So far, this book has mostly focussed on association with the household as a way of being at court. This chapter focusses on how those in the household carried that association into the world outside of the court. It shows that members of the household were important figures in the royal demesne, both as tenants and officers, but also that they brought the idea of the household into use in legal documentation concerning land and rights within the royal demesne and beyond, and that their association with the household in such documents could, apparently, last beyond the end of their formal connection to it.

Historiography on late medieval and early modern Scotland has emphasised the importance of the locality over the centre in elite politics and society. As Jenny Wormald noted, the ‘exercise of local power was never significantly threatened, even by adult kings of considerable personal power. Most of his subjects never saw the king and heard about his affairs only occasionally and belatedly’. For Wormald, this was a source of stability. She was sceptical about the attraction of offices at the centre in such a localised society, arguing that great men had to be persuaded to participate in central government. Wormald instead emphasised ‘the supreme importance of personal contact’ with the king ‘within a political structure that was institutionally underdeveloped’. However, she also acknowledged that, for Scotland's lesser nobility in particular, participation in national affairs was one way of distinguishing themselves. This chapter seeks not to look at this issue from the perspective of individuals in the localities seeking office in the centre but to look at what effect membership of the household, the institution that governed access to the king, had on an individual's position within society more broadly. Thus it does not seek to argue that central offices were more important than local influence but to measure the extent to which, if at all, membership of the household could be a route to higher status and power in wider society.

This line of enquiry might be regarded as a parallel to Wormald's emphasis on the importance of kin groups and bonded groups within society over ‘feudal’ structures.

As Jeroen Duindam has noted, ‘The princely court was first and foremost a group of persons around the ruler’. This chapter explores the relationship between the structure of the household outlined in the previous chapter and the day-to-day reality of the people who made up court. It should come as no surprise, of course, to find that the household, or at least parts of it, was at the heart of the court. However, the history of household offices in Scotland and elsewhere shows that there is not always a direct link between the holding of household office and the performance of service at court. Offices could change or lose their practical functions. For instance, until the reign of James I, the chief financial officer of the Scottish crown had been the chamberlain. During that reign the chamberlain's financial duties were divided between the comptroller and the treasurer, and the office of chamberlain continued, but without most of its former practical functions. Also, titles like esquire and knight of the household, based on evidence for the attendance of household knights elsewhere, do not allow us to simply assume that men holding them were in regular attendance at court. Similarly, the broad definitions of the household outlined in the previous chapter include many individuals or groups that do not seem likely to have been in permanent attendance on the king. The magnates amongst the lords temporal and spiritual had their own local affairs to run, for instance, and could not have spent all their time at court.

By exploring a wider range of source material, it is possible to find evidence about the activities of members of the household which sheds some light on the nature of the relationship between the court and the household, and between the structures of the household and the actual attendance and activities of its members. This chapter will focus on attendance and activities that had the primary purpose of serving the king, whereas other aspects of attendance and activity at court will be discussed further in the following chapter.

Two factors combined to produce this concerto in 1926: Bartók's burgeoning career as a concert pianist, and the beginning of a period of intense occupation with the percussive, often savage, element of the keyboard which came to a peak ten years later in the two masterpieces Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta and the Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion. The concerto was first performed at the International Society for Contemporary Music Festival in Frankfurt in 1927, with the composer as soloist and Wilhelm Furtwängler conducting.

sources

A  Autograph score, Stichvorlage for E, in the archive of Universal Edition, Vienna

E,P  First edition score and parts, published by Universal Edition in 1927

M  Miniature score, with either Universal or Philharmonia covers, probably published at the same time

E, P and M differ from one another in certain respects (below); it has not yet been established which is more authoritative. But M suffers from one clear deficiency: the total absence of the long and detailed list, present on page 2 of E, of instructions to the percussion in numbered paragraphs, corresponding with small figures above those parts throughout the work.

