Crossroads of Cultural Conflict:

Religion and Country in the Stabat maters of Josef Gabriel Rheinberger

A thesis submitted to the

Graduate School

of the University of Cincinnati

in partial fulfillment of the requirements

for the degree of

Master of Music

in the Division of Composition, Musicology, and Theory

at the College-Conservatory of Music

by

Rhianna Nissen

B.M. Shenandoah Conservatory of Shenandoah University, 2013

July 2017

Committee Chair: Jonathan Kregor, Ph.D.

Abstract

In the three years between 1869 and 1871, two seismic events created a seemingly irreconcilable cultural conflict in South Germany. 1869 saw Pope Pius’s decree of papal infallibility, reasserting papal supremacy over the power of secular rulers. 1871 saw Bismarck’s triumph over the French in the Franco-Prussian War, and the long-awaited political unification of much of German-speaking central Europe. Munich, the cosmopolitan heart of Catholic Bavaria, acutely experienced these changes, and the conflicts inherent in growing dogmatism on both secular and religious fronts. The pull between German nationalism and Catholic identity— always a complicated relationship—grew increasingly polarized, exacerbated by Bismarck’s anti-Catholic Kulturkampf, the Döllinger affair, and the schism between “old” and “new”

Catholics in South Germany.

Musically, these conflicting identities are apparent in the works of Josef Gabriel

Rheinberger. A Lichtenstein-born composer living and working in Munich, Rheinberger consciously sought to align himself with the great pantheon of German composers extolled in the

German musical press, while at the same time responsive to the demands of his various sacred music positions, his own relationship to the Catholic faith, and the musical dogmatism of the

Caeciliens at Regensburg. This thesis compares Rheinberger’s two settings of the Catholic

Stabat mater poem, Opp. 16 and 138, in evaluating the comparative pull of German and Catholic musical traditions in late nineteenth-century Munich. Written twenty years apart (1864 and 1884, respectively) the two works are musical snapshots of distinctive periods in Munich and

Rheinberger’s histories, existing at the crossroads of German and Catholic identity, and revealing the cultural conflicts and compromises inherent therein.

ii

Acknowledgements

There are many people without whom this project would have had no chance at completion. To Dr. Matthew Peattie, and his endless wealth of information on sacred music and

Caeciliens; Dr. Stephen Meyer, for countless hours of mentorship and advice; and Dr. Jonathan

Kregor, for agreeing to chair this committee, and for his patience, feedback, and good humor on a project that at times felt as though inching towards an ever-evasive horizon. I would also like to extend my thanks to the many denizens of the AMS-L who lent their Kurrentschrift expertise, especially Geoff Chew, Valerie Goertzen, and Rex Levang, for their assistance in transcribing.

To our Cincinnati cohort: Taylor, Dan, Stephen, and Laikin—we have since dispersed in various directions, but we started this journey together, and it was through sharing in your passion, inspiration, and commitment to this study of musicology, that my own passion and commitment grew. To friends near and far, whose support I could never do without, and whose honesty and love give me strength to press on. To my parents, Linda and Rob, and my sister, Meredith, who many not always understand exactly what it is I do or why I do it, but love that I do it, just the same. Lastly, to Isabel the dog, who has torn through boxes of treats and at least half a dozen squeaky lamb toys while waiting for me to finish whatever is on the computer and take her for a walk.

iii Table of Contents

Introduction……………………………………………………………………………… 1 Chapter 1: Rheinberger’s Position in a German Musical Lineage…………………… 6 Putting the “German” in “German Music”………………………………………… 6 Rheinberger’s Early Musical Background………………………………………… 9 Munich at Midcentury…………………………………………………………….... 11 Rheinberger at the Munich Conservatory………………………………………….. 15 Chapter 2: Sacred Music in Munich at Midcentury…………………………………… 18 Sacred Music Reform Efforts……………………………………………………… 19 The South German Palestrina Revival and Caecilien Movement………………… 22 The Müncher Oratorioverein……………………………………………………… 26 Chapter 3: The First Stabat mater, Op. 16 (1864/8)…………………………………….. 32 The Stabat mater Text………………………………………………………………34 Analysis of Op. 16…….…………………………………………………………… 37 Chapter 4: Munich and Regensburg 1864-1884…………………………………………45 Pius IX and Papal Infallibility……………………………………………………… 45 Bismarck’s Kulturkampf…………………………………………………………… 48 The Allgemeine Caecilienverein…………………………………………………… 52 Chapter 5: The Second Stabat mater at the Crossroads of German and Catholic Identity…………………………………59 Politics and Piety of the Rheinbergers……………………………………………... 59 The Stabat mater Poetic Inscription………………………………………………...66 Analysis of Op. 138………………………………………………………………... 70 Conclusion………………………………………………………………………………… 86 Bibliography………………………………………………………………………………. 89 Appendix: Stabat mater Texts and Translations………………………………………... 95

iv List of Figures

Figure 1: Op. 16 Mvmt. 1, mm. 1-8 (Choir only)…………………………...……………... 38 Figure 2: Op. 16 Mvmt. 1, mm. 14-18 (Choir only)……………………………..………… 39 Figure 3: Op. 16 Mvmt. 5, mm. 46-53 (Choir only)…………………………...………...... 40 Figure 4: Op. 16 Mvmt. 3, mm. 37-44 (Tenor, Choir, Organ, Strings)………...………….. 42 Figure 5a: Op. 138 Mvmt. 2, mm. 20-23 (Autograph Manuscript)…………...…………… 72 Figure 5b: Op. 138 Mvmt. 2, mm. 20-23 (Engraver’s Copy)…………………...…………. 73 Figure 6: Op. 138 Mvmt. 1, mm. 26-34 (Choir)…………………………………………… 74 Figure 7: Op. 138 Mvmt. 4, mm. 180-186 (Fugue theme, Bass)……………...………….... 75 Figure 8: Op. 138 Mvmt. 4, mm. 224-230 (Full Score)……………………………………. 76 Figure 9: Op. 138 Mvmt. 2, mm. 62-71 (Full Score)……………………...……………….. 78 Figure 10: Op. 138 Mvmt. 3, mm. 87-90 (Full Score)……………………………………... 79 Figure 11a: Op. 138 Mvmt. 4, mm. 135-139 (Choir only)………………………………….81 Figure 11b: Op. 138 Mvmt. 4, mm. 148-155 (Choir only)………………………………… 81 Figure 12a: Op. 138 Mvmt. 1, mm 1-7 (Choir only)………………………………………. 82 Figure 12b: Op. 138 Mvmt. 3, mm. 81-85 (Choir only)…………………………………… 82 Figure 13a: Op. 138 Mvmt. 1, mm. 1-7 (Original manuscript conception)………………... 84 Figure 13b: Op. 138 Mvmt 2 and Introduction Insert ……………………………………... 84

v Introduction

In the three years between 1869 and 1871, two seismic events created a seemingly irreconcilable cultural conflict in South Germany. In 1869, Pope Pius IX called the First Vatican

Council to counter growing secularism across Europe and ultimately reestablish papal supremacy with the decree of papal infallibility in 1870. That same year, the outbreak of the Franco-

Prussian war signaled to all of German-speaking Europe that true political unification would soon follow—which it did, in 1871. Despite the Pan-German movement having taken hold of

German-speaking Europe for the better part of the century, religious conflict between Bavarian

Catholicism and German Protestantism complicated the aspirations of cultural cohesion.

Between the decree of Papal Infallibility on the one hand, and new political allegiance to the other, two cultural identities of Roman Catholic and German National were explicitly incompatible. Fault lines erupted between the two influences in the form of Bismarck’s

Kulturkampf of 1871-76 and the split of the Neue- and Altekatholiken in South Germany namely, those who did and did not accept Papal supremacy over the political authority of Wilhelm and the newly-unified German state. And while these conflicts of identity and allegiance would never amount to a full-scale conflict—even Bismarck’s Kulturkampf would quickly fail in its quest to stem Catholic influence—the newly apparent contradiction between what it meant to be German and what it meant to be a true Catholic was an urgent question in South German culture.

This cultural conflict between Pan-Germanicism and Papal Catholicism was born out over existing lines: rural versus urban, the clergy versus intelligentsia, and, musically, between the Caecilien reformers and Romanticists. The Caecilien movement under Franz Xaver Witt was a strict musical orthodoxy that sought to deliver sacred music from the corrupting theatrical and

Romantic influence, much as the decree of Papal Infallibility and Neuekatholizismus sought to

1 deliver the Faith from the corrupting force of secularization. The parallels between the Caecilien movement and Neuekatholizismus were strong—they were both most powerful outside of

Munich and in rural regions of Bavaria, both were officially sanctioned by Pope Pius IX, and both were similarly absolutist: it was impossible to be neuekatholisch without accepting Papal

Infallibility and it was impossible to compose music in the Caecilien style without appealing to the aesthetic authority of Franz Xaver Witt.

Josef Gabriel Rheinberger, a Catholic pan-Germanicist composer from Lichtenstein, spent most of his life in Munich. Despite having enjoyed a successful career and relative fame during his lifetime, most of his compositional output quickly fell into obscurity after his death in

1901. Today, he is remembered primarily for his virtuosic organ works, which have held a consistent place in the repertory. His choral “Abendlied” also enjoys regular performance and his

Wallenstein Symphony can be heard on occasion, but the vast majority of his compositions remain silent. Although an academic conference on Rheinberger declared that a revival of his repertoire was imminent, there has been little scholarship on the composer considering his great popularity during his lifetime.1 The only modern biography of Rheinberger, written by Hans-

Josef Irmen in 1970, casts him as “Das Antipode des Cäcilianismus” in its title.2

There is good reason to cast Rheinberger as the “antipode” to Witt and the Caeciliens. To start, even though he was a South German composer composing music for Catholic Church

1 The music of Josef Gabriel Rheinberger quickly disappeared from the repertory after his death in 1901. While his organ output is still regularly performed, his other works—including many choral pieces, oratorios, and symphonic works—are rarely programmed. Much scholarship focuses on Rheinberger as a compositional pedagogue (See: E. Douglas Bomberger, “Rheinberger, Boulanger, and the Art of Teaching Composition,” Music Theory Pedagogy 12 (1998), 53–64; and J. A. Fuller Maitland, “Josef Rheinberger,” in Masters of German Music, 1973 Reprint (Boston: Milford House, 1894), 172–98.) Other writings on Rheinberger are primarily geared at practicing church musicians and choir directors, frequently providing an overview of the composer and his output as a means of offering Rheinberger as a novel programming selection (See: Matthias Schneider, “Kennen Sie Rheinberger?” Musik und Kirche 71, no. 6 (2001), 359–65; Wolfgang Stockmeier, “Rheinberger-Marginalien,” Musik Und Kirche 62, no. 5 (1992), 274–75; Paul Weber, “Josef Gabriel Rheinberger and the Reform of Catholic Church Music: Part 1,” The American Organist 48, no. 10 (2014), 48–57.) 2 Hans-Josef Irmen, Gabriel Josef Rheinberger als Antipode des Cäcilianismus (Regensburg, Germany: G. Bosse, 1970).

2 services in the later decades of the nineteenth-century, none of Rheinberger’s sacred work was ever approved by Witt for inclusion in the Caecilien repertory. Rheinberger—like most German composers of the late nineteenth-century—was a strict adherent to the German compositional school or, at least, to the models of music that had been dubbed to be “German” and therefore

“universal.” He looked to the music of his contemporary, Brahms, and Mozart and Bach as his models, and turning to the Italian Renaissance masters as the Caeciliens did would have been anathema to his compositional pedigree.

But “antipode” is a strong word, and runs contrary to Rheinberger’s aesthetic development and personal history. It connotes direct opposition and defiance, and closer examination of Rheinberger’s output reveals that neither of these words accurately pertains to the composer’s music as the Caecilien movement reigned in the repertories of Catholic churches throughout much of South Germany. And perhaps this is fitting as neither the separation of

Caecilien and Romantic music nor the separation between Alt- and Neuekatholizismus can be understood as discrete groups. While the musical parameters for official inclusion in Witt’s

Caecilien canon were dogmatic, the influence of his reforms can be found throughout late 19th century sacred compositions. Therefore, it would be illogical to conclude that Rheinberger’s apparent disinterest in affiliating with the Caecilien revival in any way implies that traces of the revival cannot be found in his work. To the contrary, the development of Rheinberger’s sacred style in the decades surrounding the decree of Papal Infallibility and German Unification can be read as a parallel transition from Romantic (and Germanic) sacred music to a more reserved style which—though by no means Caecilien—bears evident traces of influence from Witt’s sacred music reforms. Furthermore, these changes in compositional style can be read as musical evidence of changes in Rheinberger’s personal faith, and perhaps then as reflections of the

3 connection between South German Catholicism, political leanings, and church music reform as a whole.

This project seeks to use the two Stabat mater settings of Josef Gabriel Rheinberger to understand the cultural and political climate of Munich during the late decades of the nineteenth- century and how these circumstances affected the development of Rheinberger’s compositional style. Their respective chronological positions in Rheinberger’s oeuvre could hardly be more ideal for such a purpose. The first Stabat mater Op. 16 was composed in 1864. This places the work during Rheinberger’s tenure as a professor of composition at the Munich Conservatory, and during his time as the director of the Munich Oratorioverein (Oratorio Society). Historically, it was composed before the first Vatican Council of 1868 and the decree of papal infallibility and before the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-1. This first Stabat mater setting marks the point of departure for this study: it is the work of a pedagogue steeped in German musical tradition and a personal obsession with romantic neoclassicism, who lived in a city and state still politically detached from the Prussian government. While questions of Catholicism and appropriate musical trends for sacred music were ever-present, they certainly carried neither the weight nor the urgency of those pressed after the First Vatican Council.

The second Stabat mater, Op. 138, was composed in 1884—a full two decades after the first. By this time, Rheinberger had left his post as director of the Oratorioverein, and had been serving as Kapellmeister to King Ludwig II for seven years. His position within the court of the

Catholic Bavarian King had a profound effect on his composition, and it is clear from programming records that Rheinberger was not only responsive to the Caecilien movement, but also the legacy of sacred music in Munich. This Munich tradition sharply diverged from

Caecilien principles in several respects, including in the intricacy of counterpoint and

4 incorporation of instruments in sacred, liturgical music. A stylistic comparison of the first and second Stabat mater settings demonstrates the ways in which Rheinberger absorbed these competing influences between the first and second composition. Further, it reflects one composer’s attempt to reconcile conflicting ideas of his own identity in his music.

5 Chapter 1: Rheinberger’s Position in a German Musical Lineage

In understanding Josef Rheinberger as a consciously German composer, it is first necessary to establish what Rheinberger would have understood “Germanness” in music to be.

Rheinberger was, of course, born in Lichtenstein, but this did not preclude him from being educated as part of a German compositional pedigree. As many previous scholars have elucidated, German nationalism in music was as much about establishing German universalism as it was establishing German superiority.3 A natural result of the implicit “German as universal” bias that informed nineteenth-century German musical life was a pedagogical system that virtually omitted foreign influence or discussion. This hegemony in musical training is evident in

Rheinberger’s own biography and, as the following chapters will show, his output. His music is therefore an appropriate tool through which we can better understand the cultural conflict between Germanness and Catholic identities in Munich in the later decades of the nineteenth- century. The 1871 political unification is often studied as the realization of a century-long nationalistic agenda, but as this project will demonstrate, the inherently Catholic nature of

Bavarian identity complicated the final quest for a unified German state.

Nineteenth-century German nationalism was built upon Enlightenment ideals and at the same time a reaction against Enlightenment rationalism. It depended on the new, Enlightenment- era preoccupation with history as a scientific study of the past, as opposed to a creative interpretation of previous themes and sentiments. Yet the fidelity to accuracy that defined

Enlightenment-era historical study contrasts with the sentimental Romanticism of Herder and

E.T. A. Hoffmann. Therefore, it can be argued that while the Enlightenment gave rise to modern

3 This concept of “German as Universal” is a recurrent theme in the volume edited by Pamela Potter and Celia Applegate, “Germans as the ‘People of Music’: Genealogy of an Identity,” in Music and German National Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 1–35.

6 historical study and an obsession with accurately remembering the past, it was the Romantic era that furnished a zealous obsession with cultural identity. Romantic ambivalence for objectivity in the name of sentiment compounded with anti-French attitudes in the wake of Napoleon permitted the development of German nationalism.4

Of course, the very definition of “German” in the nineteenth-century may seem rather creative by modern standards. In the absence of any political unity, German culture was identified by a common language and culture. This was due in large part to Herder’s 1772

Treatise on the Origin of Language, which identified language as the common fount of identity.

In this discussion of German identity, then, “German” describes all those who lived in German- speaking areas. This is not to be confused with modern-day political Germany, but rather encompasses a much wider swath of central Europe, including modern-day Austria, Lichtenstein, as well as parts of Poland and the Czech Republic. But even as German intellectuals post-Herder understood language to be the most consistent unifier, it was a still a nebulous thread with which to bind an entire culture, and it is here that the new ideals of historical study come into play.

James Garratt identifies much early German historical scholarship as being either objective or subjective in nature, meaning that it was either purposed for accurate representation or else for contemporary instruction, respectively.5 In the case of cultural identity, this required the

4 German nationalism post-1815 was more concerned with German cultural identity—a Kulturnation—than a unified, political nation-state. For further reading on this subject see: Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Second Edition, (London: Verso, 2016); Christopher Clark, “Germany 1815-1848: Restoration or Pre-March,” in Nineteenth-Century Germany: Politics, Culture and Society 1780-1918, ed. John Breuilly (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 40-65. This Kulturnation concept lay at the intersection of Romanticism and historicism, see: Karin Friedrich “Cultural and Intellectual Trends,” in Nineteenth-Century Germany: Politics, Culture, and Society, Ed. John Breuilly (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 96-116; Dietrich von Engelhardt, “Romanticism in Germany,” in Romanticism in National Context, Ed. Roy Porter and Mikuláš Teich (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 109-133. 5 James Garratt, “Prophets Looking Backwards: German Romantic Historicism and the Representation of Renaissance Music,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 125, no. 2 (2000), 164-204.

