by a natural and obvious danger. The artist has made his mark, he has
won for a moment the capricious attentions of his public, he has been
hailed as an equal by the acknowledged masters of his craft; it is only
human that he should strive to keep himself in evidence, and set all
sail to catch the fitful breeze of popular favour. Add to these
conditions the opportunity afforded by an accident of office; add a
vivid, prolific imagination, and a style which competent judges have
pronounced mature; add, in short, every incentive to production which
circumstance or capacity can supply, and the result is a temptation
which the traditional impatience of genius may well find some difficulty
in withstanding. It is therefore the more noticeable, that the four
years which followed Brahms' appointment at Lippe Detmold, were spent by
him in an almost unbroken privacy. He had, as we know, several other
manuscripts in readiness; two of the chief publishing houses in Germany
had placed themselves at his disposal; new competitors were arising
whose claims would have been felt as challenges by a lesser man. Yet
during the whole of this time he printed but one composition, and
appeared so rarely in public that he might seem to have forgotten his
purpose and foregone his ambitions. In May 1856 he played in a concert
at Cologne, where he was severely censured for including in the
programme so dull a work as Bach's chromatic Fantasia; in December 1857,
he accepted two engagements at the Leipsic Gewandhaus, and took part in
Mendelssohn's G minor Concerto, and the Triple Concerto of Beethoven;
but except on these three occasions, even the newspapers of the time are
silent in regard of him. They had, indeed, other things to occupy their
attention. The storm raised over _Das Judenthum in der Musik_ had hardly
subsided; the great Tetralogy was in process of completion at Zurich;
Rubinstein was filling all Germany with his brilliant masterful
presence; no space could be devoted to chronicling the uneventful annals
of a recluse who for the moment was making no ostensible contributions
to the cause of Art.
But it was not a case of 'tam bonus gladiator rudem tam cito.' Brahms
had no intention of deserting the arena in which he had won his first
victory and gained his first laurel. Only, like all men whose lives are
dominated by an ideal, he was profoundly dissatisfied with his present
achievement, and he set himself once more to a resolute course of
training in order to complete and perfect his adolescent power with
those gifts of certainty and facility which are only won by steadfast
endeavour. In his early work there is, as Herr Deiters remarks, 'a
certain lavish expenditure of strength,' a careless vigour which shows
itself, not in redundancy--for he is never redundant--but in a disregard
of some necessary limitations, in a disposition to cut Gordian knots of
style which it is better to untie. Had he been content to follow the
path of romance, there would have been no need for him to modify these
tendencies: for romance treats the emotional aspect as paramount, and
cares less for the purely technical problems of form and phrase. But
Brahms was born to restore the classical traditions in music, and for
the maintenance of those traditions something more is requisite than the
almost obstinate force which he had hitherto manifested. In January 1859
appeared the first fruits of this long and strenuous cultivation.
Hitherto Brahms had given to the world nothing beyond the scale and
compass of chamber music; now, in Schumann's phrase, he 'let the drums
and trumpets sound,' and presented himself at the Gewandhaus with his
Pianoforte Concerto in D minor. Its reception for the moment was most
unfavourable. The audience listened in pure bewilderment, waiting in
vain for the virtuoso passages that it felt a conventional right to
expect; the _Leipsiger Signalen_ dismissed the work as a 'Symphony with
Pianoforte Obbligato,' in which the solo part was as ungrateful as
possible, and the orchestral part a 'series of lacerating discords.' The
fact is that Brahms had turned a new page in the history of concerto
form, and that Leipsic was unable to read it at sight. His only
response, however, was to take the composition to Hamburg, which at once
rallied in defence of its hero, gave him a warm welcome in the
concert-room, and, in the newspapers, opened a battle-royal to which the
conflict of 1853 had been a mere skirmish. If the commercial prosperity
of the town had been threatened, it could hardly have been defended with
more vehement protests or a more determined patriotism.