Though always fondly known as ‘Fingal's Cave’, this overture was (disappointingly, perhaps) actually conceived the day before Mendelssohn made his steamer trip to the rocky Isle of Staffa, famous for its ominous basalt pillars, like organ pipes, at the mouth of Fingal's Cave. Rather, it was on the cliff top at Oban, staring across the Firth of Lorn to Mull and the Hebrides, that the view struck him so forcefully that he immediately drew a pencil sketch of the islands. Later that day he crossed to Mull, and at Tobermory began the letter to his father which included, in short score, the first 101 bars of the overture that the scene had inspired. However, this was 1829; Mendelssohn spent the next three years attempting to work his sketches into a coherent musical form. The following year a draft was ready, entitled ‘The Lonely Island’ (‘Ouvertüre zur einsamen Insel’), and this was very soon succeeded by a full autograph score with the heading ‘Die Hebriden’, dated 16 December 1830 (in the Morgan Library, New York). However, Mendelssohn was unhappy with this score, and two years later, with the prospect of some concerts in England, he returned to the work, completing a fresh version in Spring 1832 which received its first performance in London on 14 May 1832 under the title ‘Overture to the Isles of Fingal’. Curiously the piece was first published in an arrangement by the composer for piano duet, by both Mori & Lavenu (London, with title The Overture to The Isles of Fingal) and Breitkopf & Härtel (Leipzig, with title Ouverture aux Hébrides (Fingals Höhle)) in 1833, apparently simultaneously.

The overture represents a complete departure in the history of music, without any apparent antecedent except perhaps Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony; such a dramatic depiction of the sea in music had never before been known. Wagner, whose overture to The Flying Dutchman is in some respects modelled on it, regarded it as Mendelssohn's finest work.

sources

A  Autograph score (1832), in the Bodleian Library, Oxford; a working copy with many revisions and corrections. Although A is completely furnished with dynamics and articulation, the text is not entirely in its final form; Mendelssohn made further revisions prior to publication. Hence A's text is far from binding, but can give us a degree of insight and guidance

P  First edition parts, published by Breitkopf & Härtel, Leipzig in 1834, with the title Ouverture zu den Hebriden (Fingals-Höhle)

E  First edition score, published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1835, with (only) the title Die Fingals-Höhle

Br  Full score edited by Julius Rietz, published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1874 as part of its Gesamtausgabe; this remains the recommended edition

The period between the two world wars was a relatively fallow one for Strauss. Nothing of first-rate importance had appeared since Ariadne auf Naxos in 1912, and it seemed as if his last decades would witness a similar decline to those of Sibelius. But Strauss, unlike Sibelius, still had some of his greatest and most beautiful music to write; for his art was to experience an Indian Summer virtually unparalleled in music, with such masterpieces as the Second Horn Concerto, the Oboe Concerto, Metamorphosen, and finally the heavenly Four Last Songs pouring from the great octogenarian's pen. Metamorphosen is arguably the profoundest and most complex of all these ‘Indian Summer’ works; far more than merely one product of this last upsurge of genius, it stands as a testament of personal tragedy and loss. In October 1943 the Munich Nationaltheater was destroyed in an air raid, a disaster which shook Strauss so deeply that he wrote: “This was the greatest catastrophe that has ever been brought into my life, for which there can be no consolation and, in my old age, no hope…”. Soon after this he jotted down the theme which was, in its final form, to become the kernel of Metamorphosen – inscribed with the words “Trauer um München” (Lament for Munich).

But Metamorphosen was a lament for much more than Munich. In February 1945 Dresden, the last German city standing, was utterly devastated. “…I too am in a mood of despair!”, Strauss wrote. “The Goethehaus, the world's greatest sanctuary, destroyed! My beautiful Dresden – Weimar – Munich, all gone!” And now the full score of Metamorphosen was completed almost within a month; clearly the work is a memorial to all those great German cities which Strauss had known and loved so well.

The ‘München’ theme first occurs in the ninth bar, stated by the back two violas. Its close resemblance to a famous theme from Beethoven's Eroica Symphony is obvious; but the extraordinary thing is that it was, at first, accidental. Only while working on it did Strauss recognise the similarity. To decide to make a special feature of this very resemblance, as he does at the end, instead of discarding the theme entirely, was a stroke of genius which added another dimension to the whole work. The metamorphosis, in other words, took place as the composition developed out of the sketches and not within the work itself, where the theme remains unchanged.

