressive pianist, noted both for her facility
as well as her expressiveness. 55 In Ex. 5.14, the release markings in mm. 47 and 48
provide clarity for the upper register and seem particularly well timed for the partially
dampening “feather-duster” dampers of a typical English piano of the period that
allowed for notes to ring on a little even when the dampers had been lowered. The
romantic haze provided by Guest’s open pedal from m. 51 onwards foreshadows the
haunting and reverberant opening to Clementi’s apocalyptic Adagio Dolente in his
1821 Didone Abbandonata. In Clementi’s programmatic scenario (Ex. 5.15), Dido
laments to the echoing, empty vales conjured up by Clementi’s pedalling indications.
In Guest’s movement, which is a variation movement on a Purcell dirge, the mixed
harmonies seem to suggest a similar atmosphere of eeriness. 56 Guest utilizes the
typical syncopated figuration that often accompanied the open pedal designation (a
figuration most famously found in Haydn’s Hob. XVI: 50/i and Clementi’s Op.
40/1/iv), and may have its roots in emulating the pantalon, now an instrument of
distant memory. 57

                                                                                                 
54 Bruce Gustafson, “The Music of Madame Brillon: A Unified Manuscript Collection from

Benjamin Franklin’s Circle,” Notes 43/3 (1987): 522-543, 535. David Rowland, “Pedalling,” in
Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online,
<http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/40787> and David
Rowland, “Early Pianoforte Pedalling: The Evidence of the Earliest Printed Markings,” Early
Music 13/1 (1985): 3-17, 5-6.
55 See Chapter 2 for Miss Guest’s 1780 recital of Clementi’s Op. 2.
56 For more on Jane Mary Guest and the Purcell reference, see Daniel M. Raessler, “Jane Mary

Guest (Mrs. Miles)” in Women Composers: Music Through the Ages ed. Sylvia Glickman and Martha
Furman Schleifer, Vol. 3 (New York: G. K. Hall & Co., 1998), 157-160.
57 On the pantalon, see Michael Cole, “The Pantalon: and what it tells us” in Instruments à claviers -

expressivité et flexibilité sonore ed. Thomas Steiner, (Bern: Peter Lang SA, 2004), 63-88.
253  
 

Example 5.14 Jane Mary Guest, Adagio con Molto Espressione from Sonata for the Piano Forte, with an
Accompaniment for the Violin ad libitum. (London: Clementi & Co., 1807).
 

Example 5.15 Muzio Clementi, Didone Abbandonata: Scena Tragica (Op. 50 No. 3) (London: Clementi
& Co., 1821), 49.
 
Burney’s description of Brillon is the only one we have of a female keyboardist’s
pedalling/dampening habits and so it is difficult to interpret whether her
performance practice was unique or representative. But some printed
admonishments against abusing the open pedal/hand-stop may indeed be a sign that
254  
 
it was a favoured technique among many in London’s keyboard culture, and perhaps
it was being used so much that its unique—and special—attributes were being
somewhat lost. When Clementi revised his Op. 12 in 1801-2, for example, he added
the significant footnote:

N.B. To prevent the Abuse of the open pedal, the Author has marked Ped: when it is
to be put down, and * when it is to be taken up. 58

At the same time, Clementi recognized that the device was a favoured one amongst
his customers, students, and clients. In a letter to a “Miss Penny” of Weymouth, who
had just purchased one of his squares, Clementi writes:

At last the instrument is chosen, packt [sic] up, and it set off last night [...] I really
think it is one of the very best we have made [...] I have taken the liberty to enclose
within the case some music ... (Not as a bribe!) ... A pedal to raise the dampers I
took care should be fixed to it ... 59

Pedal markings are just one element in Clementi’s Op. 37’s rich tapestry of topics
that can be seen to be responding to the needs of those in eighteenth-century
keyboard culture, both male critics and female players alike. 60

Deciphering Tactility

In Boccherini’s Body, Elisabeth Le Guin has memorably sketched out the epistemology
for a kind of “carnal musicology” that recognizes—in fact, privileges—the fleshly
associations of a performer performing eighteenth-century music. In her chapter
“‘Cello-and-Bow Thinking’” a compelling analysis of the first movement of a
Boccherini ‘cello sonata from this perspective outlines Boccherini’s many
“invitations to explore pleasure in the sliding and resistance of muscle fibers.” 61

                                                                                                 
58 Muzio Clementi, Four Sonatas for the Piano-Forte […] Op. XII .NB. A new Edition with corrections
and additions by the Author (London: Clementi & Co., 1801-2), British Library, h.319.b.(7.).
59 Rowland, Clementi Correspondence, 78.
60 Little is known of the work’s dedicatee. Probably a student of the composer, Clementi

unusually and remarkably recommended her as a “female professor” to the Philharmonic Society
in November of 1815. See Rowland, Clementi Correspondence, 401.
61 Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 23.
255  
 
Clementi, too, understood the palpable pleasure of repetitive passages in which the
sensitive tips of the fingers additionally feel the hammers bouncing inside the
instrument through the keys themselves. It becomes easy to imagine the hammers as
mechanical fingers, and from there the keyboardist might imagine what bare fingers
against wires might feel like, a kind of imaginary harp. We have just seen how
Clementi accentuates this scenario in his open pedal indications.

