The Composer as Process

Fabio Morabito – Louise Bernard de Raymond

(University of Alberta – Université de Tours)

A ntoine Reicha (1770-1836) is mostly unknown to the general

public today. Neither this, nor the two other recorded spellings of his
name — Antonín Rejcha and Anton Reicha, relics of early relocations
between Prague, Bonn, Hamburg and Vienna before settling in Paris —
became a mainstay of the Western music tradition. Among musicologists and
performers, Reicha is only relatively more familiar in the history of music.
Music theorists tend to remember him for his early pedagogical discussions
of sonata form; wind players, although few perform his music, confidently
identify Reicha as a composer of wind quintets (if only because he wrote as
many as twenty-four of them).
Being at the periphery of mainstream concert programming or
musicological discourses is, of course, hardly exceptional. Most early nineteenth-
century musicians who did not, in the eyes of posterity, achieve the status
and influence of those such as Beethoven, Rossini, Schubert or Berlioz have
suffered similar neglect. When approaching the study of a Kleinmeister (in the
words of Elisabeth Le Guin, a «music-historical also-ran») scholars have typically
proposed narratives of compositional innovation as a way of rehabilitation. For
instance, on the very first page of Le Guin’s landmark Boccherini’s Body: An
Essay in Carnal Musicology, the reader is given a list of reasons why Boccherini
‘matters’; why a group of musicologists might devote themselves to the study
of this figure, and might then call each other «Boccherini scholars»:

Boccherini was prolific, highly regarded in his own day,

and a significant innovator: to name but a few generally agreed-
upon matters, he was the first composer of instrumental music to
explore the psychological subtleties of inter-movement cyclic
construction, and his idiosyncratic harmonic language anticipates
the substitutions and evasions of the tonic-dominant relationship
generally attributed to later generations […] one can add to this
 list the fact that his string trios and quartets from the 1760s are
among the very first compositions in these genres to explore the
independent, highly characterised part writing that was to become
the hallmark of classic chamber music; and that he confirmed the
string quintet as a genre with expressive potential to rival (some would
say, exceed) that of the quartet. There is more, documented in
a modest but continuing burgeoning of Boccherini scholarship.
The bicentenary of Boccherini’s death in 2005 has produced an
interesting crop of commemorations scholarly and artistic1.

As our added italics show, the language of progress, of doing something

before others, and with important repercussions on others — even on us
today — is the key. Evoking the term Kleinmeister was only an opening gambit.
Boccherini, we are told, was no such thing. He was an agent of change, of
significant contributions to the development of musical genres central to the
Western tradition. His reintegration into the main narrative of the history of
music is under way thanks to a group of scholars united in this mission2. The
promise is of musical treasures brought back from undeserved oblivion.
Reicha, like many others, has been offered an all too similar redemption.
The two most recent large-scale projects on the composer explicitly reclaim for
him a place «of the highest importance» in the history of nineteenth-century
music3. (As in the case of Le Guin’s book, here we are zooming in only on one
aspect of the framework they propose to probe a longer disciplinary history
and its implications.) The series Écrits inédits et oubliés (4 volumes,
2011-2015) is a new edition of Reicha’s early writings, which had remained
mostly unpublished4. The editors have undertaken the mammoth task of
making
1
. Le Guin 2006, pp. 1-2; emphases added.
2
. As of December 2019, a Google search of the expression «Boccherini scholars» returns
21 results and 23 for «Boccherini scholar», in the singular. (As a comparison, the same searches
for Beethoven return 2110 and 2100 results respectively). Most occurrences simply characterise
someone who has done research on Boccherini, whether in the past or more recently. But
the profile of scholar Le Guin talks about seems to share with her «some of the zeal of the
reclaimer and rehabilitator […] sometimes crossing the line into passionate partisanship» (p. 1),
suggesting rather people who meet at the same subject-specific conferences, or organise
themselves in societies promoting the publication, study and valorisation of the work of a
specific composer.
3
. Bernard de Raymond – Bartoli – Schneider 2015, back cover. Much in the same
spirit, the introduction depicts Reicha as a «figure centrale du xixe siècle, à la fois originale
et profondément ancrée dans son époque — mais paradoxalement assez peu étudiée […] une
personnalité créatrice de premier plan qui a laissé aussi bien comme compositeur que comme
théoricien une durable empreinte dans cette période d’importantes mutations». Ibidem, pp. 1, 4.
4
. Reicha 2011-2015.
viii
these texts available as a corpus: they translate and offer them in a bilingual
edition (original and translation on facing pages), circumventing the fact
that some were written by Reicha in German and some in French, another
tangible legacy of the composer’s early wanderings. As the title chosen for the
collection implies, their hope is that these «novel», «forgotten» sources may
serve as a corrective to long held views, inaugurating a new image of Reicha,
at last giving credit to the elevated «standard of his thought» and «the great
originality of his teachings»5. Answering this call, a conference and resulting
volume, the first ever collaborative book on Reicha, came shortly thereafter6.
Antoine Reicha, compositeur et théoricien (2015) is a collection of eighteen
exploratory contributions in three research areas: Reicha’s life and aesthetics;
his theoretical writings; and his musical output (in genres as varied as fantasies,
fugues, chamber music, symphonies, operas, etc.). With this organisation, the
volume is a pioneering attempt to establish Reicha as a field of study in his
own right. Aspirationally, it has for Reicha the same prospects as Le Guin for
Boccherini in 2005, and those Otto Jahn and Robert Schumann among others
had in 1850 when they founded the Bach-Gesellschaft on the centenary of
J. S. Bach’s death. The contributors to the 2015 collection can be imagined
as meeting in an experimental, virtual ‘Reicha Society’. Working under such
a banner, scholars usually do not think of themselves as contributing to a
project of the same scale as, say, Bach’s complete critical edition. Le Guin’s
characterisation of Boccherini scholarship as both «burgeoning» and «modest»
suggests an awareness that such a composer is unlikely to attract the same mode
of scholarly scrutiny as Bach or Beethoven. But the framework of musicological
enquiry both Le Guin and these pioneers of Reicha scholarship are calling for
is that of the nineteenth-century musical monument: the founding tradition of
Western musicology as the specialist study of great composers or, in this case,
of individuals ‘rediscovered’ as such.
This tradition of music historiography has come under scrutiny over the
past few decades. For one, the selection of music history’s protagonists based
on their influence over the development of the art has been unmasked in
its ideological underpinnings as the product of a specific nineteenth-century
world-view: a fascination with progress that had roots in the Enlightenment,
and Hegelian ideas of history as the progressive, inevitable unfolding of the