7 decidedly subjective practice of creating a historical narrative through what Friedrich Nietzsche would later term “monumental historicism.”6

Garratt describes Nietzsche’s monumental historicism as the study that “forms a chain linking mankind’s highest cultural and artistic achievements…giving the knowledge that greatness was once possible and may be possible again.”7 Across Europe—and especially in

Germany—noble rulers took this historical method quite literally, erecting monuments to mythological and military heroes as focal points for national solidarity and identity. In music, too, this “monumentalizing” approach to historicism was a central component of establishing national identity. This is evident from the ever-growing obsession with “antique” music in revival activities and criticism. It is, for instance, no coincidence that Mendelssohn sought to revive Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in Berlin in 1829. This is just one of the more well known revivals of the era, but the fact is that revivalism was an essential component of nineteenth- century music across Europe. Equally important, of course, is the nineteenth-century legacy of

Beethoven, considered the pinnacle of western art music by the vast majority of nineteenth- century music critics.

Connecting musicians to these monumentalized masters—especially Beethoven—was an essential component of constructing German musical identity. It was through this idea of pedigree that critic Franz Brendel was able to coin the “New German School” of composers in

1859, even though only one of his three celebrated composers—Wagner, Berlioz, and Liszt— was in any way a German national. As Brendel explained, “the birthplace cannot be decisive in

6 Garratt, “Prophets”; This “monumentalizing” tactic of creating a German national identity in music has also been explored in-depth by several authors, including: James Garratt, Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Applegate and Potter, “People of Music”; and Alexander Rehding in Music and Monumentality: Commemoration and Wonderment in Nineteenth-Century Germany (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009). 7 Garratt, “Prophets,” 167.

8 the mind… neither [Liszt or Berlioz] would have become what he is if at an early point he had not been nourished and strengthened by the German spirit.”8 The timing of Brendel’s pronouncement is fitting, as Richard Taruskin explains, for after the revolutions of 1848 a burgeoning trend solidified in identifying Germanness not as a linguistic phenomenon, but as a cultural ethos—a literal zeitgeist.9 By midcentury, the time of Rheinberger’s emergence in

Munich musical life, the debate around “Germanness in music” was very much centered on the question on lineage and inheritance.10

Josef Gabriel Rheinberger was born in Vaduz, Lichtenstein, on March 17, 1839, to

Johann Peter Rheinberger and his wife, Elisabeth. Johann worked as a mathematician, having authored one of the foundational German texts on geometry. While one of his older sons, David, would later attest that Johann could play the flute, Josef himself wrote enough about his father’s lack of musicianship for us to know that he probably did not play it very well. Elisabeth, on the other hand, came from a family of immense musical talent, albeit no formal musical training.11

Josef’s two older sisters were also quite musical, and it was from them that Rheinberger received his earliest introduction to music. In 1844, the organist Sebastian Poehly convinced a reluctant

Johann to allow his son more formalized musical training, and so at the age of five Josef began his first formal musical instruction on the piano.

Sebastian Poehly was Rheinberger’s first formal music teacher and a staunch advocate of the child’s prodigious skill. In 1846, Poehly vacated his position as organist in Vaduz, and

8 Alfred Brendel as quoted in Richard Taruskin, “Nationalism,” Oxford Music Online. Grove Music Online. (Oxford University Press). 9 Taruskin, “Nationalism.” 10 Daniel Beller-McKenna, Brahms and the German Spirit (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004), 9. 11 Irmen, Antipode des Caecilianismus, 12.

9 suggested that Josef, then seven years old, might take his place.12 Poehly continued as Josef’s teacher and incorporated formal organ instruction into their lessons. Their repertoire focus in lessons was, naturally, organ and sacred music. These early organ lessons with Poehly mark the young Rheinberger’s first introduction to Bach fugues as well as Mozart sacred repertoire, such as the “Laudate Dominum” from Vesperae Solennes de Confessore.13 Bach and Mozart came to be the backbone of Rheinberger’s musical training and a professed source of inspiration in his professional life as a composer.

Despite its position as the capital of Lichtenstein, Rheinberger’s Vaduz was a small, provincial town. Much larger was Feldkirch, the Austrian town to the north. And so Rheinberger would make the daily trek to Feldkirch on foot—ten kilometers there and ten kilometers back— for music lessons and to see the great musicians of the day as they passed through town. It was in

Feldkirch, for instance, that the young Rheinberger witnessed the virtuosity of Franz Liszt at the piano. It was also in Feldkirch that Rheinberger attracted the attention and patronage of Nikolaus

Moritz. Rheinberger’s biographers describe Moritz as a “musical dilettante” with a large library of manuscripts and scores available for the young composer to study. Moritz had met Mozart some fifty years previously and had spent the interim collecting any and all Mozart repertoire that he could procure—a second, significant encounter with Mozart for Rheinberger.14 It was in this library that Rheinberger further studied Bach and was introduced to the music of Handel.15

Even before Rheinberger enrolled in the Munich Conservatory in 1855, he already enjoyed enviable access to an incredible stock of musical resources in Moritz’s collection.

12 Maitland, 176. 13 Theodor Kroyer, Josef Rheinberger: mit drei Bildnissen (New York: Friedrich Pustet, 1916), 7. 14 Stockmeier, 274. 15 Despite his career in English courts, nineteenth-century German musicians claimed the Halle-born Handel for their own. One popular ahistorical argument would even go as far as to say that, because music is an intrinsic part of the German spirit, and because the German lands of Handel’s day were in a musical drought, Handel was driven— by his Germanness—to seek out the rich musical life of the English court. Applegate and Potter, “People of Music.”

10 The culturally nationalist atmosphere of Munich at midcentury played a large role in the

Germanic focus of Rheinberger’s musical training. Like the rest of Germany, Munich experienced a renewed upsurge in nationalism after the fall of Napoleon in 1815. King Ludwig I

(r. 1825-48), especially, had every reason to reject French influence. As a child, he had been forced from his royal home while Napoleon’s armies attacked Bavaria. After the treaty in 1805 that created the Bavarian monarchy, Ludwig had been required to serve in Napoleon’s army. His father’s culture minister, Montgelas, had been a hated reminder of the French, and Montgelas’s advancement of Enlightenment ideals during his tenure poisoned the movement in Ludwig’s mind by making it indelibly attached to French culture. Ludwig’s cultural policy, then, was a pendulum swing away from Montgelas’s French influence and to an embrace and promotion of all things German.16

The reign of Ludwig I from 1825 through 1848 was marked by a series of nationalist projects determined to establish the cultural heritage of Munich as both a German city and an illustrious European metropolis in its own right. In comparison to the rest of Germany, however, advancing a nationalist attitude proved more difficult. At the outset of the Ludwig’s reign,

Munich remained a rather provincial town, economically removed from the advanced technologies of the industrial revolution that were reshaping the economic landscape of the rest of Germany. For Ludwig’s Munich, then, the nationalist tide was doubly centered on arts and culture. Ludwig set out to elevate his capital city through the artistic and cultural edification of his citizens—Bildung—with no expense spared. As Ludwig stated, “I want to make Munich a city that will so honor Germany that none will know Germany if they have not seen Munich.”17

16 Dale A. Jorgenson, The Life and Legacy of Franz Xaver Hauser: A Forgotten Leader in the Nineteenth- Century Bach Movement (Evansville, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1996), 62. 17 Joshua Hagen, “Shaping Public Opinion through Architecture and Urban Design: Perspectives on Ludwig I and His Building Program for a ‘New Munich,’” Central European History 48 (2015), 4.

11 According to Dale A. Jorgenson, we can best classify Ludwig’s cultural policy as

“humanist conservatism.”18 His goals were to promote German culture on a local scale—what

Ludwig referred to as “teutschen.”19 Yet despite all of his infatuation with promoting German cultural unity, Ludwig rejected the German Confederation of 1816-48’s offer of political inclusion, opting for the more conservative path of economic and political independence for

Bavaria. This is directly related to the “conservatism” noted by Jorgenson in his cultural policy, a conservatism caused no doubt, in part, by his rejection of Montgelas’s Enlightenment. This conservatism was made manifest in Ludwig’s continued promotion of Catholicism as a central cultural structure, even as the rest of Germany and Europe became increasingly secular. When

Ludwig moved the Bavarian university to Munich in 1826, he also charged the institution with promoting his philosophy that “religion must be the basis of life.”20 This is but one example that demonstrates how his humanistic goals of the cultural education of the public were directly contradicted Ludwig’s ties to Catholicism. Despite these contradictions, Ludwig’s concept of

Bildung missive was both German and Catholic in nature.

To his contemporaneous biographers and modern historians alike, Ludwig I is most remembered for his redesign of Munich and monumental architecture. Among Ludwig’s many new buildings were libraries, a great museum, and a concert hall—all intended for cultivation of the public. He had great monuments constructed throughout Munich, intended to remind

Bavarians and all Germans of their shared history and culture. An early trip to Italy in 1803 left

Ludwig with a lifelong admiration for classic architecture and visual art—both of Rome and

Greece alike. He famously described his intentions for Munich as creating “Athens on the Isar.”

18 Jorgenson, The Life and Legacy of Franz Xaver Hauser, 69. 19 As Jorgenson describes, “Teutschen” was Ludwig I’s neologism for anything paying homage to German culture. The diminutive “-chen” ending suggests that “teutschen” referred to an adoptive style, or “German-lite,” 63. 20 Ibid.

12 Had he not stated this goal outright, it still would have been apparent through the many new buildings he commissioned on the northern edge of the city, with their Ionic and Doric columns, white edifices, and wide marble steps. Yet even this emulation of Greek and Italian tradition was, itself, distinctly German and nationalistic. As Jason Geary has described at length, emulation of

Greek art and architecture in particular was a widespread trend throughout Germany, deliberately placing German culture among those of the most cultivated, learned, and advanced societies in history.21

Although Ludwig favored Greek architecture and filled his museum with Italianate artifacts, he was less magnanimous toward outside musical influences in his city. He closed

Munich’s Italian opera theater. Publically, he did so for financial reasons, but privately he confessed it was because he found opera seria “boring.”22 The same fate befell Munich’s French ballet. In their place, German Singspiel came to dominate opera houses, and German music rang throughout Munich’s new concert hall. In 1842, Franz Lachner conducted the first performance of Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion in Munich, just thirteen years after Mendelssohn famously revived both work and composer in Berlin. And in 1835, Ludwig had his most decisively nationalistic idea for improving Munich’s musical life: he would open a conservatory.23

Much of what we know about the formation of the Munich Conservatory comes from

Jorgenson’s biography of the conservatory’s first director, Franz Xaver Hauser.24 The story of the Conservatory’s beginnings betrays it as a nationalistic endeavor on the part of Ludwig I.

Although Ludwig had expressed interest in a national music school as early as 1835, his ambitious cultural and architectural programs were famously depleting the treasury, leaving his

21 Jason Geary, The Politics of Appropriation: German Romantic Music and the Ancient Greek Legacy, New Cultural History of Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). 22 Kroyer, Josef Rheinberger, 14. 23 Jorgenson, The Life and Legacy of Franz Xaver Hauser, 82 24 Ibid.

13 idealized Bavarian school of music a fantasy. The foundation was already laid, however. There was, for instance, the failed music school of violinist Anton Morlat that collapsed for lack of funding in 1836. In 1840, court singer Mittermeyer expressed his desire to transform the central school of singing into a full conservatory. Responding to Mittermeyer’s request, Ludwig appointed Franz Lachner the head of the Munich singing school, but within two years it was evident to Lachner and all involved that the singing school was in too much disrepair to ever be elevated to Ludwig’s envisioned conservatory. A few years later however, Ludwig granted a royal charter to the reimagined singing school, the Munich Conservatory, in 1846.

Like the many monuments, museums, and buildings erected by Ludwig I, the conservatory was intended as a national focal point; a place to cultivate German musicians and promote German music. This nationalist intent behind the conservatory parallels the greater

European trend of building conservatories as focal points for the development of national art.25

Most famous in this regard, of course, is the construction of the Paris Conservatoire in 1795.

Similar conservatories were built in Prague 1808 and Leipzig in 1843. Through domestic cultivation of each nation’s musicians at conservatories, places like France, Germany, and

Bohemia were able to strip their contemporary music of Italianate influence, and the Munich

Conservatory was no different.26 More directly, the Munich Conservatory was modeled on

Mendelssohn’s conservatory at Leipzig, which Mendelssohn saw as a critical contribution to the elevation German art and culture through musical education.27

The nationalist intent underpinning Ludwig’s conservatory is also evidenced by the activities and interests of the people selected to run it. Acting as a musical surrogate of sorts for

Ludwig I, Franz Lachner appointed Franz Xaver Hauser to head the new institution. By the time

25 Ibid, 74. 26 Ibid., 72. 27 Leonard M. Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory: 1843-1881” (Ph.D. Diss., Indiana University, 1979), 79-81.

14 the Munich Conservatory opened in 1846, Hauser had already enjoyed a career as an operatic baritone throughout central and eastern Europe, and then as a private voice teacher in Vienna, a résumé that made him well-positioned to head a new academic institution largely focused on singing and accompaniment instruction.28 Hauser was also preoccupied with historical music and making his own contributions to establishing a German musical heritage through his extensive collecting and cataloguing of J.S. Bach manuscripts, a hobby that was surely a perfect match for

King Ludwig I’s obsession with bringing antiquated art into modern prominence.29 Finally,

Franz Xaver Hauser enjoyed a lifelong friendship and correspondence with Felix Mendelssohn, the founder of the Leipzig Conservatory. The programming for the Munich Conservatory’s concerts is equally telling. A write-up in the Allegemeine musikalische Zeitung describes three nights of concerts given by the conservatory in 1848, all exclusively featuring works by German composers both contemporary and historic.

And so when Josef Gabriel Rheinberger finally left Vaduz for Munich in 1855, he was entering a city rich in German art and cultural nationalism. His teachers further trained

Rheinberger on exclusively German models of composition. In his piano lessons with Emil

Leonhard, for instance, Rheinberger was rigorously trained on the piano sonatas of Carl Maria von Weber. Mozart was also a prominent part of Rheinberger’s formal education. Julius Maier, one of Rheinberger’s organ and composition professors, had personally known Mozart early in life and frequently assigned his music to his students at the conservatory. It was during his time at the conservatory that Rheinberger attended his first opera performance, Mozart’s Die

Zauberflöte. An 1848 article in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung details the programs of the

Conservatory’s early concerts, and it is clear that as a student, Rheinberger would have

28 Ibid. 29 Jorgenson, The Life and Legacy of Franz Xaver Hauser, 79.

15 exclusively heard German music at school events.30 Many extant program records of the conservatory activities reflect the same German-focus throughout Rheinberger’s association with the conservatory.31 It was German music that Rheinberger exclusively learned, performed, and heard, throughout his formative development in Vaduz, Feldkirch, and Munich.

As a student, Rheinberger was quick to master counterpoint and classical forms. This technical facility eventually made him a sought-after pedagogue in composition and music theory, and Hauser hired him to work at the Conservatory in 1859—just a few years after

Rheinberger’s own completion of the program—where he would teach for the next decade. As a pedagogue, Rheinberger was known for being meticulous and demanding of his own students’ counterpoint exercises, and encouraged the emulation of classical composers, which was also a hallmark of Rheinberger’s compositional style.32 The same technical facility that made

Rheinberger a master pedagogue, however, can be seen as a detriment to his contemporaneous and posthumous reception.

A product of the monumentalist historicism of his day, Rheinberger sought the elevation of Bach and Mozart through emulation, not progression. He was privately critical of Wagner,

30 “Das königl. Konservatorium für Musik in München.” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (1848), p. 646-48. 31 The concert fliers and reviews collected by Harald Wanger and Hans-Josef Irmen in Rheinberger: Briefe und Dokumente seines Lebens (Vaduz: Prica Verlag, 1982), reflect this same national focus in conservatory programming during the 1840s-60s. 32 Rheinberger would come into his own as a composer in the Brahmsian neo-classical vein. From his earliest lessons with Sebastian Poehly to his days as a student in Hauser’s conservatory, Rheinberger developed a reverence and affinity for the “great German masters.” A methodical, academically-minded composer, Rheinberger’s works are frequently noted for their perfected counterpoint, albeit at the expense of creative artistry, an artistic fault that Matthias Schneider offers as a possible reason for the composer’s contemporary neglect in Musik und Kirche 71, no. 6 (2001), 359-65. It is telling that Brahms and Rheinberger each enjoyed the friendship and advice of the other, born of a mutual respect for the other’s compositional talents and reverence for established styles. Josef Rheinberger and Johannes Brahms remained dinner companions whenever the latter visited Munich, and maintained an even more frequent correspondence.32 Such encounters have been described by conductor Herman Levi who, while most famous for his work with Richard Wagner, also conducted for Brahms and Rheinberger. He described being a guest at several such dinners in which the latter composers were in attendance. Coupled with the abundant evidence in letters between the two composers, these dinner engagements demonstrate the extent to which Rheinberger and Brahms operated within the same musical circles, largely for their shared compositional style and priorities. For more information, see: Haas Frithjof, Hermann Levi: From Brahms to Wagner, trans. Cynthia Klohr, English. (Lanham, Md: Scarecrow Press, 2012).

