Eshbach, Robert Whitehouse. “Joseph Joachim and Bach’s Chaconne.” Nineteenth-Century Music Review, 2024, 1–31. https://doi.org/10.1017/S147940982400020X.

© Robert W. Eshbach

Click link for the article:

Joseph Joachim and Bach’s Chaconne

PDF:

joseph-joachim-and-bachs-chaconne

Screenshot

Robert Eshbach, “Joachim in Weimar 1850-1851,” in Joseph Joachim. Identities/Identitäten, ed. Katharina Uhde and Michael Uhde (Hildesheim, Zürich, New York: Ohms Verlag, 2023), 387-407

Joachim in Weimar 1850-1851

[Click above for full article]

Eshbach, Robert W. Review of The Music of Joseph Joachim, by Katharina Uhde. Notes 77, no. 2 (December 2020): 268-71.

Eshbach-Uhde Review-2020

Ives on Umpawaug Road
Robert W. Eshbach

Published in Die Tonkunst, vol. 7, no. 1 (January, 2013), pp. 81-84. © Robert W. Eshbach

Click here to read or download: Ives-on-Umpawaug-Road

Schumann as Mentor: Joseph Joachim’s “Blick auf Schumann”

Published in Die Tonkunst, vol. 4, no. 3 (July, 2010), pp. 351-365. © Robert W. Eshbach

Click below to read or download

‘For All are Born to the Ideal’: Joseph Joachim and Bettina von Arnim
Music and Letters, Volume 101, Issue 4, November 2020, Pages 713–742.

Music & Letters: ‘For All are Born to the Ideal’

[click link]

Obwohl Joseph Joachim im Milieu des deutschen romantischen Salons aufgewachsen ist, haben seine Biographen den entscheidenden Einfluss von Frauen auf seine künstlerische Entwicklung weitgehend ignoriert. Dies ist ein bedeutendes Versäumnis, wie Katharina Uhdes jüngste und kommende Publikationen zu Joachims Kompositionen zeigen. In seiner von Andreas Moser verfassten Autobiographie Joseph Joachim, Ein Lebensbild, deren frühe Ausgabe noch zu seinen Lebzeiten erschien, bemühte sich Joachim, sich so darzustellen, wie er später gepriesen werden sollte: als evangelischer christlicher Deutscher, der von einer Reihe ikonischer männlicher Vaterfiguren — darunter Joseph Böhm, Mendelssohn, Schumann und Liszt — gefördert wurde, als würdiger, prinzipientreuer Verfechter klassischer Traditionen und als Torwächter des preußischen Musikestablishments. Letztendlich hat ihm diese Selbstdarstellung jedoch sehr geschadet, da sie unter anderem eine warmherzige, sympathische ungarisch-jüdische Natur, eine romantische, virtuose Jugend, eine frühe, bedeutende Berufung als Komponist und eine umfangreiche und bedeutende britische Karriere verbarg. […]

© 2016 Robert W. Eshbach

Joachim’s “Hungarian” Concerto, op. 11 — a Note

Joseph Joachim
 (b. Kittsee, 28 June 1831 — d. Berlin, 15 August 1907)
Violin Concerto No. 2 in D Minor “in the Hungarian Manner,” op. 11
Dedication: Johannes Brahms
Composed: Hanover, Summer 1857
Premiere in MS (first version): London, May 2, 1859
Premiere: Hanover, March 24, 1860; published: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1861

Joseph Joachim’s Concerto in D Minor, op. 11 “in ungarischer Weise” has long been considered one of the composer’s finest works, easily overshadowing several of his other compositions in the Hungarian style: an early fantasy on Hungarian themes (ca. 1850), and a Rhapsodie Hongrois for violin and piano (1853, written together with Franz Liszt). It is a substantial work that enjoyed great popularity during Joachim’s lifetime, though he himself ceased performing it in his later years, due to its exceptional length and difficulty. Indeed, it was said that Joachim was not the work’s best interpreter, that distinction belonging to Wilhelmj or Laub, or later to Flesch, who played it with great sentiment and Gypsy-like abandon. Joachim’s early Hungarian pieces were typical virtuoso products; the “Hungarian” concerto, on the other hand, is a symphonic work of grand design and elaborate execution — a rare and important link between the classic works of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn, and the late 19^th-century concerti of Bruch, Lalo, Goldmark, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Dvorak and Saint-Saens.

The years leading up to and during the composition of the concerto were a time of crisis for symphonic composition of all sorts, when the symphony itself was in eclipse. As Carl Dahlhaus has noted, the rigorous post-Beethoven requirements for writing music in ‘grand form’ had become inhibiting; for a generation, this led to an absence of “any work of distinction that represented absolute rather than programmatic music.” By mid-century the symphony per se had become moribund: in the “progressive” aesthetic of the New German School, compositions in traditional forms were derided as dry, academic and outmoded. In his essay Oper und Drama, Wagner famously — and prematurely — sounded the symphony’s death-knell.

Under these circumstances, the concerto offered traditionally-minded composers a genre of “absolute music” that allowed considerably more individuality and freedom of expression — more latitude for innovation in form — than the symphony, while stopping short of employing extra-musical programs. A prime example of this is Max Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor, op. 26 (1866). The first movement of Bruch’s concerto is unusual by any standard: a free introduction (Bruch uses the Wagnerian term Vorspiel) to the central slow movement that is the real raison d’être of the piece. Bruch had compunctions about whether a work so unorthodox in form could properly fit the genre, but was reassured by Joachim:

“Finally, as to your ‘doubt,’ I am happy to say that I find the title Concerto to be in any case justified — the last two movements are too greatly and too regularly developed for the name ‘Phantasie.’ The individual constituents are quite lovely in their relationship with one another, and yet sufficiently contrasting; that is the main thing. Furthermore, Spohr also called his Gesangs-Scene ‘Concerto!’” [1]

It is precisely this freedom — this ability to break free of the shadow of Beethoven and “grand form” while resting on the authority of accepted models — that appealed to composers of a conservative bent and allowed the symphonic violin concerto, as a genre of absolute music, to retain its creative interest and maintain a provisional hold on the public at a time when the symphony was viewed as outmoded. As Joachim mentioned in his letter, Spohr (1816) provided an early example of unconventional form — a concerto cast as an operatic scena. Mendelssohn’s concerto (1845), which influenced subsequent composers as late as Sibelius, is replete with formal innovations (the lack of opening tutti in the first movement, as well as the centrally-placed cadenza leading to the unusual recapitulation, etc.).