5. Audeon – Ramaut – Schneider 2011, pp. 8, 12.

6. The introduction to the proceedings specifies how the publication of the Écrits inédits
et oubliés «stimulated the idea of a first international conference dedicated to [Reicha]». For a
report of the conference that took place in Paris, 18-20 April 2013, see Flamm 2014. For the
proceedings, see Bernard de Raymond – Bartoli – Schneider 2015.
ix
«world soul». (A ‘world’ in which, at least musically, Italy, Germany and France
were collectively considered to lead the way7.) In such an essentially teleological
model, if an event or piece of music had not made the art progress, then it was
not worthy of representation in the dialectic shaping the following steps. It was
not the stuff of history8. These ideas became deeply embedded in the language
of music criticism (such as that of Franz Brendel in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik),
and later in musicology as a hallmark of modernist historiography9. Moving
away from seeing ‘great’ composers as vehicles of progress has incited discipline-
wide reflections about what kind of historiographical narratives we might pursue
today, with key repercussions on studies dedicated to individual musicians. One
direction in this rethinking has involved casting a wider cultural net, opening
up the pool of agents considered in the production of musical meaning and
our archaeologies of it. Typically, composers are now historicised in thickly
textured accounts, where they feature alongside their patrons, publishers,
performers, listeners, consumers, critics, friends, pupils, fans, etc., deepening
our understanding of the social contexts in which they functioned and the
broader cultural discourses (embracing politics, religion, literature, philosophy,
arts, sciences, etc.) in which they participated10. This attitude can be glimpsed
already in the series of edited collections published by university presses such as
Princeton (composer-x and His/Her World), Oxford (Rethinking composer-y)
and Cambridge (composer-z in Context). The authors in these volumes are
increasingly less ‘composer-x specialists’ or ‘composer-y scholars’, at least in the
sense of devotees making available systematic, life-encompassing explorations of
their chosen composer’s outputs and sources. Recent monographs illustrate the
same tendency from a different perspective. Emanuele Senici’s Music in the Present
Tense (2019) is as much about the Italians coping with the trauma of Napoleonic
invasions as it is about Rossini’s Italian operas11. Or, to mention someone who
will never have a scholarly society of her own (if only because sources about

7
. See for instance Brendel 1867, pp. 1-2; and Gur 2012.
8
. See Taruskin 2005, vol. iii (Music in the Nineteenth-Century), p. xxiii and ch. 40, par.
‘Historicism’. For instance, the characterisation of England as «das Land ohne Musik», the land
without music (Schmitz 1914) was first predicated precisely on the notion that English musicians
had failed to contribute to the development of the art (and, by extension, to the pantheon of
great names in the Western musical canon) as much as their colleagues on the Continent.
9
. Taruskin 2005, vol. iii, ch. 40, par. ‘New German School’; Cook – Pople 2004, p. 4;
Tomlinson 2007, pp. 367-369.
10
. Among the classic texts and interventions, in this respect, one may list Foucault
1969, Kerman 1980, Becker 1982, Tomlinson 1984, McClary 1989, Kramer 1990, and
Jameson 1991 (with his famous postmodern stance on the ‘death of history’ — particularly
modernist history — and the impossibility of stylistic innovation).
11
. Senici 2019, p. 16.
x
her are scanty12), Anna Magdalena Bach’s notebooks are investigated in David
Yearsley’s Sex, Death, and Minuets (2019) for what they reveal about the ethical
and familial attitudes of contemporary Lutheran women. Neither Rossini nor
Anna Magdalena Bach are discussed for how they ‘matter’ in history.
How might a group of musicologists, then, come together today to work
on a non-canonical composer, without retrospectively making a monument
out of him or her? Why and how did we come to write this book about Reicha?
One might note, from the outset, that (as for Rossini and Anna Magdalena
Bach in the studies mentioned above) this is not a book just about Reicha.
The «Reicha and» in our title makes that explicit. But as well as proposing
Reicha as a window onto wider cultural phenomena we have assembled a
team of contributors with a specific vision: to reflect on and, at times, reassess
our disciplinary toolkit and approaches to the study of nineteenth-century
composers. Put another way, we challenged our authors to work on Reicha
for a readership not necessarily interested in the composer exclusively, but
addressing issues and perspectives relevant for countless other musicians in
the same period. This attitude might be considered, methodologically, the
natural next step from the current situation, in which musicologists are moving
away from identifying as, say, ‘Schumann scholars’ or seeing themselves as
contributing to ‘Schubert studies’. Our standpoint sits at the opposite end
of the spectrum from claims that Schumann and Schubert require separate
consideration to showcase their unique contributions to history. Every
perspective brings certain aspects into relief and pushes others into the
background, and naturally we are not proposing to flatten out the specificities
of different nineteenth-century composers or their music. Yet it is significant
that, for instance, the recent volumes dedicated to Schumann and Schubert in
the Oxford’s Rethinking series share one key objective: to debunk myths of the
solitary composer divorced from reality, thus able to produce historic works13.
In this perspective, we contend, it is not just Schumann or Schubert that need
rethinking, but the model of nineteenth-century composer that musicologists
have tended to use as a framework; a model long considered best incarnated
by Beethoven in his becoming deaf (and, hence, also deaf to fashions, other
composers and society)14. This is the same model that made musicologists look

