This chapter, which pairs with Chapter 7, examines the nature, spread, and function of small-scale recreational string playing in private spaces, the values that people attributed to it, and the meanings it held in individuals’ lives. Emphasis is on instrumental chamber music in the conventional sense of the term, which locates much of the discussion in middle- and upper-class homes, but the chapter also addresses other types of small-ensemble music-making, including activities in working-class culture. The chapter foregrounds the challenges of writing about a private-sphere activity that at first blush seems largely invisible in the historical record, while presenting evidence and arguments for a rich subculture of recreational string playing that contributed to and perpetuated violin culture’s vitality. The ensuing discussion establishes, among other things, that while domestic string playing was valued as a mechanism for reinforcing family ties, it helped many people strengthen relationships with friends and develop networks of personal and professional acquaintances. The chapter also finds beneficial interconnections between public concert life and recreational chamber music.

This chapter complements Chapter 6’s investigation into recreational music-making, with an examination of amateur symphony orchestras – a significant nationwide phenomenon from the 1890s – which were predicated on having adequate numbers of string players. It begins by surveying organizational structures, showing that while orchestras initially operated as subscription clubs for men, they soon admitted women string players, some of whom were highly accomplished. Women’s presence often transformed standards, particularly where a conductor had experience of training strings. The chapter also examines one woman’s contributions to a regional amateur-orchestra circuit, as well as the popularity of all-women string orchestras. It then engages concepts of musical community, asking what amateur string players valued about their orchestral activities and highlighting the social cohesion and team spirit forged by playing alongside others with shared musical interests to prepare works for performances. It also argues that amateur orchestras produced thousands of string players whose knowledge of symphonic music led them to support orchestral concerts throughout their lives. (161)

Chapter 4 considers routes that advanced string players took to prepare for entering the workplace, and the changing socioeconomic and gender constraints that shaped their options. It begins by unearthing informal modes of training and “ways in,” including private or family instruction and unpaid work experience in theater orchestras, and it ends with an examination of what British conservatoire education could offer those who could afford to attend such institutions. Both sections draw on testimonies of individuals. A middle section provides a close examination of diplomas that engages scholarly conversations about musicians’ quest for professionalization and the credibility of qualifications. College of Violinists’ diplomas emerge as reputable qualifications and the exams of choice for less affluent players who wanted to teach. The chapter argues that by increasing the supply of certified teachers and competent performers for both the professional and amateur scenes, conservatoire instruction and reputable diploma certification ensured the robust continuation of violin culture in Britain beyond 1930.

Commercially run grade examinations and competitive music festivals, which tested learners’ attainment, were central to the consolidation of violin culture across Britain. Chapter 3 analyzes the string exams operated by three institutions, each of which targeted different socioeconomic groups. Bringing the College of Violinists – the first exam board to offer elementary string exams and the only one to guarantee string players would be assessed by specialists– into dialog with the more often discussed ABRSM and Society of Arts, the discussion evaluates exam requirements, candidate numbers, and success rates. At root, exams were tools for motivating students and supporting and shaping learning. Regional competition festivals offered additional opportunities for more advanced pupils’ performance to be assessed (in a public hall, as opposed to a private exam room) and, along with the exam boards, they contributed to the informal standardization of core repertoire. The chapter also surveys instructional materials, some of which were responses to the exam culture, and weighs students’ experiences of learning.

O’Casey is both the Abbey’s most-produced playwright and also an Abbey writer who in a period of a decade or so submitted eleven plays, more than half of which were initially rejected. In O’Casey’s own often tetchy account of this relationship, the rejections are deplorable failures to recognise his genius, and some version of that view has been adopted by much O’Casey scholarship over the years. However, this chapter acknowledges the other side of this story, looking at the extent to which the Abbey in the 1920s functioned as a repertory theatre, part of whose institutional mission involved the mentoring and development of emerging writers.