No such controversy arose over Brahms' next work--the charming
and graceful Serenade in D which was first given at Hamburg on
March 28. In later days, no doubt, the Vienna press offered some
carefully-balanced criticisms of its style; for the time Germany
yielded to the enchantment, and allowed itself to enjoy, without
afterthought, the sweetness of the melodies and the pellucid clearness
of the form. Indeed, no more salient contrast could be found than
that between the two works with which the composer signalised his
reappearance.[49] Both alike show that he had completely assimilated
the past records of his art, but in the one he uses his knowledge as a
basis for new application, in the other he takes the old types as they
stand without extending their range or enlarging their content In the
Serenade he sums up: in the Concerto he advances. Hence it was not
unwise that he should at once prepare the lighter composition for the
press, and reserve the more serious until the world had grown in
experience, and had made itself more ready to receive him.
About this time he resigned his office at Lippe Detmold, feeling that
even so slight a chain was a hindrance to the freedom of an artistic
career, and returned for a short period of residence to his native
Hamburg. The prophet, indeed, had achieved some share of honour in his
own country, and the least that he could do was to pay it the
acknowledgment of a visit; beside which his parents were still living
in the old home, there was abundance of theatrical and musical gossip to
interchange, and there was the young Fritz, growing up into an excellent
pianist, who deserved some congratulations on his progress, and some
advice as to his future.[50] But, as the months wore on, they brought
with them the need of a more extended range. Home-keeping youths stand
in a proverbial danger of homely wit, and an atmosphere of comfort and
sympathy, however delightful, is apt to relax and weaken the sterner
qualities. So, in 1860, shortly after the publication of the Serenades,
Brahms again turned his back upon Hamburg, and set out to try his
fortunes afield.
His first halting-place was the little town of Winterthur, between
Zurich and Constance. German Switzerland had long shown a warm
hospitality to musicians, and a cordial interest in their art; moreover
one of the great Leipsic publishers had an outpost in Winterthur itself,
and the organist there was Theodor Kirchner, the most gifted of
Schumann's pupils, and the most ready to offer a hand of fellowship to
the genius whom Schumann had heralded. In a very short time the new
arrival found himself among friends, and forthwith settled down to work
after his usual undemonstrative fashion. It was not an opulent life, but
it was comfortable and adequate: there were pupils to teach, there were
audiences to delight, and above all, there was Rieter-Bidermann's
printing office as a stimulus to further composition. Yet in truth there
was little need of stimulus. The treasures, accumulated during four
years of self-imposed economy, were only waiting to be coined and
expended; now the mint was opened and the golden currency scattered with
a lavish hand. In 1861 appeared the beautiful Ave Maria for female
chorus and orchestra, the fine sombre Funeral Hymn, the D minor
Concerto, the first two sets of pianoforte variations, and a couple of
volumes of songs and duets; in 1862 followed four exquisite part-songs
for female voices with horn and harp accompaniment, a string sestett in
B flat, the most magnificent piece of chamber music that had appeared
since the death of Beethoven, two books of Marienlieder, another volume
of songs, and finally two new sets of variations for the piano, one on a
theme from Handel's Harpischord lessons, one[51] on the pathetic melody
that had haunted the last sane moments of Schumann's life. Even with
these the record is not exhausted. There still remain the Pianoforte
Quartetts in G minor and A major, which, though not published till 1863,
were certainly written before the end of the previous year. And when we
realise that in all this catalogue almost every work is a masterpiece,
almost every form a development of preceding types, it is hard to see
where, except in the greatest of all composers, we can find a parallel
to the achievement. Schubert, no doubt, could pour a more 'profuse
strain of unpremeditated art,' but art, at any rate in its larger forms,
is the gainer by premeditation. Mozart could fill the accustomed
channels with a more copious stream of melody, but he was content that
its waters should run their course in familiar regions. Here is a man
whose originality never betrays him into carelessness, whose certainty
of touch never degenerates into formalism, whose thought, even in its
deepest and most recondite utterance, is always firmly conceived and
clearly articulated. Such a mastery of phrase and structure is not only
slow of acquisition, but also, in some degree, slow of exercise. It is
impossible that the most eloquent genius, the most elaborate training
should have enabled Brahms to write one of his great chamber works with
the rapid facility that has so often been a mark of the chief composers.
An organism so coherent and so complex is not created by a single flash
of the artistic will.