12
. Yearsley 2019, pp. xix, xxiv.
13
. Kok – Tunbridge 2011, p. vi and Byrne Bodley – Horton 2016, p. 3.
14
. On Beethoven’s deafness as a potent paradigm in the imaginary of the nineteenth-
century composer (and, using the latter as a blueprint, of composers from many other eras)
see for instance Knittel 1998 and Morabito 2020. These historiographical tendencies, as we
have stressed above, are already problematised and are not representative of the current state
xi
in the first place for what distinguished, say, Schumann from Schubert, rather
than what they had in common. The rethinking we propose is thus of a more
systemic kind: it is about none of these individuals in particular (Beethoven,
Schubert, Reicha, Boccherini, etc.) but about us studying them. It is testing
new and old ways to continue tackling the myth of the nineteenth-century
composer and its disciplinary baggage.
In rethinking some of the key categories we use in discussing the
nineteenth-century composer, Reicha provides a particularly fitting case
study15. He was a composer who wrote extensively about what a professional
composer should be, or should sound like, in these decades. From his earliest
theoretical writings (1799—) and published composition treatises (1814—), to
his role as professor of counterpoint and fugue at the Paris Conservatoire (from
1818 until his death in 1836), Reicha devoted considerable effort to theorising
the prototypical modern composer. That he carried out these reflections both
for his own benefit, thinking strategically about the ‘making’ of himself in the
profession, and for his students, can be spotted in his compositions (where
at times it is difficult to distinguish between artistic, didactic or theoretical
purposes16); and in that his system of treatises seems to have been conceived, at
least in part, in defence of his musical creations. A case in point is that of Reicha’s
operas. His draft autobiography lists with sarcasm a series of «encouragements
to compose dramatic music», numbering the struggles to get his early attempts
at the genre staged, and then the cold reception endured by Cagliostro (1810),
Natalie (1816) and Sapho (1822), concluding that, to be successful, operas
had to be mere entertainment: something Reicha had neither talent for
nor interest in17. Reicha’s autobiography in this sense reads as an apologia
for why he did not become an opera composer. But in 1833 he published a
treatise, Art du compositeur dramatique (Art of the Dramatic Composer), on the

of the field. The longue durée view we are offering here — focused on a few, slowly evolving
structures shaping answers to the question of how, why or to what end we tell stories about
composers in musicology — is intended as a premise to extend upon this ongoing discourse.
15
. Of course, we are not claiming that Reicha was unique in this. We envision
continuing to rethink these categories in projects considering various nineteenth-century
musicians together. In this volume, however, we are interested in experimenting on the ways
in which one might, given the reflections above, work on an individual composer today.
As will become clear, this is also by no means a book ‘just about Reicha’ in the sense that
he is hardly the protagonist of the stories we tell: we zoom in and out on the composer, go
sideways, etc. We hope to contribute to the ongoing methodological discourse also carried
forward in recent conferences and publications planned for the occasions of the anniversaries
of Clara Schumann (2019) and Beethoven (2020), among others.
16
. See Stone 2001, par. 1, and Bernard de Raymond 2014.
17
. Reicha 2011, pp. 90-96.
xii
 The Composer as Process
subject of how to compose operas «exempt from reproaches» of being poorly
written18. Remarkably, in this treatise Reicha used only examples from his
own Natalie, Sapho and Philoctète (another opera he never managed to stage),
a choice that can be readily interpreted as aiming to illustrate his theoretical
precepts while, indirectly, demonstrating the worth of his music. Furthermore,
in quoting the most salient numbers of these works in a separate volume of
vocal scores «accompanying» the treatise, Reicha almost certainly aimed to
preserve the essence of his operas for posthumous reappraisal, as suggested in
the autobiography: «I will try to have them [somehow] engraved… posterity
will judge. I am convinced that Sapho, which fell, will live longer than so many
works that have succeeded nowadays, exalted in the press, and raised high up
in the skies»19 of dramatic music.
The high degree of self-consciousness evident in Reicha’s commentaries
and handling of his operas defies the image of the composer absorbed in his art,
‘deaf’ to the voice of critics. While he claims that the genre was a waste of time
for him, he clearly went to repeated and painstaking efforts to become, if only
belatedly, one of the stars of the operatic firmament. This comes as no surprise,
and similar attempts at crafting one’s artistic persona in certain ways to influence
one’s reception have been observed in countless sources to do with musicians
from this period onwards20. Reicha’s sources make it only more apparent in
the additional refractions with (and the reflexivity of) the pedagogical material
he authored. Our choice to work on Reicha, then, can be considered in
the first instance part of the renewed disciplinary engagement with the topic
of music education in the nineteenth century. Over the past fifteen years,

