The topic of phrase rhythm has become central to our understanding of tonal music, and for that reason I offer the following brief comments from my Advanced Schenkerian Analysis: Perspectives on Phrase Rhythm, Motive, and Form for those not conversant with this aspect of musical organization.

Before considering any of these situations, perhaps it would be helpful first to address two fundamental questions. First, should we assume the existence of hypermeter in Schubert's music? The answer is a qualified yes, though it is less clearly articulated and less periodic in some instrumental works than in others. As a general rule, the clearest examples of metric regularity are found in movements that have their roots in dance music, like the minuet or its frequent replacement, the scherzo. But even with the scherzo, you can expect that the established pattern will inevitably be undermined in some way sooner or later. Hypermetric organization is certainly an important component in most, though not all, of Schubert's sonata forms. The second question is: How do we recognize the existence of hypermeter? We do so on the basis of repeated tonal and/or rhythmic patterns.

Let us begin by looking at the opening measures of the scherzo movement from the “Trout” Quintet, which is provided in example 2.1. Here the quadruple hypermeter is clearly articulated in the first twelve measures, as indicated above the piano part.

WRITING in 1755, François-Antoine Chevrier attempted to provide his readers with a balanced account of the ferment that had coursed through Parisian musical circles for the past three years. The miserable condition of the Académie Royale de Musique in 1751 had created a desire for novelty; and the arrival of a mediocre troupe of Italian bouffons – itinerant comic players – at the opera house in the following year was greeted with apparently unanimous approval. But the over-enthusiastic extolling of these bouffons by men of letters, and the stubborn resistance of an element within the traditional wing of opinion, combined to provide a cause for quarrel which expanded and intensified beyond any reasonable expectation:

Chevrer was no innocent: an industrious and ambitious libelliste, he had spent the first half of the decade producing a torrent of satirical prose and he would subsequently be pursued around Europe by the agents of various offended authorities before his early death in 1762. Yet his account of the Querelle des Bouffons conveys a significant impression of the dislocation he sensed in this period. Harsh words and strong opinions were nothing new in operatic debate, nor was this simply a question of scale; rather, Chevrier was shocked by the way that the impulse to argue had come away from its fixings in reality, being fuelled by the unpredictable urgings of paradox, perversity and private interest.

The first part of this chapter presents an account of Schubert's various strategies in dealing with sonata form. I have identified five types: (1) variants of the classical model; (2) the three key/three theme exposition; (3) transposition schemes; (4) hybrid solutions: and (5) a single unifying progression. This presentation is followed by sections dealing with characteristics of first themes and the transition to the second key area, then with characteristics of development sections.

Formal/Tonal Strategies

Categorizing Schubert's sonata forms presents an interesting challenge, due to the great variety in his treatment of this formal type. I think a logical point of departure for this investigation is the application of classical procedures for sonata form, though I am fully aware of the potential danger in reducing a rich variety of schemes to a simplistic prototype. There is no single “model.” Nevertheless, I think we can agree on certain basic principles, as follows. The exposition of a classical sonata movement normally consists of two tonal areas: (1) the tonic; and (2) either the mediant, if the tonic key is minor, or the dominant, if the tonic key is major. Frequently, but not always, each tonal area is associated with its own theme, and the two tonal/thematic areas are connected by a transitional passage, most frequently based in some way on the first theme. The development section of a sonata movement in the major mode digresses from the established dominant, but then returns to it in preparation for the return to the tonic and opening theme. In a minor-mode movement, the development section connects the mediant to the dominant in preparation for the return. In both cases, the typical recapitulation begins with a double return, that is, a return to the tonic and to the opening material. Both themes, assuming there are two, are then stated in the tonic. These two “models” are, of course, subject to a wide variety of alterations and additions; these are just the bare bones. In table 4.1, I have outlined these two basic models for reference in the following discussions. Arabic numbers represent themes, while roman numerals represent keys; development sections are represented by empty parentheses (except for V7 representing the retransition). The following description of Schubert's sonata-form strategies is divided into five types, beginning with variants of classical models.