Equally important, the concerto offered composers the freedom to explore certain more lyrical or characteristic moods — moods that were congenial to the era, but that lay outside the aesthetic norms of the symphony, or were problematic if subjected to the formal processes that the symphony required. A few characteristic symphonies, full of “local color” such as Goldmark’s Ländliche Hochzeit (1876), enjoyed a period of popularity, but stood apart from the rigid expectations of the genre, and eventually dropped from favor. On the other hand, characteristic concerti such as Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole or Bruch’s Schottische Fantasie, or Wieniawski’s Concerto no. 2 in D Minor, with its Finale à la Zingara, continue to be staples of the violinist’s repertoire. Joachim’s Concerto “in ungarischer Weise,” is a significant example of these “characteristic” concerti. Though early, it was considered by Carl Flesch to be a high point of the genre: “the most outstanding creation that a violinist has ever written for his own instrument.” Written during the same years as Wieniawski’s, it is also in D Minor, and also ends with a Finale à la Zingara — a wild Gypsy moto perpetuo introducing an extended, virtuosic rondo. With his op. 11, Joachim goes well beyond Wieniawski, however, taking the traditional three movement concerto form and extending and freely recasting it into a broad symphonic portrait of his native Hungary, at once personal and idealized — a full forty-five minutes of the greatest virtuosity placed at the service of the most evocative poetry.

The Style Hongrois — the Hungarian style — has a long history in Classical music going back to Haydn, if not before. Its characteristic moods and gestures were adapted by 19^th-century composers as dissimilar as Liszt and Brahms, who reveled in the freedom, nostalgic melancholy, and passionate abandon native to the style. Joachim was, of course, Hungarian by birth, though like Liszt, he was taken from his native soil at an early age. He spoke little Hungarian, and he regarded the whole of Magyar culture with a wistful, romantic gaze. The Hungary of Joachim’s birth was still a land untouched by progress. Under Habsburg rule since the defeat of the Turks, it was poor, virtually without infrastructure, industry, banking or trade — a puzzle of secluded villages and feudal demesnes. From earliest times, the plains of Hungary had been swept by successive waves of invasion and immigration, and the resident population bore the impress of many cultures, from ancient Celts and Romans to modern Magyars, Slovaks, Germans, Roma, Turks, and Jews. Scarcely a third of the population spoke Hungarian — the common language of the upper classes was Latin. In this confusion of ethnicities, Joachim made no distinction between “Hungarian” and Gypsy vernacular music. Like other classically-trained musicians, he associated the undifferentiated “Hungarian” style with an exotic, uninhibited, and proudly semi-civilized folk. This is apparent in a November 1854 letter from Joachim, at that time concertmaster in Hanover, to his countryman Liszt: “I was in the homeland,” he writes. “To me, the heavens appeared more musical there than in Hanover. […] The Danube by Pest is beautiful, and the Gypsies still play enthusiastically. The sound goes from heart to heart — that you know. There is more rhythm and soul in their bows than in all north German orchestra players (“Kapellisten”) combined, the Hanover musicians not excepted.” [2] Writing a half-century later, William Henry Hadow could still describe Hungarian café musicians as “rhapsodists of musical art, drawing for inspiration upon the rich store of national ballad, and trusting for method to a free tradition, or an impulse of the moment. […] The whole character of their music is direct, natural, spontaneous, giving voice to a feeling that speaks because it cannot keep silence.” It is this directness, this spontaneity, this rhythm and soul, that Joachim sought to capture in his concerto. Joachim dedicated the work to Brahms, and gave its first performance in Hanover in 1860. He published it the next year, and performed it during his historic 1861 return to Vienna. At that first hearing, the renowned Viennese critic Eduard Hanslick was reluctant to offer a settled opinion of the piece, though he wrote admiringly of it. Hearing Laub play it three years later, he pronounced it unequivocally a “tone poem full of mind and spirit, of energy and tenderness [that] secures Joachim an extraordinary place amongst modern composers.” [3]

[1] “Auf Ihre ‘Zweifel’ freue ich mich Ihnen schließlich zu sagen, daß ich den Titel Concert jedenfalls gerechtfertigt finde — für den Namen ‘Phantasie’ sind namentlich die beiden letzten Sätze zu sehr und regelmäßig ausgebaut. Die einzelnen Bestandtheile sind in ihrem Verhältnisse zu einander sehr schön und doch contrastirend genug; das ist die Hauptsache. Spohr nennt übrigens auch seine Gesangs-Scene ‘Concert’”!

[2] “Ich war in der Heimath; der Himmel ist mir dort musikalischer vorgekommen, als der Hannover’sche. […] Die Donau bei Pesth ist schön, und die Zigeuner spielen noch enthusiastisch, von Herz zu Herz geht der Klang, das weißt Du, Es ist mehr Rhythmus und Seele in ihren Bogen, als in allen norddeutschen Kapellisten zusammengenommen; die Hannover’schen nicht ausgenommen.”

[3] “Diese Tondichtung voll Geist und Gemüth, voll Energie und Zartheit sichert Joachim einen hervorragenden Platz unter den modernen Componisten.”

Joseph Joachim

(b. Kittsee, 28 June 1831 — d. Berlin, 15 August 1907)

Ouvertüre zu Shakespeares “Hamlet” d-moll, op. 4

Den Mitgliedern der Weimarer Hofkapelle gewidmet

(Hannover, 1853)

Joseph Joachim

(b. Kittsee, 28 June 1831 — d. Berlin, 15 August 1907)

Ouverture to Shakespeares “Hamlet” in D minor, op. 4

Dedicated to the members of the Weimar Hofkapelle

(Hanover, 1853)

Preface

oseph Joachim is remembered today primarily as a great violinist, and as a close friend and collaborator of Johannes Brahms. If he is less well-known as a composer, it is perhaps his own fault: with the exception of a few occasional pieces, he produced very few compositions after mid-life. The products of his early maturity are significant works, however, well-suited to the concert hall, and worthy of revival. Amongst them, Hamlet is one of the best, and has found a place in the repertoire of great orchestras. It was a work of personal significance to Joachim — a quasi-autobiographical example of what he later called “psychological music.” It was also, so to say, his musical calling card— the work with which he introduced himself as a composer to Liszt and Schumann, who praised it, and to Brahms, who admired it enough to make a four-hand piano arrangement of it.