Ex. 5.16 shows the close of the rondo theme from Op. 9 No. 2. There are no tricky
fingerings here;; the octave above the forzando means that the right hand contracts
neatly in towards the G and both hands are better stabilized against the keyboard
with their tied notes and furthermore determine the fingering (the thumb anchored
in the right hand, the fifth finger in the left). The octaves are without accidentals and
all on the lowered keys and pleasant freedom can be felt in the now loosened wrist.
The passage ends with a faint suggestion of a horn call, a whiff of fresh air from
outside with connotations of the mannish world of hunting.

Example 5.16 Clementi’s Op. 9/2/iii, Rondo: Allegro Spiritoso (London: Printed for the Author, 1783-
4), 17.

Another notable pleasurable moment of repetition, wrist rotation, and hand


contraction occurs in the “Rondò” of Op. 23 No. 2, dedicated to “Miss Gavin” (see
Ex. 5.17). From the third measure of this example, the first, fourth, and fifth fingers
of the right hand ascend and crescendo before a brilliant glimmer of broken octaves. A
particularly agreeable right-hand figure appears at the summit in which, once again,
the first ascending octave (E-E) naturally generates the following fingering;; the first
half of the measure in on the lowered keys of the instrument and the hand is splayed
out, the second half is lusciously chromatic and the fingers contract towards each
256  
 
other. This is repeated before the chromatic slither takes a hold and we descend to
another, slightly varied, repetition of the entire section. Temperley notes how these
kinds of descending passages contain “newly-coined figures that bear the imprint of
Clementi’s individuality.” 62 Throughout this passage, all of the fingers of the
generally more dominant right hand depress a varied constellation of raised and
lowered keys whose novel figurations only augments the pleasure of playing them. 63

Example 5.17 Clementi’s Op. 23/2/iii, (London: Longman & Broderip, 1790), 17.

But the novelty of these figures did occasionally necessitate some kind of
decipherment from a professional in order to render them practicable and playable.
Ex. 5.18 shows a copy of the same sonata with fingerings most probably inserted by
                                                                                                 
62Temperly, The London Pianoforte School, Vol. 3, xi.
63Clementi’s strength, as with most pianists, appears to have been his right hand. C. P. E. Bach
and Mozart are two notable keyboardists of the period who appear to have favoured their left
hand over their right. Christoph Wolff, et al. “Bach.” In Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online,
<http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/40023pg12> Robert W.
Gutman, Mozart: A Cultural Biography, 582.
257  
 
a music-master (the possibility also exists that it could have been figured and fingered
out by the pianist herself). The spots that have the most fingering are those
chromatic sections in which the less agile thumb (indicated here in the so-called
Continental system of fingering with a cross: “+”) is best kept out of the way on the
raised keys (a classic tradition some decades old). This relationship between text,
reader, and decipherer needs to be explored in order to shed light on Clementi’s own
pedagogical strategies.

Example 5.18 Eighteenth-century fingerings in a copy of Clementi’s Op. 23/2 currently housed in
the Library of Congress, Washington DC. + indicates the thumb, the other ascending numbers
indicate the other fingers that branch out from the thumb. Photo by author, with fingerings enhanced
for clarity.

Helping to Conquer Difficulty: The Music-master and his “Chest of Tools”

The typical composer/performer in London of the mid-to-late century could rely on


a career that focused on activities as diverse as operatic or symphonic production,
music publishing, and public performing (J. C. Bach, Abel, Arne, Arnold and
Giardini). Pedagogy, and the teaching of amateurs especially, appear as sideline and
258  
 
marginalized activities, best left to non-composing music-masters. 64 Mozart in
particular complained how teaching took time away from composing. 65 But as
amateurs grow in numbers in the 1780s so too there appears a proliferation of
professions and objects that are designed to aid them in their endeavours: music-
masters, practice manuals, and didactic treatises. Clementi unusually made teaching
one the central tenets of his career. As music-masters appear to multiply in England
in the 1780s and I now want to briefly look at the maligned figure of the music-
master, who like the domestic performer and others in this culture, was affected by
the newfound bifurcation between easy and difficult music. Clementi’s Op. 2 had far-
reaching consequences.