18
. Reicha 1833, p. ii. The original passage reads: «on ne parviendra pas à écrire avec
connaissance de cause, à juger sainement des qualités ou des défauts de ses ouvrages, à créer
surtout des œuvres exempts de reproches, sans instructions verbales, c’est-à-dire sans un bon
maître […] il était donc nécessaire que les Elèves pussent les trouver dans un corps de doctrine
raisonnée sur la matière dont il s’agit».
19
. «Je tacherai de faire graver les partitions de Philoctète et de Sapho […] la posterité la
jugera, je suis persuadée que Sapho tombée vivra plus long-temps que tant d’ouvrages qui ont
réussi de nos jours, qui furent pronés dans les journaux, dont plusieurs même ont été porté
aux nues». Reicha 2011, p. 96. Reicha also published some separate numbers from Sapho et
Natalie (the overture, important arias, etc.) arranged for four-hands piano, for piano and violin
accompaniment, and for voice and piano or harp.
20
. See, for instance, Tolley 2001, Sisman 2005 and Vazsonyi 2010. In the century
and a half between the birth of Haydn (1732) and the death of Brahms (1897), the figure of
the professional musician went from a servant in churches or courts, to a celebrity whose
livelihood depended on attracting the attention of ever wider audiences. On the reflexivity
that accompanied this rewriting of the rules of engagement with the public, see Morabito
forthcoming.
xiii
musicology has rediscovered an interest in education as a useful corrective to
seeing nineteenth-century musicians as inspired, independent creative spirits.
Secondly, given Reicha’s all-too-obvious work on his own artistic image, a
book on him is an opportunity to refine our methods of accounting for the
ways in which nineteenth-century musicians handled their professional careers
themselves as works of art. In Reicha’s case, this impression is so vivid that at
times one can imagine him tinkering in real time with his résumé to gain a
place — dead or alive — in music’s hall of fame. His three applications to get
elected to the music section of the Institut de France provide a glimpse of his
recurrent posturing21. Just as Reicha did, most professional composers in these
decades framed their own achievements, or those of their colleagues, elbowing
to become mainstay names in the eyes and ears of the public. In this respect, the
‘composer society’ approach of the musicological tradition, making available
the complete music and writings (treatises, letters, etc.) of individual composers,
may effectively bring these nineteenth-century actors and their poses back from
the dead22. The critical edition of composer-x’s writings risks sanctioning the
vision composer-x had of their career and legacy for the public, re-enacting
the process of canonisation that has been at work since; or, for composers like
Reicha, helping them implement, at last, their own version of history.
We need alternative modes of enquiry sensitive to composers’ attempts
at becoming composers. To catch them ‘in the making’ is an opportunity to
ask what it meant to be a composer or to study composition in a given context
and, methodologically, what approaches musicologists can use to explore the
composer as process: not a statuary-like body of works and achievements, but
the priorities and anxieties of these individuals in crafting their artistic identities
for the public23. What Schubert and Schumann had in common with Reicha,
Beethoven and many others is that they thought self-consciously about how to
make themselves the ‘great composers’ of their generation. We want to attend
to the perspectives of a variety of historical agents, and the debates about
which ideal-composer ‘boxes’ one ought to check; while also problematising

21
. Reicha applied to the Académie des Beaux-Arts in 1829 (after Gossec’s death), in 1831
(after Catel’s death), and in 1835 (after Boieldieu’s death, when his application was finally
successful); see Reicha 2011, pp. 110-112.
22
. Ernst Kris and Otto Kurz make a similar observation as they evoke the concept of
«enacted biography» in discussing the historiography of artistic personalities more generally;
see Kris – Kurz 1979, p. 2. The issue, of course, is not confined to the nineteenth century. It
continues through to the present — more so, since artists have left more and more documentary
traces, knowing full well that someone will study them.
23
. The connection between the earliest monuments dedicated, for instance, to the
memory of Haydn and plans for the complete edition of his work is explored in Head 2000.
xiv
the checkbox lists that musicologists have been using to assess composers in
studies of nineteenth-century music culture. Different definitions of ‘ideal
composer’ or ‘great music’ have almost limitless ramifications for the categories
we choose in music analysis, or the hierarchies through which we see (and the
space we allocate to) different agents in historical narratives. One advantage
of exploring these nineteenth-century definitions as themselves in flux, and as
they were actively debated, is to become aware of the plurality of models of
ideal composer (and music) being championed, theorised, ridiculed, defended,
embodied, marginalised, etc., in the same years, in the same city, and between
the walls of the same building. (In Reicha’s case the Paris Conservatoire comes
to mind, but any meeting place of musicians should be thought of as a likely
stage for such disputes.) We read this plurality of models as an invitation to
avoid organising individuals into geographical traditions and professional ranks,
such as opera composer, composer-critic, pedagogue, arranger, performer-
composer, theorist, composer-publisher, etc. Most professional musicians in
this period had extremely multifaceted careers, characterised by a versatile,
‘can do’ attitude. Reicha’s attempts to become a name in a variety of contexts,
cities, genres (from the world of opera to that of the wind quintet) and kinds
of musical occupations (composing, teaching, writing treatises, etc.) were the
norm in the nineteenth century, in a way that the categories listed at the top
of almost every New Grove Dictionary entry for these personalities inevitably
struggle to capture. But, even more saliently, these characterisations tend to
signal deviations from a particular image of nineteenth-century composer:
inspired and absorbed in one’s own music (thus not much of a teacher, arranger,
publisher, etc.), devoted to serious high art (thus uninterested in engaging the
masses, in publicity, etc.) and, of course, male24. The ten chapters in this book,
all using Reicha as a case study, engage with some of the different bodies of
musicological scholarship that have been individually eroding items from this
checklist. In this sense, our book as a whole offers a snapshot of where the
research on rethinking the nineteenth-century composer currently stands in
these areas, while testing some new, possible routes forward.