Joachim began work on Hamlet in Weimar in the summer of 1852, near the end of his two-year sojourn there as Grand-ducal Concertmaster under Franz Liszt. Mendelssohn’s former protégé had been one of the first musicians that Liszt gathered there at mid-century, determined to re-invigorate Weimar’s reputation as the “Athens on the Ilm.” The prestigious seat of German letters, the home of Goethe, Schiller, Herder, and Wieland, may well have seemed a promising arena for an artist like Liszt, in whom “renewal of the art of music through its more intimate union with poetry” had become an article of faith, and the touchstone of all things modern. One of Liszt’s first performances there was the premiere of Wagner’s Lohengrin, a performance that Joachim attended, and that helped convince the young virtuoso and aspiring composer to accept Liszt’s offer of employment. In the ensuing years, Joachim would form cordial friendships with the musicians of the Weimar Hofkapelle, to whom Hamlet is dedicated. He would also be drawn briefly into Liszt’s intimate circle at the time when the composer was inventing the Symphonic Poem. Joachim’s Hamlet is an early and significant example of this “New German” tendency in music. It is no mere imitation of Liszt’s style, however — indeed, it precedes most of Liszts compositions in that genre. In it, we hear an authentic and original voice.

In the end, Joachim’s time in Weimar proved disappointing. Between periods of intense activity, Liszt was often away, attending to his ailing companion Princess Carolyne zu Sayn-Wittgenstein. Lonely and bored during Liszt’s absences, Joachim and Hans von Bülow filled their time with practicing, taking long walks in the Ilm Park, and teaching each other Spanish. After two years, Joachim left Weimar to become Royal Concertmaster in Hanover.

Joachim’s chronic loneliness was only made worse by his move to Hanover. As Julius Rodenberg later recalled: “He was the concert director, and, although favored by the court and admired by the public, he lived a quiet, secluded life. We regarded him with considerable awe as one who had a mission. He spoke little in those days; ‘Music is his language.’”[1]

Joachim completed his Hamlet Overture during his first months in Hanover (the score is dated “Hanover, 16 March, 1853” and initialed “f.a.e,” for “frei aber einsam,” — free but lonely), and he sent it to Liszt as “a token of my gratitude and devotion.”[2] Referring to his new position under Heinrich Marschner, he wrote: “I was very much alone. The contrast between the atmosphere that, through your activity, is ceaselessly filled with new sounds, and an air that has been made utterly tone-rigid by the rule of a phlegmatic northerner from the Restoration time is too barbaric! Wherever I looked, no one who shared my aspirations; no one except the Phalanx of like-minded friends in Weimar. […] I turned to Hamlet; the motives of an overture that I had already ‘wanted’ to write in Weimar came back to me […].”[3]

On April 7^th, Joachim sent another, rough draft of Hamlet to Woldemar Bargiel, saying: “I need hardly justify myself to you over my choice of a hero for my musical essay. Hamlet is generally regarded as too introspective. But this introspection is merely a refuge from the constant tumult of his mind. The feelings which drive him to it, the strong and constant need for action, the sombre grief because this great longing for the realization of his inner life must wither impotently when opposed to external circumstances, these feelings must have tormented every human heart; they are universal, therefore they must be musical.”[4] For Joachim, this struggle to reconcile the inner life with outward circumstance would become a driving obsession. In the ensuing years, Polonius’ words to Laertes, “to thine own self be true,” and Hamlet’s words, “I know not seems… I have that within which passeth show,” would become for him a personal quest, and an unspoken artistic creed.

Liszt was quick to recognize the Hamlet overture as a kind of self-portrait, calling it a “remarkable work, which, among other merits, has that of bearing a strong resemblance to you as I know you and love you.” “’To be or not to be; that is the question,’” he wrote. “You resolve this great question with an emphatic affirmative, by a serious and beautiful work, greatly conceived and broadly developed, which categorically proves its right to exist.”[5] Nevertheless, when Liszt read the work with the Weimar Hofkapelle in late May, it met with a cool reception. “My overture appealed to just a few people there,” Joachim wrote to Woldemar Bargiel. “They said it sounded as if I had roared a fearsome ‘stay ten paces away from me.’ I liked that!”[6]

Liszt continued to think highly of Joachim’s overture, though, calling it noble and vigorous, and he often discussed it with his composition students. Five years later, Liszt would write his own Hamlet, a symphonic poem, dedicated to Princess Carolyne.

Encouraged by Liszt’s approbation, Joachim sent the score to Robert Schumann, with an appeal for criticism. “I hesitate to send it to you,” he wrote, “as this is the first time that you see one of my works.”[7] Schumann sent a long and detailed letter in return, elaborating his impressions. “As I read it, it seemed as though the scene gradually grew before my eyes and Ophelia and Hamlet actually stood forth,” he wrote. “There are very impressive passages in it, and the whole is presented in the clear and noble form which befits such a great subject. […] Music should, in the first place, appeal to the sympathies, and when I say that your work has appealed to mine you may believe me.”[8] Schumann’s interest in the work continued, even after his institutionalization in Endenich.

Hamlet made a strong impression on other contemporaries as well. In July, Albert Dietrich wrote to Bargiel: “[Joachim’s] entire being is impressed with the stamp of supreme artistry. Nevertheless, my respect and enthusiasm for him grew immensely when I came to know the Hamlet overture; the work has moved me deeply; the entire tragedy sounds forth from it in the most striking manner. The main motive of the allegro is remarkably characteristic — so indecisive, mysterious — like Hamlet; the interval of the minor third, distinctive of the entire overture, is of marvelous effect, etc.”[9]

Berlioz, and Joachim’s new-found friend Brahms, also admired the work, and thought that it marked Joachim as a composer of great promise. Nevertheless, the first public performance, with the already mentally ill Schumann as the thoroughly inadequate conductor, was a disaster. As Joachim wrote to his brother Heinrich: “There was nothing good to report about the performance of my Hamlet overture: the orchestra was bad; moreover, Schumann is an excellent, poetic man, and a great musician, but unfortunately no equally-great conductor — the work was not criticized, because it was simply not heard.[10]

Hamlet failed in Leipzig as well, under Joachim’s own direction, but for a different reason — a “progressive work,” it failed to appeal to the Leipzigers’ conservative taste. The Süddeutsche Musik-Zeitung opined that the overture “again provided clear evidence of what eccentric creations the new school produces.”[11] The performance was hissed.

