Carl Reinecke (1824 – 1910): Piano Concerto no 1 in F Sharp Minor
Musical fashions can be as fickle as authoritarian regimes, especially if you’re a composer. One moment your name is everywhere, everyone wants a piece of you and you are feted as an integral symbol of the zeitgeist. Then a coup d’état swings by and switches government, and suddenly you’re out in the cold, your name is mud and you’re widely denigrated for having been a part of the old order.
Many classical composers, surviving into old age, have found themselves experiencing something like this. But none more so than the Danish-German composer Carl Reinecke, whose only crime it seemed was to build his artistic identity in one era and then survive half a century into another.
Even the most sympathetic obituarists, writing in the aftermath of his death in 1910, seemed to take a delight in portraying Reinecke as a relic from a lost age. The London Musical Herald, for example, would claim that Reinecke “had lived too long, had seen his idols lose their lofty position; and men and ideas which he opposed have taken place in the received authorities. One fears that his old age was a disappointed, unhappy lingering.”
To read such words, one might be forgiven for assuming that Reinecke had spent his life writing oratorios in the style of Handel. But that was certainly not the case. Worse still is that such views have largely shaped the way we view Reinecke today, a grave injustice against a genuinely talented man.
As an artist, Reinecke was wide-ranging, not only as a composer, but as a pianist, conductor, administrator, editor and scholar (he was also as one of the great musical pedagogues of the late nineteenth century). He came to dominate the music scene at Leipzig as few have before or since, and as a spiritual successor to both Mendelssohn and Schumann, offered something of an alternative to the Liszt-inspired avant-gardists over in nearby Weimar.
But Reinecke’s diffident personality may ultimately have contributed to his own relative eclipse from music history. His lack of self-confidence is one of the most surprising aspects to him, and you would not guess it from reading about his varied and successful career – nor, indeed, from the few surviving photos we have of him, all of which show a robust-looking, twinkly eyed man with flambouyantly bushy sideburns.
In person, Reinecke could be meek and submissive, with a crippling fear of giving offence. All throughout his life he had a tendency to sell himself short, while friends and colleagues felt he was never quite paid what he was worth. But Reinecke was not the sort who could storm into a director’s office, beat his first on a table and demand a raise.
Such acquiescence inevitably found its way into his creative life, where he scrupulously avoided controversy or drawing unnecessary attention to himself. As a composer, he absorbed the wholesome classicism of Mozart to Mendelssohn, while (largely but not always) steering clear of the more expressionist experiments of Liszt and Wagner. As both composer and pianist, he shunned empty shows of bravado.
He was similarly unflashy as a teacher and conductor, where his colleagues admired his unwavering integrity while sometimes despairing of his somewhat prosaic communication skills.
Reinecke himself was fully aware of this side to his personality and partly attributed it to a difficult childhood. Born in the Hamburg district of Altona in 1824*, he was largely raised by his larger-than-life father, Johann Peter Rudolph Reinecke, his mother Johanna having sadly passed away when he was only four. Johann, a well-respected music theorist, who had worked his way up from humble origins, was determined to homeschool both Carl and his sister Betty, even as his strict, draconian regime could sometime border onto emotional abuse.
*Altona was then under Denmark’s jurisdiction, meaning that Reinecke was technically a Danish rather than German citizen.
Neither child ever quite forget the experience. Betty would later say that her father’s “eagerness to teach bordered on fanaticism, he felt best when he was teaching. But it must be said that we went through hard and sad hours with our irritable father. I suspect that he made exaggerated demands of us, especially because we children followed him so willingly.”
As for Carl, the effects of his father’s overbearing methods were to be tragically long-lasting. “My father’s strictness,” he recalled with some bitterness as an old man, “and his habit of breaking my will by recognizing only his own will as the solely valid one, made me throughout my whole life into a much too soft and compliant nature. I often only had enough energy to prove things to myself, I was much too weak against others, often to my detriment.” He also remembered Johann once “boxing” his ears after he had played a passage from a Beethoven piano sonata in the wrong clef – although it turned out the error was not his but a misprint in the music.
