II

Brahms must have been completely worn out when he presented his

credentials to Schumann one memorable October morning in 1853. He had

walked part of the way to Düsseldorf because his money was gone, and

not being of Heinrich Heine’s mercurial temperament, he probably did

not think of the witty poet’s “fine plums between Jena and Weimar,” but

to Schumann’s questioning, answered by playing the C major sonata, his

op. 1.

Little wonder Schumann, great artist and great critic, should have

declared of it that it was “music the like of which he had never heard

before,” and proclaimed the shy, awkward youth a master. It was enough

to turn the head of anyone but a Brahms, who had just played at Weimar.

Through Liszt’s golden generosity the young man played in concert his

op. 4, the scherzo in E flat minor, which Liszt praised warmly, and its

romantic flush and passion caused Brahms’ name to be added as a strong,

promising one to the revolutionary and romantic party.

We heard Von Bülow interpret the sonata in C when he played here last.

It is a sterling work, clearly, forcibly presented, the keynote of

the opening movement being virile determination. Here was a young

giant who delighted in wrestling with his material, who enjoyed its

very manipulation. You can see the big muscles in his broad back

bulge out to the bursting point, for the task he had set himself was

no facile one. Nurtured on Bach and Beethoven, the new music-maker

started out full of the ideals of these two masters, and you are not

surprised by the strong and strange resemblance to Beethoven’s op. 106,

the Hammer-Klavier sonata in B flat. This resemblance is more than

rhythmic, but it stops after the enunciation of the first subject, for

following a subsidiary the lyric theme is surely Brahms’, while the

working-out section, which begins with the use of the second theme,

is simply extraordinary for a beginner. It reveals all the devices of

counterpoint used in the freest fashion, and doubtless led Schumann to

class the composer as a romanticist, for learning never moved about

with such airy fantasy. Doubtless, too, Schumann’s monophonic sins

rose before him in the presence of this genial polyphony. Just compare

the Abegg variations with the slow movement of this sonata and you may

realize the superior educational advantages enjoyed by Brahms.

The andante is built on the theme of an old German Minnelied, the words

of which begin so: “Verstohlen geht der Mond, blau, blau, Blümelein.”

The left hand sounds eight single tones: then both hands, imitating the

chorus, play in transparent four-part harmony. The effect is simplicity

itself and seems to upspring from the very soil of the Fatherland;

Brahms takes his subject and treats it with sweet reticence, even to

the coda, one of his most charming. The scherzo leaps boldly into the

middle of things, a habit of Brahms, and is Beethovian in its economy

of material and sharply defined outlines. The trio is very melodious;

the whole movement impresses you as the work of a musical thinker.

The finale in strict form interests me less, although there is a

characteristic song theme. The entire sonata overflows with vigor and

imagination.

The second sonata, op. 2, in F sharp minor, brings us from the study

chamber to more stirring life. The design of the first movement is

large. We get the first touch of the grand manner--and Brahms is

genuinely dramatic, the drama of the physical plane as well as of the

psychical. There can be no mistaking the accents of the introduction,

with its well sustained element of suspense, its skips--a familiar

feature in the Brahms piano music--and the thundering octaves. Here

is virtuosity in plenty for you in the first two pages, and if after

playing pages three and four you find Brahms deficient in romantic

warmth, then let us unclasp hands and seek you some well-footed byway.

This second theme is nobility itself, and written in full chords; the

harmonies are not so dispersed as you might imagine; the effect is

sonorous and beautiful; of darkness there is none, and the clarity

of the design is admirable. The polyphonic branches of this great

trunk are finely etched against a dramatic background, and this most

energetic of allegros has no savor of Schumann’s sonata in the same

key; and yet the temptation to imitate must have been well-nigh

irresistible to a neophyte. The very key color might tempt even the

most strong headed, but Brahms was too prepossessed with his own

thoughts, and so we get a movement that is a great step in advance

over the first sonata.

Both the second and third movements are built on the same thematic

idea, an extremely simple one of four notes, B, C, D, A sharp, with

an answer. The key is B minor. The scherzo is extremely ingenious.

The trio is in D, and abounds in harmonic and rhythmic variety. The

last movement actually contains in the introduction a scale run. The

movement itself reminds me, but in an odd, perverted way, of the second

movement of Beethoven’s sonata, op. 90, in E minor. The finale contains

a big climax, also in scales that look very un-Brahmsian. This sonata

in F sharp minor is much more significant than its predecessor.