In the interwar period, Gerry Armstrong, a technician working at a prestigious Canadian hospital, spoke passionately against the invisibility of laboratory workers. Dependent on the patronage and research funds of elite doctors and scientists, the technicians who mastered staining techniques received no formal acknowledgment for their scientific endeavors. “I’m paid to produce results,” Armstrong reflected bitterly. “Whoever pays me has the social and economic right to take what they are paying for.” This invisible labor formed the “stepping stones for somebody else's rise to fame,” Armstrong lamented, while technicians were too worried to demand public recognition for fear of losing their jobs and “falling into the gutter.” Mustering all the courage and frustration he felt, Armstrong did confront his superiors on several occasions, receiving either blank incomprehension or hollow placations.

Gerry Armstrong did not actually exist. He was a character conjured up by Edward Dockrill, a real-life laboratory technician who wrote a manuscript titled “The Means Are Nothing,” a complex, nearly four-hundred-page novel that never saw the light of print. Set mostly in the fictional bilingual town of Tasville—a lightly disguised Montreal—the novel is a bildungsroman that slowly unspools the young hero's life as he arrives to North America from England with the explicit goal of proving his worth. Armstrong is dazzled at first by the hospital and its chief, Dr. Meadowes, and he throws himself passionately into his work in the pathology laboratory. Soon, however, disillusion sets in. After many nights of exhausting labor to perfect histological techniques, he watches helplessly as one of the senior doctors appropriates one of his own breakthroughs, publishing it to great acclaim and giving Armstrong no credit, despite having promised to share the laurels of scientific discovery. The story's climax stages an explosive encounter between Armstrong and Meadowes, the technician accusing the chief and his acolytes of “becom[ing] famous with work you never did, paid for by money you never owned.”

A logical starting point for our investigation into Schubert's late instrumental music is his use of harmony. Fundamentally, Schubert's harmonic language is that of his contemporaries and immediate predecessors, but there are aspects of that common language—particular emphases—that we can identify as hallmarks of his harmonic practice or style. Just what are these hallmarks? It may seem surprising to some that I will begin my presentation with the common diatonic progression I–vi–IV (or i–VI–iv in the minor mode). I have done so because Schubert employs this progression in such a wide variety of contexts, including large-scale harmonic motion across formal boundaries. We then turn our attention to his use of chromaticism, beginning with modal mixture, often cited as a characteristic of Schubert's harmonic practice. This is followed by sections detailing his employment of III♯ in various contexts, the progression ♭VII–V, and chains of descending major thirds. The next section presents examples of chromatic modulation, emphasizing those involving the interchange of the German augmented sixth chord and V7, and the chapter ends with what I have labeled “truncated progressions.”

I will begin with an introductory example: the first fifty measures from the first movement of the Piano Trio in E-flat Major (D. 929)—the first theme and the transition to the second subject and key, which is reproduced with analytical additions as example 1.1. This complex passage illustrates many of the topics to be discussed later in this and in subsequent chapters, and at the same time, it provides an opportunity to indicate my approach to the music, including my system of labeling harmonies. On the score I have marked the major formal divisions of this passage: theme 1 (mm. 1–35), the transition (mm. 36–48), and the initial measure of theme 2. In addition, I have indicated two separate components of theme 1: 1a, the opening four-measure idea, an elaboration of the descending arpeggiation of the tonic triad; and 1b, the motive introduced by the cello in measures 16–18. This and subsequent statements of this idea are highlighted by brackets.

Introduction

Technique and technologies in the neurosciences and psychiatry are not only locally developed, but have been historically subjected to the political, contingent, and adaptive living and working contexts of their bearers: neuroscientists and psychiatrists themselves. This essay will explore the particularly disruptive context of the forced migration of neuroscientists from Central Europe under Nazi and Fascist occupation—including the migration of things and technologies and their often marginality and liminality. I map several developments related to this mass exodus in order to assess some of the influences that the forced migration process had on the formation of new neuroscientific networks that transformed existing neurological and psychiatric research communities on the other side of the Atlantic. In this way, we can gain insight into intricate relationships among the techniques, technologies, and diagnostic “repertoires as techniques of manipulation,”which stimulated the development of neuroscientific research in the postwar period, a phase in which the modern neurosciences increasingly became an interdisciplinary technical field. The processes of “mobilization,” “transfer,” and “(re)integration” of research and diagnostic technologies were crucial for enabling researchers to work in new neuroscientificlaboratories and clinical settings. Yet at the same time, such processes also threatened the security of researcher identities.

