standard. For music is not to be summed up in terms of national language
or personal idiosyncrasy; these are but the necessary conditions
through which is embodied the abstract universal of form. Thus, although
a man can only take rank as an artist if he express his own character
and that of his people, he is only a great artist in so far as he
expresses them in the best possible way. The first spontaneous
conception of melody springs from the emotional temperament of the
composer, and so marks him at once as a member of his particular nation,
its treatment is derived from the intellectual laws of proportion and
balance, and so belongs to the general evolution of the art. This
distinction appears very clearly in Dvořák's work. His melody, taken
by itself, is often as simple and ingenuous as a folk-song, but in
polyphony, in thematic development, in all details of contrast and
elaboration, his ideal is to organise the rudimentary life, and to
advance it into a fuller and more adult maturity. Of course, it cannot
be said that he is uniformly successful. He has little sense of economy,
little of that fine reticence and control which underlies the most
lavish moments of Brahms or Beethoven; his use of wealth is so prodigal
that his generosity is sometimes left with inadequate resources. The
stream is so rapid that it has not always time for depth, the eloquence
so prompt and unfailing that it does not always stop to select the best
word. But, for all this, he is a great genius, true in thought, fertile
in imagination, warm and sympathetic in temper of mind. He has borne his
part in a national cause, and has thereby won for himself a triumph that
will endure. He has enriched his people, and, in so doing, has augmented
the treasury of the whole world.
JOHANNES BRAHMS.
The greatest genius is the most indebted man. A poet is no
rattlebrain, saying what comes uppermost, and, because he says
everything, saying at last something good; but a heart in unison
with his time and country. There is nothing whimsical and fantastic
in his production, but sweet and sad earnest, freighted with the
weightiest convictions, and pointed with the most determined aim
which any man or class knows of in his time.--EMERSON.
I
GROWTH
Among the many types of character which are developed by the pursuit of
an artistic profession, two stand out salient and extreme:--the artist
militant and the artist contemplative. The former looks upon life as a
crusade; he proclaims his doctrines to the sound of the trumpet and
proves them at the point of the sword: he treats every critic as a
traitor, and every adversary as a Paynim and a miscreant: he invades all
lands, he challenges all strongholds: he shakes the round earth with the
noise of conflict and the shock of contending creeds. The latter is of a
far different temper. To him the service of his cause is occupation
enough: he is content to produce the best that he knows, and cares
little or nothing that others should accept his standpoint: if the work
be good he will let it take its chance of appreciation; if men choose to
fight about its merits, he will watch the struggle from his study
window as a matter in which he has no personal concern. Nothing is
farther from his thought than the establishment of a school or the
leadership of a party: like Plato's philosopher, he finds his reward in
the pleasures of wisdom, and can leave the pleasures of victory to his
self-constituted followers.
Yet the second is not less sure of immortality than the first. For a
time, no doubt, the din of battle may drown the quieter accents of the
recluse, and the pageantry of war distract attention from the shady
groves and alleys of Academe. The world attaches itself more readily to
persons than to ideas, and rather resents the imputation that it knows
nothing of its greatest men. But there is an inherent vitality in the
best work which can no more be starved by neglect than it can be crushed
by antagonism. Sooner or later the campaign is brought to a successful
issue, and the general returns in triumph through the city gates. Sooner
or later the silent truths find voice and audience, and disciples come
flocking to the feet of the secluded teacher. Wagner, in a word, has cut
his way to fame; Brahms has waited until it set out to seek him.
A life so placid and equable affords of necessity but little material to
the biographer. True, there is some record of the early years, some
reminiscence of studentship or of the first attempts to formulate and
deliver an artistic message, but, the power of utterance once admitted,
there is little further to narrate beyond the successive occasions of
its exercise. Here, then, is a case in which criticism may concentrate
itself from the outset upon the direct development of the artistic gift.