By an odd coincidence, the first chapter of Brahms' life may be said to
end with this temporary climax of production. In the autumn of 1862 the
_coterie_ at Winterthur was broken up by Theodor Kirchner's acceptance
of an appointment at Zurich; and Brahms, beginning perhaps to feel that
the place where he dwelt was too strait for him, set himself to find a
wider habitation and a more enlarged sphere of energy. It was in many
ways unadvisable that he should follow his friend. For one thing, Zurich
was hardly central enough to satisfy his requirements, for another, it
was much dominated by the influence of Wagner and Liszt, and the school
which they were taken to represent had never forgiven Brahms his public
defection from its ranks.[52] Besides, he had recently been manifesting
some special interest in the bright rhythms and piquant phraseology of
Hungarian music: one of his first sets of pianoforte variations had been
on a Hungarian theme; the finale of his G minor Quartett was ostensibly
affected by a similar attraction; in other of his more recent works
there were details of style which showed that he had begun to think,
like Schubert, of holding the balance between two artistic languages.
Everything, in short, pointed towards Vienna. It was still the capital
of European music; it possessed traditions from which any composer might
be proud to draw inspiration and stimulus; it contained the most
critical public to which any artist of the time could appeal. There was
no question of alternative; without more ado Brahms 'set his face to the
east,' and, before November, had established himself in the city which
he was afterwards content to call his home.
FOOTNOTES:
[48] The account of this episode is taken partly from Ehrlich's
Künstlerleben, partly from an article by Dr Schubring in the Allgemeine
Musikalische Zeitung.
[49] It should be noted that the first version of the Serenade in A (Op.
16) was also produced in this year and published at Bonn in 1860.
Brahms, however, subsequently withdrew it for revision, and its present
form dates from 1875.
[50] The Neue Zeitschrift mentions the successful début of Fritz Brahms
at Hamburg in January 1864.
[51] The Thematic Catalogue gives the date of this work as 1866. But it
must have been published earlier, for it is reviewed in the _Allgemeine
Musikalische Zeitung_ for Sept. 9, 1863.
[52] See Ehrlich's _Künstlerleben_, p. 156 _n._
II
MATURITY
Vienna, in 1862, was entering upon its second period of musical
activity. After the death of Schubert it had suffered something of a
reaction; not, indeed, enough to dim its prestige, but enough to prevent
it from making any considerable addition to its record. Now, however,
the interval of repose was ended, and for the past few years the city
had been gradually rousing itself into fresh energy and fresh
achievement. Among its creative musicians could be numbered many names
of interest: Robert Volkmann, Saxon by birth, Austrian by residence, a
lesser Schumann, whose work had been unjustly eclipsed by his great
compatriot; Goldmark, the epigrammatist of the orchestra, brilliant,
witty and self-reliant; Bruckner, already completing the foundations on
which he has built his strange composite structure of romance and
counterpoint; Ignaz Brüll, fresh from the triumph of his first public
performance; Johann Strauss, who, like his father, had raised dance
music to the level of a fine art, and whose orchestra was still 'worth a
journey to Vienna on foot.' Even higher was the standard of executance.
There were at least three conductors of the first rank:--Esser at the
Opera House, Otto Dersoff at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, and Herbeck,
recently appointed to an engagement at the Gesellschaft; the chamber
concerts of Laub and Hellmesberger had won European reputations: every
day one could hear a pianist like Epstein, or a violinist like Grün, or
a horn-player like Hans Richter of the Kärnthnerthor, for whose career
renown was prophesying a triumphant future. And for criticism, though
here, as everywhere, could be found journalists who made up in
vociferation what they lacked in knowledge; yet here, as in most places,
the mass was leavened by some genuine exponents of sound principle and
earnest judgment. Ambros lived close at hand, and could sometimes spare
a moment from his historical work to estimate a contemporary; while in
the city itself were Grillparzer, who thirty years before had discovered
Schumann, and Hanslick, who, though something of a specialist and
something of a partisan, has always maintained his standpoint with clear
logic and steady conviction.
[Illustration: Johannes Brahms.]