In the 1930s, hundreds of German-speaking refugees trained in neurology, psychiatry, and neuropathology integrated into preexisting neuroscientific communities in Canada and the United States. The year 1933 in particular marked a time when groundbreaking political changes occurred with the Nazis’ rise to power in Germany. The Law for the Reestablishment of a Professional Civil Service (Gesetz zur Wiederherstellung des Berufsbeamtentums), enacted on April 7, 1933, deeply affected the scientists working in the mind and brain sciences. The situation further deteriorated with the establishment of the Nuremberg Race Laws on September 15, 1935, when thousands of medical doctors and scientists— mostly of Jewish descent—were driven from their governmentsupported offices.

THE dispute that is the subject of this chapter was on the smallest possible scale: a disagreement, and at times a highly personal one, between two obscure provincial gentlemen. Yet, according to one way of looking at events, it gave rise to a series of overlapping, intellectually linked controversies that continued, mounting in size and intensity, until at least the Revolution. The present study intends to some extent to depart from the notion that this should all be seen as one long argument and will emphasise the particularity of each episode, but it is nonetheless clear that, after the first decade of the eighteenth century, discussions around opera customarily took on a quarrelsome tone, or were at least framed by observers in antagonistic, binary terms; this vexatious spirit was regarded as uniquely characteristic of the French reception of opera and, in the view of many commentators, served to retard the progress of the form well into the 1800s.

Opera had been debated in France for a long time, and with considerable vigour. But these previous manifestations had tended to revolve around the viability of opera as a genre, comparing it against spoken tragedy and questioning its adherence to standards of verisimilitude and good taste; the premise of such arguments was purely literary. This line of thinking was far from exhausted by 1700 and was forcefully summed up in a widely read poem of 1711 by Pierre de Villiers which argued that while there was nothing wrong with music in itself, its insertion into the drama perverted the essential purities of theatrical tragedy; this excited a response from Antoine-Louis Le Brun. Attacks on the invraisemblance of opera continued to be heard through the eighteenth century and beyond, although tending increasingly to be the preserve of irreconcilable music-haters. The querelles that are the focus of this study were distinct from this narrowing line of debate: they accepted the validity and permanence of opera as a genre and, although they might stray into issues of dramaturgy and literary style, they addressed themselves principally – albeit with varying degrees of technical engagement – to the music. For most participants, it was no longer a question of whether opera should be allowed to survive, but of what models it should follow in order to exercise its emotional and intellectual impact with maximum effectiveness.

Motive is a germinal idea that is repeated in the course of a musical composition. There are two basic types. First, there are those defined by their rhythmic articulation and contour, as we hear, for example, in the opening measures of the D-Minor Quartet. These ideas occur on the musical surface, by which I mean as presented in the score and thus heard note-to-note. Second are those defined primarily by their pitch or scale-degree succession. These motives may occur at the musical surface, but also at deeper levels of the voice leading—not note-to-note, but nevertheless identifiable. Probably the most common idea of this second type is the neighbor-note motive that is articulated at or near the musical surface but also over longer spans of time. We will encounter both types in Schubert's music.

I have organized the following presentation into four categories, and within each category I will generally progress from simpler to more complex.

vs. ♭ (andvs. ♭)

There are various circumstances under which we encounter the interchange between scale degree 3 and ♭ , or and ♭ , or both. For example, it is com- mon in sonata-form movements in the minor mode to hear the second theme in the recapitulation stated in the tonic major, as, for example, in the late quar- tets in A minor and D minor. But in these circumstances there is not an imme- diate juxtaposition of ♭ and , though it should be noted that C♯ and A major are features of the first theme area of the A-Minor Quartet. Even in this last case I would not characterize this interchange of and ♭ as motivic. Examples where and ♭ do occur in relatively close proximity can be found in some of the shorter piano pieces, like the Impromptu in E-flat, D. 899, no. 2, and the Trio of the Impromptu in A-flat, D. 935, no. 2 (see ex. 1.3). These are clear examples of modal interchange, but not motivic repetition. What is required, at least in my mind, for this interchange to achieve motivic status is that and ♭ not only occur in close proximity but also be articulated in such a way that we hear them as related.