The career of a great man is only interesting in so far as it gives
fresh insight into his power, or throws fresh light on the influences
that have moulded his character: it is with his work that we are
primarily concerned, and, except in relation to this, all details of
personal joy and sorrow may be dismissed as irrelevant. Incidents of
struggle and mastery, alternations of success and defeat, are worth
noting when they occur, since they leave their mark for good or ill on
the environment, through which the art itself is affected. But where
they are absent we stand face to face with the object of our search, and
may contemplate it, not as embodied in circumstance, but as manifested
in its own pure nature. And further, the unbroken quietude in which
Brahms spent his last thirty-five years may itself suggest a standpoint
from which his work can be estimated. He was the deepest thinker in the
musical history of our generation, and he had no time to bestow on
questions of recognition or reward.
Like his two great forerunners, he was the son of a musician, and was
brought up from earliest years to the practice of his art. His father,
Johann Jacob Brahms, was a contrabassist in the Hamburg Theatre, who,
after having fulfilled the office of Meister der Stadtmusik in his
native town of Heide, had come to try his fortunes in the orchestra
where Handel had once played second violin. Of his mother nothing is
recorded, except that she was a native of Hamburg, and that her maiden
name was Johanna Nissen. Shortly after his marriage, Johann Brahms
settled down in the Anselar Platz, and there, on May 7th 1833, Johannes
was born.
It soon appeared that the boy was possessed of unusual capacity. He
learned everything that his father could teach him, he read everything
that he could lay his hands on; he practiced with an undeviating
enthusiasm, he covered reams of paper with counterpoint exercises and
variations. At an early age he was sent for further instruction to a
worthy kapellmeister named Kossel, and in 1845, having left his master
behind him, he was transferred to Eduard Marxsen of Altona, a composer
of considerable merit, whose name has been handed down to us by
Schumann's articles in the _Neue Zeitschrift_. There can be no doubt
that this was a well-directed choice. In addition to the thorough
knowledge of Bach, which had by this time become a staple of musical
education in Germany, Marxsen impressed on his pupil the paramount
importance of a critical study of Beethoven, and thus laid the
foundation of a broader eclecticism than had been attainable by the
composers of any previous age. And, as every artist is in some degree
influenced by the masterpieces from which he takes his point of
departure, it is obvious that the more comprehensive a system of
training, the more perfect will be the balance and unity of the ensuing
work. Something, of course, must be allowed for temperament and
predilection; no course of academic rule would have taught Chopin to
write a symphony or make a contrapuntist of Berlioz; but given a mind
that is wide enough to be in sympathy with divers methods, we can hardly
over-estimate the value of a wise and many-sided _régime_. It is, then,
a matter of no small moment that Brahms in his early studies should have
followed the historical development of the art: first, the volkslieder
and dances which represent its simplest and most unsophisticated
utterance; then the choral writing, in which polyphony is brought to its
highest perfection; lastly, the culminating majesty of structure which
Beethoven has raised as an imperishable monument. To us at the present
day it may seem the most trivial of commonplaces, that a student in
music should pay equal attention to all the supreme types of his art; it
was not a commonplace half a century ago. And the proof, if proof were
needed, is that all the composers of the Romantic period exhibit some
imperfection of method: all, no doubt, playing a definite and valuable
part in the advancement of their cause, but all leaving untouched some
one point of vital importance in the heritage of previous achievement.
In saying this, it is not, of course, necessary to set the genius of
Brahms in the balance against that of Schumann or Chopin. 'Non
facultatum inducitur comparatio sed viæ.' But the fact remains, that
there are in the earlier Masters certain traces of weakness from which
the later is wholly free; and of this fact one reason may be found in a
contrast between the system of Marxsen and the system of Kuntzsch and
Elsner.
