unities, there has been little or no progress since his time, for little
or no progress was possible. We can only say, then, that in this respect
the work of Brahms is as organic as that of his master; and, in saying
this, we are merely propounding a matter of comparative analysis which
can readily be settled by an appeal to facts. It is as true of Brahms as
of Beethoven, that there is in him no redundant phrase, no digression,
no parenthesis, nothing that does not bear some intimate relation either
to its immediate context, or, with more subtlety, to a remoter part of
the subsequent issue. Take, for instance, the rondo tune which opens the
Finale of the B flat Sestett. A careless observer may regard the
beginning of its second stanza as mere padding, devised to fill a gap
until the principal strain recurs. Turn a few pages, and we find that it
was the presage of a complete and important episode which itself is
vital to the structure as a whole. Again, in the first movement of the
same work, if any reader will compare the entry of the second subject
with the corresponding place in Beethoven's Hammerclavier Sonata, he
will see with what accuracy Brahms learned his lesson and with what
consummate skill he applied it. And in all other qualities of organic
structure--in choice of tonal centres, in the relative length
of constituent sections, in perfect balance of exposition and
development--the same line of legitimate succession may be traced. It is
not a question of imitation. Brahms is no copyist, reproducing with
careful fidelity the precise outline of a master's original. In this, as
in his polyphony, he has assimilated the principles of a past method and
has turned them to his own account.
But for the complete organisation of a symphony, or a sonata, it is not
sufficient that each movement should be structurally exact; they must be
so inter-related as to produce an effect of organism in the whole. And
there are three chief ways in which this inter-relation can be secured.
The first is by unity of emotional effect; by making the whole work tell
the same story, and represent the same general type of feeling. In
Beethoven's Appassionata, for instance, a scherzo would be an
impertinence, in his Eighth Symphony a slow movement would be an
intrusion; for the one is as wholly tragic in character as the other is
light and humorous. The second is by the proper choice of key for each
of the successive numbers; for the selection, that is, among all
possible alternatives, of the tonic note that will give the most
complete and satisfying result. And herein we may confess that we have
one of the few cases in which Beethoven's work was injuriously affected
by convention. Of course, the Seventh Symphony stands almost unique and
unapproachable, a culminating point of structural excellence, but, as a
rule, his scheme, though less homogeneous than that of Mozart, has too
little diversity to be accepted as final. Thirdly, the entire
composition may be held together by a transference of themes, that is,
by the reminiscence in one number of phrases or melodies that have
already been employed in another. Of this device there is hardly any
example in Beethoven until the end of his career, and even then the only
conspicuous instance is the finale of the Choral Symphony. It is,
indeed, the latest-born of all the forces that tend to organisation, and
along its lines the sonata form of the future will probably find the
readiest opportunity of progress.
If, then, Brahms is the inheritor of Beethoven's method, we may expect
to find a continuity of tradition in his treatment of these three points
respectively. And assuredly the analysis of his work will not disappoint
us. For, in the first place, the poetic unity of his compositions is
beyond dispute. In each of the great concerted pieces, whether for the
chamber or the orchestra, we find one general type of feeling worked
out, it may be, to successive issues, but developed in orderly sequence
from a single source. His cast of mind is usually grave and reflective,
therefore he has for the most part discarded the scherzo, and replaced
it by a movement of more earnest and serious character. His manner of
thought is logical and coherent, therefore his finales, like those of
Beethoven, are not mere light-hearted fantasias, intended to send away
the audience in a good temper, but true conclusions, carefully planned
and adequately presented. Even in such works as the Horn Trio, where the
contrast is probably at its strongest, there is no real obscurity in the
underlying relation; while in the four symphonies, to take the opposite
extreme, we need only hear the sequence of movements to pronounce it
inevitable.