Joachim revised the overture repeatedly and extensively following its initial performances (including another reading by the Cologne orchestra under Ferdinand Hiller), mostly to make the instrumentation more transparent. “I so often allowed a host of orchestral instruments to sound along with the melody,” he wrote to Gisela von Arnim, “yes, if only they were all sensitive souls! — but the musicians blow and bow the notes so coarsely — and what in my mind was a sigh or a joyful Ach! was a crass horn tone — a screechy fiddle bow noise — why are there so many workmen, only!!”[12]

Joachim performed Hamlet sporadically during his lifetime, and within intimate circles it was heard in Brahms’s four-hand arrangement. Though the parts were published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1854, the score did not appear until 1908 — the year after Joachim’s death. Performance standards have risen enormously in the last century and a half, and the “progressive” music of the Weimar circle no longer provokes hisses in the concert hall. In recent years, Joachim’s Hamlet has found its audience: it has been performed and recorded often, and has taken its rightful place in the orchestral repertoire.

© 2015 Robert Whitehouse Eshbach

[1] “Er war Concertdirector und lebte, wiewohl vom Hofe bevorzugt und vom Publicum bewundert, ein stilles, zurückgezogenes Leben. Wir betrachteten ihn mit einiger Scheu, wie Einen, der eine Mission hat. Er sprach nicht viel damals; ‘Musik ist seine Sprache.’”

[2] “ein Zeichen meiner Dankbarkeit und Ergebenheit.”

[3] “[…] ich war sehr allein. Der Kontrast, aus der Atmosphäre hinaus, die durch Ihr Wirken rastlos mit neuen Klängen erfüllt wird, in eine Luft, die ganz tonstarr geworden ist von dem Walten eines nordischen Phlegmatikers aus der Restaurations-Zeit, ist zu barbarisch! Wohin ich auch blickte, keiner, der dasselbe anstrebte wie ich; keiner statt der Phalanx gleichgesinnter Freunde in Weimar. […] Ich griff da zum Hamlet; die Motive zu einer Ouverture, die ich schon in Weimar hatte schreiben ‘wollen’, fielen mir wieder bei […].”

[4] “Über die Wahl des Helden zu meinem musikalischen Versuch brauche ich mich wohl kaum bei Ihnen zu rechtfertigen. Hamlet wird gewöhnlich ein unmusikalischer Stoff genannt; die Leute halten sich daran, daß Hamlet viel reflektirt. Dies Reflektiren ist ja aber nur die nothwendige Flucht vor der Unruhe, die sein Inneres beständig durchwühlt. Was ihn da hintreibt, der ewige mächtige Thatendrang, die tiefe Trauer darüber, daß diese herrliche Sehnsucht nach Verwirklichung des innersten Lebens an äußeren Verhältnissen, an geistig Nichtigem machtlos verbluten muß, hat wohl jedes Menschen Brust durchzogen, ist allgemein menschliches Gefühl, also auch musikalisch.”

[5] “’To be or not to be; that is thé question’ […] Vous résolves cette grande question d’une manière très affirmative, par une œuvre sérieuse et belle, grandement conçue et largement développée, et qui prouve catégoriquement son droit d’être.”

[6] “Meine Ouvertüre hat dort nur wenigen Leuten zugesagt. […] Man meinte, sie klänge, als ob ich den Leuten ein fürchterliches: “Bleibt mir 10 Schritt vom Leib” zubrüllte. Das war mir lieb! — ”

[7] “…ich zage bei der Übersendung, denn es ist das erstemal, dass Sie von mir ein Werk zu Gesicht bekommen.”

[8] “Es war mir beim Lesen, als erhellte sich von Seite zu Seite die Scene, und Ophelia und Hamlet träten in leibhaftiger Gestalt hervor. Es sind ganz ergreifende Stellen darin, und das Ganze in so klarer und großartiger Form hingestellt, wie es einer so hohen Aufgabe gemäß ist. […] Sympathisch vor Allem muß die Musik wirken, und wenn ich das von Ihrer auf mich die sagen kann, so mögen Sie das glauben.”

[9] “[…] seiner ganzen Erscheinung ist der Stempel höchster Künstlerschaft aufgeprägt. Meine Verehrung u. Begeisterung für ihn steigerte sich aber noch gewaltig, als ich die Hamletouverture [op. 4] kennen gelernt; das Werk hat mich tief ergriffen; das ganze Trauerspiel klingt auf das Frappanteste daraus hervor. Merkwürdig characteristisch ist das Hauptmotiv des Allegro — so unentschieden, mysteriös — wie Hamlet; von wunderbarer Wirkung das der ganzen Ouverture eigene Intervall der verminderten Terz etc.”

[10] “Von der Aufführung meiner Hamlet-Ouvertüre war nichts Gutes zu berichten: das Orchester war schlecht, zudem ist Schumann ein ausgezeichneter, dichterischer Mann, und großer Musiker, aber leider kein ebenso guter Dirigent — das Werk wurde nicht beurtheilt, weil eben nicht gehört.”

[11] “ […] wieder einen recht deutlichen Beweis lieferte, welch verschrobene Schöpungen die neue Schule zu Tage fördert […].”

[12] “Ich ließ so oft neben der Melodie eine Menge Instrumente des Orchesters mitschwingen — ja wären das lauter fein empfindende Seelen! — aber so blasen und streichen die Musici roh die Noten — und was in mir ein Seufzer oder ein freudig Ach! war, wird ein plumper Hornton — ein kreischender Fiedelbogenlaut — Warum giebts nur so viele Handwerker!!”

Carl Reinecke, Joseph Joachim and the Reinecke Violin Concerto, op. 141

Robert W. Eshbach

arl Reinecke’s violin concerto in G minor, op. 141 is the Sleeping Beauty among nineteenth-century violin concerti. Written for Joseph Joachim, who performed it only once, in a Leipzig Gewandhaus concert under Reinecke’s direction on 21 December 1876, it slept thereafter undisturbed until violinist Ingolf Turban recorded it with the Berner Symphonie-Orchester in September of 2004. [1] Reinecke’s concerto is a work of considerable inherent quality that never entered the repertory, and therefore had no impact on the future history of the genre. It nevertheless occupies a noteworthy niche in the evolutionary history of the Romantic violin concerto.

Reinecke composed two violin concerti. The first was conceived in Barmen in the year 1857, and was premiered under Reinecke’s baton by Franz Seiss. It was repeated in altered form by Ferdinand David in Leipzig, on 3 October 1858, and thereafter put aside.  [2] It was never published. Reinecke himself described the work as his “totgeborenes Kind” (“stillborn child”). He had originally wanted Joachim to give its Leipzig performance, but Joachim, who had also recently received the revisions of Brahms’s D minor piano concerto, found Reinecke’s work uninspired by comparison. On 3 January 1858 he wrote to Clara Schumann: “Reinecke hat ein Violin-Concert geschickt — so gewöhnlich, so manchmal sogar ungeschickt klingend, wie ich’s von einem so routinirten Componisten nie erwartet hätte.” [3] Joachim, who never played a work that he did not believe in, refused Reinecke’s invitation.