As Johann wanted to give his son a wide education and was in fact only lukewarm about his piano playing, the latter’s determination to master the instrument was the closest he ever came to an act of rebellion. Although inspired by hearing the likes of Clara Schumann and Franz Liszt perform at concerts during his teenage years, Reinecke’s own style of playing, with its emphasis on balance, clarity and precision, would invoke the more restrained, classical manner of John Field or Frédéric Chopin. Cosima Wagner (nee Liszt), who briefly took lessons from Reinecke in the 1840s, would praise his “beautiful, gentle, legato and lyrical touch”, while another pupil remembered the young Reinecke as something of a Mozart specialist: “His rendering of a Mozart concerto was an event not to be forgotten.”
As Carl began to perform both as a solo pianist and orchestral violinist from his early teens onwards, he soon began to build up a name for himself. In 1843 he was awarded a grant go and to study at the newly opened Leipzig Conservatory, under its two celebrated composition professors, Felix Mendelssohn and Robert Schumann. It would prove to be a life-shaping experience.
Reinecke immediately shone in the old Saxon city, not only as a student but as a performer, often taking part in concerts at the city’s Gewandhaus. He would also treasure his associations with both Mendelssohn and Schumann. When first showing the former a string quartet he had been working on, he was “fully prepared to hear a crushing verdict upon my work”, whereas his teacher “received me so warmly that I felt at once at ease.” Mendelssohn then played through particular passages of the quartet, offering both encouraging praise and gentle criticism where appropriate. Finally, he offered his young charge some general advice over his budding career:
You must be more exacting with yourself. You must write no measure that is not interesting in itself; but do not become so critical that you cannot accomplish anything at all. Your playing is faulty in that you play too much en gros (on a large scale); you need to enter more closely into the finer details of the work—but then en gros again. Be industrious, young man. You have youth, strength and talent as well. To be sure, even now you will find plenty of admiration and flattery at all the tea-parties of Hamburg and also of Leipzig, but that sort of thing helps no one. There is no lack everywhere of flatterers, but there are never enough of earnest artists, and you have it in you to become one—you have only to choose. However, no young artist like you should ever commit the error of ever publishing a whole book of songs every one of which is in triple measure.
Although Schumann was also slated to give Reinecke some lessons, he was less pedagogic in his approach and more inclined to treat his student as an equal. The two men would even become close friends for a time, with Schumann eventually declaring, “Reinecke understands me, like few others.”
Perhaps most importantly, Reinecke’s two Leipzig mentors would have a huge influence on his own musical style – which is still different from saying that Reinecke simply wrote their music for the next sixty years. He certainly built on what he had learned from them, but then very much evolved his own methods.
Never tempted to embrace the new possibilities of freelance life for mid-nineteenth century professional musicians, Reinecke moved steadily between jobs in his twenties and thirties, serving as a Royal Court Pianist in Copenhagen for King Christian VIII, before becoming professor of piano and counterpoint at Cologne Conservatorium and then taking on musical directorships respectively in Barmen (situated in the Rhineland) and Breslau (now Wroclaw in Poland). He also composed prolifically during this time, establishing a habit he would carry far into his old age. It is however striking that almost all of his works at this stage were small-scale in conception – mainly piano pieces and lieder, with just the odd chamber work thrown in. Orchestral pieces were still a rarity.
A major turning point in Reinecke’s life was his decision to return to Leipzig in 1860, having been appointed professor of composition at the Conservatory, as well as conductor of the Gewandhaus orchestra. He would hold on to both posts for the next four decades, and his handling particularly of the latter would appear to inspire a new ambition in his compositions.
It was in that same year that he turned out one of his finest works, the Piano Concerto no 1 in F Sharp Minor. A surprisingly good piece by any standards, it’s all the more surprising that Reinecke had written so little for the orchestra before it. While the solo part inevitably reflects his high level of pianism, if anything it is the assured and effective orchestral accompaniment that is even more impressive.