And as we find an organic unity in the emotional aspect, so we find an
organic diversity in the choice of keys. Except for the obvious
principle, that first and last movements must acknowledge the same
tonic, Brahms admits none of the _a priori_ laws by which his
predecessor was occasionally bound. In other words, he takes as his unit
not the separate movement but the entire series, and selects his keys
for Adagio and Intermezzo with the same structural care as he uses for a
'second subject,' or a 'development section.' Allusion has already been
made to the Violoncello Sonata in F, one of the most marvellous pieces
of successful audacity in all musical form; but hardly less remarkable
is the Symphony in E minor, where the key of the slow movement is
equally unusual, and equally necessary. Indeed, any of the concerted
works will serve for illustration. The choice is sometimes simple,
sometimes recondite, but in all cases it is justified by the event.
Transference of themes is a device attended by one imminent danger. If
awkwardly employed, it may look like poverty of thought, or at best that
artless _naïvité_ of repetition which is only tolerable in a ballad
literature. But if this danger be avoided, and its avoidance is only a
question of skill, the reminiscence of a previous melody may round off
and complete an entire work in much the same way as the 'Recapitulation'
rounds off and completes a single movement. It has been already said
that Beethoven makes little use of this method. Schumann indicated some
of its possibilities, but Schumann died while the work was still
incomplete, and left its further elaboration to other hands. And though
Brahms is somewhat tentative and uncertain in the matter, though he
leaves room for future advance and future progress, yet at least we may
say that he has explored more of the new ground than any of his
predecessors. In the Finale of the G major Violin Sonata, and in that of
the Quartett in B flat, he is satisfied to carry out the suggestion of
Schumann;[56] but elsewhere, as in the second Symphony and the clarinet
Quintett, he develops them in a new direction, by founding two movements
on thematic variants of the same idea. It is difficult to overrate the
value of these hints for future guidance, though, as yet, they are only
hints, not complete solutions. For, grant that an entire sonata or
symphony can never be called organic in precisely the same sense as its
constituent parts; grant that their analogue is the man, and its
analogue the corporate community; still some further organisation of the
whole is undoubtedly possible, and we may well expect it to follow the
method which Brahms has here indicated.
In one word, he has completed, for present purposes, the emancipation of
musical form, not by the false freedom of anarchy, but by the true
freedom of a rational code. Artistic progress, like that of the
political commonwealth, has always tended towards the abolition of
purely conventional laws, and to the maintenance and development of
those that are founded upon broad principles of human nature. By Brahms,
so far as we can see, the last links of convention have been snapped,
and the form has now room to grow and expand in perfect liberty. Look,
for instance, at his treatment of the Concerto, which, up to his time,
was the most unsatisfactory, because the most conventional, of all
classical types. He has broken down the unnecessary rule of the three
movements, he has finally overthrown the tyranny of the solo instrument,
he has given the whole form a free constitution similar to that of the
Quartett and the Symphony. And though we be disinclined to regard our
present sonata-form as ultimate; though it may some day develop into a
new type, as it was itself developed from the Partita, yet the very
possibility of future advance depends upon conditions which it has been
the work of Brahms to secure. Hence, to call him a reactionary, as some
writers are fond of doing, is simply to misunderstand his whole relation
to musical art. In all history, there is no composer more essentially
progressive.
But, it may be objected, is not all this insistence on minutiæ somewhat
pedantic and artificial? Does it really matter whether a concerto has
four movements or three? whether an adagio is in A flat or A natural?
Indeed, is not the whole sonata-form a piece of academic subtlety, and
_a fortiori_, must we not regard its details as points of grammar rather
than points of art? And the critic, whom we are only too probably
supposing, will go on to speak of 'melody beaten out into thematic
gold-leaf,' or will even tell us that there is more music in an
intermezzo, where the composer's thought 'runs freely without
restrictions of form,' than in all the studious ingenuity of codas and
development sections. In short we are asked to believe that beauty is
too spiritual for legislation, and that any attempt to render it
amenable to a code is as futile as the countryman's endeavour to break
Pegasus into harness.