It was in 1847 that Brahms, at the age of fourteen, made his début
before a Hamburg audience. His performance, which included a set of
original variations on a Volkslied, was received with a good deal of
applause, but Marxsen, who had no intention of spoiling a career by
premature publicity, withdrew his pupil after a second trial flight, and
sent him back to a course of training from which he did not emerge for
another five years. This last period of studentship was mainly devoted
to composition, and produced among other works the three Pianoforte
Sonatas, the Scherzo in E flat minor, and several songs, one of which
was the famous 'Liebestreu.' They may be said to stand to Brahms later
writings as 'Pauline' stands to 'Cleon' or 'Andrea del Sarto.' There is
some wilfulness of phraseology, some occasional lapse of expression, but
the beauties are real and genuine, and the whole manner astonishingly
mature and adult. Already these appear in germ some of Brahms' most
notable contributions to structural development, already there is
evidence that he understood, as one alone had done before him, the full
significance of the Sonata form, and the possibilities of its further
extension. Here at last was a composer who could fulfil Berlioz's boast,
that he had taken up music where Beethoven laid it down.
So passed away a quiet and uneventful boyhood, a time of novitiate and
preparation in which the rules were learned and the discipline endured
that should qualify a postulant for the full investiture of his order.
The conflicts of 1849 left Hamburg almost entirely untouched, and to the
cloistered retirement of the Anselar Platz the year of revolution was
chiefly memorable as that in which Herr Intendant Heinrich Krebs
resigned his office in order to succeed Herr Hofkapellmeister Richard
Wagner, at Dresden. Of the home-life, meanwhile, we can only say that it
was too happy to afford any history. Thanks to the reminiscences of a
few friends, we may recall for a moment a brief memory of the
household:--Johann Brahms, kindly, genial, humorous, full of droll
stories and quaint aphorisms, yet, in more serious mood, inspired with
that intense poetic love of nature which was so distinguishing a
characteristic in his son; Frau Brahms, gentle and affectionate, proud
of her children, yet half afraid of the dangers and temptations to which
an artistic career is liable; and with them the two boys, Johannes,
standing on the verge of a noble and laborious manhood, and Fritz,
whose brilliant promise was soon to be cut short by an early death. But
it is only a glimpse too slight and transitory to do more than intensify
the darkness through which it penetrates. All the rest is veiled with a
silence which, in the personal record of a great life, is the best of
auguries.
About the beginning of 1853[48] Hamburg was visited by the Hungarian
violinist, Reményi, an eccentric genius with an insatiable passion for
travel, who, in the course of an itinerant life, has carried his
national music as far east as China and as far south as Natal. For the
time, however, he was contemplating a tour of more moderate dimensions,
and being struck with Brahms' playing, suggested that they should
undertake the enterprise together. It was, no doubt, a comradeship of
rather incongruous elements, and the boy, who had never left home
before, must have felt a little strange as he set out beside his eager,
restless, impetuous companion, who only lamented that his wanderings
were confined to a single planet. But the offer came at so opportune a
moment, that there could be no question as to the propriety of accepting
it; and in a few days the pair were travelling southward to see whether
the towns of Germany would open their gates to the new alliance.
At Göttingen occurred an accident which indirectly altered the whole
aspect of Brahms' position. The piano provided for rehearsal was, of a
kind, picturesquely described by Dr Schubring as 'ein erbärmlicher
Klapperkasten,' which had lost all the voice that it ever possessed by a
long course of university dissipation. Accordingly, the impresario was
summoned, offered the usual apologies, promised to procure a more
adequate substitute for the evening, and returned at the last minute
with a new instrument, which, on investigation, proved to be a semitone
below concert-pitch. It is easy to picture the consternation of Reményi
with an expectant audience, a flat piano, and the 'Kreutzer Sonata' in
immediate prospect. To tune his violin down would be little short of a
personal outrage, but there seemed no other solution, and he was
proceeding with a reluctant hand to slacken his strings when Brahms came
to the rescue and offered to transpose the pianoforte part, which he was
playing from memory, into the higher key. No doubt similar feats have
occasionally been performed by artists of very different calibre, by a
Woelffl as well as a Beethoven, but they have not often been hazarded by
a boy at the outset of his career, when success might pass unnoticed,
and failure would throw back all chances of reputation and livelihood.