24
. The beginning of Reicha’s entry reads: «Czech composer, active in France and
Austria. Though a prolific composer, he was of particular importance as a theorist and teacher
in early 19th-century Paris». Stone 2001, our emphasis. In comparison, the same descriptors
for Brahms and Wagner have them only as «German composer» or «composer», next to a short
paragraph summarising their achievements in the progress of Western art music. The fact that,
say, Brahms’s other musical ‘hats’ as professional conductor and performer did not make it
in this succinct profile is indicative of the higher value accorded to his unique contribution
to the history of compositional innovations; see Bozarth – Frisch 2001 and Millington –
Deathridge – Dahlhaus – Bailey 2001.
xv
 Fabio Morabito – Louise Bernard de Raymond
One attitude that has, over the past decades, reshaped the field of
nineteenth-century music research has seen scholars avoiding — and at
times openly undermining — nation-oriented categories. The century
of nationalisms and ‘national schools’ has been redrawn as one of fledgling
globalisation: of technological advances in transportation and communication
(such as the telegraph, steamships and the railways) that made far-away places
and individuals more interconnected than ever before25. As Dana Gooley puts
it, «in light of recent historical and musicological work tracing modern ‘global’
formations back to the nineteenth century, nationalism might be recast as
an exceptional or reactionary development in the context of an increasingly
networked and transnational world»26. In a broad disciplinary reorientation,
then, musicologists have steered away from the nation as the typical framework
for music historical arguments in favour of «places that challenge the logic of
bounded culture»27, and account for a variety of concomitant, multi-directional
axes of relation (the local, the supra-local, the supra-national, etc.) in discussing
the creation and consumption of music28. The shift can be observed in projects
focusing, for instance, on cities, borders, islands, etc., as more inclusive settings
to navigate social and political meanings; or on connectedness itself (transfer,
mobility, mediation, etc.) as an opportunity to think outside a stationary
framework altogether, and follow musicians, scores, texts etc., ‘on the move’29.
These reflections have important consequences for studies on individual
composers. Exploring musicians on the move, to and fro between places is
especially productive, we posit, when scholars resist the temptation to freeze

25
. See Osterhammel 2014.
26
. Gooley 2016, p. 167.
27
. Stokes 2007, p. 4.
28
. See Collins – Gooley 2016, pp. 139-141.
29
. Studies on nineteenth-century music in/and the city are too numerous to be listed
here. One might mention the collaborative project Music in London 1800-1851 (led by Roger
Parker and funded by the European Research Council, 2013-1018, King’s College London,
<https://musicinlondon.kcl.ac.uk/#>, accessed on May 2020) as a model to address musical
activity in the city in the broadest possible sense, opening our critical ear to a wider range of
sensibilities and experiences: from operatic entertainment and concert music, to how music
functioned in times of war; from popular theatre and street music, to the multiple intersections
between music and science in this period. It is perhaps significant that it was a project on
early nineteenth-century London (a place and time traditionally not associated with a strong
‘national music’ discourse, or native composers of international standing; see footnote 8 above
and Parker 2013, p. 33) to lead the way in rethinking culturally and methodologically these
areas. About nineteenth-century cultures of connectedness, the classic account is Otis 2001.
For some excellent examples of musicology’s more recent focus on mobility, transfers and
border crossings see Applegate 2011, Hambridge – Hicks 2018, pp. 11-18, Vella 2018, and
Hicks forthcoming.
xvi
the movement: to map musicians’ travels or relocations, pinning them down
in contextual vignettes of localised meaning and reception. For Reicha, this
may translate into a series of chapters titled, in turn, ‘Reicha in Bonn’, ‘Reicha
in Hamburg’, ‘Reicha in Paris’, ‘Reicha in Vienna’, ‘Reicha in Leipzig’, and
so on. But one need only think of J. S. Bach immersing himself in Italian and
French music without ever moving outside the radius of a few German cities,
to understand music’s mobility hardly as just a matter of physical dislocation of
individuals, but also of imaginary and medial encounters30. In the nineteenth
century, as we have seen, the opportunities for such encounters multiplied
exponentially, and most professional composers faced the need (some more
eagerly and successfully than others) to make their music meaningful for both
local and far-away audiences31. A situated approach exploring nineteenth-
century composers ‘in places’ risks looking for a distinct sense of locality in
what by many accounts (especially in the extremely interconnected centres
where musicians like Reicha were looking for opportunities) felt more like
scrambled kaleidoscopes of sensibilities.
But understanding nineteenth-century musicians as cosmopolitan identities
tout court, just because they functioned in a world inherently interconnected,
may also be misleading. Sarah Collins and Dana Gooley have suggested
reserving that attribute for individuals and practices with a discernible ethical-
political stance proposing an «enlarged sense of world-belonging». (Collins and
Gooley convincingly characterise this as a different kind of engagement from
dealing with the commercial opportunities of an international market for music,
although the latter may work as a platform for such an engagement32). What
is more, and crucially in relation to previous points discussed in this essay, the
concept of cosmopolitanism has been a common musicological port-of-call in
the rehabilitation of composers perceived as nineteenth-century Kleinmeisters.
The model is that of the Wagner-Meyerbeer controversy and its ramifications.
From the 1970s, Meyerbeer became the object of a scholarly revival attempting
to counter the influence of Wagner’s infamous invective against Meyerbeer’s
«international» European opera style as that of a rootless Jew33. Even when the
link between anti-Semitism and nationalism is less applicable, scholarship on
composers such as Reicha, Cherubini, Mendelssohn, Moscheles or Glinka has
repeatedly explained their peripheral status in the nineteenth-century canon