Now, in the first place, to commend a musician for disregarding the laws
of form is even more unreasonable than to commend a poet for his halting
verses, or a painter for his bad drawing. If by laws are meant
conventions, then the criticism is just in itself, but it does not touch
the point at issue; if natural laws are meant, then the critic has done
no more than express his own personal preference for chaos. The little
pianoforte pieces of Brahms, for example, are charming, not because they
are formless, but because their form is perfect. The only difference
between them and the sonata movements, from which they are derived, is a
difference of development: the underlying principles are identical. In
the second place, it has already been maintained that the sonata is not
an artificial construction, but an organic growth evolved, in
steadily-increasing complexity, from a living origin: and, further, that
its constituent parts represent between them all the general types of
all existing instrumental compositions. Either, then, this conclusion
must be refuted, or the 'academic' view of the sonata must be abandoned
as untenable. And in the third place, if it be demurred that although
some general laws of form are advisable, yet the artist should treat
them with a free hand, and not expend himself on niggling details, then
it is an obvious answer, that this objection rests on a confusion of
thought. The little masters have sometimes to choose between a
superficial facility and an elaboration that smells of the lamp: the
great masters have so assimilated their principles, that exactitude
with them is a second nature. In Tintoret's Miracle of S. Mark, the
twisted rope strands could not have been drawn more perfectly if they
had cost weeks of calculation and measurement: yet each is finished with
a single sweep of the brush. And so again in Brahms this accuracy of
detail is not a matter of diligence, but a matter of insight,
cultivated, no doubt, by past training, but employed at the moment with
a direct and unerring certainty. It may legitimately be questioned
whether perfection of form is not sometimes too dearly bought by a
sacrifice of vigour or originality: if the two can be set in antithesis,
we may understand that a critical judgment should hesitate between them.
But, given vigour and originality, and, in Brahms, no serious writer has
ever denied these gifts, it hardly admits of discussion that the form of
a work is, in some degree, a measure of its artistic value.
We may conclude, then, that in what has been called the treatment of the
musical medium, Brahms occupies an incontestable position among the
greatest composers of the world. It now follows that we should consider
the character of his ideas, the nature of his melody, and, in a word,
the particular qualities implied in his power of invention and his
emotional standpoint. It is, perhaps, inevitable that we should do this
with something of a prepossession. For, as we have already seen, in
music, form and thought are obverse and reverse of the same set of
relations, and the organism of the one is our best guarantee for the
vitality of the other. Here, at any rate, academic methods are always
imitations, copies which in no way advance upon their pre-existing
model: and thus, if the artistic structure of a work be really living
and progressive, we need have little fear about its artistic function.
But, at the same time, music can adumbrate so many different types of
emotion, that it is worth inquiring whether a given artist has seized
them all, and whether, if he be limited to a part of the field, his
value is affected or impaired by the limitation.
Now it is sometimes maintained that the music of Brahms is deficient in
emotional sensibility: that it is too sober, too self-controlled, too
intellectual to be really artistic. The composer, like the poet, should
be animated by a 'divine madness and enthusiasm;' he should leave to
philosophy the more cautious attributes of deliberate thought; he has
the free wind of heaven in his sails, and should run before it on a full
tide, neither anxious for his safety nor careful of his direction. But
of two things, one: Either we are to hold that art gains by hysteria and
extravagance, and that its highest climax is a delirium of unrestrained
and riotous passion; or, if this be impossible, we must accept the only
alternative, and admit self-control as a necessary principle. The only
true question at issue, then, must be the measure in which the
restraining influence is to be exercised--the point at which it sets up
its barrier and says, 'Thus far and no farther.' And if we recall the
Titanic strength of Brahms' first Symphony, or the romance of the
_Tragic Overture_, and the vigour and variety of such 'Dramatic Lyrics'
as _Verrath_, or _Entführung_, or _Meine Liebe ist Grün_, we shall
hardly assert that their limit has here been suggested by any timidity
or any lack of emotional force. In short, when confronted with the
facts, the whole attack dwindles into a statement that Brahms' passion
is sane and manly--a conclusion which we are not in any way concerned to
deny.