The figure of the music-master has long been associated with duplicity,
licentiousness, and lecherousness. Unless carefully chaperoned, the trope went that
the music-master might take advantage of his female pupil and seduce her or lead her
astray. It most cases an older man would be instructing a teenage girl. The English
world-view at the time understood that music had extraordinary and palpable powers
over swaying the heart and passions. While these musical passions were best directed
towards feelings of courtship as well as matrimonial and familial harmony those same
passions were also understood to be at the risk of being perverted or bastardized to
dangerous ends by a music-master intent only on seducing his pupil. It was a
favourite theme among visual satirists like Rowlandson, as Leppert has pointed out. 66
As the chaperone doses, the young music-master and female student begin their
sexual play.

The trope of music-master as predatory seducer was so normalized that it often


found a comfortable niche in polite conversation. When Haydn was conversing with
the King and Queen on his first London sojourn, they playfully hoped to convince
him to stay in England and the trope was brought out humorously.

                                                                                                 
64 An excellent discussion of lessons and practicing can be found in Parakilas, “A History of
Lesson and Practicing,” 135-152.
65 MBA, 471.
66 Leppert, Music and Image, 61-70 and Sight and Sound, 161,
259  
 
“You shall have a place in Windsor in the summers,” said the Queen, “and then,”
she added with an arch look toward the King, “we shall sometimes make music tête
á tête.” “Oh!” replied the King, “I am not worked up over Haydn, he is a good
honest German gentleman.” 67

Similarly, the diarist Charlotte Papendiek noted a brief moment of anxiety about
Clementi’s presence as a teacher for her cousin, also named Charlotte:

Mr. Papendiek had cautioned my uncle and aunt against allowing Clementi to be
alone with [Charlotte] during his lesson, but they said there was no cause to be
uneasy […] 68

The anxiety over the music-master sometimes rose to almost impossible levels of
paranoia, as in this extract from Philip Thicknesse’s 1772 A Treatise on the Art of
Deciphering, and of Writing in Cypher. What makes the quote doubly interesting is that
Thicknesse’s wife at the time was Ann Ford, the renowned guitar, gamba and
musical-glasses player whose father famously attempted to have her arrested when
she tried to perform in a semi-public setting. 69 The eccentric Thicknesse imagines
how a music-master might construct a secret alphabet with the sole purpose of
communicating lettres d’amours with his student.

I shall endeavour to write down an alphabet of musical notes, in such a manner, that
even a master of music shall not suspect it is to convey any meaning, but that which
is obvious;; and I am persuaded an alphabet of musical notes may be so contrived,
that the notes shall not only convey the harmony, but the very words of the song, so
that a music-master (which is often his design) may instruct his female pupil, not
only how to play upon an instrument, but how to play the fool at the same time, and
impose upon her parents and guardians, by hearkening to his folly, impertinence, or
wickedness. When a music-master has once taught his female pupil to understand a
musical alphabet, and she will permit him to carry on a secret correspondence, he
may send her daily, a lesson for which she may repent having learnt, as long as she lives. 70

                                                                                                 
67 Quoted in H. C. Robbins Landon, Haydn in England 1791-1795 (London: Thames and Hudson,

1976), 285.
68 Charlotte Papendiek, Court and Private Life in the Time of Queen Charlotte, ed. Vernon Delves

Broughton, vol. 2 (London: Bentley & Son, 1887), 172.


69 For Ann Ford see Peter Holman, “Ann Ford Revisited,” Eighteenth-Century Music 1/2 (2004):

157-181. For Philip Thicknesse see Philip Gosse, Dr. Viper: The Querulous Life of Philip Thicknesse
(London: Cassell, 1952).
70 Philip Thicknesse, A Treatise on the Art of Deciphering, and of Writing in Cypher. With an Harmonic

Alphabet, (London: Brown, 1772), 44. A reviewer in The Monthly Review thought the author
paranoid and delusional and was unusually moved to defend the teaching profession. “Fathers of
families may judge what obligations they are under to a man who professes to qualify music-
260  
 

The nascent sexuality of the female student is here described as being menaced by a
hidden threat. Teaching her the basics of musical notation leads directly to the
unravelling of her virtue via the paranoid image of the secret alphabet, yet another
potent symbol for the English eighteenth-century worldview of music’s persuasive—
and so potentially dangerous—capability for sensibilité and thence perhaps emotional
excess. 71

The music-master was also viewed as a money-grubbing dupe. In Germany, for


example, Goethe remembered in Aus Meinem Leben the music lessons of his
childhood and how he was very much taken in by the amusing antics of a music-
master who appeared to make lessons entertaining and enjoyable. Goethe appealed
to his parents to employ the apparently gifted and entertaining music-master but no
sooner was the man engaged than Goethe discovered that all the merry japes he had
witnessed before were no more than bait. “The man kept a straight a face with his
dry instruction as he had previously with his dry joking.” All was interminable and
boring, even though “the man went to work systematically enough.” The riddle was
solved when “one of my playmates entered during the middle of the lesson,

and all at once all the pipes from the well of humor were opened: the thumblings
and pointerlings, the crawlers and wigglers, as he used to call the fingers, the little
faxies and gaxies, as for instance he called the notes F and G and the feezies and geexies
as he called F-sharp and G-sharp, were suddenly at hand again and cut the most
amusing capers. My young friend could not stop laughing and was delighted that
one could learn so much in so merry and way. He swore he would give his parents
no peace until they gave him such an excellent man as a teacher. 72