As all children and many adults know, play is serious business. Whether diversion, exploration, simulation, manipulation, or some combination thereof, it is at the very heart of how one learns about and navigates through the world. Indeed, it often amounts to a trial run or strategy for fulfilling one's most basic needs or desires. And though it may take such simple forms as throwing a ball or holding a doll, it often springs from imaginary realms built on complex blends of hope, experience, values, and beliefs, such as winning the Super Bowl with a last-second pass or raising the woman who catches it.

One extraordinarily fertile source for those constructs has long been the Middle Ages. Sufficiently documented and near enough to provide some guideposts, they are nevertheless so distant and amorphous as to facilitate a wide range of interpretations. Moreover, they have benefited from an accretion of responses that have softened their edges, diminished their banalities, and romanticized their singularities. Rather than struggling farmers who supplemented their income through infrequent raids, the Vikings have become fabulously rich warriors who lived to terrorize bookish monks, drink mead, and go a-wenching. Rather than spending long hours managing extensive bureaucracies and discontented subjects, not to mention spoiled, incompetent, and/or treacherous heirs, medieval monarchs have become full-time battle-managers with heroic sons who do nothing but slay monsters and rescue damsels in distress. And when women are not those beautiful damsels or Viking victims, they are warrior princesses and/or clones of, say, an impossibly feminist Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Play therefore offers insights on not only how the Middle Ages have been perceived but also how their interpreters have seen themselves, their surroundings, and perhaps (other) aspects of the intervening period. By examining how the past is treated in, say, a video game set amid the Crusades, one may not discover anything new about the Middle Ages, but one may learn a great deal about the designers’ knowledge of that era, their anticipation of such knowledge in their audience, and, particularly in their play on and supplementing of that knowledge, their own values and beliefs.

The Fifth Symphony was conceived optimistically in 1914 just after Sibelius had enjoyed a most successful trip to America, but was finally wrapped up only in 1919 when the world had become a very much darker place. In its original version, in four separate movements, it was premiered for Sibelius's 50th birthday concert in 1915 and received enthusiastically, but the composer remained dissatisfied, and insisted on revising its structure so that the first two movements are fused together. This 1916 version was duly performed on his 51st birthday, but this time, curiously, drew mixed reviews. Still disturbed, he withdrew it for over a year, nearly cut out the second half altogether and (briefly) considered issuing just the first half as a Symphonische Fantasie, but such drastic turbulence lasted only a few days, and by May 1919 all was restored, very much as it was in 1916 but with some relatively minor reworking. This final version was first performed, again under Sibelius's direction, in November 1919, and has remained one of his most popular symphonies. The grand, swinging horns theme in the finale was inspired by a sudden vision, outside his house, of no fewer than “sixteen swans. One of my greatest experiences! Lord God, that beauty! They circled over me for a long time. Disappeared into the solar haze like a gleaming, silver ribbon.”

sources

A  Autograph score, in the National Library of Finland, Helsinki

E,P  First edition score and parts, published by Wilhelm Hansen in 1921. The full score has Plate No.17538, the miniature 17539, surprising since the miniature is an exact reproduction of the full. This version was reprinted by Dover and is found online at IMSLP

F,R  Revision of E,P by Paavo Berglund (1974); the parts were completely recopied. This is now the only version of the symphony currently available from the publisher

In its original (1915) version there were four distinct movements. For the 1916 revision Sibelius created a continuous bridge between the first two, so that most commentators maintain there are now three movements; but no one would claim, on (after all) identical grounds, that Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony – or, indeed, Sibelius's own Second – has only three movements (the problem recurs in Mendelssohn, see above).

The Cello Concerto was composed in a burst of creative inspiration at the beginning of the last truly happy period of Schumann's life, just after he had moved from Dresden to Düsseldorf in September 1850 to take up his appointment as music director there. He completed it in just two weeks, then immediately wrote the ‘Rhenish’ Symphony. Though the concerto was not written with any known context, occasion, or even cellist in mind, it was perhaps not a coincidence that just three months earlier, at a concert to celebrate his 40th birthday, his friend Andreas Grabau had played the only other surviving work he wrote for solo cello, the Fünf Stücke im Volkston, op.102. Four years passed before publication, by which time Schumann was tortured by ‘inner voices’, but he was able to see the work through the press, and it was published in 1854 though not performed until 1860, four years after his death.