16 Liszt, and other “progressive” German composers.33 His own music carries some dissonance and lush harmonies, but he is most distinguished in his careful counterpoint and precise phrase- structure. Rheinberger’s “Germanness” is best understood in terms of musical pedigree and tradition. He dedicated early works to the memory of Bach. In his teaching, Rheinberger would frequently remind his students “Mozart! Überhaupt Mozart!” His pedagogical methods prioritized the “learned” style of counterpoint and studies of Berlioz, Beethoven, and

Mendelssohn.34 Rheinberger was firmly established within the hallowed pedigree of German music, largely removed from foreign influences.

33 Siegfried Gmeinwieser and Anton Würz, “Rheinberger, Josef,” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online (Oxford University Press, 2007), Accessed June 8, 2016. 34 Bomberger, 59; see also: Maitland, 191.

17 Chapter 2: Sacred Music in Munich at Midcentury

Living in Munich at midcentury, Rheinberger bore witness to decades of sacred music reforms. Like nationalism, the sacred reforms that permeated aesthetic discourse and liturgical practice at midcentury were the product of nearly a century of polemics. In northern Germany, this was made manifest in the Caecilien movement. The reformation of sacred music was a priority in Munich as well, but in the Bavarian metropolis, reform was much more complicated.

Much like the issues of nationalism and identity in Munich discussed in the previous chapter, sacred music in Munich for the first half of the century was a tenuous assortment of seemingly contrary ideals. This chapter will explore the intersecting threads of historicism and nationalism that shaped the sacred music revival, and assess the status of sacred music in Munich at the time of Rheinberger’s first Stabat mater in 1864.

Much like the nationalistic agendas discussed in the previous chapter, the sacred music reform movement, centered in Germany, can be thought of as a reaction against the

Enlightenment and, by extension, a nationalist reaction against French influence. As John

Ogasapian theorizes, the Enlightenment’s focus on rationality and the individual prioritized accessibility in all forms of art music, both sacred and profane.35 This secularization of society was musically reflected in the encroachment of secular styles on sacred repertoire, as demonstrated in the growing popularity of concertized sacred music and the pervasiveness of

Kunstreligion.

As rulers became “enlightened” and secular governments more powerful, so did the aesthetics of sacred music detach from the Church and liturgical tradition. By the early

35 John Ken Ogasapian, “The Restoration of Sacred Music in Romantic Germany,” Journal of Church Music 30 (1988), 9.

18 nineteenth-century liturgical texts from the Catholic service were set to music that might not ever be performed in the church at all. Rather, masses were “concertized” for the entertainment of the public. Perhaps even more egregious, however, were the gratuitous concertized masses and sacred works presented in the liturgy and therefore denigrating the very sanctity of worship. It was this secularization of the worship service during the Enlightenment that prompted the sacred music reforms of the nineteenth-century, paving the way for Franz Xaver Witt and his

Caecilienverein in the 1870s and 80s.

The earliest critics to call for sacred music reform were reacting against Enlightenment secularization of society and the resultant theatrification of liturgical music. To them, the melding of secular aesthetics with liturgical music was ultimately a disservice to worship. Herder and Johann Friederich Reichardt were two critics who explicitly blamed the fall of sacred music on the influence of secular traditions: for Herder, the responsibility lay with court music, and for

Reichardt, opera and oratorio.36 E.T.A. Hoffmann took a similar stance in his 1814 essay for the

Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” He offers a bleak description of the state of sacred music: “all recent sacred music has been composed in a most frivolous manner and are aberrations, produced by unclean minds!”37 The use of instruments and dramatic textures obscures the sacred message from the start, a problem that is only compounded by the reverberant echoes of the sanctuaries in which the music is performed. Hoffmann’s criticisms, however, were not universally applied. The indignity of instrumental church music was not enough to elicit a later condemnation of Beethoven’s Missa solemnis, and indeed, Hoffmann

36 James Garratt, “Romanticism and the Problem of Church Music,” in Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 37. 37 “Alle Arbeiten dieser letzten Art, wie sie in neuerer Zeit auf höchst frivole Weise gemacht wurden, sind Mißgeburten, von einem unreinen Gemüterzeucht.” from E.T.A. Hoffmann, “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 16 (1814), 577.

19 elevates both of Mozart’s masses in C as paragons of contemporary piety in composition, and evidence of the composer’s mastery in sacred forms, despite their obvious profane influence.38

Early Romantic critics found themselves trapped in the “depoeticization” phase of what

Steven Paul Scher summarized as the “triadic” scheme of history envisioned by early Romantic thinkers such as E.T.A. Hoffmann and W.H. Wackenroder.39 These critics saw themselves living in a cynical era of disillusionment, in which art suffers and falls after an earlier great period of innocence. In order to escape the degraded present, musicians and artists must create a future— often based on an idealized past—that would enable the repoeticization of art. The parallels of this triangularization of history to the perceived lapse in sacred music are clear: church music after the Enlightenment had lost its gravitas and solemnity, and future music must find some way to regain these traits for the sake of worship and the faith.

The prescribed methods for reaching this third stage of repoeticization and returning liturgical music to its sacred position and purpose varied among the critics and musicians. James

Garratt’s theory of historicism, described in the previous chapter, can also be applied here. On the one had, many composers classicized history, believing it to be something pure and lost forever, that could only be imitated as if by shadow. This perhaps, is nearest Hoffmann’s sentiment in saying that the “old Italian masters” possessed a naiveté to which contemporary composers could never possibly relate, and that contemporary music would always suffer for it.

The alternative, “monumentalist” practice Garratt identifies can also be applied to sacred music reform, in the practice of elevating bygone composers as paragons that contemporary musicians should strive to emulate.

38 Hoffmann, “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” 39 Steven Paul Scher, “Temporality and Mediation: W.H. Wackenroder and E.T.A. Hoffmann as Literary Historicists of Music,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 75, no. 4 (1976), 496.

20 In keeping with the trends of Romantic historicism already observed in our discussion of

German nationalism, the Caecilien movement relied on a manufactured past. The eventual elevation of Palestrina as monumental sacred composer above all other “old Italian masters” had less to do with the facts of Palestrina’s musical style and everything to do with the “Palestrina myth.” It is a familiar tale: when the Council of Trent sought to re-solemnize sacred music which had been corrupted by modern style by banning polyphony in composition, Palestrina composed the Missa Papae Marcelli. Pope Marcellus was so overcome with devout reverence, despite the polyphonic, imitative texture, that the Council reconsidered its position. With Missa Papae

Marcelli, Palestrina saved polyphony.40

The parallels between the Palestrina myth and the beginning of the Caecilien revival are no accident.41 Like Pope Marcellus and the Council of Trent, the Romantic circle was disappointed in the current state of sacred music, corrupted by modern influence. And like Pope

Marcellus and the Council of Trent, the Romantic circle sought a return to musical styles that could inspire devout worship and humility in the liturgy. It stands to reason that the Romantic circle, in its quest to restore solemnity to the music of the liturgy would elevate the mythologized hero of music at the Council of Trent—whether or not the myth was truth. To reiterate, this historicism based on myth masquerading as fact was not unheard of or unpracticed among the early Romantics; on the contrary, it was instrumental in the rise of both German nationalism and the Caecilien movement.

40 Knud Jeppesen dates this myth to at least1609. It remained the accepted story of the Palestrina work until 1892 when Franz Josef Haberl—an important figure in the Caecilienverein to be discussed in chapters four and five of this project—discovered that the Missae Papae Marcelli was not a unified composition at all, but rather an amalgamation of six separate scores. “Problems of the Pope Marcellus Mass,” in Pope Marcellus Mass: An Authoritative Score, Lewis Lockwood, ed., New York: W.W. Norton, 1975. 41 As James Garratt explains, the stature of Palestrina as the supposed savior of polyphony was enough to legitimize him as a model for all sacred composers for follow. “Prophets,” 182.

21 Hoffmann bears witness to this trend in his own paean to the composer and the “mass that saved polyphony.” What is perhaps most notable and important for the present discussion is the lack of musical specifics that Hoffmann provides in his explanation of why Palestrina is so unparalleled a master. Hoffmann speaks of “childlike simplicity,” innocence, and strength, but gives little detail as to how these admired qualities are musically achieved; his only salient directive for restoring legitimacy to sacred music is that it be performed a cappella.42 Of course, as James Garratt has already explained, Hoffmann and Wackenroder alike were more interested in elevating Palestrina for his supposed historical significance than any marked aesthetic principals.43

In South Germany, the Palestrina revival found its home at Regensburg. As part of his much-larger cultural agenda discussed in the previous chapter, King Ludwig I sanctioned the overhaul of liturgical activities and music in the Regensburg Cathedral in 1830.44 Carl Proske undertook this revitalization project. Like Ludwig, Proske felt an intimate connection to old

Italian art. In the 1830s, Proske took three extended trips to Italy to collect renaissance music and observe Italian church music practices, especially those of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. This resulted in several significant collections of Italian sacred music curated by Proske, and the most specific prescription for the revival of sacred music to-date. Garratt calls the forward to his 1853 volume, Musica divina, a “manifesto for reform” in which Proske “seeks to reinstate ‘true

Catholic music’ in the liturgy in place of modern works, which reflect ‘the profane attractions of an artistic dictatorship from outside the church.’”45 To return music to its liturgical purpose,

42 Hoffmann, “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” 43 Garratt, “Prophets,” 182. 44 James Garratt, “The Catholic Palestrina Revival,” in Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 141. 45 Ibid.

22 Proske, like Hoffmann and others who found inspiration in the goals of the Council of Trent, prioritizes textual fidelity and clarity.

Proske elucidates musical specifics of sacred composition much more concretely than

Hoffmann had nearly four decades before. Proske’s own compositions in the style follow his preference for root-position harmonies, slow tempi, and careful dissonance including chromatic thirds.46 These are in addition to the other musical devices commonly used in sacred music by midcentury composers in emulation of Renaissance masters, including imitative counterpoint, modal harmonies, and a cappella texture. Proske’s Regensburg activities represent the most thorough revival of sacred music in South Germany.

Elsewhere, the Caecilien movement was less revival and more a renewed focus on

Renaissance sacred music. In Vienna for instance, Palestrina’s hymns had been consistently performed in the Hofkapelle since the mid-seventeenth century.47 This was especially true during the penitential season of Lent and Holy Week, during which the antique topoi was considered the most appropriate. Also prevalent in Austria and South Germany, and especially at Dresden to the north, was the use of Fux’s Gradus ad parnassum in invoking the stile antico topoi to impart a sense of sincerity and gravitas during the penitential season. Together, these traditions of antique counterpoint and its facsimile in Fux’s style represented a consistent South German and Austrian tradition of the “renaissance style” in liturgical music going back at least two centuries.48

Munich, situated in the heart of Bavaria, did not boast an ongoing Palestrina tradition, but had long used music in Fux’s stile antico for the same, elevated purpose during the penitential season. The revival of Palestrina and other renaissance music can be credited to Kaspar Ett and

46 Ibid,, 144. 47 James Garratt, “Performing Renaissance Church Music in Nineteenth-Century Germany: Issues and Challenges in the Study of Performative Reception,” Music and Letters 83, no. 2 (2002), 208. 48 Garratt, “Performing Renaissance Church Music”; “The Catholic Palestrina Revival.”

23 Johann Kaspar Aiblinger’s activities early in the nineteenth-century. The Munich revival of renaissance sacred music may have created an abundance of criticism centered on Palestrina, but in practice Palestrina was hardly the most widely performed composer of the revival. In fact, the clearest impetus for this renewed interest in music of the period was not about Palestrina at all; in

1816, Kaspar Ett ignited a new obsession in the sacred music circle with a performance of

Allegri’s Miserere at Michaelskirche on Good Friday. The ensuing revival of renaissance music in Munich certainly involved Palestrina, but also Caldara and Lasso.

The Caecilien movement in Munich bore a distinct nationalist streak in several respects.

First, the improvement of sacred music was yet another cultural activity Ludwig I undertook in order to elevate Munich’s prominence as a German city and Bavarian society as a whole. It was

Ludwig, after all, who entrusted Proske with the task of reforming the music at Regensburg. Of course, much like Ludwig’s architectural projects discussed in the first chapter, the adoption of foreign art as a nationalistic enterprise presents an obvious contradiction. The nationalist element of sacred music reform under Ludwig is not in an adherence to German history per se but—in a similar manner to Ludwig’s architectural projects—about constructing a new great society in an explicitly German metropolis.

Further, the sacred music revival in Munich was considerably less dogmatic in adherence to Italian repertoire than the revivals in northern Germany, or even in Regensburg. Kaspar Ett and Johann Caspar Aiblinger certainly promoted Allegri, Palestrina, and other Italian composers of sacred music, but they also took a special interest in repertoire by Orlando di Lasso. This specific fascination was point of nationalist pride for King Ludwig I, the revivers, and Munich.

Lasso represented the beginning of a prized musical connection to Rome.49 After the Council of

49 Paul Edward Morrison, “Caspar Ett at St. Michael’s in Munich: A Study and Analysis of His Work and Influence on the Origins of the Renaissance Music Revival” (Ph.D. Diss., Northwestern University, 1997).

24 Trent, Pope Pius IV sent Orlando di Lasso to Munich to oversee sacred music in the city. This gave Lasso a unique position in Munich’s musical history as both a Catholic figure and a

German one, and an ideal model for the city’s nineteenth-century composers of sacred music.

Kaspar Ett dedicated his life to the revival of renaissance sacred music in Munich and is often considered its founder. He and Johannes Kaspar Aiblinger were both members of the

Caecilienbundnis in Munich, an organization dating back to the eighteenth century dedicated to the integrity of sacred music. Ett’s 1816 performance of Allegri’s Miserere was just the beginning of what would be an extended involvement with the Caecilien movement and restoration of sacred music. Ett, Aiblinger, and their contemporaries in the Caecilienbundnis agreed that liturgical music had been corrupted by modern influences and lost its sacred profundity as a result. Unlike the north-German Caeciliens, however, they were much more accommodating in the prescribed remedies. Kaspar Ett oversaw the publication of countless critical editions of renaissance sacred works, but as Paul E. Morrison has pointed out, Ett often eschewed fidelity to renaissance manuscripts in favor of his own aesthetics. Whether this meant cutting segments of original material, modifying time signatures, or rearranging pieces entirely,

Ett had no qualms with recomposing the masters for his own purposes.50 Nevertheless, his revived materials became a backbone of the sacred music movement in Munich during the first half of the nineteenth-century.

Johann Kaspar Aiblinger was similarly flexible in his revivalist activities in Munich.

Initially the director of the Italian Opera Theater, he turned his attention to sacred music after

King Ludwig I closed the theater. After Kaspar Ett declined Ludwig I’s offer of a trip to Italy,

Aiblinger took his place, travelling for six months, collecting manuscripts in the sacred centers of

50 Ibid.

25 Rome, Milan, Naples, and Monte Cassino.51 These facsimiles and acquisitions of sacred manuscripts, a large portion of which dated to the Renaissance, were to become part of the official holdings of Ludwig I’s ever-expanding Bavarian state library. Despite his copious contributions to reviving renaissance music, however, Aiblinger, like Ett, was just as likely to adopt the stylus a cappella and romantic chromaticism as he was to emulate the pure Palestrinian style.52

In 1834, Karl Emil von Schafhäutl published “Über Kirchenmusik des katholischen

Kultus,” in the Leipziger allgemeine musikalische Zeitung.53 While the essay was ostensibly a rebuttal to an anonymous critical review of Kaspar Ett’s recent concert and compositions, it also demonstrates another perspective on sacred music in Munich in 1834. Like Hoffmann and

Wackenroder before him, Schafhäutl laments an elevated art that had fallen into disrepair. His essay follows the same tripartite scheme identified by Stephen Paul Scher in other writings on the state of church music. He opens the essay with a grandiose recounting of the spirit of music gifting psalms to the church, in order to elevate the worship. This sacrosanct purpose was lost to modern composers until rescued by Kaspar Ett. Yet while Schafhäutl does not disparage

Palestrina, he certainly does not elevate Palestrina to the same level as Hoffmann or

Wackenroder before him. In his view, it is not only Ett’s emulation of Palestrina that makes his music so worthy of its sacred purpose, but also the clear influence of Orlando di Lasso and more contemporary musical idioms.

The same Karl Emil von Schafhäutl that would go on to be one of the staunchest critics of the Caecilien movement was also one of Josef Rheinberger’s closest mentors at the Munich

51 Ibid., 84. 52 Ibid. 53 Karl Emil von Schafhäutl, “Ueber die Kirchenmusik des Katholischen Kultus,” Leipziger Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1834.

26 Conservatory. When the young Rheinberger came down with cholera in the summer of 1854, he returned to Vaduz to recuperate through the fall. While he received the cursory letter from Julius

Maier sending his regards, his closest correspondence was with Schafhäutl. Rheinberger even sent Schafhäutl a draft of an Ave Maris stella setting he had been working on from Vaduz, which

Schafhäutl received with joy.54 Throughout his time as a student at the conservatory, and continuing through his time as a professor, Schafhäutl remained one of Rheinberger’s most trusted mentors in sacred composition.55

The concurrent elevation of the oratorio style in Munich is a regional distinction of the sacred music revival and bears partial responsibility for the continued acceptance of many contemporary musical techniques—instrumental accompaniment, dense harmonic textures, etc.—in sacred music that were considered so reprehensible to the Caeciliens. As early as the second decade of the nineteenth-century, oratorio had been a popular genre in Munich.56 In 1811,

Franz Danzi conducted his Abraham auf Moira oratorio at the Münchener Hoftheater. By the time Rheinberger arrived in Munich in 1852, oratorio was a highly elevated and popular genre.

The city had seen countless performances of Handel’s Messiah at Easter and Christmas.