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
masters for so treacherous and base a perversion of their talents in an innocent and agreeable
art.” The Monthly Review, 48 (1773): 177.
71 For more on the English music-master and his complicated relationship with the commonweal

see Richard Leppert, “Music Teachers of Upper-Class Amateur Musicians in Eighteenth-Century


England,” in Music in the Classic Period: Essays in Honor of Barry S. Brook, ed Allan W. Atlas (New
York: Pendragon Press, 1985), 133-158.
72 Quoted in and translated by Loesser, Men, Women, and Pianos, 83-84.
261  
 
In practice, however, as Deborah Rohr has shown, music-masters, at least in
England, were over-worked and poorly paid. 73

Teaching rudimentary fundamentals to prepubescents was one thing, helping a


competent student master the physical challenges laid down in Op. 2 was another. As
we shall discuss further, one of the keys to conquering difficult music was efficient
fingering that emphasized fast and smooth playing with consecutive fingers
(“legato”) in systematic scalic patterns. Adjacent keys are depressed faster by adjacent
fingers, and not, as was often the case before the thumb came into consistent use, by
the same finger or by pairs. 74 Understanding and communicating this art may have
distinguished the better music-masters from the lesser ones. Fingered editions helped
elucidate tricky passages and gave the student a handle on awkward or novel
fingerings and additionally obviated the need for music-masters to messily annotate
scores with the thick, stubby and inefficient crayons and pencils of the late
eighteenth century (see Ex. 5.19 for an example).

Example 5.19 Fingering pencilled in by a music-master in a copy of Clementi’s “La Chasse,” Op. 16
(1786), Library of Congress, Washington DC. Photo by author.

One of the first to recognize how this new style of fleet agility might be
popularized—the first step to commodification—was one of Clementi’s countrymen,
another Italian in England, by the name of Nicolo Pasquali. His remarkable The Art
of Fingering the Harpsichord (c.1760) is the first to really establish the passing of the
                                                                                                 
73 For more details see “Teachers, composers, and entrepreneurs” in Deborah Rohr, The Careers of
British Musicians, 1750-1850: A Profession of Artisans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2001), 134-153.
74 A good overview of pre-legato eighteenth-century fingerings, with many examples of repeated

musical figures being repeated with the same pattern of fingers as well as paired fingerings, can
be found in Maria Boxall and Mark Lindley’s Early Keyboard Fingerings: A Comprehensive Guide
(London: Schott & Co.,1992).
262  
 
thumb for the specific necessity of attaining a smooth legato. “A proper Method of
shifting the Hand higher or lower can only be derived from the Management of the
Thumb.” 75 On the Continent, C. P. E. Bach’s monumental chapter on fingering in
the 1753 Versuch admits many scalic passages in which the thumb passes under the
other fingers, but legato delivery is not their raison d'être, and C. P. E. Bach emphasizes
diversity and not standardization.  
 
Pasquali’s little treatise soon became a best-seller and other writers, like John Caspar
Heck around 1766 and Robert Broderip around 1788, followed his clean and precise
“thumbs-under” precepts. As Mark Lindley and others have noted before, the
“thumbs-under” legato approach was an English invention. 76 Indeed, Clementi may
have learnt older styles of fingering that include repeated pairs in Rome as a teenager,
and perhaps it was only in Sir Peter Beckford’s library, where the Pasquali text may
have resided, that Clementi became first acquainted with the new modern English
style.

The English “thumbs-under” legato style first formulated by these pioneers in the
1760s was of course most famously disseminated and promoted in Clementi’s own
massively successful 1801 Introduction to the Art of Playing the Piano Forte. But predating
the Introduction were two other fingered editions in which Clementi might be
understood to be testing the market demand for such editions. The first of the two
attempts was in 1792 when Clementi reissued once again his “Famous” Toccata in a
ground-breaking edition in which the gymnastic combinations of thirds, fourths, and
sixths characteristic of his virtuosity were for the first time here deciphered and
fingered for the curious player. The publisher, John Dale, must have procured the
earlier plates from John Kerpen, scratched out “Corrected by the Author” and
replaced it with “N.B. Corrected & Fingered by the Author. 1792” (See Fig. 5.4 and
compare with Fig. 5.2). Similarly, Dale engraved all of Clementi’s new fingerings
onto Kerpen’s old plates (Ex. 5.20).