The intimate entanglements of electrical technologies and nervous phenomena belong to the better charted territories in the history of the neurosciences. The metaphors of the telegraph, switchboard, battery, or computing machinery make for familiar reading, as do narratives of laboratories in the midst of urban electrification or of scientists chasing imponderable fluids, nervous “messages,” and “codes”: from Leyden jars to Cold War electronics, historians of science have explored at great lengths the careers of animal electricity. Their actors, too, typically were quick to point to the signal importance of such entanglements. “The history of electrophysiology has been decided by the history of electric recording instruments,” as the great Edgar Adrian ventured in his Mechanism of Nervous Action (1932), his fellow British countrymen still recovering from the Faraday Centenary the year before (generally a cause for the celebration of electric progress, of course).

The very “gadgets” of physiology thus may have fostered the “kind of electrical double-talk concerning nerve” in which everyone indulged. Thus pondered Columbia neurophysiologist Harry Grundfest some twenty years later at the First Macy Conference on the “Nerve Impulse” in 1950—just having lived through yet another (this time electronic) upheaval in the annals of electrophysiology. Nuances apart, historians have mostly found themselves in agreements with such verdicts. And a very similar picture of entanglement will be belabored in the present essay, which deals with the production of electrophysiological knowledge in the proverbial “radio-age” of the 1920s and 1930s. But in doing so, I aim to add a historiographical twist to the story of nervous activity. This essay is less interested, that is, in showing how electrical things shaped, or did not shape, the sciences of the nervous system; nor is it to demonstrate that instruments or metaphors are important—historians of science already know that. Rather, it aims to show how these electrical things, their uses, and the knowledge effects they had may prompt us to reconsider the nature of those very sciences.

The first surgical operations on the nervous system originated as part of what contemporaries and later historians have called “physiological surgery.” The proponents of that type of surgery—among them early neurosurgeons— relied on experimental physiology as an important practical, epistemological, and rhetorical resource. Experimental science shaped their particularly thorough and gentle operating style; it provided them with reasons for carrying out particular interventions; it guided them in the way they conducted these interventions in practice; it gave them a frame of reference to evaluate their own and their colleagues’ work; and it helped them secure the profession's and the public's trust.

In this essay I will trace the history of physiological surgery in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, discuss its characteristics, and examine how it emerged within the dynamics of rapid technical change in surgery. I will examine its emergence as a result of the interaction of specific practices and knowledge of various types and also look at its function for justifying the expansion of modern surgery in general and early neurosurgery in particular.

This essay thus explores how the context of the origin of neurosurgery was shaped by a technical approach to body function. Body function was explored and controlled by technical means, and the knowledge produced in this way was seen as being exclusively technical knowledge, hiding, in fact, the intellectual conditions and preconceptions necessary for pursuing such an approach. By the same token, surgical interventions into the body and its functions were also increasingly defined as a purely technical matter. This is, of course, still the general approach in neurosurgery and neuroscience. This essay shows that this technical approach first emerged in relation to the body in general and was only applied to the brain more specifically in the context of physiological surgery. It thus points to a more general context of origin of modern neurosurgery and neuroscience. In doing this, it contributes to revealing the technical contingency of the modern approach to the brain and the interventions into this organ.

EXACTLY twenty years passed between the end of the Querelle des Bouffons and the beginning of the next great outburst of discord. Scholars interested primarily in the ideological, philosophical and musicological content of these debates rightly point out fundamental continuities with earlier phases in the argument, noting the recurrence, mutatis mutandis, of familiar oppositions structured around melody versus harmony, Italy versus France, elite versus demotic modes of appreciation. The intervening years had, too, seen much vigorous discussion of opera, so it is perfectly feasible to see the querelle of the Gluckistes and the Piccinnistes as differing only in intensity from an essentially on-going argument. Nonetheless, when one examines the tone and texture of the dispute that took hold from 1774 it becomes clear that this was an episode with its own very distinct identity, expressive of attitudes, uncertainties and challenges associated with the new reign of Louis XVI and, as some have argued, of the senescence of the latter days of the Bourbon regime.