Performances of Beethoven’s Christus am Olberge by the Musikalischen Akademie had become something of a Palm Sunday tradition in the teens and twenties, while the 1830s saw a massive expansion of the standard oratorio repertoire in Munich to include Haydn and Bach, but also new

54 “Karl Emil von Schafhäutl to Josef Rheinberger,” Letter (November 7, 1854). 55 Josef Rheinberger frequently relays Schafhäutl’s regards in his letters home to his parents, further evincing the close bond between the music critic, the young composer, and the Rheinberger family see: “Josef Rheinberger to Johannes Rheinberger,” Letter, 9 September 1853; “Josef Rheinberger to David Rheinberger,” Letter, 11 October 1853; etc. 56 Rheinberger scholar Hans-Josef Irmen published a cursory survey of oratorio in Munich and the history of the Oratorioverein (famously conducted by Rheinberger, himself) in “Das Oratorium in München und der Münchener Oratorien-Verein,” in Religiöse Musik in nicht-liturgischen Werken von Beethoven bis Reger, part of the Studien zur Musikgeschichte de 19. Jahrhunderts series, vol. 51, Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1978.

27 compositions by Friedrich Schneider and Georg Roeder.57 Rheinberger learned and composed in the oratorio genre at the Munich Conservatory.58

Franz Lachner was the authority on oratorio in Munich at midcentury, and bore much responsibility for the genre’s popular success. It was Lachner that continued to introduce Munich audiences to the oratorios of Handel and Haydn. Lachner performed these oratorios with ensembles combining both professional musicians and amateurs. On Christmas 1844 he brought

“an organization of some three hundred musicians and amateurs (“Musikfreunden”)” to perform

Handel’s Messiah.59

Lachner’s penchant for organizing large groups of musical amateurs was reflective of a broader musical trend of amateur ensembles both in Germany and abroad. Across Europe, such ensembles were directly tied to the rise in amateur music making. In Germany, such groups have been explicitly tied with activities of communal identity and nation building.60 In a similar way,

Lachner’s groups could not only rally around the works of German oratorio composers, but also reaffirm their Catholic faith through such focus on biblical stories through music.

While the ensembles performing oratorio in Munich throughout the first half of the century were fluent in a wide variety of sacred and secular music, it was not until 1854 that

Munich had an ensemble explicitly purposed to perform oratorio. Freiherrn Carl von Perfall founded the Müncher Oratorioverein [Munich Oratorio Society] to remedy this absence. The original ensemble was in fact built around an existing community choir in Munich, the men’s

57 Irmen “Oratorium in München.” 58 Rheinberger described forays in oratorio to his parents in multiple letters, dating from as early as 1854. 59 Quoted in Irmen, “Oratorium in München,” 234. 60 The popularity of oratorio and choral singing as a communal, educational activity is explored in Ryan Minor, Choral Fantasies: Music, Festivity and Nationhood in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). While Minor focuses on choral festivals and secular repertoire, the ubiquity of community choral singing throughout Germany in the nineteenth-century deems any discussion of choral music as communal practice relevant to the phenomenon in Munich as related to sacred music.

28 Müncher Liedertafel, supported by female singers already active in Munich musical life.61 This

“mixed choir” (Gemischterchor) was a largely amateur group, similar to those marshaled by

Lachner, whose sole purpose was to be a standing ensemble explicitly for the performance of oratorio.

The mission statement of the ensemble—initially called the “Society for Mixed Choir”

(Verein für gemischter Chor) is quite telling in the context of Munich oratorio reception vis-à-vis sacred music reform:

The Oratorio Society’s purpose is the furtherance and education (Aus Bildung) of knowledge of classical vocal music, especially the so-called “oratorio music.” The same proposes affecting this through compositions: a) In the old and new styles of church music and oratorio b) In the classical opera style c) In dignified lieder-style in its weekly singing practice and in concerts presented to the greater public.62

It is clear from this mission statement that the Oratorioverein takes the cultural development of its singers and audiences as its first priority. The group’s purpose is not only to educate people on the art of sacred music, but to also further that art. It is a literal manifestation of the Bildung concept of cultural enhancement that gripped King Ludwig I, Maximilian II (who was king of

Bavaria at the time of the group’s inception), and German romantics as a whole. What is equally telling is the broad scope of repertoire performed by the group. At a time when the Caecilien branch of the sacred music revival was becoming ever more restrictive, the Oratorioverein performed sacred music of all eras and idioms, and promoted this inclusive program as integral to musical culture.

61 Irmen, “Das Oratorium in München,” 236. 62 “Der Oratorien-Verein hat die Förderung und Ausbildung des Sinnes für klassische Gesangs-Musik ins besondere für sogenannte Oratorienmusik zum Zweck. Derselbe äußert eine seinem Zwecke entsprechende Wirksamkeit, indem er Kompositionen: a) im Fach der älteren wie der neueren Kirchenmusik und der Oratorien; b) im klassichen Opernfach und; c) im gediegenen Liederfache in seinen wöchentlichen Übungen singt und in Concerten einem größeren Publikum vorführt” as quoted in Ibid.

29 Josef Gabriel Rheinberger enjoyed a long relationship with the Müncher Oratorioverein from its inception. He was appointed accompanist of the Oratorioverein in its first year, 1855.

The young Rheinberger attended and accompanied rehearsals, but also saw his own compositions premiered by the ensemble, even as a student. Rheinberger’s most significant capacity in the Oratorioverein came with his appointment as its new director in late 1864. Under his direction, the ensemble premiered many of Rheinberger’s sacred compositions as well as a wide variety of sacred works (and even a handful of secular pieces) reflecting the breadth of its mission statement. With an average of two public concerts each year, the Oratorioverein performed works by composers of different nationalities and periods. Roughly half of the music the group performed under Rheinberger is German repertoire: Bach cantatas, the Mozart

Requiem, Schumann, Handel, and even Julius Maier, one of Rheinberger’s professors at the conservatory. The other half of the repertoire is a wide-ranging assortment of English madrigals by Morley, French folk songs, and a sizable repertoire of music by Italian Renaissance composers.

In many respects, the activities of the Oratorioverein are the best way to understand the state of sacred music in Munich at midcentury: as a jumbled assortment of coexisting repertoire meant to elevate the liturgy or else educate audiences and performers alike in matters both national and sacred. The city certainly felt the sacred music reforms of the Caeciliens, reflected in both the revived repertoire performed and the new compositions by Lachner, Ett, Aiblinger and, to some extent as we shall see, by Rheinberger himself. But whereas the Caecilien movement in Northern Germany and at Regensburg existed in part as a rejection of the pernicious effects of oratorio and other theatrical styles, Munich musicians continued practicing and elevating these genres. The ordered yet arbitrary nature of sacred music in Munich was a

30 reflection of the complicated identity of the city itself. Under Ludwig I and Maximilian II for the first half of the nineteenth-century Munich was both a German and a Catholic city. As discussed in the previous chapter, these two identities, while nominally contradictory, were practically compatible and contributed to the unique culture of the Bavarian metropolis in architecture, education, and music. Munich was at the convergence of national and religious influences, which came together in the oratorio and shaped Rheinberger’s early musical life.

31 Chapter 3: The First Stabat mater, Op. 16 (1864/8)

By 1864, Josef Gabriel Rheinberger was enjoying a successful career in music in

Munich. He was entering his seventh year as a faculty member at the Munich Conservatory, where he taught piano and composition. He maintained a close mentorship and friendship with

Karl Emil von Schafhäutl, participated in Munich festivals, and had just secured the position of organist at Michaelskirche in the heart of the city. On December 5 of that year, Josef Gabriel

Rheinberger took the podium for his first concert as director of the Müncher Oratorienverein. It was a debut a decade in the making; as Rheinberger once remarked, he came of age “in and with the Oratorioverein.”63 First as the society’s accompanist and organist starting in 1854, and at several points as a composer for the organization, Rheinberger had been intimately involved with the Oratorioverein for a decade before assuming his new position as its director. As his debut,

Rheinberger elected to premier a new, large-scale Stabat mater as the finale of his debut concert.

Rheinberger began work on the Stabat mater nearly one year before its December premiere.64 The first mention of the Stabat mater in Rheinberger’s collected letters comes from

March 29, to his friend and future wife, Franziska von Hoffnaaß. Judging from the “26.4.64” inscribed in the original autograph manuscript, Rheinberger completed the Stabat mater just four weeks later.65 The speed of the composition is a remarkable feat considering the scope of the project—five movements for SATB choir, STB soloists, chamber orchestra of strings, oboe, horn and organ—even as the instrumental parts primarily double the often-homophonic vocal parts.

We can assume that the autograph manuscript dated April 1864 is closest to the version of Rheinberger’s Stabat mater which was premiered the following December with the

63 Hans Theill, “Forward,” in Stabat Mater in C Minor, Op. 16: Partitur/Full Score (Stuttgart: Carus, 2001), 2. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid.

32 Oratorioverein. The Stabat mater was not assigned an opus number until it was published four years later and with significant revisions as Op. 16. Among these revisions is the expansion of the orchestration to include two bassoons, two Bb clarinets, trombone, and omission of the organ.

As Han Theill has observed, other changes in the first edition include the addition of an alternative German translation for performance and expansion of the final fugue with an animato section.66

Both the 1864 and 1868 editions demonstrate the extent to which Rheinberger was absorbed within the German and Catholic confluence of tradition that defined sacred music in nineteenth-century Munich. Musical devices employed by the composer, including liberal chromaticism, evocative text depiction, and the closing “amen” fugue bear direct connection to the same German composers Rheinberger so revered. If these musical elements are insufficient in evincing the national pedigree of Rheinberger’s work, the composer’s edits between the 1864 autograph manuscript and 1868 first edition also evince the work’s inherent “Germanness.”

Despite the Stabat mater being a Catholic poem, Rheinberger provides a German translation of the work for performance as an alternative text. A sacred, Latin poem translated into the vernacular was surely a step in the opposite direction of sacred music reform according to the

Caeciliens. That is not to say that Op. 16 in either iteration is devoid of Catholic influence or reverence; certainly, the prioritization of text and the poem selected for musical treatment are implicitly Catholic by design. In fact, the polyphonic texture was enough to elicit praise from one reviewer for Rheinberger’s “masterwork” in keeping with the “old Italian school.”67 But, like much else in midcentury Munich, both the Stabat mater debuted by the Oratorioverein in

1864 and Op. 16, published in 1868, exist at the confluence of German and Catholic influence.

66 Ibid. 67 “…reicht es in seiner reichen Polyphonie an die Meisterwerke der altitalienischen Schule,” Der Bayerische Zeitung as quoted in Ibid.

33 The first and second chapters of this thesis established the unique position of sacred music in Munich at midcentury. After decades of King Ludwig I’s cultural projects, subsequently taken on by his son, Maximilian II, Munich had established itself as a distinctly

German city. But within this context of German identity lay the city’s Catholic identity and deliberately close ties to Rome. The result was a vibrant musical culture in which modern oratorio, Renaissance revival and emulation, and everything in-between was embraced in sacred music. Catholic and German musical identities do not stand opposed but, as discussed in the previous chapter, frequently intersect and combine in sacred repertoire. Munich composers did not dispense with theatrical influence as did their Caecilienist counterparts in Regensburg, but were nonetheless committed to spiritual veneration in a specifically Catholic manner that distinguished them from German sacred composers further north.

One of the fundamental goals of the Caecilien movement was clarity of text and declamation, in order that the words might better serve the liturgy. As discussed in the previous chapter, other guidelines for composition include the use of a cappella textures, carefully controlled dissonances, and clarity of text. It is with these elements in mind that we can analyze the intended purpose of Rheinberger’s first Stabat mater and its relationship to contemporaneous trends in sacred music.

The poem Rheinberger selected for his first large-scale sacred work is much more closely related to the Caecilien revival of Renaissance masters than the compositional practices of the first Viennese school or Rheinberger’s revered German composers. Stabat mater is an anonymous poem by a thirteenth-century Franciscan.68 It is an achingly pitiful poem situated on the Virgin Mary, who stands beside her Son on the cross at the Crucifixion. It carries the double

68 Appendix A: Stabat mater texts and translations, contains the original Latin poem, English translation, as well as the text of the Rheinberger Op. 16, Op. 138, and Palestrina and di Lasso settings.

34 sadness of the Blessed Virgin beside the sacrificed savior, and also the plaintive pity of the mother watching over her dying child. Although the poem itself is non-liturgical, it was frequently set to music for use as either a sequence or hymn during the Catholic mass, especially during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.69 During Rheinberger’s time, the vast majority of the most widely performed settings of the poem were those of the same Italian Renaissance masters so venerated by the Caecilien revivalists. Palestrina composed an eight-voice Stabat mater for double-chorus that was frequently performed. Especially poignant in Munich, di Lasso had similarly composed an eight-voice, double-chorus setting of the poem, found in his Sacrae cantiones.70 Much less common were settings of the Stabat mater by classical composers.

Neither Mozart nor most of Rheinberger’s other venerated German masters ever set the text. By and large, musical settings of the poem are restricted temporally to the Renaissance era and geographically to Italy.

The excessive, explicitly Catholic nature of the Stabat mater text necessitates a brief discussion of Rheinberger’s own religious sentiments. Whether due to his early upbringing, his lifelong mediocre physical health, or his proximity to the church as a church musician,

Rheinberger was an exceedingly devout Catholic.71 His religious convictions can help explain his attraction to a text so rich in Catholic sentiments: suffering, penitence, and the sublime perfection of the Virgin Mary. Because Catholic musicians in Munich at midcentury were equally wont to favor Renaissance or contemporary idioms, it is possible that Rheinberger’s selection of the Stabat mater text for his first major sacred work was due to his own religious

69 John Caldwell and Malcolm Boyd, “Stabat Mater Dolorosa in Oxford Music Online,” Oxford Music Online. Grove Music Online., http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/article/grove/music/26489. 70 Ibid. 71 Rheinberger’s religion is explored in profiles such as Joel F. Scraper, “Josef Gabriel Rheinberger and the Regensburg Cecilian Movement” (DMA Diss., University of Missouri-Kansas City, 2006); Irmen, Antipode des Cäcilianismus; Hans Theill, “Forward,” in Stabat Mater in G Minor, Op. 138: Full Score (Stuttgart: Carus, 2002), 2–4.

35 convictions and not in deliberate emulation of the Renaissance composers. In fact, given the musical distance between Rheinberger’s Stabat mater and Caecilien ideals, this causality is all the more likely.

Stabat mater, op. 16, was the first large-scale sacred work that Rheinberger prepared for professional publication. The sheer size of the ensemble required is in direct opposition to the

Caecilien standard of emulating the Sistine Chapel choir with a cappella textures.72 The Stabat mater is a full-scale work in the oratorio style, complete with instrumental accompaniment and varying ensembles for each movement:

Movement 1: SATB chorus with Soprano Solo Stabat mater dolorosa Movement 2: Soprano aria Quis est homo, qui non fleret Movement 3: Ensemble (incl. S, T, B soli) Eja Mater, fons amoris Movement 4: Tenor/Bass Duet Fac me vere tecum flere Movement 5: Closing chorus and fugue Fac me plagis vulnerari/ Quando corpus morietur

In comparison to his secular choral compositions, Rheinberger is remarkably faithful to the Stabat mater text. As Barbara Mohn has written, Rheinberger prioritized the overall emotional ethos of his lieder and secular choral repertoire over textual fidelity, often modifying existing poetry with slight alterations or adding completely new verses.73 While the text of the

Stabat mater is slightly modified from that of the original poem and Palestrina’s setting, it is identical to the text used by Orlando di Lasso.74 It is not a stretch to imagine some causal relationship between Rheinberger’s fidelity to the di Lasso text with the storied reputation of the

72 The orchestration differs between the premiere version (1864) and the prepared publication of 1868. The 1864 autograph is scored for full choir and soloists, strings (v1, v2, vl, vc, b), and organ. As noted above, the 1868 first edition shows expansion of the winds and brass and elimination of the organ. The publication may be significantly larger in scope than the version performed as Rheinberger’s debut conducting the Oratorienverein, but neither version close to fitting within the predominantly a cappella constraints set by the Caeciliens. 73 Barbara Mohn, “Josef Rheinbergers Chorlieder aus editorischen Sicht, Quellenlage und Kompositionsprozess,” in Josef Rheinberger: Werk und Wirkung—Berich über das international Symposium anlässich des 100. Todestages der Komponisten (Tutzing, Germany: Hans Schneider, 2004), 113-130. 74 See APPENDIX A: Comparative texts.

36 Flemish composer in nineteenth-century Munich. Similarly, this may have to do with the veneration of Rheinberger’s mentor and friend, Karl Schafhäutl, of this particular Renaissance master. This choice in text is certainly reflective of the unique atmosphere surrounding sacred music in midcentury Munich.

Rheinberger takes a balanced approach to text setting, with a clear romantic prioritization of pathos but rarely at the expense of declamation. This is not surprising, for Rheinberger wrote to Franziska von Hoffnaaß that it was the pathetic nature of the text which first attracted him to the poem.75 The first movement alternates between an imitative texture built around a primary theme and homophonic declamation in the choir. A gentle ascent in a loping six-four marks the primary theme, introduced in imitative entrances set at a speed of two measures: Bass then Alto at 1ˆ ; then Tenor, Soprano at 5ˆ (fig. 1).

75 Briefe und Dokumente, 202.

37

Fig. 1: Mvmt. 1, mm. 1-8 (Choir only)

This point and interval of imitation is a common conceit in both Renaissance repertoire and later stile antico passages, and the use of a recognizable theme trains the ear on text declamation rather than obscuring the poetry. The imitation in Rheinberger’s first movement is temporary, and the clarity of the subsequent text is preserved through homophonic declamation once all voices have entered (fig. 2).