                                                                                                 
Nicolo Pasquali, The Art of Fingering the Harpsichord (London: R. Bremner, c. 1760), 11.
75

Mark Lindley et al, “Fingering,” in Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online,
76

<http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/40049>
263  
 

Figure 5.4 Title-page to the 1792 fingered edition of Clementi’s “famous” Toccata. (London: John
Dale, 1792). Library of Congress, Washington DC. Photo by author. Compare this with Fig. 5.2.
 

Example 5.20 Clementi’s first fingered edition: the “famous” Toccata deciphered. Photo by author.
264  
 
Unlike the “famous” Toccata, (which despite all of Clementi’s efforts, never really
became famous at all), his second attempt at a fingered edition was a runaway
success: the Six Progressive Sonatinas of 1797, Op. 36. These sonatinas were advertized
as being “COMPOSED/AND/FINGERED” by their author. Not painfully
difficult at all, but instead pleasant, light, and plainly pedagogical, Op. 36 is indeed his
most famous and well-known work to this day, for good or ill. Like the similarly
popular Op. 2, Clementi revised and “improved” Op. 36 in 1820. These two fingered
editions paved and tested the way for his two greatest didactic works: for amateurs
the Introduction to the Art of Playing on the Piano Forte and for aspiring virtuosi the Gradus
ad Parnassum.

Many people stood to gain from the inclusion and decipherment of difficult music in
domestic markets. Fig. 5.5 outlines the basic relationships some of the key social
agents had to the kinds of textures introduced by Clementi in Op. 2. Above all, the
music-master had more to do beyond teaching the simple fundamentals. Deciding to
vanquish difficult music meant utilizing the skills of music-masters that went beyond
the teaching of simple dance tunes. In order “to be au fait in some flourishes,” to
quote Margaret Fowkes, meant engaging with all of the agents in Fig. 5.5;; studying
with a music-master or a professional composer, making sure one’s instrument could
handle the pounding passages of Op. 2 as well as turning to the shelves of circulating
libraries and music-sellers to find practice manuals and didactic treatises that
augmented their own lessons. 77 From the very beginning Clementi’s “brand” of
difficulty—his thirds, octaves and sixths—engaged with the mechanics of capitalism
by increasing the number and types of agents in the cultural field. In this reading
difficult music has the potential to enjoy economic as well as cultural capital.

                                                                                                 
77 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 106.
265  
 

The Domestic
The Professional
The Music-master Performer
Composer/Performer
(who helps vanquish (who must perform and
(who personifies
difficulties) vanquish difficulty - or
difficulty)
not)

The Instrument Maker The Publisher/Music-


(who makes sure the seller
instrument is capable of (who prints and
actuating the difficult disseminates the printed
passages) text)

Figure 5.5 Social agents in keyboard culture and their relationship with difficult music.

Although some practice manuals thrived on the notion that they gave you better
value for your money than an actual instructor, many more manuals went to extreme
lengths to assure music-masters that the manuals were not meant to replace or
supplant their own pedagogical activities, rather they were to enhance them, so each
was an aid to the other. For the music-master, the manuals were legible and clean
compendiums of technical exercises that precluded messy and inelegant notations in
ink or crayon. In turn, the practice manuals needed decoding and guidance, a job for
a professional.

This last element appears to have been a particularly English trait. When Clementi’s
Introduction to the Art of Playing on the Piano Forte was first published in 1801 it was
criticized in Germany for its lack of detail. But as Sandra Rosenblum points out,
“conciseness was a prerequisite of a successful English tutor.” 78 An 1820 review of
various tutors makes this clear:

We are come to consider books of instruction as depositories, as dictionaries of


elements, rather than as a positive determinate series of lessons, to be applied
indiscriminately in the order and succession in which they are printed;; and unless
                                                                                                 
78Sandra P. Rosenblum, “Introduction” to Muzio Clementi, Introduction to the Art of Playing on the
Piano Forte [1801] (New York, Da Capo Press, 1974), ix.
266  
 
they can be so taken, there is not one, we will venture to assert, that will not appear
either too scanty or too full in its materials. After all then, these are merely the chest
of tools—it is the master who must direct the employment of them. [my italics] 79

Fig. 5.6 imagines how this peculiarly English combination of both pedagogue and
practice manual was therefore the ideal vehicle for any woman attempting, like
Margaret Fowkes, to “conquer” difficulty.

Difficult music is not easy


or sight-readable

Difficult music is practiced


Difficult music needs the
in private at one's own pace,
specialized attentions of a
without musical supervision
pedagogue
("misplaying")

Difficult music is A practice manual aids in


Non-linear, casual, non-
"conquered" with the help understanding how to
structural engagement with
of repetitve, proscribed perform and practice
the difficult music.
exercises (practice manuals) difficult music

SOMEWHAT
Linear, dedicated, AMATEUR-SOUNDING,
PROFESSIONAL-
structurally-oriented DISINTERESTED OR
SOUNDING,
engagment with the difficult DISINCLINED TO
LEGITIMIZED BY A
music. IMPROVE
PRACTICE MANUAL

PROFESSIONAL-
SOUNDING,
LEGITIMIZED BY
BOTH PEDAGOGUE
AND PRACTICE
MANUAL

Figure 5.6 Post-1779 practice habitus for female performers.