Apropos the Saint-Saëns concerto (above), it is interesting to note that Schumann did originally entitle this work Konzertstück; it is a few minutes longer than Saint- Saëns’s, but the way in which all the movements are linked is of course similar.

sources

A  Autograph score, housed in the Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Krakow; at the bottom of each page, below Pk, is Schumann's own Pf reduction

V  First edition Vc + Pf reduction, published by Breitkopf & Härtel, Leipzig in 1854

S  Solo Vc part, published together with V Where V = S (almost always), they are referred to below as E.

P  First edition orchestral parts, published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1854

No full score was published until:

Br  Breitkopf & Härtel Gesamtausgabe full score, published in 1883; the Eulenburg miniature has almost the identical text

Pe  Vc + Pf reduction published by C.F. Peters, Leipzig c.1887, essentially based on Br; for this report a more recent printing was used with a separate Vc part edited by Rudolf Metzmacher c.1965, published by Peters, Frankfurt; this often (interestingly) reverts to E

EE  Miniature score, published by Eulenburg c.1938; text taken from Br

Ub  Breitkopf & Härtel Urtext edition Vc + Pf reduction, edited by Joachim Draheim and published in 1995; generally, simply follows E

This chapter deals with the theoretical assertions of Roman primacy during Honorius II's papacy and the consequences this entailed for the Church as a whole. The methodological approach takes Roman primacy as a ‘living entity’, ever evolving, to which each pontificate added new elements without following a predetermined plan. Everything was left fluid and uncertain except the idea that the Church should be fully oriented towards Rome, the only source of legitimacy, as clearly expressed by Fragment A, an anonymous text that probably circulated in the last years of the pontificate of Gregory VII and was included in the Collectio canonum of Cardinal Deusdedit, dedicated to Victor III (1086–1087). However, this idea of papal centrality was problematic and generated criticism even among the reformers, as attested by the same Fragment A (and by the whole collection of Deusdedit).

My argument is that Honorius II's pontificate can be seen as a normalising, bureaucratic, legal, and practical papacy with a significant degree of creativity. Certain previous assertions were clarified and given a legal basis. They were expressed in new ways, but further elements were also added to their contents, often adapted to the pope's needs and the situations in which each assertion was used. This chapter shows how most of these innovations were triggered by the newly peaceful situation after the clash with the Empire. The twelfth century was a period in which Rome was improving its instruments for governing the Church, and this alteration was in accordance with the radical changes in this century in general, which has resulted in the idea of a ‘Twelfth-Century Renaissance’.

Most of the assertions of primacy are found in the so-called Primatsarengen, to use Heinrich Fichtenau's term. Roughly 200 of the extant letters start with a proposition expressing and claiming a role of supremacy for Rome. Particular attention will be paid to the language and context of these epistles and to their recipients in order to determine how far these elements influenced the style and tone. The lack of surviving canon law collections produced during this papacy also makes it necessary to use these letters: according to Lotte Kéry's list, only the Collectio Catalaunensis I (either 1125 or 1130) and the Collectio 9 librorum (written in about 1123 but, according to Gilchrist, compiled in about 1125) may be ascribed to these years.

We think of Romeo and Juliet as being quintessentially Tchaikovsky at his best, white-hot with inspiration, and indeed it is one of his most exciting and successful works. What is astonishing is how much it owes to the specific instructions of his admirer, Balakirev. Shortly after the first performance of his Symphony No.1 in Moscow in 1868, Tchaikovsky, still only 28 and virtually unknown, visited St Petersburg and for the first time met the immensely influential Balakirev, head of the “Mighty Handful” group of nationalist composers that included Borodin, Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov. Out for a walk together in May 1869, Balakirev suggested – to us today, such bold presumption, yet also prescience, seems quite extraordinary – the composition of an overture based on Romeo and Juliet, and Tchaikovsky responded to the proposal with enthusiasm. Balakirev laid down the entire road map for the work, even as far as characters, keys and tempi: it was to begin with a religioso introduction portraying Friar Laurence, followed by a sonata-form Allegro in B minor illustrating the two feuding families and a love theme in D flat (these two were Balakirev's favourite keys); these would be developed, and the piece end with the death of the lovers. Tchaikovsky meekly followed the older master's demands, went away, and wrote what is unquestionably his first masterpiece, exceeding in quality anything ever written by Balakirev. However, the process by which he arrived at the piece we now know and love was far from effortless. In its original version it was completed in November 1869 and first performed in March 1870 under Nikolai Rubinstein, but it was a failure, and he set about a drastic revision, accepting Balakirev's criticism that the entire opening section had to be rewritten. A second version was performed in 1872 under Nápravník, but as so often Tchaikovsky was still not satisfied, and only after his final revisions in 1880 – by which time he had of course written the Fourth Symphony – was the piece ready for publication in 1881. Surprisingly, however, its first performance did not take place until April 1886, in Tbilisi under Ippolitov-Ivanov.