38

Fig. 2: Mvmt. 1, mm. 14-18 (Choir only)

The prevalent use of homophony and imitative entrances throughout the Stabat mater can be attributed to Caecilien influence. Perhaps it was this interplay of textures that inspired the anonymous reviewer to compare Rheinberger to the Italian masters. Rheinberger’s emphasis on textual clarity certainly aligned with one of the chief goals of the Caecilien reformers.

The vast majority of the text setting in the following movements is equally clear, if not more so. As a solo aria, there is no ambiguity of text in the second movement, “Quis est homo, qui non fleret.” The ensemble third movement is set homophonically, with the solo voices repeating the preceding text for apparent emphasis. The fourth movement duet alternates between solo voices and imitation on the same text, a similar alternation between imitation and homophony as was heard in the first movement.

The densest, most text-obfuscating texture comes at the end of the fifth movement, in the choral fugue. Yet this moment of elevated, learned style in composition is completely expected in a German or Viennese oratorio-style composition. The sincerity and gravitas connoted by a full fugue carries more weight than even the poetry; it is the music, not the text, which is set with the sacrosanct task of an emphatic close. It is the musical peroration, “driving home” the point of

39 all text that came before. It is the “amen fugue” technique employed by countless composers from Bach to Beethoven. The text of this closing fugue is the peroration of the poem as a whole:

Quando corpus morietur When my body dies Fac ut animae donetur Make my soul safe Amen. Amen.

The text is the lynchpin of the Christian faith: that the soul might outlive the body in eternal life.

It is significant that this text is clearly introduced in its entirety by the bass section before being obscured by the successive entrances of the other voices (fig. 3).

Fig. 3: Mvmt. 5, mm. 46-53 (Choir only)

As a closing “amen fugue,” the text is an explicitly Catholic take on an implicitly German musical tradition. It may not adhere to any Caecilien principle, but it is nevertheless a moment of

40 Catholic devotion through German compositional means. The final bars of text are set homophonically, with repeated “Amen’s,” the emphatic punctuation on the entire work:

Ut animae donetur paradisi gloria And my soul safe in paradise, Gloria! Amen. Amen.

The orchestra of Rheinberger’s Op. 16 is independent of the vocal part, at times doubling vocal lines, but frequently deviating to supply additional means of text depiction or Romantic embellishment. The violins in the third movement, for instance, repeat uneasy sigh-figures on beats two and four of the three-four measures, in a movement addressed to the mother, “fons amoris” (fount of love) (fig. 4).

41

Fig. 4: Mvmt 3, mm. 37-44 (Tenor Solo, Choir, Organ, Strings)

In the second movement’s aria, the low strings provide a constant undulating motion under the soprano, while the winds softly float over interludes or else double the singer. In the fourth movement duet, meanwhile, the instruments simply double the singers, an unobtrusive

42 and reserved instrumentation that allows the text to predominate in an appropriate sense of isolation as the soloists sing:

Fac me vere tecum flere Let me sincerely weep with you Crucifixo condolere Bemoan the crucified Donec ego vixero For as long as I live

Rheinberger’s liberal use of chromaticism in text depiction further aligns his Op. 16 with

German Romantic neo-classicism and away from Caecilienist principles. Dissonance is especially prevalent in the first and final movements, where the text is arguably most poignant.

In the first movement, Rheinberger is comparatively sparing with dissonance—full modulations are avoided and diminished chords and modal borrowing are the only methods of momentary deviation from the c minor tonality. The Eb major tonality of the second movement is similarly uninterrupted, although a brief excursion into G around the middle of the through-composed movement feels unorthodox. The third movement, a waltz in Ab, feels out of place for the work as a whole, but is tonally stable albeit totally divorced from any renaissance precedent. The fifth movement, in E major, bears similar tonal patterns to the second, including a similar excursion into III midway through.

It is the final movement that presents the most tonal irregularity, liberal dissonance, and chromaticism. The fifth movement opens in the previous movement’s E major tonality, before abruptly losing any grounded key area. Instead, Rheinberger traverses a variety of tonal areas through diminished seventh common-tone modulations, pivot chords, and circle of fifths sequences. The opening section finally cadences in G, in preparation for the return to c minor at the beginning of the fugue. As has already been established, this closing fugue is the most compositionally intricate and Romantic part of the entire work. If the entire work were as intricately constructed and tonally libertine as the fifth, there would be no grounds for a

43 Caecilien analysis of the work at all. As it stands, Rheinberger is capitalizing on historical methods taken into a modern light.

It is clear from both the 1864 manuscript and 1868 publication of Op. 16 that

Rheinberger sought to display both his own compositional prowess and the Catholic poetry in his debut as both Oratorioverein director and composer of large-scale sacred music. The chromaticism and dramatics of the music capitalize on the emotional poignancy of the poetry, sometimes at the expense of textual clarity. If the Caecilien movement was about removing the secular and profane from sacred music, so that the text might come through clearly, then

Rheinberger’s Op. 16 stands in opposition. It is much more aligned with the German models that

Rheinberger studied and taught.

The combination of textual fidelity with Romantic musical devices is much more aligned with the Munich sacred music tradition than any other compositional school. Given that the

Stabat mater, op. 16 was composed for Rheinberger’s debut as conductor of the Oratorioverein, perhaps the most significant sacred ensemble in Munich at 1864 besides the Hofkapelle, it is not surprising that Rheinberger’s composition so neatly align with the priorities of sacred musicians in Munich as defined in the previous chapter. The burghers of Munich, like Rheinberger, were devout Catholics who felt an intense connection—both spiritual and, through di Lasso, musical—to Rome. But after fifty years of concentrated cultural efforts by the Bavarian monarchy, they were also German. The intermingling of these Catholic and German identities is apparent in the state of sacred music in Munich at midcentury, and in both the premiere version of Rheinberger’s Stabat mater op. 16 of 1864 and the revised publication of 1868. Rheinberger’s

Op. 16 sits comfortably within the Munich nexus of sacred styles; the cultural atmosphere of

Germany in 1868, however, was anything but stable.

44 Chapter 4: Munich and Regensburg 1864-1884

The intervening two decades between Rheinberger’s first and second Stabat maters were tumultuous years in Munich’s history. Reactions to the almost concurrent events of the first

Vatican council in 1868-70 and the German unification of 1871 trickled into every aspect of life.

This chapter will demonstrate the inherent conflict between German and Catholic identity that arose in the wake of the political unification of 1871, by identifying parallel movements in both political and music history. The 1870 doctrine of Papal Infallibility and Franz Witt’s founding of the Allgemeine Caecilienverein (ACV) were both part of a larger quest to define a more exclusive kind of Catholic identity in the 1870s. Each trend ran counter-current to prevailing notions of German identity, which had strong associations with Protestantism in terms of religion and musically meant belief in a “German universal.”76 Notions of Catholic and German identity, compatibly intertwined in Munich during the nineteenth-century, were threatened by shifting political currents and the tightening of cultural definitions, both on the German and Catholic sides of the Bavarian identity question.

In December 1869, Pope Pius IX convened a Vatican council on the three hundredth anniversary of the Council of Trent. The First Vatican Council was called to navigate the Church through contemporary obstacles of secularism and liberalism, which had been steadily taking hold of Europe throughout the nineteenth-century. Prior to the encroachment of these modern trends, Papal authority had been assumed, but as western society turned away from its influence, such unspoken authority came into question. The most concrete solution, enacted in June 1870,

76 For a discussion of the inherent conflict in German identity versus Catholicism after the 1871 unification see Pontus Hiort, “Constructing Another Kind of German: Catholic Commemorations of German Unification in Baden, 1870-76,” Catholic Historical Review 93, no. 1 (2007), 17–46; for some existing literature on late 19th century preferences for “Germanness” in music—either as defined by the biography of the composer or a more ineffable “sincere, transcendent” quality, see: Potter and Applegate, “Germans as the ‘People of Music,” and Barbara Eichner, History in Mighty Sounds: Musical Constructions of German National Identity 1848-1914 (Rochester: Boydell & Brewer, 2012).

45 was an official dogmatic definition of “papal infallibility,” rendering the Pope’s judgment supreme over that of all secular leaders and governments.

Across Bavaria, the doctrine of infallibility was unevenly received. The Jesuits and other ultramontanists gladly accepted the new doctrine, which to them was the codification of an already accepted truth: faith is prioritized over secular concerns and papal authority thereby reigned supreme. Those who accepted the doctrine as the new practice of the Church were called

Neuekatholiken, or “new Catholics.” They resided primarily in the rural regions of Bavaria, practicing their stringent faith far from the more secularized urban centers.

In Munich, however, intellectuals were quick to reject loudly the new doctrine of papal infallibility. Dr. Johann Josef Ignaz von Döllinger, who had already been enjoying career as one of the foremost Catholic theologians in Munich for over half a century, was also one of the most vocal critics of the new doctrine. Döllinger saw the doctrine of papal infallibility as a fundamental threat to his lifelong goal of reunifying the global Catholic Church—to him a larger threat than the theological implications of the decree. Despite the fact that Döllinger never officially aligned himself with the Altekatholiken, the anti-infallibists immediately anointed him the standard-bearer for their movement, a designation that Döllinger never effectively protested.

Whether or not he had asked for the charge, Döllinger made a good figurehead for the anti- infallibist movement. Other intellectuals went further, self-identifying as altekaholische and publically rejecting the infallibility doctrine outright. The University of Munich was just one of the many universities that sided against the decree of papal infallibility, to the extent that a New

York Evangelist reporter called the entire situation a “war of the professors against the bishops.”77

77 N.C. Burt, “Signs in the European Political Firmament,” New York Evangelist, September 14, 1871.

46 Like Döllinger, Ludwig II, King of Bavaria (r. 1864-1886), was reluctant to accept papal infallibility. While it is true that he was a startlingly apolitical monarch, he certainly waded into the theological dispute through a series of revealing actions and inactions. In a letter to Minister

Johannes von Lutz, Ludwig revealed his conflict between “yield[ing] the church [his] protection” and “resist[ing] all attempts to undermine the undoubted rights of the state,” acknowledging that this would “bring State and Church into a fatal position.”78 In an early letter to Döllinger,

Ludwig voiced his strong support and gratitude for his unwavering commitment to the anti- infallibist cause, lavishing “I am glad to dare believe that you, as the ornament of science, and in your tried attachment to the throne, may yet for long, as hitherto, continue your activity for the good of the State and Church.”79 When the Archbishop of Munich excommunicated Dr.

Döllinger, Ludwig tried in vain to intercede on Döllinger’s behalf.80 Unable to prevent

Döllinger’s excommunication, Ludwig instead appointed him President of the Bavarian

Academy of the Sciences.81 At the same time, Ludwig was able to salvage his relationship with the Church by never acting directly against the ultramontanists. He denied the popular expectation that he would expel the ultramontanists from his cabinet or in some way undermine the party’s authority in the 1875 ministry, and used his sovereignty in Bavaria after the unification to defend ultramontanists from Bismarck’s anti-Catholic legislation.82 Many

Neuekatholiken in Bavaria counted Ludwig as an ally.83

Otto von Bismarck perceived the decree of papal infallibility as a direct threat to the impending German unification and the strength of any government in the newly unified state.

78 “Ludwig II to Johannes von Lutz,” Letter (1883) in Clara Tschudi, Ludwig the Second, King of Bavaria, trans. Ethel Harriet Hearn (London: S. Sonnenschein, 1908), 128. 79 “Ludwig II to Döllinger,” Letter (Feb. 28, 1871) in Ibid. 80 Christopher McIntosh, The Swan King: Ludwig II of Bavaria (London: Tauris Parke, 2003), 112. 81 Thomas Albert Howard, The Pope and the Professor: Pius IX, Ignaz von Döllinger, and the Quandary of the Modern Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017), 86. 82 McIntosh, 112. 83 “The German Empire: The Beginning of the Dull Season,” New York Times, August 8, 1871.

47 While papal authority was ostensibly limited to all matters “spiritual and sacred,” the South

German understanding of this limited parsing could impact secular concerns, as well. Papal infallibility stood directly at odds with the Bavarian acceptance of the authority of the Prussian

Kaiser, an allegiance necessary to secure the political future of the new German Reich. This conflict of supremacy was a clear threat to the success of Bismarck’s long sought-after unification, and it is easy to imagine Bismarck wielding a tight hold on Bavaria to ensure no religious defectors.

Ultimately, it was Ludwig’s private “old Catholicism” that allowed Bavaria to maintain most of its sovereignty after the German unification of 1871. Ludwig was one of the first remaining German monarchs to capitulate to Bismarck’s unification, after providing crucial military aid to Prussia during the Franco-Prussian war of the previous year. Ludwig further aided the legitimacy of the new Reich by officially inviting Frederick III to assume the imperial title as

Emperor of Germany. Ludwig’s willingness to invite imperial supremacy over Bavaria from

Prussia, instead of clinging to papal infallibility, secured Bavaria’s sovereignty over state matters such as maintaining its own army during peace time, controlling travel infrastructure and tax collection, and exemption from many of Prussia’s new laws, including those of Catholic suppression.84

Legal exemption from Catholic suppression did little to alleviate the cultural angst of many Neuekatholiken in Bavaria. German identity, as defined by Prussians and the northern majority, was intricately linked to Protestantism and Luther’s legacy. In much the same way that

Romantic musical critics had intrinsically linked German musical identity to the Beethovenian legacy, so, too, was there a concerted effort among nineteenth-century historians to elevate

84 McIntosh, 118.

48 Martin Luther in the same regard.85 As Beethoven was promoted as the paragon in German music, Luther was promulgated by Bismarck’s Prussia as a monumental edifice in German history; a sort-of rallying point for pride and reflection. This historicization of Luther had the additional effect of further distancing “Germanness” from the corrupting French influence, with whom the ultramontanes were frequently portrayed as undermining German identity.86

Many Bavarians viewed Bavarian identity as ipso facto Catholic, and so it should come as no surprise that the Bavarian divide on German unification fell along similar geographical lines to opinions on papal infallibility. The Neuekatholiken saw German unification as a threat to

Bavarian Catholic culture and its inevitable strengthening of secular power through unification as fundamentally opposed to the infallibility of the papacy. The Patriot Party, a political party dedicated to the continued independence of Bavaria, consisted of ultramontanists largely from outside of Munich, and proved the most vocal opponents of German unification.87 Even after unification in 1871, the ultramontanist party remained the separatist party, advocating the dissolution of the German unification, which they viewed as a mistake.88 The Altekatholiken in

Munich, already having rejected the infallibility doctrine, had no such binds and were therefore either ambivalent to political unification with Prussia, or else wholly embraced the idea.

For these Bavarians the unification of 1871 marked the end of a long and contentious process. For over fifty years, political consolidation of the German states, to some degree or another, had never been far from the minds of German rulers. Shortly after the fall of Napoleon in 1815, much of Germany had rallied behind the German confederation, but Ludwig I had

85 Jan Herman Brinks, “Luther and the German State,” The Heythrop Journal 39 (1998), 1-2. 86 Hiort, 17. 87 Margaret Lavinia Anderson, “Piety and Politics: Recent Work on German Catholicism,” The Journal of Modern History 63, no. 4 (December 1991), 702. 88 “Continental Topics: Germany, France, and Spain. The Ministerial Crisis in Bavaria,” New York Times, November 5, 1875.

49 declined the invitation and elected to maintain Bavarian independence, instead. Many Bavarians, and especially those in rural areas, felt a unique kinship to Austria through a shared Catholic faith.89 For many, this relationship would permit Prussian-Bavarian political unity only in the event of Austrian inclusion in any conception of “Greater Germany.” After the Austro-Prussian war in 1866, however, it was clear no politically unified Germany would include Austria for the foreseeable future. This, predictably, soured Bavarian opinion on the unity question.90 But when

Prussia and Bavaria joined forces in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870, many Bavarian Catholics finally seemed ready to enter the Reich, with or without Austria.91 The two major German- language Catholic newspapers, Kölnische Volkszeitung and Germania, both heartily endorsed

Bavarian inclusion, although it is worth mentioning that neither periodical was published within the south-German kingdom.92

The political unification of Bavaria into a Prussian-led German empire made the religious questions of identity and authority all the more urgent on both sides. From the Prussian angle, Otto von Bismarck and Prussian nationalists were subject to outright paranoia on the subjects of papal infallibility and ultramontanists. An infallible pope with pockets of loyal followers throughout Germany—and especially in Bavaria—posed an existential threat to the fledgling empire trying to consolidate authority in Berlin. Bismarck quickly pounced on these concerns with a series of legislation aimed at quelling the Catholic threat, known as the

Kulturkampf (cultural struggle).

As many historians have affirmed, Bismarck’s Kulturkampf was a catastrophic miscalculation. With Bavarian sovereignty still intact, Bismarck could hardly enforce the cultural

89 A Bavarian Catholic, “Catholicism in Bavaria,” The Contemporary Review 14 (April 1, 1870), 495–501. 90 Stephanie A. Mann, “The German Culture Wars,” The Catholic Answer, December 2014: 34. 91 Rebecca Ayako Bennette, Fighting for the Soul of Germany: The Catholic Struggle for Inclusion after Unification (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 23. 92 Ibid., 30.