When you have reached the third sonata in F minor, op. 5, the

broad, far-reaching uplands of the composer’s genius are clearly

discerned, for his two earlier efforts in the sonata form, despite

their mastery of technics of form, still remain grounded on the

territory of Beethoven and even of Schumann. But in the third sonata

we are impressed by a certain passionate grandeur and originality

of utterance, a freedom and elasticity of movement, a more nervous

fibre, a deeper feeling, a deeper fire. I consider--and remember that

my single opinion is nothing as compared to the number of them that

believe the same--that in the F minor sonata the most beautiful in the

genius of Brahms has flowered. The first allegro is heaven-storming,

the second theme, oh! so like the master at his best, while page

after page unrolls for us the warp and woof of the most logical

musical imagination since Bach. Brahms not a melodist! Read that first

movement, and if that does not convince you, play the andante in A

flat, the most exquisite lyrical thing he has ever penned for piano.

Its motto is from Sternau, “Der Abend dämmert, das Mondlicht scheint,”

and the picture is magical in its tender beauty and suggestiveness. It

harks back to the old world romance, to some moonlit dell, wherein love

hovers for a night, and about all is the mystery of sky and wood.

Take the poco pin lento, in four-sixteenth time, with its recurring

sixths, divided so amorously for two hands; with any one else but

Brahms this well used interval would be banal, but he knows its

possibilities and the entire section with the timid-sweet chords of the

tenth evokes a mood seldom met with. Moonlight may be hinted at, as in

the middle part, the trio of Chopin’s scherzo in B minor. Here is an

analogous picture. The coda has always brought back to me Hans Sachs’

“Dem Vogel der heut’ sang.” Yes, Brahms knew his Wagner, too, and no

doubt would have laughed in his gnomic beard if you had mentioned the

mood-resemblance. Moriz Moszkowski has also seized the same idea, for

in his Momen Musicale in C sharp minor he has for a second subject this

identical one. It comes originally from Schumann’s song, Sonntags am

Rhein. The resemblance to the Meistersinger lies principally in the

third bar of this coda in the upward inflection. Brahms has treated the

entire movement with unsurpassable poetry. In the scherzo which follows

he is at his best; a certain grim, diabolic humor being hurled at you

as if some being, ambuscaded in Parnassus, took pleasure in showering

heavy masses of metal on your unprotected head. The tempo suggests the

valse, but an epical valse. This is the greatest scherzo ever composed

by Brahms, and the trio takes us back to Beethoven.

In the intermezzo--the Rückblick--the resemblance to Mendelssohn has

not escaped Mr. Fuller-Maitland. It is in the key of B flat minor,

and is a far-off echo, as if heard through sad, falling waters, of

the theme of the andante. The bass is naught else--and this no writer

has dared or perhaps thought necessary to notice--than the Funeral

March from Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. The familiar triplet in

thirty-second notes emphasizes the similarity, but what a vast distance

there is in this tragic page, full of veiled suffering, and the pretty

and elegiac march of Mendelssohn!

The finale is strong and full of characteristic agitation. The technics

throughout are Beethoven’s, but a latter day Beethoven. Heavy chord

work, no scales, passages, extreme clearness and plenty of involved

rhythms. The character of this sonata is lofty, not altogether serene,

but the strong, self-contained soul is there; it is music for men of

strong nerves and big hearts, and not for the sick or shallow brained.

There is a piano sonata arranged from the sextet in B flat for strings.

It is not the arrangement of Brahms, but by Robert Keller, and is not

difficult. It is chiefly interesting because of its being an agreeable

and available score of the famous chamber music.

The scherzo in E flat minor is a separate opus--four in the published

list. Whether it was ever intended to fit in the more extended scheme

we do not know; probably Dr. Hanslick could enlighten us. It is the

airiest and loveliest thing imaginable, and while the composer solves

some very pretty canonic problems, the learning is never burdensome.

As if Brahms had resolved to let gravity go hence, he wings his way in

graceful plastic flight, not forgetting in his second theme to give

Grieg the melodic idea for the first allegro of the popular piano

concerto. There are two trios, both interesting, the second more to

my taste, because of its lyricism. Just here we get a Chopin touch in

the C sharp minor theme, with its rolling, arpeggiated basses. The

development and return of the subject is most happily managed. Why

this piano piece does not figure often upon the programmes of recitals

is only to be explained by the hide-bound, timid conservatism of the

average concert pianist. I swear to you I firmly believe that the

decadence of the piano recital--and who can deny that it is not in

decay--is to be ascribed to the fact that the scheme of the programmes

is so lugubriously monotonous. Bach-Liszt, Beethoven sonata, Chopin

or Schumann group, Liszt Hungarian rhapsody, there you have it season

after season; whereas, a far-seeing pianist might introduce an

occasional novelty by Brahms, or indeed by any one, and with the thin

edge of the wedge once in, a complete topsy-turveying of old methods

would ensue, and what a boon would it not be for the concert-goer!