With the Violin Concerto op. 141, the matter stood otherwise. Reinecke’s G minor concerto, which carries the dedication “Seinem Freunde Joseph Joachim,” belongs to a distinguished tradition of “Freundschaftskonzerte” that includes, among others the concerti of Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Brahms. Like the other concerti in this tradition, Reinecke’s work seems to embody many of the characteristics of its dedicatee’s violin playing, as well as his general attitude toward art. A critic for Signale für die musikalische Welt mentions that Joachim took up the work “mit ersichtlicher Liebe und Hingebung.” [4] Nevertheless, Joachim’s performance at the premiere fell below his usual standard. The reviewer for the Musikalisches Wochenblatt wrote: “Die diesmalige Ausführung des Werkes war eine nur mittelmässige; weder der Solist, noch das begleitende Orchester wussten ihren Vortrag von mancherlei Unsauberkeiten, als da sind: theilweise ziemlich unreine Intonation, schlaffe Rhythmik etc., hinreichend frei zu halten. Den befriedigendsten Eindruck hinterliess als Composition, wie auch hinsichtlich der praktischen Ausführung, der zweite (langsame) Satz des Concertes.” [5]

Reinecke’s concerto never won a place in Joachim’s concert repertoire; it is likely that it was crowded out by the appearance, the following year, of Brahms’s Violin Concerto in D major, op. 77. Though it was published by Breitkopf und Härtel in October 1877, no other violinist seems to have taken it up, perhaps out of deference to its prominent dedicatee. When Joachim and Reinecke next performed together, Joachim played Spohr’s E minor concerto (likely no. 7, op. 38, a favorite of Joachim’s), and the second movement of Joachim’s own Hungarian Concerto, op. 11. [6]

*

*          *

Program: Stadtgeschichtliches Museum Leipzig

Carl Reinecke and Joseph Joachim met for the first time in 1843. Reinecke was nineteen years old, and Joachim twelve, when they made their Leipzig debuts on the same 16 November Gewandhaus program. In his memoir, Erlebnisse und Bekenntnisse, Reinecke recalled the event:

“[…] da trat ein zwölfjähriger Knabe im Jäckchen und mit umgeschlagenem Hemdkragen auf und trug die seinerzeit berühmte Othellophantasie von Ernst mit vollendeter Virtuosität und mit knabenhafter Unbefangenheit vor. Es war Joseph Joachim, dem am Schlusse das sonst etwas reservierte Gewandhauspublikum stürmisch zujubelte. […] Daß das Publikum meine Leistung zwar freundlich aufnahm, mir aber nicht in gleicher Weise zujauchzte wie dem zwölfjährigen Wunderknaben, kränkte mich nicht, denn ich war verständig genug, um es für selbstverständlich zu halten, daß das Publikum einen Knaben, der auf seiner Geige das ganze Feuerwerk eines brillanten Virtuosenstückes hatte aufblitzen lassen, enthusiastischer belohnte als einen neunzehnjährigen befrackten Jüngling, der die liebenswürdige, aber keineswegs bravourmäßig ausgestattete Serenade von Mendelssohn vorgetragen hatte.” [7]

In the immediately ensuing years, Reinecke and Joachim had ample opportunity to form a close musical and personal relationship. Reinecke remained in Leipzig until 1846, returning briefly in 1848. Joachim lived in Leipzig until October 1850, after which he settled in Weimar as concertmaster under Franz Liszt. During their Leipzig years, the two young musicians performed together frequently, in both private and public settings, often in partnership with Gewandhaus colleagues Ferdinand David, Moritz Klengel, Niels Gade, Andreas Grabau, and Franz Carl Wittmann.

Though primarily a pianist, Reinecke was also an accomplished violinist. “Meine Violinstudien,“ he wrote, “mußte ich zunächst nach der Schule von Rode, Kreutzer und Baillot, später nach der von Spohr betreiben. Ich brachte es schließlich bis zu dem ersten Konzert von de Bériot und dem jetzt vergessenen in Es-Dur von Spohr. Mein größter Stolz als Geiger bleibt aber, daß ich einst der Witwe Felix Mendelssohns im Verein mit David, Joachim und Rietz einige Quartette von ihrem dahingeschiedenen Gatten vorgespielt hatte.“ [8]

Active composers both, Reinecke and Joachim belonged to the circle of Mendelssohn and Schumann. They shared many musical opinions, among them a strong antipathy toward virtuosity for its own sake. [9] This bias is evident in Reinecke’s late assessment of Joachim’s musical career:

“Ganz naturgemäß stak Joachim bei seinem Erscheinen in Leipzig noch ganz im Banne der Virtuosität, aber durch den steten Umgang mit Mendelssohn, der den Knaben wie ein Vater liebte und förderte, ward er gar bald ins Heiligtum der Kunst eingeführt, und fortan verwertete er sein künstlerisches Können lediglich zur vollendeten Wiedergabe wahrhafter Kunstwerke der Geigenliteratur.” [10]

In 1853, Reinecke was among the auditors in Düsseldorf when Joachim played Beethoven’s violin concerto under Schumann’s leadership at the thirty-first Niederrheinisches Musikfest. “Welch ein andrer, größerer war er inzwischen geworden,” Reinecke recalled. “Einst Gefolgsmann der Virtuosität, jetzt Priester der Kunst. […] Es ist ein müßiges Beginnen, so ein vollendetes Spiel mit Worten zu beschreiben. Aber noch heute, nach sechsundfünfzig Jahren, erinnere ich mich deutlich, daß ich nach diesem Vortrage mich in die einsamsten Gänge des Hofgartens schlich, um ungestört dieses künstlerische Ereignis noch einmal in meinem Innern zu durchleben.” [11]