It is little wonder that Reményi required a vast amount of persuasion
before he would allow the attempt to be made, and that he was
overwhelmed with astonishment when it ended in a veritable triumph.
As soon as the concert was over, the two artists were informed that a
member of the audience wished to speak with them, and, on coming
forward, found themselves face to face with Joachim. He had noted the
conditions under which the Kreutzer was given, had admired not only the
_tour de force_, but the general breadth and vigour of the rendering,
and now, after a few words of cordial commendation, he offered to
lighten the rest of their journey by a letter of introduction to Liszt
at Weimar and another to the Hofintendant at Hanover. It was a pity that
Düsseldorf lay outside their scheme; still if Brahms would come back to
Göttingen at the close of the tour, he should have a letter to Schumann
which might prove the most serviceable of the three. That Joachim was
deeply impressed, is evident from a few words which he wrote on this
occasion to his friend Ehrlich. 'Brahms has an altogether exceptional
talent for composition,' he says,--'a gift which is further enhanced by
the unaffected modesty of his character. His playing, too, gives every
presage of a great artistic career--full of fire and energy, yet, if I
may say so, inevitable in its precision and certainty of touch. In
brief, he is the most considerable musician of his age that I have ever
met.' Such an encomium, from such a source, may well have set
expectation on the alert. Since Beethoven, there had been no man
received into the brotherhood with so sincere and hearty a welcome.
Fortune, however, indignant that her blows had been parried at
Göttingen, determined that they should be felt at Hanover. For a time,
matters went well enough: the first concert was successful; Count Platen
gave every assistance to the friends of Joachim; the ladies of the Court
were roused to enthusiasm by the romantic Hungarian, and charitably
commended the shy, silent German whom they mistook for his accompanist.
Then the police intervened. It appears that Reményi's brother had taken
an active part in the revolt of 1848. It was even whispered that the
violinist himself had played the _rôle_ of Tyrtæus in the outbreak, and
had marched, instrument in hand, at the forefront of an insurgent army.
Clearly so dangerous a firebrand could no longer be permitted to imperil
the safety of the Hanoverian throne, and accordingly there came a
peremptory note from Herr Polizeipräsident Wermuth, followed by a
rigorous examination and a couple of passports for Bückeburg. In vain
Reményi protested that he had no intention of calling his audience to
the barricades, that Bückeburg was the last place in the world which he
wished to visit, and that he had several other engagements in Hanoverian
territory. The sentence of banishment was adamantine, and the utmost
concession that could be obtained was the alteration of the _visé_ to
Weimar.
This, of course, brought the tour to an abrupt conclusion. Arrangements
had to be cancelled, chances of profit and reputation foregone, and the
end of the journey anticipated before half its distance had been
traversed. However, the concert at Weimar was a fitting climax, and the
cordiality of Liszt made compensation for all disasters. By an odd
chance Brahms had included in the programme his Scherzo in E flat minor,
the most certain of all his compositions to attract the great pianist's
attention, and it is not surprising that he found himself forthwith
enrolled as a leader in the extreme left of the romantic party. We may
here add, that he felt himself from the first in a false position, and
that, a few years later, he formally withdrew his allegiance; but it was
hardly to be expected that he should begin by disowning qualities which
his early work undoubtedly possesses, and which he only outgrew after
further practice and experience. And it is equally intelligible that
Liszt, who looked upon all music from his own standpoint, should
consider Brahms an ally of Berlioz and Wagner, and should value him not
as a maintainer of the old dynasties, but as a fresh embodiment of the
revolutionary spirit. In any case, the misapprehension was of little
immediate importance. Royalist and republican joined hands with mutual
regard, and left to the future all reference to alien ideals, or
divergencies of method.