The English translator of Bemetzrieder’s famous Leçons de clavecin, et principes


d’harmonie, originally published and edited in 1771 by Diderot, makes it clear that this

                                                                                                 
79 Anon., Review of Elementary Treatises, Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review 2 (1820): 101.
267  
 
ideal relationship, in which both profits as well as technical aptitude were maximized,
was conceptualized as early as 1778:

Advertisement to the Music-masters and Organists of Great Britain.

GENTLEMEN,
As this Book may, at first view, appear to be in stile [sic] of some of those which
frequently see advertised with the delusive title of “Every Man his Own, &c,” and so
set up to make every man, woman, and child, their own Music-master, I take this
method formally, and publicly, to disavow, both on the side of the Author, the
original Editor, and myself, any such vain and quack-like pretension. They who
make a discovery in medicine, and generously publish the receipt, do not mean to
injure the Faculty, but put it into their hands, as the only proper persons to
administer it with effect. The design of this Book then is not to supplant the Music-master, but
assist him;; not to render him unnecessary, but to make him truly useful. As this Treatise tends
to prove, that at almost all times of life the knowledge and execution of Music is
attainable in a few months, by a study not only easy but entertaining, I should flatter
myself, that while it aims at decreasing the fatigue of your profession, it should also
greatly increase the number of your scholars;; and that it may do so, with equal
advantage to them and you, is the sincere wish of,
Gentlemen,
Your most obedient servant,
G[iffard] B[ernard]. 80 [my italics]

Bernard’s 1778 preface, a year before Op. 2, makes it clear that different agents of
the keyboard culture were ready to work together to each other’s benefit and
economic advancement. Clementi’s Op. 2 was ripe for a culture that needed a new
component to stimulate musical activity within a habitus that was dominated by doxa
that marginalized advanced musical performance. That component was the textural,
physical quality of difficult music;; thirds, sixths and octaves. Not only would it
stimulate practice and pedagogy but it would also stimulate advances in keyboard
technology as agile fingers and feet sought out “additional keys” and pedals.

Clementi’s Students and Dedicatees

We know nothing about Clementi’s direct and personal pedagogical strategies—in


fact, we know very little about how music-masters and composer/performers in the
eighteenth century taught their students beyond the musical exercises that remain.

                                                                                                 
80Anton Bemetzrieder, Music made Easy to Every Capacity, in a Series of Dialogues;; being Practical
Lessons for the Harpsichord, trans. Giffard Bernard (London: Ayre and Moore, 1778), 1.
268  
 
How did they teach expression? How did they encourage confident delivery? How
did they deal with a student’s performance anxiety, if at all? 81 It is impossible to tell,
as these—probably very intimate—engagements were rarely documented.

One of most well-known facts about Clementi as a pedagogue is that he charged


extremely high fees for lessons. This strategy appears to have fairly normative for
those in the consecrated positions in London’s keyboard culture;; J. C. Bach also
demanded high fees as a teacher according to Charles Wesley, who was writing in the
late 1770s. 82 Haydn, who was particularly fascinated by the money-making habits of
his English colleagues, noted in 1791 that Clementi was able to charge a guinea an
hour—which was roughly a week’s earnings for an English building craftsman. 83 A
high value such as this appears to impart a correspondingly high quality. A lesson
with Clementi might therefore be understood as having high symbolic as well as
economic capital, as understood in Bourdieu’s formulation. Indeed, the Quarterly
Musical Magazine explained that the high price was apparently initiated to “secure
[Clementi] sufficient time for the prosecution of his studies” but goes on to say that
“his fame, however, was so great, that this augmentation of price rather increased than

                                                                                                 
81 Emily Allen discusses the cultural significance of stage fright for Frances Burney in “Staging
Identity: Frances Burney’s Allegory of Genre,” The American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies
31/4 (1998): 433-451.
82 Christoph Wolff, et al. ”Bach,” in Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online,

<http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/40023pg15> Papendiek
was exaggerating when she says that Clementi “was a man who never visited among his own rank
or those of a higher position, but only where he was sure of being well paid. He succeeded in
getting extensive teaching at a guinea a lesson;; all others, Schroeder [sic] included, received only
half that sum;; and Clementi taught sixteen hours every day.” Papendiek, Court and Private Life in
the Time of Queen Charlotte, Vol. 1, 203. Sixteen hours is obviously an exaggeration;; Arthur Loesser
thought it closer to eight when he made rough calculations of Clementi’s earnings during this
period. Loesser, Men, Women, and Pianos, 261.
83 Scherer, Quarter Notes and Bank Notes, 64. Haydn rather closely documented English