30
. See Collins – Gooley 2016, p. 140.
31
. See Magaldi 2016. For an example of how Haydn seemed particularly preoccupied
with composing a piece (the Applausus cantata) for an audience that he did not know, see
Sisman 2005. See also Tolley 2019.
32
. See Collins – Gooley 2016, p. 153.
33
. Gooley 2016, p. 198.
xvii
as a result of their negotiating multiple identities or national traits in their
music. Although these musicians might have had little in common, they have
been offered a similar diagnosis34. Of being misunderstood or ill-fitting figures
regardless of the contexts in which their music was heard, and later falling
between the cracks of a musicology focused on national traditions. In line
with recent revisionist work on Wagner and Meyerbeer, we want to transcend
this dichotomy responsible for grouping, on one side, people allegedly like
Wagner, infused with genuine (even natural) national inspiration; and, on
the other, people like Meyerbeer, Cherubini, Reicha, etc., coldly calculating
which traits to mix to appeal to vast European crowds35. With Wagner being
now depicted as actively, self-consciously crafting his international «brand»36,
and Meyerbeer as never truly turning his back on his Berliner roots37, we
need a revised approach to deal with musicians previously pigeonholed in
either category. We suggest that exploring the nineteenth-century composer
as process might also be an opportunity to see national and other affiliations in
non-polarised terms, and as only one among many other ingredients (or poses)
shaping and reshaping these musicians’ engagement with their publics.
A framework of this kind can account for Reicha pitching his identity
(musical and otherwise) differently according to the circumstances, without
characterising him as a hodgepodge figure, never at home no matter how
hard he tried to settle in Bonn, Hamburg, Vienna or Paris. For instance, he
presented himself as having found his place in France, a country he «always
loved passionately», but also as versed in different languages and traditions,
thus able to act as an interpreter while in Vienna at Haydn’s home, facilitating

34
. See Magaldi 2016. Born in Florence in 1760, Cherubini settled in Paris 1786, where
he remained until his death in 1842. He is usually characterised as a figure negotiating multiple
identities because of his often-mentioned ability to re-brand himself under a variety of regimes.
For instance, in 1814 alone, he wrote morale-boosting music for the troops under Napoleon
in February, composed music for the victorious Prussians in May, and then in July celebrated
the return of the Bourbons with a cantata in honour of Louis xviii.
35
. See Gooley 2016, p. 187. The calculated quality mentioned by several critics of
Meyerbeer is also a common thread of the reception of Cherubini and Reicha. For instance,
the review of Reicha’s Trente-six fugues in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (x/23 [2 March
1808], col. 353-361) glosses Reicha’s comment that some fugues had been previously published
in Paris — and hence been conceived with that public in mind — with the statement: «which
of the two nations might [Reicha] have wanted to compliment at the expenses of the other?».
Berlioz famously characterised Reicha in antithesis to the «passionate Choron», and as a
composer of scholastic music written «for the eye rather than the ear»; see Berlioz 1836 and
Kolb 2015.
36
. See, for instance, Vazsonyi 2010 and Coleman 2019.
37
. Gooley 2016, p. 179.
xviii
encounters between the older composer and visitors from all over Europe38.
Reicha’s autobiography even prophesises about the future global reach of his
pedagogical precepts:

As one often asks copies of [my treatises] for Calcutta,

perhaps one day I will have the satisfaction to see composition
being taught according to my principles on the banks of the
Ganges, the Euphrates and the Tigris39.

None of these statements show, per se, a nationalist or cosmopolitan

agenda. With the ‘composer as process’ perspective, we propose to focus on
multiple individual projects of identity-making, and capture nineteenth-century
musicians in their efforts to navigate a variety of contexts, negotiating at the
same time personal, financial, geographical, social, musical, professional and
other priorities of self-representation. We intend this approach as a productive
alternative to reducing these various situations to an all-encompassing narrative:
one life-story and its achievements, falling either within or beyond the remit
of a nation’s heritage. Reicha’s story is usually told (unsurprisingly, given
what we have discussed above) as that of an innovator and transnational figure
introducing Viennese music and ideas in Paris, which gained him a problematic
«foreign» reputation there, but laid the groundwork for the achievements of
his students Berlioz, Gounod and Franck among others40. This last bit of the
narrative, functioning as a sort of posthumous (if only historiographical) happy
ending, is the most common form of redemption offered to Reicha: his music
might have been entirely forgotten, but his innovative theories produced some
of the greatest masters of the nineteenth-century canon. As we have seen, these
markers — the forgotten innovator, the unjustly overlooked cosmopolitan,
etc. — are all too familiar topoi of Kleinmeister historiography. In our book,
then, we explore a few fresh perspectives, which directly informed the
organisation of the collection in four sections. These clusters of chapters and
their order, however, should be interpreted only as one possible way to navigate
the contributions collected here. Our main focuses of interest punctuate the
reflections throughout the book, effectively linking chapters placed in different
sections. Chapter abstracts, summarising findings and arguments in detail, are
provided at the end of the book. In what follows, instead, we highlight some