The ballades do not next claim our notice by right of opus, for the

variations, op. 9, follow the sonata in F minor, ops. 6, 7 and 8 being

given over to two sets of six songs and the familiar piano trio in

B. But I prefer treating the six books of variations together. The

ballades, four in number, are labelled op. 10. The first in D minor has

the narrative quality imperatively demanded by the form, but Brahms has

his own notions about the time beat, and so we find the first two in

common time instead of the usual triple measure. Thus there is a gain

in dignity and stateliness. The D minor ballade is rather a lugubrious

work divided into an andante and allegro. The empty fifth harmony

in the bass, the slow progression in the treble, gives the theme a

mournful and Gaelic character. In runic tones the tale of Herder’s

Scottish ballade, Edward, is told, and the dead hero home to his love

is brought. The section in D, with its triplets, gives us some surcease

from the gloom, although there is a peculiarly hollow effect in the

triplet imitation in the bass. This ballade is almost sinister in

coloring and touches of Brahms’ irony are present. It is not a piece

for joyous, festive celebrations, but is nevertheless, finely felt,

finely wrought music.

The next one in D is almost popular and is very lovely and original.

The theme, so gentle, so winning, so heartfelt, is sung in octaves,

and although the intervals are not favorable for a legato, yet a

perfect legato is demanded. The first page of this ballade must needs

loosen the obdurate heart strings of a Finck. The second theme in B

minor is in strong contrast rhythmically, in content being stern and

imperious. I confess the molto staccato leggiero is a bit of Brahms

that always puzzles me. I find analogies in Beethoven, in those

mysterious pianissimi in his symphonies and concertos where the soul

is almost freed from the earthly vesture and for a moment hovers about

in the twilight of uncertain tonalities and rhythms. Brahms, as Ehlert

says, has this gift of catching and imprisoning moods that for want of

a better name we call, spiritual. The awe, the awful mystery of the

life in us, the life about us, is felt by Beethoven and Brahms and

marvellously expressed by them. The reappearance, to give an example

of what I mean, of the theme of the scherzo in the last movement of

Beethoven’s fifth symphony has just such a ghostly effect. Later on

I shall quote other instances in Brahms. In the D major ballade the

return to the first idea and in the luscious key of B is charming, and

the piece ends in soft æolian harmonies. This ballade is a masterpiece

in miniature.

The third ballade in B minor is in the nature of an intermezzo. The

open fifths in the bass give the piece an ironic tinge, and the figure

of the opening recalls instantly to the student a similar one in the E

flat minor scherzo. Indeed, to push the simile further, this intermezzo

might be almost taken for a sarcastic, an ironic commentary upon the

earlier composition. In six-eight time, it is a swinging allegro, and

the ethereal hush of the second part is an excellent foil. The fourth

ballade in B commends itself to the pianist of moderate ability, for

it is not difficult and is very cantabile. Simplicity of idea and

treatment is maintained throughout. The middle section is full of

intimate feeling and poetic murmurings. It requires a beautiful touch

and a mastery of the pedals. These four ballades should be on the piano

of every aspiring pianist. They are able illustrations of what Brahms

can do in small, concise forms. They must not be compared to the more

extended form and more florid content of the Chopin ballades, which are

in the main unapproachable. With Brahms there is no suspicion of a set

piece; in Chopin the virtuoso often faces us. It is, after all, the

German and the Pole, and further commentary would be superfluous.

And now to the piano variations. Brahms is not only the greatest

variationist of his times, but with Bach and Beethoven the greatest of

all times. Oddly enough, we must join Brahms’ name with the two earlier

masters whenever we approach the serious, the severe side of the art. I

refer to Spitta’s pertinent remark about the variation form.