This chapter will continue the analysis of Roman primacy by focusing on the tactics that Honorius's papacy used to assert its superiority vis-à-vis other ecclesiastical institutions. Most of these strategies were first ‘created’ or changed to meet the requirements of a papacy claiming supremacy over the whole Church as early as the second half of the eleventh century. The process was not linear but was dictated by the perspective and circumstances in which each pope found himself. The chapter examines the instruments which Honorius's papacy took from previous pontiffs, how this papacy adapted them for its own use, and how and when they were implemented, considering the context in which they were used and, where possible, their effectiveness.

The chapter is divided into seven parts, each focusing on a specific instrument: Honorius's relationship with Canon and Roman law; the redefinition of regular canons; the office of papal legates; the celebration of councils; the visitatio ad limina; the pallium; and the imitatio imperii.

A lawyer pope?

The focus of this section is on the increasing role of Rome as the jurisdictional apex of the Church, and the important role played by the papal Curia in the 1120s. Further examples will be introduced since some scholars, such as Emanuele Conte and Chris Wickham, consider Innocent's pontificate to be the sole turning point in this debate. However, elements of practice that were later given greater coherence under Innocent II are already visible under Honorius, at least in their embryonic stage. Particular attention will be given to the context in which the pope operated, since there was no schism to be a driving force for the changes, as was to be the case for his two successors. Understanding the use of both Canon and Roman law in Honorius's letters will help inform the ongoing debate on the period regarding how Gratian's Decretum was created and how the law schools developed.

As mentioned in the Introduction, information on Honorius prior to his appointment as cardinal-bishop of Ostia is scarce; therefore, it is very difficult to speculate about his formative years.

This book has analysed Honorius II's papacy from an ecclesiological point of view – that is, Honorius's view of the Church and of the world. The examination of the chancery's extant letters, the context in which they were produced, and their aims have proved that the image of a transitional and colourless pontificate is not appropriate. The historiography has all too frequently overlooked Honorius; perhaps because of the brevity of his papacy, historians have focused on his immediate predecessors and successors. The study of this pontificate as a preamble to the double election of 1130 does not do justice to its importance. It suggests the idea that this pope deserves attention only for the links with what happened later. In contrast, my study has shown that Honorius's pontificate was an important one, during which significant steps were taken in the government of the whole Church. His pontificate was multi-faceted, revealing significant complexity but also some ambiguities that have never been pointed out in previous work.

The main image of Honorius is that of a cautious innovator. During his pontificate, claims were made in different areas – albeit not at the level of the greatest innovators – and always based on the context for which they were produced. The novelties can be divided into two categories, reflected in the division of the chapters of this book. The first group includes changes at a theoretical level, particularly in the assertion of Roman primacy. As the first chapter demonstrated, although there are no abstract letter-manifestos, Honorius's innovations were rooted in the practical reasons for which the epistles were sent, as tools for governing the Church. The papal chancery played a decisive role in the development of new claims – such as the focus on maternal images, the almost exclusive use of utilitas, and the possible assertion that one should obey Peter to save his or her soul – proving itself to be creative, ready to interpret what was needed and convey the different nuances of meaning intended by the pope. Clear evidence for this lies in the fact that most of the arengae appearing in Honorius's letters were first introduced during this papacy. Thus, they were thought out and produced each time to meet a specific need. There was a synergy between Honorius and his chancery, a joint action in creating the ecclesiology of this pontificate and adapting it to different situations.