pedagogical strategies in his Fourth London Notebook: “If a singing-, pianoforte-, or dancing
master asks half a guinea per lesson, he demands than an entrance fee of six guineas be paid at
the first lesson. This is done because during the winter many Scots and Irishmen take pride in
having their children study with the best teachers only to find that at the end they cannot pay the
fee. The entrance fee is dispensed with if the teacher charges a guinea, but the guinea must then
be paid at every lesson.” Landon, Haydn Correspondence, 308 (Landon’s translation). Haydn was
also stunned by the money-making potential of the metropolis: “I made four thousand Gulden
on this evening. Such a thing is possible only in England.” Landon, Haydn Correspondence, 306
(Landon’s translation).
269  
 
diminished the candidates for his instruction [my italics].” 84 When Francis Fowke
boasts in the early 1790s that his daughter’s first music teacher, Girolami Masi, was
“superior to Clementi,” it is testament to the cultural capital associated with Clementi
at this time that he was the standard against which others were judged, for better or
worse. 85

Clementi’s careful planning of his pedagogical activities was documented by


Charlotte Papendiek, an attendant at the court of George III. In the early 1790s the
Queen (Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz) wished to engage a music-master for the
Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth. Various composer/performers were put forward;;
Cramer was barely in his twenties and so was considered too young, Dussek still not
entirely known, and Hüllmandel was married to a relation of the French National
Convention, and so

prudence, in these warlike times, passed [Hüllmandel] by. Clementi was applied to,
but he was too crafty and shrewd to have anything to do with a court. He gave as his
excuse that as he then had health and power to continue his teaching for sixteen
hours a day, at a guinea a lesson, he did not wish to break the spell while the public
were willing to employ him. These terms he never lessened, except in the two
instances of Miss Stowe and my cousin Charlotte. Clementi, on refusing, said that he
could recommend a very proper person, and one known to the Royal Family,
namely the eldest daughter of Louis Albert (my cousin Charlotte). This so incensed
the Queen that the dislike which she had always felt towards them all became
intensified. 86

Plantinga has noted before both the important male and female students of Clementi
and observed that they appeared to fall into two different categories. The first, and
most voluminous, group was comprised of amateur women, who, while not
performing publicly, were nevertheless fine pianists and could additionally afford his
high fees. Second, there were aspiring male professionals, John Field most famous
among them. 87 It is clear that most of Clementi’s dedicatees fell into the first of these

                                                                                                 
84 Anon., “Biography of Clementi,” Quarterly Musical Magazine 2 (1820): 312.
85 Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 222.
86 Papendiek, Court and Private Life in the Time of Queen Charlotte, Vol. 2, 188-189.
87 Plantinga, Clementi, 152-155.
270  
 
two groups (see Table 5.1 and Fig. 5.7). 88 Clementi did not dedicate sonatas to his
male pupils (although they certainly dedicated works to him);; rather, the male
dedicatees here are friends (John Cleaver Banks), patrons (Peter Beckford and Count
de Brühl), or noteworthy colleagues (Luigi Cherubini, Frederic Kalkbrenner and—
rather touching, given the dispute between the two and it being Clementi’s last
work—John Cramer). 89 Many of Clementi’s dedicatees have been newly identified
and described by David Rowland. 90

Op. 1 ?1771 London: Welcker “Dedicated to/PETER BECKFORD


ESQr.”
“Oeuvre ?1781 Paris: “Chez Mr. “Dediées/A MADAME DUVIVIER”
1” BAILLEUX”
Op. 3 1779 London: Welcker “Humbly Dedicated to/ Mrs: LEIGH”
Op. 4 1780 London: Welcker “Humbly Dedicated to/ Mrs: Phillips”
Op. 5 ?1781 Paris: “Chez Mr. “dediées/À Mlle. MELANIE DE
BAILLEUX” ROCHECHOUART.”
Op. 6 ?1781 Paris: “Chez Mr. “Dédié À Madame la Comtesse/DE
BAILLEUX” SAYN ET WITTGENSTEIN.”
Op. 7 1782 Vienna: Artaria “Dediées/A MADAME DE HESS, NÉE
DE LEPORINI.”
Op. 8 1782 Lyon: “Chez Sonata I: “Dediée à Mlle. Nancy
Castaud” and D’AUENBRUGGER Par l’Auteur.”
Paris: “Chez le S. Sonata II: “Dediée à Mlle. Victoire
Cornouaille” IMBERT Par l’Auteur.”
Sonata III: “Dediée à Mlle.
ARTAUD Par l’Auteur.”
Op. 10 1783 Vienna: Torricella “Dediées/A SON EXCELLENCE
MADAME LA COMTESSE/DE
GRUNDERMANN.”
Op. 12 1784 London: J. “Dedicated to Miss Glover.”
Preston
Op. 13 1785 London: “Printed “Dedicated to/His Excellency COUNT de
for the Author” BRÜHL”
Op. 14 1786 London: “Printed “Dédiés à Mademoiselle/ MARIE
for the Author” VICTOIRE IMBERT COLOMÉS de
LYON”
Op. 15 1786 London: “Printed “Dédiées à Mademoiselle Marie
for the Author” Victoire/Imbert Colomés de Lyon”
                                                                                                 