But at least, it may be urged, the range of feeling is circumscribed:
there is little humour, little gaiety, little expression of the brighter
and more genial aspects of life. Granted, with a few notable exceptions,
but the same may be said of Æschylus and Dante, of Milton and
Wordsworth. It is merely a relic of primitive barbarism that makes us
look upon music as an adjunct to conviviality, as an appanage to the
'banquet of wine,' as a pleasant emotional stimulus designed for the
amusement of an idle hour. Music is an art of at least the same dignity
as poetry or painting, it admits of similar distinctions, it appeals to
similar faculties, and in it, also, the highest field is that occupied
with the most serious issues. Not that we have any need to undervalue
the charm of its more playful moments: we may enjoy Offenbach in
precisely the same way as we enjoy Labiche; but it is no very extreme
paradox to say that Tristan is a greater work than Orphée aux Enfers,
and that La Cagnotte is on a different literary plane from Lear and
Hamlet. And in like manner, if we are disposed to find fault with Brahms
because the greater part of his work is grave and earnest, let us at
least endeavour to realise how such a criticism would sound if it were
directed against the Divina Commedia, or the Agamemnon, or Paradise
Lost.
Indeed, it is incredible that anyone should listen to Brahms' melody and
not be convinced. Do we want breadth? There is the Sestett in B flat,
the Second Symphony, the Piano Quartett in A. Do we want tenderness?
There is the Minnelied, there is 'Wie bist du meine Königin,' there is
the first Violin Sonata. Is it simplicity? We may turn to Erinnerung, to
Sonntag, to the later pianoforte pieces. Is it complexity? We have the
Symphony in E minor, the four Concertos, the great masterpieces of vocal
counterpoint. For pure, sensuous beauty, apart from all other
attributes, it is impossible to surpass the Schicksalslied, or the F
major Symphony, or the Clarinet Quintett. Indeed, the difficulty in
Brahms is to find a poor tune or a clumsy passage. No doubt, in work of
such wide scope and extent, there will always be parts that do not
appeal to a given hearer, that represent a mood with which he is out of
sympathy, or contain some form of expression that fails to interest him;
but, at the very lowest, we may say that the mood of Brahms is never
ignoble, and its expression very seldom inadequate. Even the unlucky and
much-abused theme in the third movement of the Clarinet Trio has certain
qualities of style which redeem it from triviality; and in any case it
remains almost a solitary exception--one cankered bud in a whole garden
of delight.
Here a word may be said on Brahms' indebtedness to the actual melody of
previous musicians. It is indisputable that in his work we sometimes
find phrases, and very rarely complete strains, which recall Beethoven,
or Schubert, or Schumann. But, in the first place, there is seldom or
never any case of direct quotation, the outline of an idea is borrowed
and filled with a new content; and in the second place, a charge of
plagiarism is only serious if it implies poverty of invention. That
one man may steal a horse while another may not look over the hedge,
is, if considered aright, the highest embodiment of abstract justice:
the thief may be your personal friend, in whose honesty of intention
you have every reason to confide, the face at the field-edge may wear
a hang-dog look which fills you with not unnatural apprehension.
And seriously, it is idle to suppose that Brahms adopted these
passages--half-a-score, perhaps, in a list of a hundred and twenty
elaborate compositions--because he felt that his own supply was
running short, and that it must needs be supplemented by a raid over
the border. Plagiarism means either the appropriation of an entire
work, or the embellishment of a poor texture with some patch of purple
that does not belong to the artist. It has nothing whatever to do with
these casual and unimportant reminiscences.