It was into this assembly that Brahms made his way. As yet his
compositions were little known, but there was no musician in Vienna who
had not heard his name or felt some expectation at his arrival. Before
long, introduction had ripened into acquaintance and acquaintance into a
many-sided friendship. Men were glad to welcome a new genius of
conspicuous power and encyclopædic knowledge, who never spoke of
himself, who never wrote a line in his own defence, who never attacked
an opponent or depreciated a rival. Add to this the quiet voice, the
undemonstrative manner, the kindly disposition that expended itself in a
thousand services, the upright honesty that would never stoop even to
conquer, and it is not hard to explain a personal popularity which has
lasted unimpaired to the present day. The artist is too often to be
described, in Mr Stevenson's phrase, as 'a man who sows hurry and reaps
indigestion,' who 'comes among people swiftly and bitterly to discharge
some temper before he returns to work.' It is not a little refreshing to
contemplate a genius who, with all the astonishing amount that he
accomplished, yet found time to enjoy his dinner, to bear his part in
the company of his friends, and to become the sworn ally of all the
children in the neighbourhood.
His first public appearance took place at a Hellmesberger concert on
November 16, when he played the pianoforte part in his G minor Quartett.
From the outset there was no question about his recognition as a
pianist; the critics were keen-sighted enough to see that the absence of
virtuosity was a merit, and to estimate with full justice the broad
masterly musicianship of the interpretation; but at the same time it
must be confessed, that the first judgment of his composition was
seriously adverse. 'We do not propose,'[53] said the _Blätter für
Theater Musik und Kunst_ 'to condemn Herr Brahms altogether until we
have heard more of his work, but the present specimen will not induce
the Viennese people to accept him as a composer. The first three
movements are gloomy, obscure and ill-developed: the last is simply an
offence against the laws of style. There is neither precedent nor excuse
for introducing into Chamber Music a movement entirely conceived in the
measure of a national dance, and it is much to be regretted that Herr
Brahms should have departed in this matter from the example set by
Beethoven and Schubert.' The criticism is worth quoting as an example of
that dogmatic error which is sometimes allowed to pass current for
certainty. It is of course wholly wrong upon the point of fact. Brahms'
movement follows in perfectly natural development from the Minuet
finales of Haydn, from the Turkish March finale of Mozart, from the
'Alla Tedescas' of Beethoven himself, and even if it did not, even if it
were a new departure in detail, a good deal of analysis would be
required to show that absence of precedent involved absence of
justification.
The composer, however, soon showed that if he had for the moment
declined in public estimation, it was only 'pour mieux sauter.' A week
later, the Serenade in D was successfully given by the Gesellschaft; on
November 29 followed the A major Quartett, far more favourably received
than its predecessor; fame, once established, gathered and grew with
steady persistence, and at last, in December 1863, opposition itself was
silenced by a magnificent performance, under Hellmesberger, of the
Sestett in B flat. For once the audience was unanimous; the critics
forgot to cavil; even Brahms' old enemy, the _Blätter_, admitted itself
convinced, and, in the first flush of enthusiasm, supplied this
most rigorous of classical compositions with a romantic programme.
'The opening movement,' it said, 'is a walk in spring when the
sky is cloudless and the flowers are blooming in the hedgerows.
The second' (_i. e._, the Air with variations) 'represents a gipsy
encampment--dark-eyed maidens whispering secrets, and afar-off the
subdued tinkle of the mandolin. The third is a rustic dance; and the
fourth--well, we suppose that fourth must mean the journey home.' This
is not remarkably conclusive as an exposition of the Sestett, but it
appears to have been kindly meant, and, at any rate, it succeeded in
calling public attention to the work, and preparing, in some measure,
for a more adequate discussion of its merits.
Meantime Vienna was shaken to its foundations by another inroad. At the
end of 1862 Wagner appeared, gave two or three concerts in the course of
the winter, and finally established himself at Penzing, where he worked
at Meistersinger, and received his friends with his accustomed Oriental
hospitality. His relation with Brahms appears to have been always of the
slightest. The two composers met occasionally on neutral ground, but
they were never intimate, and it was impossible that they should be
attracted to each other by any real artistic sympathy. Wagner, indeed,
seems to have looked on his great rival as Victor Hugo looked on
Corneille and Racine: Brahms, for his part, was content to avow that he
did not understand the theatre, and that for him the magic of Walküre
and Tristan had no enchantment. It may be that the sense of contrast
gave additional point to a famous and frequently-quoted epigram of the
younger artist. One day Hanslick was rallying him on his anchorite
habits and suggesting marriage as an antidote. 'No,' said Brahms, 'it is
as hard to marry as to write an opera. Perhaps--in both--a first success
might embolden one to try again; but it wants more courage than mine to
make a start.' The mind naturally reverts to an enthusiastic and rather
callow reformer, who had once endeavoured to inculcate a short-service
system of matrimony in an opera called Das Liebesverbot.