88 There are also additional dedications that were appended not by Clementi but by the publishers
(Artaria, for Op. 24 and Op. 41).
89 Tyson, “A Feud between Clementi and Cramer,” and Graue, “The Clementi-Cramer Dispute

Revisited.”
90 Rowland, “Notes on Individuals” in Clementi Correspondence, lxxix-cxxiii.
271  
 
Op. 21 1788 London: Longman “dedicated to/Miss Meysey”
& Broderip
Op. 22 1788 London: J. Dale “Dedicated to/Miss Anna Maria/Carolina
Blake”
Op. 23 1790 London: Longman “dedicated to/MISS GAVIN”
& Broderip
Op. 24 1790? Vienna: Artaria “Dedicate/a Sua Altezza
Serenissima/MARIA AMALIA
DUCHESSA REGNANTE DI DUE
PONTI/Principessa Reale di Sassonia &c.
&c. &c./dalli umilismi ed obedientismi
Servidori/Artaria Compagn.”
Op. 25 1790 London: J. Dale “Dedicated to/ Mrs. Meyrick”
Op. 27 1791 London: Longman “Dedicated to/Miss Blake”
& Broderip
Op. 28 1792 London: Preston “Dedicated to/MISS GILDING”
& Son
Op. 29 1793 London: J. Dale “Composed and Dedicated to/ Mrs. Benn”
Op. 32 1793 London: Preston “Composed & Dedicated/TO/Miss
& Son Newbery”
Op. 33 1794 London: Longman “Three/Sonatas/for the /PIANO
& Broderip FORTE/By/Muzio Clementi,/AND
DEDICATED/To His Pupil/MISS
THERESA JANSEN [...] NB. The First
Sonata is composed for Instruments, with
or without additional Keys.” 91
Op. 34 1795 London: “Printed “Composed & Dedicated to/Miss Isabella
for the Author” Savery”
Op. 35 1796 London: Preston “COMPOSED & DEDICATED
& Son TO/John Cleaver Banks, Esqr.”
Op. 37 1798 London: Longman “Composed & Dedicated to/Miss Harriot
& Broderip Gompertz”
Op. 39 1800 London: “Composed & Dedicated to/Mrs.
Longman, Mayhew”
Clementi & Co.
Op. 40 11/9/1802 London: Clementi, “Composed and dedicated to Miss Fanny
Banger, Hyde, Blake”
Collard & Davis
Op. 40 23/10/1802 Paris: Pleyel “COMPOSÉES ET DEDIÉES/A MISS
FANNY BLAKE”
Op. 40 17/11/1802 Vienna: Mollo & “composeés et dediées/à/Mademoiselle
Co. Fanny Blake”
Op. 41 7/1/1804 Vienna: Artaria “et dediées/á/MONSr. FRANÇOIS de
HESS/Chevalier du St. Empire Rom.
                                                                                                 
91A later reprint by Longman & Broderip no longer refers to Jansen as Clementi’s pupil:
“DEDICATED/TO/MISS THERESA JANSEN”. See Tyson, Thematic Catalogue of Clementi, 72.
272  
 
Conseiller de la Regence/d’Autriche de
S.M.I.R. et A/par/ARTARIA COMP.”
Op. 41 9/4/1804 London: Clementi, “Composed & dedicated to the/Rev.d John
Banger, Hyde, Cleaver Banks,/BY HIS FRIEND/Muzio
Collard & Davis Clementi.”
Op. 41 Summer?/ Vienna: Mollo & “Consacrées à la memoire de Monsieur de
1804 Co. HESS Conseiller de/la Regence de S.M.J.
et R/par les Editeurs/Oeuv: 41/Corrigé
par l’Auteur” 92
Op. 44 1817, 1819, London: Clementi, “Composed and /Dedicated to Her
1826 Banger, Davis & Excellency/THE/Princess Sophia
Collard Wolkonsky”
Op. 46 1820 London: Clementi “Composed & Dedicated to his
& Co. Friend/FRED: KALKBRENNER”
Op. 47 1821 London: Clementi, “Composed & Dedicated to/Mrs.
Collard, Davis & Clementi”
Collard
Op. 48 1821 London: Clementi “Composée et Dediée/à Madame la
& Co. Marèchale Moreau”
Op. 49 1821 London: Clementi “Composed/And DEDICATED
& Co. to/Signora Barbarina Frigerio,/of
Milan,/BY/MUZIO CLEMENTI”
Op. 50 1821 London: Clementi “Composed and Dedicated/TO/L.
& Co. Cherubini”
Wo. 10 1820 London: Clementi,