Like others in the Mendelssohn/Schumann circle, Reinecke and Joachim shared a predilection for Classical composers and their compositions — for Bach, Mozart and Beethoven in particular. Reinecke went so far as to occupy himself with Joachim’s repertoire, preparing a piano reduction for an edition of Beethoven’s violin concerto, and arranging Bach’s Chaconne and a few other movements from Bach’s violin Sonatas and Partitas for piano solo. But Reinecke’s special love was Mozart: his advocacy for Mozart’s piano concerti was expressed in his 1891 book, Zur Wiederbelebung der Mozart’schen Clavierconzerte. Today, this advocacy may seem an innocuous enough undertaking, but in those days of musical party-spirit, it evoked considerable derision from the ranks of the Fortschrittspartei — and not in Germany alone. In the New York Evening Post, for example, we read:

“Carl Reinecke, late conductor of the Gewandhaus concerts at Leipsic, has written a brochure in which he pleads for the restoration of the Mozart concertos to our concert halls. In his conservative blindness he cannot see that those works are hopelessly antiquated. Reinecke has written more than 200 works, of which probably a dozen will survive him a decade or two. The works of conservative and reactionary composers (like Reinecke and Brahms) never live long, for genius means progress in an inflexible line of evolution.” [12]

Strongly influenced by Hegelian philosophy, the advocates of the neudeutsche Schule argued the cause of “progress” in the arts. For them, Mozart’s works represented, in the buzzword of the day, “einen überwundenen Standpunkt.” [13] Reinecke and Joachim, on the other hand, viewed the musical classics sub specie aeternitatis — that is to say, “from the standpoint of eternity,” as timeless expressions of spiritual truth. This is the sense of Joachim’s lines, jotted as a dedication in a book of Brahms lieder that Joachim gave to Agathe (Siebold) Schütte in the Autumn of 1894:

Nur das Bedeutungslose fährt dahin.
Was einmal tief lebendig ist und war
Das hat Kraft zu sein für immerdar. [14]

The two friends went so far as to share a mutual interest in the works of Spohr, though a less fashionable composer could hardly be found. In an undated letter, Joachim writes:

Lieber Reinecke!

Es hat mir leid gethan, Deinen Spohr-Erinnerungsabend nicht mitmachen zu können, da ich wirklich eine große Verehrung für ihn hege, und glaube er wird jetzt unterschätzt. Auch seine Zeit wird wohl wieder kommen, d. h. man wird sich unbefangener manches Herrlichen erfreuen, das er aus echtester Empfindung gesungen als jetzt möglich ist, wo starke Aufregungen und Geistreichelei an der Tagesordnung sind. [15]

Today, one might be tempted to apply Joachim’s words concerning Spohr to Reinecke and his violin concerto. Already in 1858, this seems to have been Eduard Hanslick’s view:

“Reinecke ist eine ungemein liebenswürdige künstlerische Natur. […] Mit der Technik der musikalischen Composition vollständig vertraut, würde er so gut wie mancher Andere die imponirenden Grimassen falscher Genialität ziehen, und sich damit zu einer gewissen Größe hinauflügen können. Daß er es verschmäht, und nur bedacht ist, dasjenige in reiner Form zu geben, was ihm die Natur echt verlieh, macht uns diesen Mann in dieser Zeit aufrichtig wert.” [16]

*

*          *

This Classical, anti-virtuosic, orientation placed Reinecke and Joachim on one side of a significant aesthetic divide. It is customary today to separate violin concerti into two categories: virtuoso concerti and “symphonic” concerti. [17] Nineteenth-century virtuoso concerti include, for example, the works of Paganini, Ernst, Lipinski, Maurer, Wieniawski, Vieuxtemps, et alia, in which the technical and soloistic element predominates and is set in high relief against the tutti. To the other category belong concerti of Spohr, Mendelssohn, Bruch, Brahms, Dvorák and Chaikovsky: works in which the symphonic element plays a pervasive role, and in which the solo violin holds more-or-less constant dialogue with the tutti. Virtuoso concerti have much in common with operatic virtuosity and the art of embellishment. The symphonic style originates in the Classical works of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, and, as the term implies, shares a common history and aesthetic with the symphony itself.

Indeed, the history of the 19^th century symphonic violin concerto closely reflects the troubled progress of the symphony during the same period. It is well-known that the generation that followed Beethoven had significant issues with the perpetuation of the symphonic form. Carl Dahlhaus famously wrote:

“Die symphonie, die durch Beethoven aus einer Gattung, die eine unbefangene Massenproduktion zuließ, zur “großen Form” geworden war […] geriet um die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts in eine Krise, als deren sichtbares Zeichen die Tatsache erscheint, daß nach Schumanns Dritter Symphonie (1850), die chronologisch seine letzte ist, fast zwei Jahrzehnte lang kein Werk von Rang geschrieben wurde, das die absolute, nicht durch ein Programm bestimmte Musik repräsentiert. […] Um so auffälliger — und für Historiker, die in der Geschichte einer Gattung nach ungebrochener Kontinuität suchen, geradezu irritierend — ist die Tatsache, daß in den siebziger und achtziger Jahren mit den Werken von Bruckner und Brahms, Čajkovskij und Borodin, Dvořák und Franck die symphonie in ein ‘zweites Zeitalter’ eintrat, dessen Hinterlassenschaft heute, ein Jahrhundert später, immer noch einen großen Teil des Konzertrepertoires beherrscht.” [18]

Dahlhaus’s formulation was the subject of considerable discussion at the 1989 Internationales Musikwissenschaftliches Colloquium in Bonn, “Probleme der Symphonischen Tradition im 19. Jahrhundert.” [19] The history of the symphonic violin concerto may perhaps shed light on this discussion: first, because the composers who wrote them were by and large the same as those who cultivated the symphony, and second, because the symphonic violin concerto, while a related form of “serious” orchestral music, offered those composers a congenial alternative to the symphony — an alternative that allowed more lattitude for innovation in form and expression than the symphony, which by mid-century had become moribund, through its pretentions, its formal and aesthetic limitations, and the intimidating influence of Beethoven. The violin concerto therefore allowed the creation of at least a few symphonic “Werke von Rang” during the fallow decades of the symphony that Dahlhaus references.