50 legislation. When Bismarck disbanded the Jesuit order in Prussia, the practitioners were able to take refuge in southern Bavaria, only strengthening their numbers. The cultural legislation meant to prohibit Catholic education and evangelism through censorship of the Catholic press was likewise unenforceable in Bavaria. By the middle of the decade, ultramontanists in Bavaria held over half the seats in Parliament. The Prussian government looked in horror at the rapid upsurge in the number of religious orders across the Reich, with seventy-three additional monasteries in

Bavaria and an astounding one hundred and eighty-two new abbeys.93 The net result of the

Kulturkampf in Bavaria was to strengthen the cultural divide between German and Catholic, and created a surge in Catholic political representation from the laity.94 Instead of quelling the cultural power of Catholicism, Bismarck’s Kulturkampf had lit a self-righteous indignation among Bavarian Catholics, which further widened the divide between Catholic and German identity.95 Even between the Altekatholiken and Neuekatholiken, the perceived persecution and othering of Bismarck’s policies united opposition and encouraged a strident protection of the faith—regardless of whether the practitioners accepted the papal doctrine of infallibility.

Practical implications of policy can be of secondary concern to cultural ramifications.

The Kulturkampf was a legislative failure that inspired a reactionary movement from the ultramontanists and Neuekatholiken. Further, it demonstrated that in the eyes of Prussia, German identity and papal fidelity, now a fundamental principle of stringent Catholicism, were incompatible. As a result, Catholic identity coalesced around more concrete, intransient identifiers. The decree of papal infallibility was but one indicator of a larger trend of increasing rigidity in ultra-pious Catholicism; the founding of the Allgemeine Caecilienverein was another.

93 Michael B. Gross, The War Against Catholicism (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004), 130-32. 94 “Ministerial Crisis in Bavaria,” New York Times, 1875. 95 Johann Friederich von Schulte, “Ultramontanism in Germany: Its Rise and Progress,” The Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature 28, no. 4 (October 1878), 385–403.

51

On December 16, 1870, just six months after the definition of papal infallibility, Pope

Pius IX issued an official brief of sanction to the Allgemeine Caecilienverein (ACV). Franz

Xaver Witt had founded the ACV at Bamberg just two years before, building on a century of sacred music reform and the Caecilien movement. The goals of the ACV, as defined in the papal brief, confirmed Witt’s intentions for the society, that it:

1) Restore the singing of Gregorian chant to the liturgy 2) Promote the contrapuntal style of Palestrina in new compositions 3) Promote a cappella singing, or else wind accompaniment alone 4) Promote congregational song in the vernacular96

With the sanction from the Vatican, Pius IX legitimized the activities of the ACV as the musical will of the Church:

The Association enjoys the protection of the Most Eminent Cardinal nominated by the Holy Father… moreover, the members of the sodality choose eight thoroughly musical words worthy of being brought out in the churches of God.97

In effect, the papal sanction legitimized the ACV as a kind of “watchdog” organization, entrusted with protecting and furthering sacred music throughout Bavaria and Germany at-large.

Franz Xaver Witt built the ACV in 1868 on the tradition of Proske at Regensburg, who had died in 1861. Prior to founding the ACV, Witt had studied at the Regensburg seminary and sung in the choir under Joseph Schrems, Karl Proske’s successor as Kapellmeister. After completing his studies at the seminary, Witt practiced as a priest in the Bavarian countryside before returning to Regensburg as a professor in Gregorian chant. He had been educated in

Caecilien traditions at Regensburg, and stringently adhered to his Catholic faith. Between his time at Regensburg and in the hilly Bavarian countryside, he would have encountered the most

96 Patrick M. Liebergern provides this summary of the goals of the Caecilien movement in “The Cecilian Movement in the Nineteenth-century: Summary of the Movement,” The Choral Journal 21, no. 9 (1981), 13. 97 Robert F. Hayburn, Papal Legislation on Sacred Music, 95 AD to 1977 AD (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1979), 128. (Emphasis added)

52 exacting musical reforms to-date and, relatedly, the most strident ultramontanist interpretations of the Catholic faith.

The dogmatism of both Regensburg musical Caecilienism and rural ultramontanism seem to have fed each other in shaping Witt’s musical and theological worldviews. His essay Der

Zustand der katholischen Kirchenmusik zunächst in Altbayern (1865), demonstrates the extent to which Witt’s theology informed his musical views and vice-versa. He prosaically decries the ignominious state of church music in Munich: “…deeply bemoaning the immeasurable damage for the salvation of souls, bemoaning this art of church music which defiles the holy sacraments, bemoaning the desecration of the houses of the Lord, this disgrace of holy art!”98 To Witt, the current state of sacred music in Bavaria in 1864 is no mere matter of personal preference or taste; it is the difference between veneration of the sacraments and the Lord, and complete and total desecration of the faith through music inappropriate for the solemn task of worship.

What is most notable about Witt’s 1864 essay is that he does not seek support for music’s transformative power in music history or Romantic prose, as Hoffmann and Ett had done, but rather grounds his musical arguments in theology. Witt cites previous papal interventions in sacred music as support for his proposed reforms. He opens with discussion of the Council of

Trent as the first major effort to return music to its sacrosanct purpose within the liturgy. This is, of course, reminiscent of ETA Hoffmann’s “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik” and the early

Romantic reliance on the Palestrina myth, but instead of focusing on Palestrina’s supposed salvation of polyphony, a musical accomplishment, Witt emphasizes the power of the Church in endeavoring to regulate music in the liturgy. Witt explains that it is precisely the failure of the

98 “…zu beklagen den unbemeßbaren Schaden für das Heil der Seelen, zu beklagen die durch diese Art von Kirchenmusik herbeigeführte Entehrung des heiligsten Sakramentes, Tief zu beklagen die Entweihung des Hauses des Herrn, die entwürdignung heiliger Kunst!” in Franz Xaver Witt, Der Zustand der katholischen Kirchenmusik, zunächst in Altbayern (Regensburg, Germany: Coppenrath, 1865), 14.

53 Council of Trent to regulate sacred music (or rather, the failure of composers to faithfully execute such guidelines) that led to the present degradation of liturgical music. As Witt traces the decay of sacred music through the first pages of his essay, he repeatedly cites different bulls and statutes enacted by the church as thwarted attempts to mitigate music’s fall. And repeatedly, Witt lays the blame for the degradation of sacred music at the feet of the composers who ignored such regulations and allowed themselves to be tempted by theatrical styles.99

Of course, the solution to the modern church music problem, as laid out by Witt, would sound familiar to anyone acquainted with the polemics of Kaspar Ett or Karl Proske and the music program at Regensburg. In his essay, Witt first identifies choral music as the root of all sacred music and the truest form of musical worship. Here too, however, Witt is more exacting than his predecessors: “choral music” means not “any vocal music sung by an ensemble,” but, specifically, Gregorian chant. From this definition, Witt explains that the best polyphony (an art separate and apart from Witt’s “choral music”) is that which takes Gregorian chant as its base. In

Witt’s eyes, Palestrina’s use of Gregorian canti firmi is what gives his polyphonic works such venerable strength in the worship setting.100 Beyond the use of chant, either as the basis for polyphony or on its own, Witt maintains that all liturgical music must carry the same solemn ethos and spirit of the chant that was dictated through St. Gregory.101 It is similar to the same kind of historicism-through-lineage that manufactured a “Germany universality” in music; only the music spiritually descended from Palestrina and St. Gregory is appropriate for liturgical use.

This nebulous concept of maintaining the spirit of the Renaissance masters forms the basis of Witt’s prescription for contemporary composers, and undergirds much of Witt’s own

99 Ibid., 5-8. 100 Ibid., 15. 101 Witt’s emphasis on the legend of St. Gregory is another episode of Romantic historicism in sacred music reform, similar to the prominence of the Palestrina legend in revitalizing sacred music earlier in the nineteenth- century.

54 writings on compositional practice. As James Garratt notes, the society’s goal to achieve the

“spirit of Palestrina” is the most specific directive for modern composition Witt seems capable of giving in his his early essay “Der Palestrinastyl und die modernen Kirchenkomponisten.”102 This persistent ambiguity in the essay is especially surprising given the centricity of modern compositional methods implied by the titular phrase: “modernen Kirchenkomponisten.” As

Hans-Josef Irmen points out, the inconsistency of Witt’s philosophy is reflective of the vague constraints of Caecilienism throughout the nineteenth-century.103 But indeed, while Witt is effusive in his praise of Palestrina’s contrapuntal style and ability to invoke the Holy Spirit through music, he is less-than-generous in his specifics of emulation, only to offer emulation as the goal.104

A later essay, “Was haben die modernen Kirchenkomponisten zu meiden?” is a more specific directive for the art of modern compositional process. Again, however, one might notice the now-familiar theme of Caecilien appositeness defined solely through an exclusionary process: “what must the modern church composers avoid?”105 Witt does not equivocate that the sixteenth-century “Palestrina style” is the pinnacle to be emulated, but it is an emulation born of avoidance of modern corruption, not the specific adoption of any antiquated practice. As James

Garratt has noted, Witt spends much ink remonstrating the reader to never copy Palestrina, for any facsimile of the old style, coming from the corrupted modern mind, can never be true church music.106 Witt also identifies theatrical music, and specifically the aria, as directly responsible for the decline of church music beginning even while Palestrina was still alive in the works of

102 Garratt, Palestrina, 149. 103 Irmen, Antipode Des Cäcilianismus, 187. 104 Witt, Der Zustand. 105 Franz Xaver Witt, “Was Haben die modernen Kirchencomponisten zu meiden?” Musica Sacra 9 (1874), 75– 79. 106 Garratt, Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination, 150; Witt, “Was haben die modernen Kirchenkomponisten zumeiden?” 76.

55 Caldara and Scarlatti, and thus another style to be avoided.107 Surprisingly, Witt also offers a criticism of Palestrina and the Altschule composers, in declaiming gratuitously lyrical polyphony as inimical to the ever-important text declamation.

Witt’s directives are familiar standards from the Caecilien movement of the nineteenth- century. The invocation of the Council of Trent as establishing a legacy of “true sacred composition” with a priority on textual fidelity is easily traced through the decades and various sacred music revivals and movements throughout Germany to ETA Hoffmann’s “Alte neue und

Kirchenmusik.”108 What distinguishes Witt from his Caecilien forbearers is the power he wielded over sacred music in Germany in the last decades of the nineteenth-century, afforded to him and the ACV by Pope Pius IX’s papal sanction. Indeed, Witt is careful to cite this source of his musical authority by reminding his readers in “Was haben die modernen Kirchenkomponisten zumeiden?” that the authority underlying his rules of composition is not his own, but rather that of the Pope and the Church itself.

Even as Witt’s polemics on sacred composition were not universal adhered to by sacred composers, they were certainly widely known. The ACV quickly gained a following not only in

Bavaria, but throughout the world. Witt’s students returned to their home countries, opening their own Caecilien Societies modeled on the one at Bamberg. There are Caecilien societies in places from Ireland to Milwaukee, Wisconsin.109 With the legitimacy afforded by a papal sanction,

Witt’s Allgemeine Caecilienverein quickly became the authority on Catholic sacred music at least in Germany, if not beyond.

Musica Sacra, the official pamphlet of the ACV, attests to the organization’s renown and legitimacy, and also the exacting and often contradictory standards of its founder. Witt also

107 Witt, “Was haben die modernen Kirchenkomponisten zumeiden?” 76. 108 Hoffmann, “Alte und neue Kirchenmusik.” 109 Gmeinwieser, “Cecilian Movement.”

56 produced countless volumes of sacred music deemed appropriate for liturgical use, revived

Renaissance works and new compositions alike.110 But the repertoire selected for print offers frustratingly little guidance into Witt’s selective criteria: Anton Bruckner and Franz Liszt were both on friendly terms with the Caeciliens and composed in the vague Caecilien style regularly, but Liszt was surprised to find Witt had rejected one of his “Caecilien-style” pieces that he had expressly prepared for his publication.111

Regardless, there are several musical characteristics that are familiar and consistent. The first fundamental tenet of Caecilienism seems to be the primacy of the sacred text. The unequivocal importance of textual clarity is evident in the writings of Witt and is a familiar mandate from the various iterations of the Caecilien movement throughout the nineteenth- century. This predictably necessitates primarily homophonic textures, with deliberate use of imitative polyphony, but never gratuitous ornamentation. A cappella works are preferred although chamber or even orchestral accompaniment is deemed appropriate at moments during the liturgy in which sacraments are not being performed at the altar.112

There are many parallels to be observed between the divisions of Alt- and

Neuekatholiken and those between the ACV and more liberal German composers. Significantly, these divisions fell along similar geographical lines. Just as Munich’s sacred music scene had embraced contemporary German musical styles over strict adherence to Renaissance methods of composition throughout the nineteenth-century, sacred composers in Munich remained steeped in a more contemporary tradition even as the Caecilien movement flourished in the countryside.

This mirrored the stark geographical lines dividing the Neuekatholiken in rural Bavaria from the

Altekatholiken in Munich. While it would be fallacious to paint all Neuekatholiken as

110 Ibid. 111 Dolores Pesce, Liszt’s Final Decade (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2014), 106-07. 112 Witt, “Was haben die modernen Kirchenkomponisten zumeiden?”

57 Caecilienists in broad strokes or vice versa, the striking similarities between these political and musical movements certainly pique the curiosity and invite further investigation.

Both the theological ultramontanism of the Neuekatholiken and the musical dogmatism of the ACV were reflective of a strident trend in Catholicism. Politically, industrialization and the Enlightenment had spurred secularism throughout Western Europe that threatened the centricity of the Church in everyday life. Industrialization and secularism had also pushed sacred music to a perilous tipping point, which critics and musicians struggled to counter throughout the nineteenth-century in Germany. The answer to each problem lie in defined doctrines, that of papal infallibility and the stringent musical constraints of the ACV. Franz Witt, the ACV, and the musical standards they inspired run parallel to the neuekatholisch dogmatism and rejection of secular concerns. German identity and Catholic identity in both political and musical matters were too concretely defined to be compatible, a contradiction of cultures whose urgency can be found in the second Stabat mater of Josef Rheinberger.

58 Chapter 5: The Second Stabat mater at the Crossroads of German and Catholic Identity

The letters of Franziska and Josef Rheinberger elucidate their position on contemporary developments. Despite being in the metropolis of Munich, they did not break from the Church with the Neuekatholiken. It is evident from these letters, too, that the Rheinbergers welcomed what they saw as the long-awaited unification in 1871, and indeed shared the pan-Germanist ambitions for Austria and Lichtenstein’s inclusion in the great German Reich, as well. But it is not difficult to imagine that in such personal matters as faith and culture, identity may not manifest along such discrete divisions. Even though allegiance to a secular German government and to an infallible Pope was not directly exclusive to one another, there is an inherent contradiction in allegiances.

While the Rheinbergers may have accepted the infallibility decree, it is not at all clear that this was a fidelity that they advertised. Franziska’s diary shows no interruption in church attendance between 1870 and 1871 and, as she writes in a letter to David Rheinberger:

I do not like this Döllinger affair. Every mailman today wants to discuss “theology” and even the “theater director” throws himself at the priest, although he understands as much theology as our dog. I hold true and firm with the Church and hope the same for Curt [Josef].113

But it is not clear that this message was shared among friends. Hedwig von Holstein, for instance, seems to think she has a sympathetic ear when she writes to Franziska:

That the turmoil in the Catholic Church torments and annoys you, I fully understand. I thank God that in this moment I am no Catholic, for it even embarrasses me as a protestant, that is, as an old believer who would like to hold

113 “Die Döllinger-Angelegenheit gefällt mir gar nicht. Jeder Packträger will heut zu Tage über Theologie sprechen und selbst der ‘Theater-Intendant’ wirft sich zum Kirchen-Vater auf, obgleich er von Theologie so wenig versteht, als unser Hund. Ich halte es treu und fest mit der Kirche und hoffe das gleiche von Curt. “Franziska Rheinberger to David Rheinberger,” Letter (May 17, 1871).

59 fast to holy statues.114

Both women are annoyed by the Döllinger controversy, but for completely different reasons; while Hedwig is offended that a man so pious as Döllinger could be excommunicated by an arrogant pope, Franziska is angry that Döllinger could tear so many faithful away from the

Church. Ultimately, the public ambiguity surrounding the Rheinbergers’ spiritual allegiance in the wake of the Döllinger affair appropriately matched the ambiguous position of King Ludwig

II and his royal chapel, where Rheinberger would later accept a position as Kapellmeister.

The Franco-Prussian war took a prominent position in the Rheinberger household.

Franziska’s diary entries from the period reflect the collective atmosphere of anxiety that permeated Munich before and during the war. In March, 1870, four months before the war’s outbreak, Franziska first voices concern at the apparent imminence of conflict

(“kriegsaussichten!”) and writes that the tense atmosphere had quelled her husband’s desire to compose.115 On July 17, two days after Franziska noted the declaration of war, she writes that two of Josef’s compositional students had already been conscripted, and by June 19 the distress in Munich was palpable as residents with “sad faces” made their farewells to the soldiers.116

But the anxiety at the impending conflict quickly melted into excitement, for a war fought alongside Prussia brought the dream of full political unification closer to fruition. So

114 “Dass die Wirren in der katholischen Kirche Ihnen leid sind & im höchsten Sinne ärgerlich, das begreife ich vollkommen. Ich danke jetzt Gott, dass ich in diesem Augenblick keine Katholikin bin, denn es berührt sogar mich höchst peinlich als Protestantin, d.h. als Altgläubige, die gern an dem ewig festhalten möchte, was ich eine heilige Satzung nenne.” In this and other letters, von Holstein groups Altekatholiken under the larger heading of “Protestantin” with which she self-identifies. “Protestantin,” then, refers not only to Protestant Christians in the non-Catholic sense, but to any person or sect that disagrees with Papal doctrine. Hedwig von Holstein, “Letter to Franziska Rheinberger,” Letter, June 1870. 115 “Es sind gewaltige Kriegsaussichten zwischen Frankreich und Preussen, welche bereits Curt die Lust am Komponiren nehmen.” Franziska Rheinberger, “Tagebuch von Franziska Rheinberger Fortsetzung vom 13.07.1870- 24.11.1873” (diary entry, Munich, 13 July 1870), J.G. Rheinberger-Archiv, Vaduz, www.e-archiv.li/D43210. 116 “Zwei Schüler Curt's aus Sachsen sind bereits einberufen wegen des Krieges.” Franziska Rheinberger, “Tagebuch,” diary entry, 17 July 1870. “Es gibt jetzt auf der Strasse sehr erregte Kriegsgesichter und viele traurige Abschiede!” Franziska Rheinberger, “Tagebuch” diary entry, 19 July 1870).