The history of the relationship between Sean O’Casey and the French stage is closely linked to the history of décentralisation, the state-implemented policy of creating a network of subsidised theatres outside Paris initiated after World War II during the Fourth Republic. His plays were staged regularly in French public theatres until the early 1980s, when the generation of theatre practitioners who had implemented décentralisation began to retire. This chapter starts by giving some contextual elements about décentralisation; it then moves on to give a brief account of some particularly significant O’Casey productions, in chronological order.

Chapter 3 examines the emergence and evolution of a new cycle of contention during the mid 2000s. We highlight how the deepening threat perceptions resulting from the regime’s state-building advances spurred mass mobilizations. Meanwhile, we underscore how the creation of new civil society groups and the normalization of new repertoires of contention contributed to changes in the mode of protest mobilization.

Bernstein was a prolific recording artist, and this chapter considers his vast recorded legacy, from his earliest recordings made in the 1940s to later ventures, including several important opera sets as well as a large swathe of orchestral repertoire, with the symphonies of some composers (notably Beethoven, Schumann, and Mahler) recorded more than once. As well as mainstream European repertoire, Bernstein never lost his enthusiasm for recording music by American composers, including outstanding discs of Copland, Foss, Harris and Ives. While Bernstein was usually pleased with the results of his sessions – whether in the studio or recorded live in concert – he also felt the need at times to return to composing. These creative phases were intermittent (Bernstein was usually at his happiest when working with other musicians), but the consequence was a healthy output of new work, most of which Bernstein himself subsequently recorded, including two cycles of his symphonies and recordings of his major stage works.

This chapter considers Puccini complicated relationship with the musical canon, or rather with two canons. The author argues that while Puccini’s works stand at the apex of the performing canon, they have been denied entry to the scholarly canon, a body of works deemed historically significant and of high artistic worth. The chapter traces how Puccini’s operas established their place in the international operatic repertory (observing different regional patterns), via stage performances, publisher promotion, and recordings, to the point where they became pre-eminent. The author then turns to examining Puccini’s critical fortunes and evolving reputation among music historians across the course of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first. She explains how Puccini has been castigated as a derivative, overly sentimental composer who appealed to ‘the wrong people’ and did not deserve a place in the history books, though his reputation was to some extent rehabilitated by the end of the twentieth century, finally regarded as worthy of serious scholarly analysis. In recent years, however, Puccini has become the target of calls to dismantle the canon and his works have been criticised for their treatment of gender, sexual violence, race, and class.

This chapter examines the fate of Molière’s plays in the years immediately following the author’s death as first the Hôtel Guénégaud company (1673–80) and then the Comédie-Française (from 1680) battled to capitalise on their Molière inheritance and make the most of plays with which the public was becoming increasingly tired. Strategies employed included ‘resting’ plays and then reviving them, digging deep into the Molière stockpile to produce plays that had not been seen for some time, and increasing the number of double bills given so as to enhance the diversity of their programmes. By these and other means, the Guénégaud company and the Comédie-Française actually succeeded in growing the number of Molière plays in the repertoire and in so doing began the process of turning Molière into the cornerstone of the French national canon. An analysis of statistical information from the company account books enables us to see how successful these strategies were at the box office, at the same time as revealing which of Molière’s plays were most popular in this period.

Chapter 4 explores the travelling form of Cantonese opera in the Guangdong region of south China in the nineteenth century. We address the genre’s wide geopolitical context by combining it with the popular form as toured on the Australian goldfields in Victoria in circus-style tents in the 1850s to 1870s to entertain miners who hoped to make a fortune and return to China. The virtual reconstruction of a tent theatre set up for the opening of a joss house (or temple) in Victoria suggests a consistency from the Pearl River Delta to the goldfields. We examine the sophisticated techniques used by this sojourner company to minimise the disruptions that a touring schedule with multiple and dissimilar sites of performance creates. Carrying a portable stage/backstage platform, and orientating the audience–performer relationship, the company created a spatial layering of two geographies to support its sacred and secular repertoire.