The prime example of this is Max Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor, op. 26 (1866), which likely served as an inspiration for Reinecke’s concerto in the same key. The first movement of Bruch’s concerto is unusual by any standard: a free introduction (Bruch uses the Wagnerian term Vorspiel) to the central slow movement that is the real raison d’être of the piece. Bruch had compunctions about whether a work in so unorthodox a form could properly fit the genre, but was reassured by Joachim:

“Auf Ihre ‘Zweifel’ freue ich mich Ihnen schließlich zu sagen, daß ich den Titel Concert jedenfalls gerechtfertigt finde — für den Namen ‘Phantasie’ sind namentlich die beiden letzten Sätze zu sehr und regelmäßig ausgebaut. Die einzelnen Bestandtheile sind in ihrem Verhältnisse zu einander sehr schön und doch contrastirend genug; das ist die Hauptsache. Spohr nennt übrigens auch seine Gesangs-Scene ‘Concert’”! [20]

It is precisely this freedom — this ability to break free of the shadow of Beethoven and “großer Form” while resting on the authority of accepted models — that appealed to composers of a conservative bent and allowed the symphonic violin concerto, as a form of absolute music, to maintain a provisional hold on the public at a time when the symphony itself was in eclipse. As Joachim mentioned in his letter, Spohr provided an early example of unconventional form — a concerto in the form of an operatic scena. Mendelssohn’s concerto (1845), which influenced subsequent composers as late as Sibelius, is replete with formal innovations (the lack of opening tutti, the centrally-placed cadenza in the first movement, the unusual recapitulation in the first movement, etc.). Equally important, later composers also felt freer in the violin concerto to explore certain more lyrical or characteristic moods — moods that were congenial to the era, but that lay outside the aesthetic norms of the symphony, or were problematic if subjected to the formal processes expected in the symphony post-Beethoven. Thus, while characteristic symphonic works such as Goldmark’s Ländliche Hochzeit Symphony (1876) once enjoyed a protracted period of popularity, they are no longer frequently performed. Similarly conceived concerti such as Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole or Bruch’s Schottische Fantasie, on the other hand, continue to be staples of the violinist’s repertoire.

Symphonic Violin Concerti in the 19^th Century

1806    Beethoven Concerto in D major, op. 61 (Joachim)
1816    Spohr Concerto no. 8 in modo di scene cantante, op. 47 (Joachim)
1834    Berlioz Harold en Italie (performed by Joachim under Berlioz)
1844    Mendelssohn Concerto in E minor, op 64 (Joachim, 2^nd performance)
1853    Schumann Concerto in D minor WoO 23 (withheld) (dedicated to Joachim)
1853    Schumann Fantasie op. 131 (dedicated to Joachim)
1857    Hiller Concerto in a A major, op. 152 (dedicated to Joachim)
1861    Joachim Concerto no. 2 in D minor, op. 11 Hungarian (Joachim)
1867    Bruch Concerto no. 1 in G minor, op. 26 (dedicated to Joachim)
1874    Lalo Symphonie Espagnole (written for Sarasate)
1875    Joachim Concerto no. 3 in G major, WoO (Joachim)
1876    Reinecke Concerto in G minor, op. 141 (dedicated to Joachim)
1877    Damrosch Concerto in D minor WoO (dedicated to Joachim)
1877    Dvořák Romanze in F minor, op. 11 (dedicated to Ondříček)
1877    Goldmark Concerto in A minor, op. 28 (Lauterbach)
1878    Brahms Concerto in D major, op. 77 (dedicated to Joachim)
1878    Bruch Concerto no. 2 in D minor, op. 44 (dedicated to Sarasate)
1878    Chaikovsky Concerto in D major, op. 35 (dedicated to Brodsky/ Auer/ Halíř)
1879    Dvořák Concerto in A minor, op. 53 (B. 108) (dedicated to Joachim/ Ondříček)
1880    Bruch Schottische Fantasie, op. 46 (dedicated to Sarasate)
1880    Niels Gade Concerto in D minor, op. 56 (dedicated to Joachim)
1880    Saint-Saëns Concerto in B minor, op. 61 (dedicated to Sarasate)

[Names in parentheses indicate that the works were either written by, dedicated to, premiered by, or predominantly championed by those players.]

The foregoing table demonstrates the dominance that Joachim had over the whole genre of symphonic violin concerti in the 19^th century, approached only, from the 1870s onward, by Pablo de Sarasate. Even Beethoven’s concerto would have sunk into obscurity, had not the young Joachim revived and championed it. Joachim learned Mendelssohn’s concerto from its composer — he was the second violinist to play it, contemporaneous with David. He also played Harold in Italy under the composer’s baton, whereas Paganini, who commissioned the work from Berlioz, never played it, claiming the viola part was lacking in virtuosity, and insufficiently prominent. The works of Schumann and Spohr likewise belonged to Joachim’s repertoire. It is telling that Joachim never played the concerti of Ernst, Wieniawski or Vieuxtemps, although he was friendly with their creators, and valued them highly both as violinists and as men. Though he was a great virtuoso, Joachim eschewed violinistic fireworks. More than any other 19^th century violinist, he was responsible for promoting the violin concerto as a “serious” form — in the sense of the Leipziger res severa — that, in its expressive possibilities, could stand comparison with the symphony.

Reinecke’s concerto reflects his sympathy with Joachim’s project: he worked within the traditions of the symphonic concerto, anticipating and advancing the revival of the genre. Viewing this table, one might argue that Reinecke’s concerto, far from being “reactionary,” was a harbinger, not only of a zweites Zeitalter of symphonic violin concerti, but of a goldenes Zeitalter. The subsequent four years alone saw the appearance of the canonical concerti of Goldmark, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Dvořák, Bruch (Schottische Fantasie), and Saint-Saëns.

The third movement of the work will serve briefly as an example of Reinecke’s poetic, anti-virtuosic conception, expressed with the innovative freedom of form that is characteristic of the 19^th-century symphonic violin concerto, generally. The entire concerto is strongly reminiscent in tonality, mood, and theme of Bruch’s popular Concerto no. 1 in G minor, and, like the Bruch, it seems to glory in its elegiac slow movement as its real reason for being.

Instead of following that movement with the customary light, brilliant rondo finale, Reinecke has given us an expressive movement of a lyrical, cantabile, character — a series of developing variations, closely related to, and at times recapitulating, the theme of the slow movement. Of it, a contemporary critic wrote that “der Finalsatz viel zu weitschichtig angelegt und mit zu wenig Rücksicht auf klar übersichtliche Gliederung seiner Theile ausgeführt ist.” [21] This seems a mis-hearing of the work, however, for the movement can be understood as a rather traditional sonata-rondo form (or what might better be described with James Hepokoski’s term: a “sonata-rondo deformation”), as this analytical diagram shows:

A short transition, such as one finds in Beethoven or Mendelsson, introduces the movement. The main theme, a broad amabile, demonstrates the double stop technique for which Joachim was famous in his time. It is difficult to play, but not virtuosic in character. The recursive nature of the theme creates a somewhat too-static impression at the start of a movement that is conceived in a similarly recursive form. The “A” theme alternates with a contrasting, arpeggiated, “B” theme, the character of which is strongly reminiscent of Schumann. The “C” group can be heard as a variation or development of the “A” theme — further contributing to the recursive nature of the movement.

