Our knowledge and understanding of Western classical music – its history, culture, criticism, and analysis, and our encounters with music directly as performers and listeners – rest on a number of fundamental resources: dictionaries and encyclopaedias, histories of music, analytical and critical studies, and repertoire in editions as well as cultivated in performance, whether live or recorded. This rich, interlocking array of resources has traditionally and systematically either sidelined or ignored totally the contribution of women as composers to the musical culture it represents. This volume builds on the remarkable transformation in musical scholarship since the 1970s that has, on the one hand, sought to create for women the kinds of resources formerly assembled exclusively for male composers, and, on the other hand, applied feminist thinking to the institutions, discourses, values, and silences that have characterized music history itself.

In her lecture ‘The public voice of women’, Mary Beard begins with Homer’s Odyssey and the ‘first recorded example of a man telling a woman to “shut up”’. Penelope, patient wife of adventuring Odysseus, requests that a bard sing happier tunes; her son, Telemachus, is not impressed. ‘“Mother”, he says, “go back up into your quarters, and take up your own work, the loom and the distaff … speech will be the business of men, all men, and of me most of all; for mine is the power in this household”’.1 With this moment, Beard highlights continuity between antiquity and the present, revealing the importance of female silencing to male identity. Telemachus, she observes, becomes a man by confining Penelope, setting her out of sight and hearing. Her silence amplifies his voice.

The extraordinary growth of scholarship on women composers in recent decades inspires not only female inclusion in traditionally all-male historical narratives but also reappraisal of the period styles that structure those narratives. Does the music of women composers follow patterns of change enshrined in such heirloom categories of music history as Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, and Romantic? What is the critical potential of women’s work as composers for rewriting music-historical surveys? With the music of around 400 female composers of the eighteenth century now known to survive, the field is established for the appraisal of women composers’ relationship to the Classical period, and the ‘Viennese Classical Style’ associated with it.1

The formerly dependable terms invoked thus far – period, Classical, Viennese, and style – deserve rethinking.

The bafflingly eclectic exoticisms of The Magic Flute arise from at least three literary traditions at work in the libretto: seraglio or abduction opera (Tamino sets out heroically to rescue Pamina); The Arabian Nights (Papageno’s comic journey turns on wishes and their magical fulfilment), and a didactic, princely encounter with (some notion of) Egyptian antiquity (Act 2). A labile discourse of nature adds further complexity, encompassing the regulative and the remote, civilization and savagery. This chapter, treating exoticism not as a theme within the opera, but as what the opera is about, posits an over-arching notion of “Enlightened orientalism” (Srinivas Aravamudan). The opera offers both its fictional characters, and the audience, a series of potentially transformative encounters with (what is posited as) the ancient and original sources of culture. These encounters cut across, and sometimes problematize, distinctions of self and Other.

John Dennis, a founding father of the Longinian sublime in English literary culture around 1700, also wrote against male-male sodomy, then subject to moral panic, prosecution and hangings in London. This was more than coincidence: Dennis imagined the effects of the sublime on a (normatively) male reader in terms of sexual violence, ravishment and penetration. This chapter suggests a dialectical relationship between sodomy and the sublime. Rooting its argument in the critic’s homosocial literary context, classical pedigree, defence of the morality of the stage, and highly sensual theories of literary creation and reception, it unsettles the place of the sublime on the continuum of virtue and vice. Similarly, Dennis’s ambivalence towards music is explored in terms of sexual politics. A disunified and queer term in his writing, music lent penetrative force when in service to sublime literature (helping to ensure patrilinear continuity) but threatened to undo the male subject when taking the lead in Italian opera (through the performances of women and castrati). Such entertainments, Dennis warned, would lead to male-male marriages should their popularity continue. The prospects for a musical sublime in England in the lead-up to Handel’s arrival were mixed.