Apart from a fine organ fugue in E flat minor, the only compositions
published in 1863 were the two Pianoforte Quartetts. This sudden fit of
reticence may possibly be explained by Brahms' appointment in June, to
the conductorship of the Vienna Singakademie, a responsible post, which
necessitated a good deal of work, and not a little anxiety. It was for
this body that he wrote many of his smaller vocal quartetts and
choruses, _e.g._, the _Abendständchen_, the _Vineta_, the _Wechsellied
zum Tanze_, and the _Neckereien_, some of which were performed at a
'Brahms' Concert on April 17, 1864, and printed shortly afterwards. At
the beginning of May he was unanimously re-elected to his office; but
finding, as usual, that he had little taste for either the labour or the
rewards of a public position, he resigned in July, and betook himself
once more to his study and his proof-sheets. It is worth noting, as an
example of the influence of environment, that all the works published
during 1864 are vocal. In the spring appeared a setting of the 23d
Psalm, then followed four duets for Alto and Baritone, then three choral
works and three quartetts, and finally, at the close of the year, two
volumes of delightful songs, which end, as a fitting climax, with the
immortal melody of 'Wie bist du meine Königin.'
The compositions of 1865 include the great Pianoforte Quintett in F
minor and the first two books of Romances from Tieck's 'Magelone.' In
March the A major Quartett was given at Leipsic, with Madame Schumann at
the piano and David to lead the strings; and later in the year, after a
long visit to Theodor Kirchner at Zurich, Brahms undertook a concert
tour on his own account, and made a triumphant progress through
Mannheim, Cologne, where he conducted the D major Serenade, Carlsruhe,
where he played sonatas with Joachim, and Oldenburg, where, in January
1866, he brought out his new Trio for piano, violin and horn. All this
time he was writing with his usual tireless industry, and, in the course
of the next few months, saw safely through the press his Variations on a
Theme of Paganini, his Sestett in G major, hardly inferior to its more
famous predecessor, and his first Violoncello Sonata, a remarkable
example of mastery over a very difficult medium.
We may gain an indication of Brahms' growing importance in the artistic
world, from the amount of attention bestowed upon him during these years
by the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_. This journal, ever since
Chrysander's occupation of the editorial chair, had gradually won its
way to the forefront of German criticism, and from 1863 onwards it
treated Brahms with a respect that no other contemporary musician either
merited or received. Each of his works in turn was welcomed as an event
in musical history, subjected to an exhaustive analysis, often extending
over two numbers, and discussed throughout with admirable sympathy and
intelligence. Amid our chaos of hasty and ill-considered judgments, it
is not a little reassuring to read such articles as that of Chrysander
on the F minor Quintett, or that of Deiters on the Sestett in G. There
is here no indiscriminate praise, no prejudiced or ill-natured censure,
no evasion of the point at issue under a nebulous mist of semi-poetical
fancies: from first to last, the critic shows a due reverence for genius
and a real attempt to understand the purport of its message. Work such
as this, while it justly reacts upon the credit and position of the
writer, involves also the recognition of a high value in the object to
which it is applied. No great critical essay could ever be written on a
poor or trivial theme. The judge may be as denunciatory as Macaulay, or
as humorous as Mr Andrew Lang; he may call to his aid all the Graces of
Parnassus, or condemn with all the authority of the Stygian tribunal;
but sooner or later the world comes to see that mere denunciation is
barren, and that mere banter is ephemeral. The highest criticism, in
short, means a judicial estimate of the highest merit, and though the
intrinsic worth and splendour of genius can in no way be enhanced by any
act of homage, yet it is well, both for genius and the world at large,
that the act of homage should sometimes be rightly and adequately
performed.