The old variation form, above all, he says, is brought out from the

treasures of the old composers, and glorified in his hands. Brahms’

variations are something quite different from what had been commonly

known by that name. Their prototype is Bach’s aria with thirty

variations, and this work is an elaboration of the form known as

the passacaglia. In this the determining idea is not the addition

of figures or of various accompaniments to the theme or melody,

but the persistent identity of the bass. This continues the same

through all the variations; upon that, a free treatment is worked

out--not, however, excluding an occasional reference to the original

melody. Beethoven so far adhered to the usually accepted form as to

restrict the supremacy of the bass to alternate use with variations

in the melody, and Schumann followed his example. This form was not

adopted by other great masters, and even Beethoven and Schumann only

occasionally used it. Brahms, so rich in inventive combinations,

stands nearer to Bach than to Beethoven, but has much of Beethoven’s

freer style of treatment. Augmentation or diminution of the phrases

forming the theme are a manner of variation never used by Beethoven,

and employed by Brahms only in the variations in the two first sonatas,

and in the independent Air with Variations, op. 9. In this it is

often surprisingly ingenious, but he must have thought the process

incompatible with his strict sense of form, just as he gave up changes

of key from one variation to the next, which Schumann often used and

Beethoven allowed himself only once (op. 34).

The first set of variations made by Brahms is on a theme of Schumann in

F sharp minor. It is a beautiful theme, marked Ziemlich Langsam, and is

familiar to all Schumann students; for it is, if I remember aright,

the first of the Albumblätter. These variations dimly reveal the

inexhaustible fancy of the composer. He views his subject from every

possible viewpoint; he sees it as a philosopher, he grimly contemplates

it as a cynic; he sings it in mellifluous accents, he plays with it,

teases it contrapuntally, and alternately freezes it into glittering

stalactites and disperses it in warm, violet-colored vapors. The theme

is never lost; it lurks behind formidable ambushes of skips, double

notes and octaves, or it slaps you in the face, its voice threatening,

its size ten times increased by its harmonic garb. It wooes, caresses,

sighs, smiles, coquets, and sneers--in a word, a modern magician weaves

for you the most delightful stories imaginable, all the while damnably

distracting your attention and harrowing your nerves by spinning in the

air polyphonic cups, saucers, plates and balls, and never letting them

for a moment reach the earth.

Louis Ehlert believes that the Brahms variation was begotten by a

classical father, the thirty-two variations of Beethoven; and a

romantic mother, the Symphonic Studies of Schumann. The comparison is

apt enough. The first variation on the F sharp minor theme of Schumann

seems more like a quiet restatement of the idea; in the second the

bass becomes very important; the third calls for no special mention,

but the fourth and fifth are bold, capricious, and the sixth very

brilliant; the seventh is very short, but pregnant, and the eighth is

superb. A pedal bass supports the faintly whispered theme, which is

heard in waving rhythms, as the sobbing of the wind through the trees.

In Paderewski’s strongly individualized Variations in A minor there is

a variation built in this fashion, and you may find, in Tschaïkowsky’s

interesting Variations in F, another example.

In the famous ninth variation of this set we find Brahms indulging

in a very delicate and ingenious fancy. He has combined with the

original theme the entire arpeggio work of Schumann’s little piece in

B minor from the Bunten Blättern, op. 99, no. 5. As Spitta says, how

thoroughly Brahms had thought out the spirit of the variation is seen

in the fact that he is fond of interchanging the modulatory relations

of the two phrases of the theme. The place where this generally occurs

is at the beginning of the second part; but also in the second half

of the first part. The digressions, more or less important, which he

admits, are always so chosen that the effect of the newly introduced

key approximately answers to that produced by the original key of the

preceding or following phrase. Even the cadenzas appear altered from

this point of view.

In the tenth the bass is used in the upper part, and the subject

derived from the diminishing to half or quarter notes of the beginning

of the subject; the essential harmonies are preserved in the same

succession, while the subject is worked out to fill the required

measures, so the reflections of the theme are diverse and glancing.

The eleventh variation is brief, but full of meat, and in it the main

idea almost disappears in cloudy octaves, in which an occasional

middle voice may be faintly discerned. The twelfth is a heart-breaker,

and bold to extremes. The coda ends in a whirlwind of skips, and the

wonder-working of the Paganini studies is dimly presaged.

No. 13 is in the shape of a toccata in double notes, and is capital;

but my favorite variation, over which you may dream soft, summer night

dreams, is the next, the fourteenth. This is a true nocturne, and its

hesitating tones, over an undulating bass, tell of the dear, dead

Chopin, lying near Bellini, in Père la Chaise.

Variation fifteen is in G flat and in the Lydian mode, the coda-finale

is as if Brahms feared to part from his theme and took a lingering

leave taking. These variations are worthy of the deepest study.