For a composer later so widely pilloried for being old-fashioned, the Concerto is anything but that. There are faint echoes of Schumann, and not least of the latter’s own Piano Concerto from 15 years earlier. But there are equal hints of Liszt, and not least in the work’s harmonic complexities. With that said, the work displays a beauty and sophistication quite of Reinecke’s own making, while some of its more visionary passages even anticipate later Romantic composers, such as Rachmaninov.
Written in three movements, the first (an Allegro in F Sharp Minor) perfectly exemplifies the elegant balance of classical and romantic elements that characterises Reinecke’s best music. In fact, this movement has a curious asymmetry – for the first half it seems to be following a conventional classical structure, with an exposition, development section and two contrasting themes in minor and major keys respectively. But then the recapitulation returns the exposition material in such an altered state that it seems to act as further development. The movement then launches into a long, Lisztian cadenza, before finally transforming the first theme into a whirling 6/8 dance, bringing the movement to a stormy close.
The second movement (Adagio ma non Troppo in D Flat Major) is in some ways the most beautiful and original of the three. It is shaped around a hesitant theme, heard at the outset on solo ‘cello, against ambiguous, shifting major and minor chords. There are dark touches to the orchestration throughout (especially evident the low timpani rumbles), while the often skittering piano part takes on a role that is both decorative and yet restless, helping to maintain a mood of ambivalence and uncertainty.
Although the final Allegro Con Brio (in F Sharp Major) relinquishes some of the tension of the first two movements, its progress is not always as straightforward as one might expect. There are two recognizable themes – one bold and triumphant, the other lyrical and Schumann-esque – but in between time are funky, off-kilter rhythms as well as passages of great harmonic daring that feel positively avant-garde for 1860.
In all, the F Sharp Minor Concerto stands as one of the compositional summits of Reinecke’s orchestral works, alongside his Second Symphony (1874) and the equally accomplished Second Piano Concerto in E Minor (1873). He would also continue to write in all forms across the next five decades, publishing almost 300 works in all. Among this impressive body of work are three symphonies, eight concerti (variously for piano, harp, violin, ‘cello and flute), a fine selection of chamber music (piano trios and five string quartets among them), and even a few attempts at serious opera, such as König Manfred and Auf Hohen Befehl (although these were generally not a success).
Reneicke’s best-loved works during his own lifetime were probably his various piano miniatures, along with a series of choral works for female voices. The latter included the 12 Canonische Gesänge (12 Canonic Songs), and his cantata, Die Wilden Schwäne (The Wild Swans), based upon the famous H.C. Andersen fairy-tale.
Reinecke’s love of folklore and fairytales had started in his childhood, largely as a means of mentally checking out of his father’s sometimes tyrannical regime. In an autobiographical fragment (written in third person) he noted that young Carl had “seen the truly wonderful magical world” in a daydream which “did not leave him for the rest of his life”. He would often re-enter that “truly wonderful magic world” not only in his frequent settings of Andersen (something that once led him to being dubbed the author’s musical doppelganger), but in all of his music for younger audiences – and not least with many of his songs and piano pieces. In addition, he would emulate Leopold Mozart and write a Kinder-Sinfonie (Toy Symphony), as well as three operas “für die Jugend”: Glückskind und Pechvogel (Lucky Child and Unlucky Bird), Die Teufelchen auf der Himmelswiese (The Little Devils on the Heavenly Meadow), and Traumfriedel.
Although the older Reinecke was generally sanguine in his approach to composition, even he couldn’t resist the temptation to occasionally measure himself up against younger artists, usually to his own detriment. “I face with resignation”, he once wrote with a hint of overriding dissatisfaction, “that many of my works have been mostly laid ad acta, even though I can testify with good conscience that I have shunned neither effort nor work or time in order always to bring my works to the highest degree of perfection reachable by me.”