38
. Reicha 2011, p. 96.
39
. «Comme on demande souvent des exemplaires de ce traité, ainsi que du traité de
mélodie pour Calcutta, j’aurai peut-être un jour la satisfaction de voir enseigner la composition
d’après mes principes sur les bords du Gange, de l’Euphrate et du Tigre». Ibidem, p. 86.
40
. See ibidem, pp. 16, 30 in particular. See also Emmanuel 1937.
xix
of the most relevant connections between the approaches undertaken chapter
by chapter and the book’s overall vision.
‘Paris in Vienna, Vienna in Paris’, the book’s first section, toys with
the possibility of exploring Reicha’s and his contemporaries’ music beyond
mapping it in local traditions, their transfer or hybridisation. Fabio Morabito
reconsiders the ‘Vienna’ part of Reicha’s pitch to his public and posterity as
being all about Haydn. Rather than a story of Reicha imbuing himself in
Viennese culture, Morabito proposes one of conscious self-fashioning using
Haydn’s blueprint, a strategy that many other musicians around 1800 attempted
almost irrespectively of their being in or passing through Vienna. Next, Michael
Ward and Fabio Morabito seek out alternatives to understanding string quartets
from this period through the lens of a ‘Parisian’ tradition of virtuosic display
and a ‘Viennese’ one of serious thematic development. Ward’s and Morabito’s
analytical model focuses on an alternation of textures recalling that of tutti and
solo sections in concertos, which they see as playing a key role in engaging
audiences of early nineteenth-century chamber music across borders. Closing
the section, Annette Richards discusses a melodrama that Reicha composed
during his Viennese stay. Richards proposes a narrative that avoids placing the
composer centre stage, but rather sees him as one of many who contributed
to the literary and musical resonances of Schiller’s extremely popular play on
the French heroine Joan of Arc. The chapter captures how Reicha was neither
the start nor the end of the story, providing the reader with a more diffused,
networked model of music-history writing — we might call it ‘a history
of music with no protagonist’ — quite the opposite to the aforementioned
‘composer-society’ paradigm in which the composer is the field of study.
‘Music as science’ continues the work that in recent years has recast
nineteenth-century musical culture as profoundly interrelated with that of
scientific thinking and demonstrations. Not only has this research reasserted how
audiences of the time attended public experiments on the latest technological
and scientific findings alongside, or even mixed with, other forms of visual
and musical entertainment41. (In this sense, the spectacle of science and that
of music were closer relatives than scholars in the humanities have tended to
acknowledge.) But also, more fundamentally, this thread of studies has shown
how, at the level of the slowly evolving structures of intellectual and cultural

41
. See, for instance, Raz 2014, Hibberd 2015, Frigau Manning 2015, and
Trippett – Walton 2019. For a refreshing take on musical romanticism grounded in
the audiovisual (experiences blending sight and sound) and in late eighteenth- and early
nineteenth-century popular science and entertainments, see Loughridge 2016.
xx
discourses, the nineteenth century is best understood as a time preceding the
division of aural and visual knowledge; a time when the observable (measurable,
scientific) and the invisible (mysterious, both enchanting and terrifying) were
equally evoked in framing musical practices and knowledge42. In her chapter,
then, Ellen Lockhart peruses the inventory of Reicha’s possessions made after
his death, using some of the objects he owned and money he spent to trace
the extent of his scientific interests. Lockhart argues that Reicha’s fascination
with acoustics, chemistry and even the classification of insects, alongside what
might be described as an obsession with medical treatments, lent key terms and
methods to his music theories. Taking this scientific-musical mind-set seriously,
William O’Hara explains Reicha’s analysis and pedagogical recompositions of
an overture by Mozart in terms that bring to mind the attitude of a chemist,
re-enacting for a group of students a series of reactions to demonstrate their
underlying principles. From these demonstrations, we gather that the vision of
compositional training Reicha championed was less focused on inspiration (the
invention of melodies) and built rather on the hard, acquirable skills needed to
develop musical ideas.
‘Teaching reconsidered’ tests new kinds of sources and historical agents
that, when included in our investigations, might help expand the current remit
of nineteenth-century music research. All three chapters in this section explore
Reicha’s teaching practice but avoiding a focus on his most illustrious pupils
(such as Berlioz, Gounod and Franck) or on Reicha as a behind-the-scenes
enabler of their compositional innovations. Etienne Jardin asks how the study
of sources documenting the administration of teaching at an institution like
the Paris Conservatoire might contribute to scholarship on nineteenth-century
composers more broadly. The answer challenges familiar tropes of knowledge
transfer within teacher-pupil lineages, and of the Conservatoire class (such
as that of Reicha, that of Fétis, etc.) as a uniform entity. Jardin invites us to
see both teachers and pupils as being ranked against the values implied in the
institution’s structures, without necessarily being homologised by inhabiting
them. In the following chapter of this cluster, Louise Bernard de Raymond
turns her attention to an unusual type of source, hence largely understudied
and undertheorised: the notebooks used during the actual lessons of two private
students of Reicha, with annotations and exercises in both the hand of the
teacher and that of the pupils. While Jardin gave us a sense of how Reicha’s