60 describes Josef Rheinberger in a letter to his brother David from shortly after the outbreak of war. In it, he writes:

In your letter we noticed the suggestion that we flee to Vaduz; you seem to also believe one fears here an invasion by the French; one does indeed fear the war (not the French), when it threatens, but when it is there it reveals an upbeat mood, overall, in all people—with the exception of the obscure ultramontanes, who have no heart for a unified Germany.117

In a single sentence to his brother, Rheinberger evinces several truths fundamental to understanding his position in a cultural atmosphere of conflicting identities. There is

Rheinberger’s clear belief that the desire for true unification with Prussia is a widespread consensus, denounced only by the rare ultramontane, whom Rheinberger positions as social outcasts. Then, there is the current of traditional German nationalism coursing through his words—the excitement at a war and opportunity to prove greatness, and the denunciation of the

French as unworthy of Bavarians’ fear or trepidation. It is not just that Rheinberger writes of the palpitating German nationalist sentiment in Munich, it is that he, himself, partakes in it.

The Lichtenstein-born composer encapsulates the prevailing German sentiment that cultural unity precedes the political, reflecting the overall development of German national identity throughout the nineteenth-century.118 By December of 1870, Rheinberger was considerably less gallant in discussing the war, but no less certain of the inevitability of a true,

German empire. He writes again of the Munich atmosphere, where citizens eagerly await the

117 “Aus deinem Briefe ersehen wir den Vorschlag, uns nach Vaduz zu flüchten; Du scheinst also zu glauben, man befürchte hier eine Invasion der Franzosen; man fürchtet zwar den Krieg (nicht die Franzosen), wenn er droht, wenn er aber da ist, zeigt sich eine gehobene Stimmung, überall, in allen Schichten, die verbohrtesten Ultramontanen vielleicht ausgenommen, die überhaupt kein Herz für ein geeintes Deutschland haben.” Josef Rheinberger, “Josef Rheinberger to David Rheinberger,” Letter, 29 July 1870. 118 Many scholars have tracked the development of a German national consciousness in nineteenth century Germany, and the phenomenon of a cultural consciousness preceding the political. Some include: David Blackbourn, The Long Nineteenth Century: A History of Germany, 1780-1918 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998); Engelhardt, “Romanticism in Germany,”; Friedrich, “Cultural and Intellectual Trends,”; George S. Williamson, “The Construction of a National Mythology: The Romantic and Vormärz Eras,” in The Longing for Myth in Germany: Religion and Aesthetic Culture from Romanticism to Nietzsche (Chicago: U. Chicago Press, 2004), 72–120; Rebecca Zajdowicz, “Engaging with the Nation: German Women Writers of the Vormärz and Constructions of National Identity” (Ph.D. Diss., The Pennsylvania State University, 2010).

61 Prussian victory that will bring the long-awaited German state, and so will all true German nations be subsumed in time:

The creation of the Empire [unified Germany] is understood by everyone here, but no trace of enthusiasm is called for; the war is too serious. The neighboring Austrians, however, are very angry about the new empire. But sooner or later they and us Vaduzers will be subsumed, as well—the avalanche is rolling and will absorb all Germans.119

Rheinberger subscribes to the prevailing belief that all German-speakers are culturally German, and all who are culturally German should be made politically so, as well. Unification of all

German-speakers is inevitable to Rheinberger.

In the same letter, Rheinberger tells his brother of the premier of his Requiem with the

Oratorioverein. It is an explicitly patriotic project that Rheinberger undertook during and immediately after the Franco-Prussian War, dedicated “to the memory of the heroes who fell in the German war.”120 The Requiem was well-received, with reviews in the Munich newspaper Die

Neuesten Nachrichten and Die Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung, citing the appropriateness of the dedication and the poignancy of the work in such a moment.121 A year after the war ended with

Prussia’s victory in March 1871, Rheinberger dedicated the Requiem to King Ludwig II of

Bavaria, a dedication that the king accepted.122 The dedication emphasis on “German” in tandem with the later dedication to the Bavarian king is significant, for it reaffirms Rheinberger’s conception of Großdeutsch, an idea of a unified German culture that included all of central

Europe, in which Bavaria was but one part of a larger German nation.

119 “Die Kreirung des Kaiserthums hat hier allgemein befriedigt, doch keine Spur von Enthusiasmus hervorgerufen. Man ist zu ernst dazu. Die benachbarten Österreicher sind aber sehr bös über das neue Kaiserthum, nun - früher oder später müssen sie auch herüber und wir Vaduzer ebenfalls - die Lawine ist im Rollen und wird alles Deutsche in sich aufnehmen.” Josef Rheinberger, “Josef to David Rheinberger,” Letter, 19 December 1870. 120 “…zum Gedächtniss der im deutschen Kriege gefallen Helden.” Ibid. 121 “Die neuesten Nachrichten, München, sind voll des Lobes für Rheinbergers Requiem,” Die Neuesten Nachrichten, December 15, 1870; “Jos. Rheinberger wird positiv Rezensiert,” Die Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung, December 14, 1870. 122 “Josef Rheinberger to Oberstceremonienmeister Graf v. Pocci for King Ludwig II of Bavaria,” Letter, March 1872.

62 As it happened, this collaboration with the Bavarian court was prescient of Rheinberger’s future relationship with the court, where he was appointed Kapellmeister in 1877. Perhaps because the king was sympathetic to Döllinger and the Altekatholiken, the Caecilien revival never fully reached the royal chapel. Even if Ludwig had aligned with the Holy See, however, it is unclear that Rheinberger would have been more orthodox in his adherence to Caecilien prescriptions in compositions for the court. It is certainly true that Rheinberger did not agree with

Witt on all compositional matters or recognize his Papally-sanctioned authority on sacred music, but it would seem he took more issue with Witt’s dogmatism than his aesthetics. Writing in

1888, Rheinberger allowed that Witt’s knowledge of liturgical music was extensive, but described the Caecilienverein’s aims as “puritanical.”123 He takes particular issue with Witt’s characterizing of F.J. Haydn’s sacred music as “a lie,” and “a hopsasa.”124 Rheinberger defends

Haydn: the fact that his Kyrie has a “joyous pull” does not mean that the repertoire is not holy and “rooted in sincere piety.”125 It is, perhaps, for such disagreements on musical dogmatism that

Rheinberger has been described as the “antipode of the Caeciliens.”126

This argument, however, is an oversimplification of both Rheinberger’s time as

Kapellemeister for Ludwig II and the reach of explicitly Caecilien reforms. Even if Rheinberger did not agree with Witt’s exacting musical parameters, he certainly recognized the expanse of

Witt’s influence and the pragmatic benefits of engaging with the Caecilien movement. The same year he wrote against Witt’s musical dogma in prose, Rheinberger composed a mass for three

123 “J.G. Rheinberger to Director of K. Musikschule,” Letter 12 October 1888. 124 “Hopsasa” being a German exclamation frequently associated with raucous folk-dancing, a far cry from Witt’s ideal of sacrosanct art. 125 “Allerdings hat Haydn’s Kirchenmusik einen freudigen Zug, der aber in ächter Frömmigkeit wurzelt, wie seine unsterbliche Schöpfung.” Ibid. 126 “Antipode of the Caeciliens” is the subtitle of one of the only extant Rheinberger biographies by Hans-Josef Irmen; Joel F. Scraper takes a different approach, largely aligning Rheinberger to the Caecilien Movement in his dissertation: “Josef Gabriel Rheinberger and the Regensburg Cecilian Movement,”;. As implied in the above text, this project attempts a more nuanced understanding of Rheinberger’s relationship to the Caeciliens, stating that he was neither a full-practitioner nor antipode of Witt’s prescribed idiom for sacred music.

63 female singers and organ and submitted it to Musica Sacra for publication. Witt’s colleague

Franz Xaver Haberl noted in his acknowledgement of receipt that some liturgical text was omitted from the Credo section, and the Sanctus concluded with the text “Hosanna” instead of the mandated “in Excelsis,” but that should these small omissions be rectified he could publish

Rheinberger’s mass in the upcoming edition of Musica Sacra, as a sanctioned Caecilien work.

Rheinberger apparently acquiesced to these revisions, and Haberl sent him another letter of acknowledgement and thanks two months later.127

This is the only known interaction Rheinberger had with the Caecilien Movement.

Although this exchange took place twelve years after Rheinberger’s appointment to the

Hofkapelle, it by no means marks the first instance in which the wide-reaching influence of the

Caecilien Movement can be detected. When Rheinberger assumed his position in 1877, he was building on over a century of sacred music reforms at the Hofkapelle, which frequently overlapped with the musical aims of the Caeciliens. Instrumental music fell out of favor at the

Bavarian chapel centuries before Rheinberger’s appointment. In 1725, a regional council on sacred matters curtailed the use of instruments in church services; in 1749 Pope Benedict XIV’s

Annus Qui further cut back; and finally, the Caecilienbundniss set the new precedent for primarily using vocal music in the early nineteenth-century, long before Witt received his papal sanction.128

By the time Rheinberger assumed the position of Kapellemeister, sacred music at the

Bavarian court followed the example set by Caspar Ett, whose programming Rheinberger had

127 The exchange can be ascertained between two letters—both from Franz Xaver Haberl—included in the collection of Rheinberger’s letters and other related documents. See: “Franz Xaver Haberl to Josef Rheinberger,” Letter, 20 January 1889; and “Franz Xaver Haberl to Josef Rheinberger,” Letter, 26 March 1889. 128 Siegfried Gmeinwieser, “Josef Rheinberger und die kirchenmusikalischen Aktivitäten der Müncher Hofkapelle,” in Josef Rheinberger: Werk und Wirkung–Berich über das internationale Symposium anlässlich des 100. Todestages der Komponisten, ed. Stephan Hörner and Hartmut Schick (Tutzing, Germany: Hans Schneider, 2004), 243–60. For more information on the history of Witt’s movement, including his Papal sanction, see this thesis, chapter 3.

64 witnessed as a student, at Schafhäutl’s suggestion years before. The music salvaged by Aiblinger on behalf of King Maximilian II still featured prominently in chapel repertoire, and it was on this programming tradition that Rheinberger evidently built. Works by Gabrielli, Palestrina, and di

Lasso were regularly performed under his direction, in keeping with the sacred reforms prescribed by the Caeciliens, but so too were works by Jacob Handl, Heinrich Schütz, and Hans

Leo Hassler, more indicative of the national interests of the sacred music reformers in Munich earlier in the century.

So far, we have established the Rheinbergers’ personal politics surrounding Infallibility and unification, as well as Josef Rheinberger’s mild curiosity at the activities of the Caecilien movement. Chapter four gave us reason to suspect a strong overlap between Neuekatholiken musicians and Caecilienists, and Rheinberger’s letters and programming during his time at the

Hofkapelle would seem to support this supposition. The preceding chapters have also posited that a personal allegiance to Papal Catholicism and cultural German nationalism were incompatible. But it would be suspect to imagine that any such decision between two potentially strong and fundamental components of identity would ever be simple or discrete. Fundamental questions of identity, allegiance, and changes of lifelong worldviews often yield complex and messy answers. It was so in Germany after the unification, as Otto van Bismarck embarked on an unsuccessful Kulturkampf to diminish the influence of the Papacy in the newly-unified realm.

And if we determine that the Caecilien Movement and questions of Alt- and Neue- Catholicism were in fact related, then it is possible to determine that for Rheinberger, and perhaps many

South Germans, the transition was less than clear-cut, as well.

65 The second Stabat mater is an ideal platform on which to test this hypothesis. As Han

Theill has already noted, it is markedly more reserved and solemn in character than

Rheinberger’s first Stabat mater, composed 1864.129 Written in 1884 during Rheinberger’s tenure as Kapellemeister, it is valuable not only as musical artifact, but also as a composition from a time of renewed piety and faith in Rheinberger’s life. Much of Rheinberger’s Romantic neo-classicism is preserved through moments of lush chromaticism, expressive figurations, and expansive, sweeping melodic lines; but there are telling fingerprints of Caecilien influence throughout the work. Textual preeminence through homorhythmic setting and text painting, the use of modality, and a possible allusion to Gregorian chant suggest that Witt’s influence may have had a larger influence on Rheinberger than history has been willing to admit. In the remainder of this chapter I will argue that the Caecilien influence here is undeniable, and I suggest that it can be tied to Rheinberger’s reborn religiosity after recovering from a debilitating, extended illness.

In March 1871, Franziska wrote a letter to David Rheinberger, the composer’s brother, detailing the composer’s struggle with a new illness. A bulbous, painful inflammation had developed on Josef’s right hand, and the doctor could do little to improve it.130 By May, Fanny writes David again with the news that the doctor has declared the most painful phase of the ailment passed, but not the longest.131 A month later, Josef writes to David himself saying that his dexterity is weak, but returning.132 As the Rheinbergers would come to find out, however, the illness would afflict Josef for more than decade. Seemingly random bouts of inflammation caused the composer to bind his hand in bandages, and lose dexterity in his right, dominant hand.

129 Theill, “Op. 138 Forward.” 130 “Fanny Rheinberger to David Rheinberger,” Letter , 25 March 1870. 131 “Fanny Rheinberger to David Rheinberger” Letter, 17 May 1871. 132 “Josef Rheinberger to David Rheinberger,” Letter, 8 June 1871.

66 Rheinberger struggled with his illness in frustration, going through frequent periods when he was unable to write or compose. And so when he finally did heal, he resolved to compose a new work for the Church, a means of thanksgiving. He details his suffering in a poem transcribed at the beginning of the second Stabat mater op. 138 manuscript. He writes:

Was du gelitten, weißt nur du. What you suffered, only you know. Du klagtest nie! You never complained! Und zuckte nicht die Wimper schmerzlich, And did not bat your lashes in pain Läg nicht die liebe Hand in schwarzes Binde — Your dear hand could not rest in black bandages— Ich ahnte kaum die Qual, die dich bedrängt. I can hardly imagine the agony that plagued you Geschlossen feiert—seit wie langer Zeit Celebrate its end —after such a long time Dein schönes Instrument; nicht mehr Your sweet instrument; never more Zur Dämmerstunde streifen flücht’ge Sänger To brush the twilight hour, fugitive singer In raschem Lauf die Lasten über, The burden over in quick course. Dein traumerisches Lied entströmt dem Herzen. Your dreamlike song emanates from the heart. Du stehst am Fenster, blickest stumm hinunter You stand at the window, looking down silently Auf die geschäft’ge Welt, On the busy world, In dich verschließend deinen Schaffensdrang. Your creative energy trapped inside. Die arme Hand! The poor hand! Von Wunden überdeckt vermag sie nicht Bequeathed from covered wounds Die Feder mehr zu halten. Welch ein Jammer! No more to grip the quill What a pity! Die stolze Wissenschaft kann hier nicht heilen, Proud science cannot heal here Kein Kraütlein ward im Walde aufgefunden, No little herb was found in the forest (Ob es auch sicher wo verborgen blüht) (Or it surely blooms in hiding) Kein weiser Arzt sprach je das rechte Wort. No wise doctor ever spoke the right word Sie haben dir die Hand geätzt, gebunden— You have your hand corroded, bound— Doch ach! die bösen Wunden kranken fort. But ah! The evil wound ails on.

Und wieder lädt am Tag Mariae Schmerzen The day of Mary’s pain is summoned again Die Kirche alle Mitleids vollen ein The church, full of all sympathy Mit lautem Glockenruf. Es nahm die Blinden, With loud bell calls. It took the blind, Die Lahmen und Betäuben—und auch ich. The lame and afflicted—and also me. Das eigen Weh, es ranket sich empor That own sore, it is bound up Am Kreuzesstamm mit all dem Schmerz Maria’s. Originating in the cross with all the pain of Mary

67 O Mutter! fac me tecum plangere. O mother! “Fac me tecum plangere” [let me mourn]133

This inscription from the autograph manuscript is fascinating for several reasons. First, there is the initial ambiguity of subject. The Stabat mater poem is itself meant to depict the suffering of Mary at the Cross, and in that respect the first three lines of Rheinberger’s poem fit well. The depiction of dignified, profound suffering is in keeping with Catholic Marian imagery, and so forms a natural pairing with the Stabat mater text. The fourth line of “Lag nicht die liebe

Hand in schwarzes Binde,” however, marks a startling pivot away from this theme. Are these black bandages (which could alternatively translate as “binds”), a metaphor for this holy suffering? No, the ensuing text makes clear that this not a Marian poem, after all. This is a silenced musician, robbed of his ability to communicate with the world. It is a portrait of

Rheinberger’s hopelessness over the decade of his medical affliction with his hand. While

Rheinberger was able to dictate compositions to his students for transcription, the profoundly emotional memory conveyed in the poem illuminates Rheinberger’s true sense of entrapment, and frustrated despair at the inability of medical science to heal him.