But just as Reinecke was never the kind of composer to get lost in late nineteenth century expressionism, his official duties at Leipzig helped keep his feet firmly planted on the ground in other ways. He was proactive in his role at the Conservatory, overseeing improvements to both student facilities and syllabi, while appointing musical colleagues who shared his love for classical tradition. He firmly believed in grounding pupils not only in JS Bach but in the still relatively little-known masses and motets of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, a Renaissance genius often seen as one of the cornerstones to modern western music.
Reinecke also managed to build up an impressive portfolio of pupils during his time at the Conservatory, including the likes of Edvard Grieg, Charles Villiers Stanford, Christian Sinding, Leoš Janáček, Isaac Albéniz, Felix Weingartner, Max Bruch and August Winding – this in spite of his reputation for being a somewhat uninspiring teacher. One student suggested that Reinecke “knew all that was to be known, and could tell you what was to be told, but his lack of personality gave no distinct impress to his instruction.” The English composer, Charles Villiers Stanford, was even harsher, complaining that “of all the dry musicians I have ever known he [Reinecke] was the most desiccated”.
It was a similar story with Reinecke the conductor, a conscientious director not overly blessed with ego or charisma. When Tchaikovsky once passed through Leipzig in the 1870s, he was disappointed by the quiet, unassuming figure at the Gewandhaus podium, about whom he had heard so much. “Reinecke enjoys in Germany and indeed in all Europe the reputation of being an outstanding musician,” the great Russian composer reported. But in Tchaikovsky’s view, Reinecke had succeeded more by “great dignity” than by “any particular brilliance… I say without any particular brilliance because many people in Germany deny that Herr Reinecke has any gifts as a conductor, and would like to see him replaced by a more passionate musician, with a more resolute and stronger character.”
But not everyone who worked with Reinecke needed to be wowed by his personality in the way Tchaikovsky did. Many others simply appreciated him for his deep musicality, his even-temper and his frequent kindnesses to colleagues. When a certain young singer had been overcome by a fit of nerves on the eve of performing one of Reinecke’s songs, Reinecke had offered words of reassurance before telling her, “I will give you some extra support for the voice so that you cannot fail.” Keeping his word, he duly wrote out an extra violin part for the song, providing the singer much-needed reinforcement. As an impressed onlooker recorded, “immediate rehearsal followed, and, thanks to the violin support and the goodness of Reinecke, the début was a success…”
Above all, Reinecke appeared to achieve a good work-life balance, despite the various demands on his time. He even managed to overcome the tragic experience of being widowed twice while still a fairly young man, leaving him in sole charge of raising seven children. Friends and visitors recalled his happy, thriving family home in Querstrasse, as well as the maestro’s evident enjoyment of fatherhood. As one guest noted:
Should you look into his study early in the day, you would find [Reinecke] at his desk, busy with some new composition, while on each knee would be sitting one of his “little ones”, with their arms locked around their father’s neck. Should you visit him in the evening, you would find him engaged playing with his children, seven happy children, who are a source of great comfort and joy to their loving father.
After the children had all grown up a little, another visitor to the Reinecke household fondly recalled the “wit and badinage around the dinner table.”
Despite finally retiring from his official duties in 1902, Reinecke composed right up to the end, his final work appearing in proofs just a few days before his death. Characteristically it was a fairy-tale setting, his Musik zu Andersen’s Märchen vom Schweinehirten (Music for Andersen’s Fairy-tale of the Swineherd), arranged for piano duet.
Ever industrious, this modest-seeming man had achieved so much in his eighty-six years. But he had also lived through a time of almost unprecedented change, politically, sociologically and of course culturally. Born in the same year of the premiere of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, he died just after Arnold Schoenberg had completed one of his first atonal masterpieces, the Five Pieces for Orchestra.
In the end, Reinecke had been left largely untroubled by the musical cataclysms of his time, preferring to continue on his own path. At the same time, he could produce genuinely impressive works when the mood took him.
In any case, as Georg Predota has recently suggested in Interlude, it is high time to move on from the cultural prejudices of a former age and to view this talented composer afresh. As Predota puts it, Reinecke’s “works are rightfully celebrated for their melodic beauty and depth, attributes that really should no longer be counted against him in the 21st Century.”