As in the previous querelle, the occasion for this dispute was a startling innovation in the repertoire of the Académie Royale de Musique – the premiere in April 1774 of Iphigénie en Aulide. This was the first French opera of Christoph Willibald Gluck, a German-Bohemian composer of considerable experience and renown who had produced a string of exclusively Italian operas for courts and opera houses around Europe, notably Milan, Naples, Dresden, Prague and Vienna. Gluck's advent in Paris had been long preached by advocates of operatic reform and was prepared by a careful campaign of publicity in the press. Iphigénie en Aulide was a sensation, and was followed over the next five years by a string of French operas that were scarcely less successful. The important aspect of this success was the sheer intensity of feeling that these works seemed to generate, by comparison with the studied appreciation generally customary at the Paris Opéra. Writing of Orphée, the salonnière Julie de Lespinasse was at a loss for how to describe her reactions to its music:

The essays in this volume visit episodes in the history of the mind and brain sciences through the historical looking glass of the broader concepts of technique, technology, and therapy. In the last three decades, technique and technology in particular have commanded increasing attention from scholars working on the history of science and medicine, but they have been less explored by historians of neuroscience. Even therapy, which at first glance seems to have been widely discussed by scholars, has been explored only selectively; more marginal neurological therapies, for instance, have only recently captured historians’ attention. In putting together this volume, our first goal was to draw together more closely a community of scholars who study diverse topics pertaining to the history of the mind and brain sciences but who are also concerned about broader historiographical directions and who rely on similar conceptual styles. This volume was conceived as a meditation on the role that technique, technology, and therapy—as conceptual and rhetorical categories, as well as practical embodiments—have played in the constitution of the mind and brain sciences over the past one and a half centuries. Our second goal was to collect a series of papers able to provide a sophisticated and versatile teaching tool for graduate and senior undergraduate seminars.

Collectively, the papers contribute to and challenge some aspects of the current historiography of the neurosciences, which has broadly developed in a way that encourages constructing and thinking within grand narratives about progress in the studies of the mind and brain, and which tends to overemphasize the centrality of the human self within this history. In contrast, this volume makes a collective case for exploring the field through the lens of seemingly marginal stories—stories that appear, from a contemporary perspective—to be situated at the edges of history. By foregrounding these marginal stories, we hope to disrupt the standard narrative and to offer a competing view of the history of the mind and brain sciences. In place of a grand narrative, our volume offers a series of unconventional stories. In lieu of a linear history of progress, we suggest a congregation of fractured histories.

We will be examining two movements from the late quartets in some detail in this chapter: (1) the first movement from the Quartet in A Minor, D. 804, often referred to as the “Rosamunde” Quartet, since the theme of the second movement is based on one from the incidental music for Rosamunde; and (2) the first movement of the Quartet in D Minor, called “Death and the Maiden” because of the set of variations in the second movement based on Schubert's Lied “Der Tod und das Mädchen.” Both quartets were written in 1824, the A-Minor in February/ March and the D-Minor immediately thereafter. The “Rosamunde” was dedicated to Ignaz Schuppanzigh, the first violinist in a quartet that premiered several of Beethoven's as well as Schubert's quartets; the first performance was on March 14, 1824. The “Death and the Maiden” Quartet received its initial reading almost two years later in January 1826; the second reading was in the home of the composer Franz Lachner, with Schuppenzigh leading. Both quartets are in the minor mode, but their characters are quite different. One might describe the A-Minor Quartet as melancholy, but the mood of the D-Minor is darker, even despairing—a reflection of Schubert's contemplation on his own mortality and impending death.

Quartet in A Minor, D. 804 (I)

In some respects this beautiful movement is one of the most conservative—that is, least innovative—of Schubert's late works, but that by no means implies it is lacking in interest. For example, it demonstrates many of the items discussed in chapter 2 regarding hypermeter (changing hypermeter, metric reinterpretation, and successive downbeat measures) and phrase expansion, both external and internal. Regarding the latter, this movement contains clear examples of phrase expansion resulting from repetition of a segment of a phrase, extension of a single harmony (often chromatically transformed in the process), and parenthetical insertion. This movement also offers an interesting study in the employment of motives, both pitch and rhythmic types.

An outline of the formal and tonal plan of this movement is provided in table 7.1. Earlier it was noted that this movement is “classical” in its formal and tonal design.