The poem has themes of Marian adoration appropriate to the composer’s renewed sense of faith after the miraculous recovery of his hand. Perhaps the first three lines are not meant as self-praise for the composer, but rather to establish the model of Marian suffering that

Rheinberger sought to emulate in his own grief; certainly, the addressee of these three lines in isolation is ambiguous. And it is clear from the poem that Rheinberger credits his faith for his recovery, and his immense gratitude that the Church and the virgin mother would take him in with “the lame and afflicted.” His pain is wrapped in Mary’s pain, and by that he is saved. This

133 This poem is found in the front of the autograph manuscript, scanned and made available online through the Bayerische Stadtsbibliothek. I am grateful to Geoff Chew, Valerie Goertzen, and Rex Levang for their assistance in transcribing the poem from the original kurrentschrift.

68 poem sets up the Stabat mater as a devotional weighted with significance through Rheinberger’s newfound piety.134 The Stabat mater text that Rheinberger sets is also a model that the composer turned to in times of his own suffering.

There are several obvious distinctions between the second Stabat mater, op. 138, from the Stabat mater, op. 16, which Rheinberger had completed some two decades before. The first is a striking difference in context; while Op. 16 had been composed for the Oratorioverein, op.138 was composed explicitly for Ludwig II’s Kapelle. The Oratorioverein, simply by being an oratorio group, performed orchestrated repertoire scaled for a large vocal ensemble and, as noted in Chapter 3, Rheinberger was happy to conform to this expectation. Orchestrated choral music was the language of Haydn, of Mozart, and the rest of Rheinberger’s formative heroes. As discussed above, however, the Bavarian Kapelle was more responsible to the sacred trends and reforms coursing through South Germany in the nineteenth-century. While technically associated with neither Witt’s Caecilien movement nor the Neuekatholiken, the Kapelle had a history of incorporating other sacred music reforms and revived repertoire while never eschewing

Romantic influences completely. Significant too is the difference in performance intention: Op.

138 was intended as a liturgical work unlike Op. 16, which was intended for concert performance.

The Stabat mater poem set in Op. 138 differs slightly from that of Rheinberger’s Op. 16.

As introduced in chapter three, there are several extant versions of the poem, a probable result of inconsistent transmission in the five centuries between the poem’s genesis and Rheinberger’s compositions. In terms of Caecilienism this variance is profoundly significant; text was paramount in Caecilien composition and where texts existed in different variations, a standard version was mandated. This is the case in assessing the textual difference between Op. 16 and

134 Theill, “Op. 138 Forward.”

69 Op. 138; the former set a version of the Stabat mater found in the work of Orlando Di Lasso while Op. 138 utilizes the exact poem set by Palestrina centuries before which the Vatican would finally standardize throughout the Catholic Church in 1908.135 As the musical arm of the Vatican in South Germany, it is not unreasonable to conclude that the Caeciliens would have mandated the latter transcription even in advance of the Catholic Church doing so globally. Rheinberger’s shift in sources from Op. 16 to Op. 138 is therefore quite significant.

Op. 138 is scored for SATB choir, organ, and strings. While more sparsely orchestrated than Op. 16, the inclusion of these instruments marks an obvious departure from Caecilien principles. It is worth noting, as well, that the strings are largely dependent on either the SATB or organ scoring at any given moment and rarely feature independent material within the overall texture. As testament to this superfluity, the violins and viola are omitted from the original sketch and autograph manuscript altogether. As Theill has already determined, Rheinberger’s student added the violins and viola parts to the engraver’s copy, using the manuscript as a guide.136 Only the cello and bass parts are notated in the original manuscript, largely doubling the pedal of the organ as part as a quasi-continuo, a nod to an antique style, yes, but not a renaissance one. Sweeping melodies and lyrical phrasing dominate the overall texture, complete with melodic diminutions that would simply read as out-of-place in any renaissance work.

But Stabat mater op. 138 departs from Romantic aesthetic of Op. 16 in several strikingly

Caecilien-esque directions. For one, the work is remarkably simple. Rheinberger’s sketch of the work betrays this overall simplicity, which Hans Theill has noted is “marked by minimalism” and indicative of Rheinberger’s late sacred style. Despite the occasional chromaticism or brief modulations previously noted, Op. 138 is straightforward in composition. So much so, in fact,

135 Graduale: Sacrosanctae Romanae ecclesiae de tempore et de sanctis (Rome: Typis Vaticanis), 1908. 136 Theil, “Op. 138 Forward.”

70 that it is evident from the sketch that Rheinberger was able to compose linearly through the chronological unfolding of the work, with only the rare error. Only two passages in the work seem to have presented any challenge, as Rheinberger scratched possible routes the desired destination on the opposing page. In other words, there are no elaborate “working-outs” of technical finesse in this work.

Though rare, the deviations from doubling in the strings are significant, as they frequently add elements of Romantic sentimentality—so anathema to Witt’s aesthetics—to the music. Yet the reading of these flourishes as evidence of Rheinberger’s rejection of Caecilienism is complicated by the facts of the compositional process. Some of the string figurations added in the engraver’s copy—scales, arpeggios, and suspensions—are drawn directly from

Rheinberger’s organ part. There are also instances in which the viola and violin parts simply continue a pattern begun by the cello and bass in Rheinberger’s sketch. Still, there are several instances of gratuitous Romantic sentiment that cannot be directly traced to Rheinberger at all because they only appear in the engraver’s copy as prepared by his student (fig. 5a and b) Take, for instance, the sweeping scalar glissando to the explosive G5 (fig. 5b). This moment in the second movement is perhaps the most dramatic of the entire work. There is musical justification for this decision—perhaps Rheinberger’s student was simply capitalizing on the momentum of the chromatic, rising sequence just before in the passage. The G5 and underlying c minor chord certainly mark this apex. Still, it is difficult to attribute moments like this to Rheinberger directly, or make a convincing argument that including such dramatic string flourishes was his initial intent in composition.

71

Fig. 5a: Mvmt 2, mm. 20-23 (Autograph)

72

Fig. 5b: Mvmt 2, mm. 20-23 (Engraver’s Copy)

The text is set homophonically, directly following Witt’s Caecilien prescriptions. The homorhythmic texture that opens the second movement dominates much of the work, and deviations from this precedent are, for the most part, brief, and hardly sacrifice textual clarity.

Movement three, for instance, opens with a duet between the soprano and alto voices, still moving together in parallel thirds. The “O qualm tristis” setting in the first movement is another duet, this time between the tenor and bass, and soprano and alto voices in an imitative pairing.

Imitation was, itself, a texture preferred by the Caeciliens, although its execution in Op. 138—

73 descending lines in parallel thirds—was not, as thirds post-dated the modal renaissance material

Caeciliens were most intent to imitate. The parallel thirds descend to a V chord, raising the leading tone for a return to I at the end of the fragment, a commitment to tonic-dominant polarity that was ostensibly outside the Caecilien preferences although, in reality, a strong presence in

Caecilien compositions (fig. 6).137

Fig. 6: Mvmt 1, mm. 26-34 (Choir)

The only texture that completely falls out-of-step with Caecilien norms is the concluding choral fugue. The declamatory theme against florid counterpoint easily betrays Rheinberger’s neo-classical impulse and is immediately reminiscent of the use of choral fugue to end several movements in Brahms’s Requiem, an allusion that establishes Rheinberger’s position in the

Bach-Brahms compositional lineage. The main theme makes use of the dotted rhythms found throughout the work, but also aligns neatly with the syllabic stress of the Latin, a principle priority in Caecilien composition (fig. 7). Rheinberger was, of course, intensely devoted to the music of both, and as a master pedagogue in counterpoint, his inclusion of a concluding choral fugue is not surprising. In this final statement in the “learned style,” Rheinberger is thus able to pay tribute to two of his German musical heroes.

137 Liebergen, 13-16.

74

Fig. 7: Mvmt. 4, mm. 180-186 (Fugue theme, Bass)

The fugue decidedly concludes in a strong perfect authentic cadence in G major. The major tonality comes from the Picardy third in tenor voice, perhaps a stylistic transition into the renaissance-esque codetta that follows. This repetition of the text “paradisi in gloria” is in a completely different style, marking a rather jarring, unprepared shift to a clear effervescent texture after the obfuscated—though technically proficient—fugue. Starting in the soprano, the voices descend in imitation, an effect that could have been lifted from any number of

Renaissance ecclesiastical compositions. The final cadence is a plagal move from iv to I, with a

Picardy third again defining the major tonality. By common practice harmonics, this would be a weaker cadence than the perfect authentic cadence that concludes the preceding fugue, but if the moment is meant to be an allusion to the renaissance feel of Caecilienism, both the plagal cadence and reliance on the concluding Picardy third are abundantly appropriate (fig. 8).

75

Fig. 8: Mvmt. 4, mm. 224-230 (Full Score).

76 In Op. 138, Rheinberger makes liberal use of opportunities for text painting. While this common technique is of ambiguous derivation, it is well within the realm of Caecilien possibility, given the notoriety of text painting present in Palestrina’s Missa Papae Marcelli. The setting of the text “moriendo, desolatum” (“dying, alone”) in the second movement, for instance, sees the instruments drop out for a moment of a cappella texture under the chorus, with the soprano voice entering alone in anticipation of the next word on both “mo–“ of “moriendo” and

“de–“ of “desolatum” (fig. 9). The first two stanzas of the third movement invite the use of a more maternal sweetness:

Eja mater fons amoris Oh mother, font of love Me sentire vim doloris fac, Make me feel the power of sorrow Ut tecum lugeam That I may grieve with you

The lilting, long-short pattern of parallel thirds in the women’s voices is evocative of a gentle lullaby (fig. 10).

77

Fig. 9: Mvmt. 2, mm.62-71 (Full Score).

78

Fig. 10: Mvmt. 3, mm. 87-90 (Full Score).

79 The martial dotted-eighth, sixteenth pattern of the fourth movement opening is sung at forte in unison. At first, the textual impulse for this may seem unsure, but in continuing this martial motif through the fifth stanza of the movement, Rheinberger musically binds the opening three stanzas of text to the fourth’s theme of the Judgment day (fig. 11a, b.).

Stanza 1-3: Virgo virginum praeclara Chosen Virgin of virgins Mihi jam non sis amara Be not bitter with me Fac me tecum plangere Let me weep with you

Fac ut portem Christi mortem Grant that I may bear the death of Christ Passionis fac consortem Share his Passion Et plagas recolerere And commemorate his wounds

Fac me plagis vulnerari Let me be wounded with His wounds Fac me cruce inebriari Let me be inebriated by the Cross Et cruore Fillii And by the blood of your Son

Stanza 4: Inflammatus et accensus Inflame and set afire Per te, Virgo, sim defensus By you, O Virgin, may I be defended In die judicii On Judgment day

In musically binding the four stanzas, Rheinberger makes musically explicit the theological idea that sharing in the death of Christ—and especially in the grief of the Mother—is what will protect good Christians on the judgment day. Further, this is a musical testament to

Rheinberger’s own religion, as the borrowed line “Fac me tecum plangere” from his inscribed poem in the manuscript is no longer offered solely in gratitude but, through this musical connection, as a bargaining chip—a sacrificial act that might save good Catholics, presumably

Rheinberger, from Judgment.

80

Fig. 11a: Mvmt. 4, mm. 135-139 (Choir only)

Fig. 11b: Mvmt. 4, mm. 148-155 (Choir only)

Another possible incident of text-painting appears in the introductions to the first and third movement (Stabat mater, dolorosa and Eja mater, fons amoris, respectively). Textually, these are both moments depicting the desolation and solitude of Mary at the cross, as both movements begin with a repeated four-note descent on the natural minor scale, from the first to

81 fifth scale degree, in the tenor and bass voices. This mournful line, doubled by the low strings, precedes the first movement, opening the entire work and the first movement’s g minor tonality.

The male voices sing the first line of text, Stabat mater/Dolorosa, which is then taken up by the homophonic chorus (fig. 12a). The same figure occurs at the start of the third movement, again in g minor, which is now the parallel minor to the movement’s overall g major tonality. And, again, the male voices introduce the first line of text, her: Eja mater/fons amoris (fig. 12b). There is certainly a compelling argument to be made that this unison minor scale signifies loneliness or desolation, but the deliberate manner in which it was composed suggests a specific, stylistic impulse.

Fig. 12a: Mvmt. 1, mm. 1-7 (Choir only)

Fig. 12b: Mvmt. 3, mm. 81-85 (Choir only)

The use of unison male voices and the minor modality of these introductions can be read as an allusion to Gregorian chant, a supposition further supported by the placement of these

“chants” at the beginning of the respective movements, reminiscent of a cantor’s solo

82 intonation138 What is most interesting about these “intonations,” however, is that they were not included in Rheinberger’s original conception of the piece, but rather added—as if by impulse— after the composer had begun work on the autograph manuscript. These introductions, then, were not an organic part of the original composition, as they are absent from the sketch and the manuscript of the first movement at the beginning of the notebook. Rheinberger initially began the first movement with a slowly-rolled tonic triad supply the pitches for the homophonic choral entrance in measure 3 (fig. 13a). In fact, Rheinberger gets through composing the first movement and part of the second before he had the idea to include these mini-allusions to the chant style. In the manuscript, the second movement is interrupted by a return to the opening of the first— inserted on the opposing blank page. It includes only the male-voice introduction with doubling, a chromatic working back to the tonic chord, and the choral entrance, presumably for reference.

Rheinberger makes use of the the entire page, expanding the staff to show all intended instruments—including the resting upper strings—to demonstrate the isolation of the unison,

Aeolian introduction (fig. 13b).

138 A similar reading of such elements as Caecilien evocation of Gregorian chant can be seen in analyses of works by Bruckner and Liszt in Liebergen, 13-16.

83

Fig. 13a: Mvmt. 1, mm. 1-7, Original Manuscript Conception

Fig. 13b, Mvmt 2 (L) opposite Mvmt 1 insert (R) (Manuscript)

84

Rheinberger leaves the next three pages of the manuscript blank, perhaps to save room for any last-minute additions, before continuing the manuscript of the second movement. The recurrence of this opening figure in the third movement helps to bind the overall work together and also shares a textual theme with the first; namely, the image of the devastated Mary at the Cross. But in its deliberate inclusion from a stroke of inspiration mid-composition, it is also a probable allusion to the traits of Caecilien composition, and demonstrative of the movement’s reach and effect.139

139 Movement 1 begins: Stabat mater/ dolorosa; Movement 2: Eja mater, fons amoris. (See Appendix: Text and Translation).

85 Conclusion

Taken individually, each characteristic of Caecilienism described does little to prove that

Rheinberger was consciously emulating the movement at the time of the 1884 Stabat mater composition. But taken together, the shadow of influence begins to emerge in the work. This is especially true in comparison to Rheinberger’s first setting of the poem in 1864. At two moments in Rheinberger’s life, the same poem inspired two very different interpretations and reveals a composer shaped not only by his own experiences but also the world around him. In 1864,

Rheinberger was just embarking on his career. He was living in a world where a pan-Germanic cultural identity was strong, and a German political identity rapidly taking shape. His musical idols all seemed to come from the same storied, Germanic, tradition; a tradition in which

Rheinberger was proud to assert his own position as composer and pedagogue. The first Stabat mater, Op. 16, is a true work of Kunstreligion modeled on the religious works of Bach and

Mozart that were being performed in Munich in thoroughly secular contexts.

But the political upheaval and personal tribulation of the next two decades seems to have deeply affected Rheinberger spiritually in ways that are evident in his return to the Stabat mater in 1884. In 1870, Rheinberger greeted the dawn of the Franco-Prussian war joyfully, confident it would bring about the long-awaited unification of Germany. But he quickly grew weary, still confident in the impending political unification, but no longer pleased with the cost of war. And even as 1871 came and went, the Rheinbergers were torn by their faith and the faith of those around them, privately aligning with the Neuekatholiken even as their friends rejected the decree of papal infallibility. Add to that Rheinberger’s personal crisis of losing his dexterity to a mysterious illness, and the 1870s naturally represented a turbulent period in the composer’s life.

In 1877, Rheinberger took a new position as Kapellmeister to King Ludwig II who, like

86 Rheinberger, was publically ambivalent on the question of papal infallibility. And even though

Rheinberger’s new position was more closely aligned to the revival of renaissance sacred music, it did not seem to have much influence on the composer’s early years there. But in the early

1880s, when his illness subsided for the last time, Rheinberger seems to have had a spiritual awakening, crediting the Church for taking in “the wounded, the afflicted—and also [him],” and miraculously bringing his decrepit hand back to life. In this poem that introduces the Stabat mater manuscript, it is clear that in composing the Stabat mater, Op. 138, Rheinberger was also committing himself to an austere Catholicism of suffering and weeping with the Virgin Mary, in gratitude for the grace of God. It is possible to propose that, through the reserved, clear style, and many Caecilien allusions, Rheinberger found theological legitimacy in at least the musical aesthetics of the Allgemeine Caecilienverein, even if he found their dogmatism constraining and misplaced. He never fully abandons his musical romanticism or, for that matter, his German identity, but neither does he turn away from the Allgemeine Caecilienverein or the Holy See, even as sacred composers and citizens surrounding him in Munich abandoned both.

It is impossible to declare a definitive connection between the ACV and

Neuekatholizismus, and the connection between German identity in life and in music is notoriously difficult to isolate. But in the case of Josef Rheinberger’s two Stabat maters the influence of each is evident. Further, it is apparently that in musical life, as in the political sphere, the pull between religious and national cultural identities could be fraught as each tugged musical style in different directions. In many ways, the decree of infallibility of 1869 and the

German unification of 1871 had each been nearly a century in the making, but the finality of each drew a line in the sand that culturally—and, it would seem, musically—proved difficult to navigate. Josef Gabriel Rheinberger composed as he lived: at the crossroads of a cultural

87 conflict, the product of a rapidly changing world in which every answer led to new questions, and music was more than a passive pleasure, but a way of establishing and understanding identity and faith.

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