Ravel was such a fine pianist that it is surprising he did not write a concerto earlier, and fortuitous that just before his final, debilitating illness set in in 1932 he just managed to squeeze in two. This G major concerto was the first to be conceived – he had had hopes of polishing up his rusty piano technique in order to play it himself – but before he could set to work on it seriously there came the commission from the Austrian pianist Paul Wittgenstein, who had lost an arm in the war and was anxious to have a concerto for the left hand only. The two works occupied Ravel for the whole of 1930 and most of 1931, the Concerto for Left Hand being finished first and performed in November 1931, the G major one played (in the end) by its dedicatee Marguerite Long, under the composer's direction, in January 1932, first in Paris, then on tour all over Europe. Ravel insisted it was written “very much in the same spirit as those of Mozart and Saint-Saëns. The music of a concerto, in my opinion, should be gay and brilliant, and not aim at profundity or dramatic effects.” He went on to admit that the work contained touches of jazz, “but not many”.

sources

A  Autograph score (1931), Stichvorlage for E; private collection, Monaco. For a few readings I am grateful to Douglas Woodfull-Harris (Bärenreiter-Verlag)

P  First edition parts, published by Durand in January 1932

V  First edition for 2 pianos, published by Durand in January 1932

E  First edition score, published by Durand in January 1932

F,P’   Revised score and parts, published in 1966

The only score and parts now generally available (also online at IMSLP) are F and P’, whose text dates from 1966. The obvious question, as to how far differences from the original text in E are authentic, is mostly unanswerable; their origin is obscure. Worryingly, almost all have no traceable evidence of authenticity, but seem to have been made by the publishers arbitrarily.

Brahms wrote this concerto, one of the two or three most masterly violin concertos in the repertoire, especially for his close friend, the Hungarian violinist Joseph Joachim. Joachim was a fine composer himself, had dedicated his own Violin Concerto in D “in the Hungarian style” to Brahms in 1861, and now collaborated intimately with him, just as Ferdinand David had earlier with Mendelssohn, on the details of the solo part. He premiered it, with Brahms conducting, in Leipzig on New Year's Day 1879, after which Brahms made further revisions before publication in October that same year.

sources

A  Autograph score (1878) in the Library of Congress, Washington D.C., who published it in facsimile in 1979 (viewable online at IMSLP)

E,P  First Edition, published in score and parts by Simrock, Berlin in 1879

EE  Miniature score, published c.1915 by Eulenburg

Br  Breitkopf & Härtel full score, edited by Hans Gál and published in 1926

Uh  Urtext edition, edited by Linda Correll Roesner and Michael Struck and published by Henle in 2004

Ub  Urtext edition, edited by Clive Brown and published by Bärenreiter in 2006

Where Uh and Ub agree, they are referred to as Ur

This concerto was conceived as early as 1830 when Liszt was still in his teens. Like many of his orchestral works, it was subjected to a lengthy process of revision in many stages. It was essentially completed in 1849, in an early form with the title (borrowed from Litolff) Concerto Symphonique, but was again revised in 1853. By this time Liszt had virtually given up playing the piano professionally, only making occasional appearances at Weimar Court concerts or charity concerts elsewhere. He never played any of his later works for piano and orchestra in public; though he did occasionally perform this one, and its first performance took place in Weimar in February 1855 with the composer as soloist and Berlioz conducting. Further minor revisions followed before publication at the end of 1856. The work aroused some critical hostility due to its prominent triangle part in the scherzo section; but we may assume this very iconoclasm contributed greatly to Berlioz's enjoyment.

sources

A  Autograph full score (by 1849; often sketchy), in the Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv, Weimar

B  Copyist's manuscript, copied from A, with autograph revisions, also in the Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv, Weimar

C1  Copyist's manuscript, copied from B, with further autograph revisions, in the Library of Congress, Washington D.C.

C2  Copyist's manuscript, copied from C1, with further autograph revisions, in the Morgan Library, New York

D  Copyist's manuscript, Stichvorlage for E, copied from C2, with further autograph revisions, in the Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv, Weimar

E  First edition of full score, published by Carl Haslinger in 1856

EE1  Miniature score (c.1910), published by Ernst Eulenburg, Leipzig

Br  Full score, edited by Bernhard Stavenhagen (a pupil of Liszt) and published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1914

EE2  Reprint of EE1 (c.1950) with foreword by Max Alberti and bar numbers added

Ur  Urtext edition, edited by Ferenc Rados, published by Editio Budapest in 1992