An interesting feature of the movement is the presence of two dramatic, symmetrically placed D major scales that function as audible orientation points within the overall structure. Symmetric, as well, are two short, rather brilliant developments: one in double stops, and the other in triplets. The most interesting feature of the movement, however, is the threefold return of the main theme from the second movement — each time varied and ornamented — first in E, then in F, and finally in the tonic G major. These tonally progressive “reminiscences,” which function as interruptions (or “deformations”) of the Rondo, emphasize the familial relationship between the last movement “A” and “C” themes, and the main theme “X” of the lyrical slow movement. Thus, the entire third movement can be understood as a continuation, or development, of the second movement. The deformation of the standard sonata-rondo form through lyrical reminiscences serves an expressive purpose that carries the piece far from mechanical, “empty,” virtuosity into the world of Schumannesque poetry.

According to Joseph von Wasielewski, Reinecke’s Violin Concerto deserves, “in musikalisch künstlerischer Hinsicht unstreitig ein hervorragender Platz in der Geigenliteratur, wenn auch die Principalstimme nicht mit bestechender Brillanz ausgestattet ist. Reinecke hat es sich offenbar angelegen sein lassen, mehr die solide Seite als die virtuosenmäßige Bravour des Geigenspieles hervorzukehren.” Wasielewski hints at the work’s fatal weakness — as well as, potentially, its most ingratiating attribute — when he continues: “Wer das Werk von diesem Gesichtspunkt aus betrachtet wird seine Freude daran haben.” [22] In any case, Reinecke’s violin concerto is an attractive work that despite, or perhaps even because of, its previous neglect would provide a welcome alternative in the violinist’s repertoire to Bruch’s all-too-frequently performed masterpiece. It also provides a valuable insight into the musical friendship between two important 19^th-century performer/composers and their relationship to aesthetic trends in European symphonic music at a critical point in its development.

© Robert W. Eshbach, 2014

[1] Recorded at the Grosser Saal, Kultur-Casino Bern, Johannes Moesus, conductor, 09/23/2004 and 09/24/2004; released 04/24/2007 on the CPO label, no. 777 105-2, ISBN 761203710522.

[2] Reinecke: “David hatte das Werk übrigens eigenmächtig in solcher Weise zugestutzt, daß ich förmlich erschrak, als ich die Partitur später zurückerhielt. Es war eine Schwäche von David, daß er alles für seine, vielleicht etwas eigenseitige Technik umarbeitete und sich auch anderweitige Eingriffe in die Komposition anderer erlaubte.” Carl Reinecke, Erlebnisse und Bekenntnisse, Doris Mundus (ed.), Leipzig 2005, p. 102.

A review of the October 3 concert appeared in the Wiener Zeitung, October 14, 1858: “Aus dem am 3. d. M. stattgefundenen ersten unserer ‘großen Konzerte’ nenne ich als besonders bemerkenswerth die Solovorträge unseres Konzertmeisters Ferdinand David. Derselbe führte uns ein neues noch im Manuskript vorliegendes Violinkonzert von dem talentvollen jungen Tonsetzer Karl Reinecke und den bekannten Tartinischen Teufelstriller vor, das Erstere eine in der That anmuthende Novität von solider Arbeit.”

[3] Johannes Joachim and Andreas Moser (eds.), Briefe von und an Joseph Joachim (2/3), Berlin 1912, pp. 1-2.

[4] Signale für die musikalische Welt, vol. 35, no. 3 (January 1877) p. 35.

[5] Musikalisches Wochenblatt, vol. 8, no. 2 (5 January 1877), p. 21.

[6] Kiel, 24 June 1878. Vide: Signale für die musikalische Welt, vol. 36, no. 43 (September 1878), p. 681.

[7] — Reinecke, Erlebnisse und Bekenntnisse, p. 260.

[8] — ibid., p. 25.

[9] Though this bias, on Joachim’s part, may have been as much an image as a reality. His wife, Amalie, claimed in a letter: “Unparteiische Richter welche genug von Violine verstünden müßten ihm auch als Techniker die erste Stelle zuweisen. Ich habe oft genug ihn, seine Art einzelne Stellen zu spielen mit der Art Sarasate’s u. Anderer vergleichen können u. stets gefunden, daß er alles größer, kühner u. feuriger vorträgt — auch ‘Virtuosenstückchen’ kühner u. eleganter spielt, als die andern, wenn er dies freilich nur für sich allein in seinem Studierzimmer vollbringt — weil er öffentlich sich nur als Priester des Allerschönsten u. Höchsten zeigen will.” [Beatrix Borchard, Stimme und Geige: Amalie und Joseph Joachim, Biographie und Interpretationsgeschichte, Wien 2005, p. 502.]

[10] — Reinecke, op. cit., p. 261.

[11] — ibid., pp. 261-262.

[12] Public Opinion, vol. 20, no. 16 (16 April 1896), p. 500.

[13] Hans von Bülow, for example, never performed a Mozart concerto in public. [Hans-Joachim Hinrichsen, Musikalische Interpretation Hans von Bülow, Stuttgart 1999, p. 24.]

[14] Emil Michelmann, Agathe von Siebold: Johannes Brahms’ Jugendliebe, Göttingen 1929, p. 318.

[15] Unpublished letter, private collection.

[16] Eduard Hanslick. Sämtliche Schriften. Historisch-kritische Ausgabe, Dietmar Strauß (ed.), Band I, 4: Aufsätze und Rezensionen 1857-1858, Wien 2002, pp. 359-360.

[17] I use this term in a somewhat freer manner than is customary.

[18] Carl Dahlhaus, Die Musik des 19. Jahrhunderts, in: Neues Handbuch der Musikwissenschaft, C. Dahlhaus (ed.), vol. 6, Wiesbaden 1980, p. 220.

[19] Vide Kongreßbericht: Probleme der Symphonischen Tradition im 19. Jahrhundert, Siegfried Kross (ed.), Tutzing 1990.

[20] — Joachim and Moser (eds.), Briefe von und an Joseph Joachim (2/3), p. 393.

[21] Musikalisches Wochenblatt, vol. 8, no. 2 (5 January 1877), p. 21.

[22] Wilhelm Joseph von Wasielewski, Carl Reinecke. Sein Leben, Wirken und Schaffen, Leipzig n.d., p.85.