Based on a distant reading of key periodicals, this chapter investigates the music and musicians that received the most contemporary attention – and how recognition developed – throughout the era. It demonstrates in the first instance that the Reich had its own practical repertoire that transcended any one area, national tradition, or group of composers. Contemporaries often referenced musical titles without identifying a composer despite the fact that works could circulate in multiple versions by a single musician, in various settings by different composers, and as adapted texts by dramatists and musicians. But evidence suggests that the years around 1785 marked a moment of increasing normalization during which topics already set to music would be generally avoided and pieces circulating in multiple settings were increasingly linked to the work of just one composer. Establishing which music and musicians received the most attention, their relative importance to one another, and how associations between them altered in time, this chapter demonstrates that the Reich cultivated a shared repertoire that was formed and informed by networks of information and communication.

This epilogue considers the afterlife of music theatre and the Holy Roman Empire as well as its relevance today.

This central chapter turns to written communication to explore its part in regulating and networking theatres and repertoire. It begins with an exploration of the types of information shared between troupes and how discursive networks supported their performances. Although theatres are commonly portrayed as having to compete to survive, this chapter reveals that they also regularly cooperated. By illustrating the equal importance of discursive networks and material exchange among the Großmann (touring), Mainz (ecclesiastical court-affiliated), and Schwerin theatres (secular court-affiliated), it reveals that theatre companies were designed with both court and public audiences in mind, and in practice cultivated a shared repertoire. Programming choices were made to some degree based on location, the status of audiences, tastes of patrons, and access to performance materials. But this chapter argues that such decisions were usually owing to the intense communication of theatrical information and recommendations between theatre directors and enthusiasts – and, ultimately, on the expectations to which a collective imperial culture gave rise.

The chapter re-positions the study of contact-induced language change in the context of the individual user’s management of a complex repertoire of linguistic structures. Taking as a point of departure the assumption that for multilinguals, boundaries among “languages” are permeable and subject to users’ creativity, I draw links between structural outcomes of contact and the inherent functions that structural categories have in information processing in communication. Topics covered include code-switching, lexical borrowing, functional and grammatical borrowing, and convergence and contact-induced grammaticalization. I examine proposed hierarchies of borrowability in lexicon and grammar, and revisit the notion of “constraints” on borrowing. I argue in favour of an epistemology that identifies trends as worthy of attention even if isolated exceptions exist; and which seeks to derive explanatory models from such cross-linguistic trends. I conclude that the study of structural outcomes of language contact can contribute to a better understanding of the language faculty itself, and possibly even of key aspects of the evolution of human language.

This chapter explores how Diana Taylor’s definition of “archive” (e.g., historical artifacts and written records) and “repertoire” (performance practices) as distinct but related forms of cultural memory illuminates the representation of mythic performance in Plutarch’s Lives. More than simply applying modern performance theory to ancient texts, my analysis brings Plutarch into dialogue with Taylor, showing that he reflects upon similar theoretical problems in a distinctive way. In recounting Theseus’ visit to Delos, Plutarch describes how the hero’s defeat of theMinotaur is commemorated by object dedication and choral dance. These two acts of memory are closely intertwined, as both ritual object and mimetic dance function as vehicles to transmit specific elements of the myth. Yet Plutarch also questions the efficacy of dedications and performance practices as such vehicles, calling attention to the limits of both object endurance and mimetic song-dance. By positioning his own writing as a form capable of encompassing and surpassing both the archive and the repertoire, he ultimately reveals how the literary text itself both instantiates and complicates those very distinctions.

The editors’ Introduction provides an overview of and rationale for the volume as a whole. It highlights the book’s key contributions and conceptual frameworks, in part by offering two brief case studies – or “snapshots” – of the dynamic interplay of music and memory in different times, places, and media: Etruscan tomb painting and Athenian comedy.