42
. See Tresch 2012, Dolan 2013, Trippett 2013, Davies 2014, Trippett 2015, and
Davies – Lockhart 2017. For the debate on the perceived increasing divide between sciences
and humanities in the twentieth century, see Leavis 2013.
xxi
teaching vision fitted within (or clashed against) that of a broader educational
environment, Bernard de Raymond is able to zoom in on what happened
when teacher and pupil sat down at the same desk. That one of the two pupils
was a fourteen-year old girl (Léonie Boursault), and the other the twelve-year
old César Franck, gives Bernard de Raymond a fascinating opportunity to
confront Reicha’s approaches, providing us with a gendered perspective on
what it meant to study composition circa 1835. Alban Ramaut rounds off the
section by following up on Jardin’s observation that Reicha’s students (just as,
we can imagine, those of many other nineteenth-century musicians) did not
receive a single educational imprint, and indeed went into a variety of careers,
musical and otherwise. Ramaut explores the careers of three former students
of Reicha. Remarkably, although in very different occupations (from running
a music publishing business to being hailed as the «Napoleon of the quadrille»),
all three published a composition treatise and dedicated it to Reicha. Ramaut
explains how having a pedagogy of composition to one’s name seems to have
worked in consolidating the image of these composers in the eyes of the public,
regardless of how much they were effectively involved in teaching or whether
their ‘new’ system was any different from the many already on the market.
‘Knowledge in practice’, finally, asks how one might approach theoretical
texts such as Reicha’s fugue and harmony textbooks, and the ideal composer
they advocate, as process. From the outset, both chapters in this section consider
the broader theoretical landscape within which Reicha’s writings were only
one voice in an ongoing conversation. This is particularly evident in Muriel
Boulan’s chapter, structured once again as a history with no main character.
The specific theoretical debate examined by Boulan hinged on the question of
which kind of fugal exercise was to be held as the culmination of professional
training for composers in these decades. What was in dispute, in other words,
was the precise means used in making the ideal nineteenth-century composer.
In the book’s last chapter, Thomas Christensen offers a reading of two key
texts in Reicha’s pedagogical system: that of ‘practical harmony’ and the more
grandly labelled treatise addressing the topic of ‘high composition’. Aside from
outlining the distinguishing features of Reicha’s theoretical voice, Christensen
uncovers an underlying attitude: a gigantic compendium of original musical
examples and short pieces through which Reicha meant to offer his readers
real-world realisations (as far as this is possible in theory books) of his precepts.
In handling these treatises, one might even say that Reicha’s original musical
examples are the theory; that the ideal composer these texts envisage was to be
trained by experiencing, through Reicha, countless musical instantiations of

xxii
the same principles. Given how proudly Reicha advertised his ‘algebraic mind’
as the foundation of his pedagogy43, we can imagine this exemplification of
compositional possibilities (akin to infinite realisations of the same mathematical
formula) at the core of the teaching model, bearing his name, that he wished
to see exported far and wide. More than just a theory, we might consider it
also as a ‘teaching performance’: one that, when experienced first-hand, was
praised (even by Reicha’s detractors) as a time saver for composition students,
but which admittedly lost at least some of its piquancy when turned into a
printed text. What is more, the iteration of countless examples is possibly one
trait that pushed Reicha onto the unglamorous side of music history, especially
once a myth of the nineteenth-century composer as the creator of unique,
inspired musical works silenced individuals and practices not fitting this image.
But that, as we have seen, is a familiar story.

Acknowledgments

The idea for this book was born out of an international conference
organised in Lucca (Italy) by the Centro Studi Opera Omnia Luigi Boccherini
and the Palazzetto Bru Zane – Centre de musique romantique française. The
same institutions generously sponsored the publication of the volume, for which
we are very grateful. We would like to thank Roberto Illiano, Fulvia Morabito
and Massimiliano Sala for entrusting the project into our hands, and for letting
us shape its vision. We felt we could run away with our ideas and then find new
ways in which to ground them. Over the past two years, we have solicited,
curated and edited everything in these pages, attempting to foster a seminar-like
interaction at every step of the process. This would have been impossible were
it not for the generous input of many who, without being directly involved in
the project, enriched it considerably through their engagement: Roger Parker,
Matthew Head, Julian Horton, Katherine Hambridge, Sarah Collins, W. Dean
Sutcliffe, Natasha Loges, Joe Davies, Mark Everist, Annegret Fauser, and Mary
Hunter. Some by reading and commenting, others by asking good questions
(especially during a roundtable we organised at the France: Musiques, Cultures
1789-1918 pre-meeting of the American Musicological Society in 2019), all of
them contributed to making it a much better book. But the volume’s true,
behind-the-scenes godfather is Alex Rehding. Enthusiasm for our Reicha-
project and boundless generosity do not begin to describe the support and
inspiration we received from him. Of practical (hence, indispensable) help,

43
. Reicha 2011, pp. 68, 70.
xxiii
William Nattrass worked as the project’s assistant and made his way through
the whole manuscript hoovering up inconsistencies and countless refuses. The
Zilkha Fund of Lincoln College, University of Oxford, supported two trips to
Paris (in summer 2018 and autumn 2019) that allowed us editors to work face
to face, and create a digital archive of Reicha-related sources and secondary
literature that we made available to all contributors. Finally, it is them who we
want to thank: their assiduous work and the thought-provoking debates we
shared together are what made the journey — from the idea we had in Lucca,
to the book you now hold — truly worth undertaking.

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Yearsley 2019
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