After the concert at Weimar, Brahms bade adieu to his mercurial
companion, and set out at once for Göttingen in order to claim the
promised letter of introduction to Robert Schumann. Unfortunately, the
curtailment of the tour had so seriously affected his slender resources
that, on obtaining his credentials, he found himself virtually
penniless, and was compelled to make the rest of his journey to
Düsseldorf on foot. It was a very dusty and travel-worn figure that
presented itself at Schumann's door on the famous October morning; but
however weary the pilgrimage, it was more than rewarded by the event.
Schumann listened to the new composer first with interest, then with
admiration, then with enthusiasm; he broke his rule of silence to praise
'music the like of which he had never heard before'; finally, he issued
in the Neue Zeitschrift a panegyric that rang through the length and
breadth of Germany, and set the whole artistic world upon a strain of
attention. In sure and unfaltering accents he proclaimed the advent of a
genius in whom the spirit of the age should find its consummation and
its fulfilment; a master by whose teaching the broken phrases should
grow articulate and the vague aspirations gather into form and
substance. The five-and-twenty years of wandering were over; at last a
leader had arisen who should direct the art into 'new paths,' and carry
it a stage nearer to its appointed place.
The first result of Schumann's encomium was a request from Leipsic that
Brahms would go over and play some of his compositions at the
Gewandhaus. Accordingly he made his appearance on December 17, gave the
Sonata in C and the Scherzo in E flat minor, and soon, to his great
disquietude, found himself in the centre of a raging controversy. There
ought, indeed, to have been no dispute in the matter at all. It is
notoriously difficult to estimate at a first hearing new work which is
possessed of any artistic importance: it becomes almost impossible when
the work is not only new but novel, when it stands out of all relation
to the accustomed phraseology of its time. The critics, therefore, would
have done wisely if they had been content to reserve judgment, or even
to acquiesce in the verdict of Schumann, until they had gained the
knowledge requisite for an independent opinion. But to declare that
'Brahms would never become a star of the first magnitude' was, under the
circumstances, an extreme presumption, and to wish him 'a speedy
deliverance from his over-enthusiastic patrons' was little short of an
impertinence. However, if the music was attacked it was also strenuously
defended, and, before the winter was out, the publication of no
less than eight important works had given opportunity for a more
comprehensive survey of their scope and purport.
At the beginning of 1854 occurred the terrible calamity which brought
Schumann's career to its sudden and tragic termination, and deprived
Brahms at once of his kindest friend and of his most capable adviser.
The intimacy had only lasted for some five months, but it had sprung
into full maturity on the day of its birth, and had run its brief course
in unbroken confidence and affection. It was no relation of master and
disciple, no unequal bond of patronage and subservience: from the outset
the two men had met on equal terms, united in a companionship which the
disparity of their years could not impair. Throughout Schumann's
correspondence of the preceding winter, there is scarcely a page that
does not bear some reference to the 'young eagle': now a word of
counsel, now a good-humoured jest, now a presage of coming reputation.
It was a hard chance that severed so close a tie at the very moment when
promise was yielding its fruition and prophecy passing into fulfilment.
The spring was mainly spent over the labour of proof-sheets; then came a
short holiday with Liszt at Weimar; then a few concerts of no special
interest or importance. But there could be no doubt that the circle was
slowly widening. In July the _Neue Berliner Musikzeitung_, printed a
careful and discriminating review of the 'sechs Lieder' (Op. 3), and,
about the same time, Brahms received the offer of two official
appointments, one from the Rhenish Conservatoire at Cologne, which he
refused, one from the Prince of Lippe Detmold, which he decided to
accept. His new position, though not of any great dignity or emolument,
contained two practical advantages: the first that it gave him
experience as choir-master and conductor; the second that, at the most
receptive period of his life, it brought him into touch with cultivated
men and women. Besides the work was congenial, the surroundings were as
quiet as he could wish, and the requirements of the court so little
exacting, as to leave him his own master for nearly three-quarters of
the year. There were a few pageants and ceremonials, a few state
concerts during the winter months, and then followed abundant leisure to
study, to compose, and to bring into further growth an organism which
was already marking a new stage in artistic evolution.