There are one or two matters of detail in Brahms' melody which it may be
worth while to notice. In the first place, it is conspicuously diatonic,
founded for the most part on the ordinary notes of the simplest scale,
and so indued with a robustness and a virility which is wanting to the
progression by semitones. Besides, he is thus enabled to keep his
chromatic effects in reserve, either for purposes of remote modulation,
as in the Æolsharfe, or for marking an emotional crisis, as in the slow
movement of the Horn Trio, or the close of the stanza in Feldeinsamkeit.
Against this, no doubt, may be set his use of the flattened sixth, which
is so frequent as to be almost a mannerism, but it will be observed that
this appears more often in the harmonisation of the melody than in its
actual statement. It is a point of colour, not a point of drawing.
Again, there are two general types of melodic curve; one which rises
and falls by a progression of consecutive notes, one which follows
the constituent parts of a chord in arpeggio. As a rule, the great
melodies of the world contain elements of both, with a characteristic
preponderance of the former; and attempts to construct tunes out of the
latter alone, as, for instance, the opening theme of Weber's Second
Pianoforte Sonata, have usually ended in disappointment. But to this
rule Brahms is an exception. In a large number of his themes the
arpeggio predominates, and always with a special interest and a special
personality. Thus, in Von ewiger Liebe, in the Sapphic Ode, in the
Violoncello tune, from the first movement of the B flat, Sestett we have
melodies designed after this pattern which are not only clear and
salient, but strikingly beautiful as well. It will be seen that in all
three cases the same device is employed, a passage from dominant to
mediant, which leaves the intervening tonic untouched, and in this small
matter is indicated the real secret of their effectiveness. Brahms does
not merely take the harmonic notes as they are presented by the simple
arpeggio, he makes selection among them, omitting one and emphasising
another, until he has given character to the whole progression. It is
hardly extravagant to say that there is as much difference between a
chord-tune of Brahms and a chord-tune of Weber as between a well-written
accompaniment figure and an Alberti bass.
A third feature is the remarkable variety and ingenuity of his metrical
system. The device of cross-rhythm acquires with him an entirely new
significance; it does not defy the restrictions of the bar, but totally
disregards them. In the first movement of the Violin Concerto, for
instance, the measure of three crotchets is traversed by a phrase of
five thrice repeated, the effect of which is a momentary obliteration of
the time signature, and the substitution not of a similar rhythm in
slower tempo, but of an interpolated phrase, which seems to stand wholly
out of relation to the beat: and yet the passage does not project from
the general plane of the movement, as do the famous syncopated chords in
the Eroica, it is woven into the texture, and forms a homogeneous part
of the substance. Again Brahms is fond of placing his melody so that the
stress falls outside the principal accent of the bar, thus baffling the
hearer who feels that rhythm and tempo are really the same, but is yet
conscious that for the moment they do not coincide. It would be an
interesting experiment for any musician, who has never seen the Quartett
in G minor, to write down from dictation the first Pianoforte phrase of
the intermezzo; and an instance even more striking may be found in the
first movement of the Clarinet Quintett, where the string melody seems
to be shifted forward a quaver in advance of the beat, until the solo
instrument sets the passage back in its place, and the discrepancy is
resolved. Here, then, is another reason why the music of Brahms is
difficult at a first hearing. 'Was ist das überhaupt für ein Takt?' said
the Viennese critics, after vainly endeavouring to count their way
through a complicated passage, and the inexperienced beginner will often
feel tempted to sympathise with their impatience. But, as we gradually
learn how to thread the intricacies of the phrase, and how to balance
the alternatives that proffer their incompatible claims, we gain a more
lasting pleasure from the intellectual stimulus than can ever be
afforded by glowing harmony or by opulence of tone. And if it be
objected that this is little better than a musical enigma, a mere piece
of child's play below the dignity of a serious art, then the answer is,
that dramatic irony must fall under the same condemnation, for it aims
at precisely the same effect. To confuse the noble with the trivial
employment of artistic illusion, is to see no difference between a play
of Sophocles and a puppet show.