Op. 116 is made up of two books of small pieces called Fantaisien and
divided into capriccios and intermezzi, seven in all. A bold, restless
capriccio, a presto in D minor, begins the set. Here is the later
Brahms with a vengeance. Cross accents, harmonic cross-relations, and
what Hadow calls organic unity in the emotional aspect with organic
diversity in the choice of keys. Very daring, very difficult is this
energetic composition. In the seventeenth bar we find the Hungarian
creeping in, in the characteristic Brahms style, but it only peeps at
you for a few bars and is lost in the hurly-burly of mixed rhythms and
tonalities. The entire character of the piece is resolute, vigorous and
powerful. It is finely developed both in the emotional and intellectual
aspects.
The intermezzo in A minor which follows is lovely. In its native
simplicity it is almost as noteworthy as the introduction to the Chopin
Ballade in F major-A minor. Its sweet melancholy has the resigned
quality that Maeterlinck speaks of when describing an old man who
sits serenely in his chair and listens to the spiritual messages in
the air; sits humbly, peacefully, with sweetly folded hands, and
awaits--awaits what? The tranquillity of this nocturne is unbroken even
in the second part, where a whispering figure in the treble enlaces
the theme. It is another of those vaporish mysteries, those shadowy
forms seen at dusk near the gray, thin edges of forests. Whether from
caprice or logic Brahms makes a chromatic détour of an entire line
before the coda. It is as interesting as it is unusual. This intermezzo
is for pure, pious souls, and it is not very young music. It contains
an unusual sequence of chords of the seventh in two parts, the fifths
being omitted.
Of different calibre is the capriccio in G minor. No. 3 of the set.
Passionate, agitated and intensely moving is the first theme, and the
second in E flat major recalls to Mr. Fuller-Maitland the style of the
early piano sonatas. But there is freer modulation and more economy of
material. Brahms was not a young man when he wrote this opus, yet for
the most part it is astonishingly youthful and elastic. There is fire
and caprice in this composition that make it extremely effective for
the concert stage.
More remote, but exquisitely tender and intimate, is the intermezzo
which begins the second book of op. 116. It is my favorite number, and
its caressing accents set you dreaming. In the entire range of piano
literature I cannot recall a more individual and more beautiful piece
of music, and I am fully conscious that I am writing these words and
all they implicate.
Solemnly the triolen are sung in the bass, but the treble phrase
that follows is purely feminine and questioning. So slender are the
outlines of this piece that they seem to wave and weave in the air. The
pianissimi are almost too spiritual to translate into tone; and yet
throughout, despite the stillness of the music, its rich quiet, there
is no hint of the sensuous. The luxuriance of color is purely of the
spirit--the spirit that broods over the mystery and beauty of life.
Brahms’ music is never sexless; but at times he seems to withdraw from
the dust, the flesh-pots and the noise of life, and erects in his heart
a temple wherein may be worshipped Beauty.
Of ineffable, haunting beauty is this intermezzo; and it is worth a
wilderness of some sonatas and loudly trumpeted rhapsodies by men
acclaimed of great reputation. The ending is benign.
The next intermezzo, in E minor, is, I confess, gnomic for me. It
is marked andante con grazia ed intimissimo sentimento. It is in
six-eight time, and built on phrases of two notes. Intimate, yes, but
the intimacy is all on the side of the composer, for you must long
pursue this cryptic bit of writing before you begin to unravel its
complicated meanings. The composition is extremely original, extremely
poetic; more like a sigh, a half-uttered complaint of a melancholy
soul. To play it you must first be a poet, then a pianist.
The next intermezzo is really a minuet. It is in E, and finely
differentiated from its companions of the volume.
A capriccio, also in D minor, closes this work. It is quite brilliant,
and, oddly enough, contains a full-fledged bravoura passage, in the
nature of a cadenza, and after the most approved modern manner. It,
too, would be extremely effective in concert.
Op. 117, three intermezzi, leads off with a delicious cradle song,
which I cannot quite agree with Max Vogrich, as being fit to lull to
slumber a royal babe. Indeed, the child rocked to sleep by Brahms
is not so aristocratic nor so delicate as the infant of the Chopin
Berçeuse but it is just as precious, even if homelier. The character
of the music is confessedly Scottish, and has for a motto Herder’s
“Schlaf sanft, mein kind, schlaf sanft und schön!” The harmonies are
thick, crowded, and the melody charmingly naïve and childlike. One
might reasonably expect from Brahms the vision of some intellectual
looking baby, its skull covered with metaphysical bumps and from its
mouth issuing sounds of senile wisdom. But this is not the case, for it
is a real lullaby we listen to, even if the second section is darker
than one expects. The return of the subject with the octave in the
upper voice is well managed, and the composition ends in cooing repose.
An intermezzo in B flat minor follows, and after playing and
digesting it let me hear no more complaints about Brahms’ style being
“unpianistic.” This number has been called Schumannish, but the
comparison is a surface one. Its pages are truly Brahms, and very
difficult it is to play in its insolent, airy ease.
The last intermezzo of the book in C sharp minor is of sterner stuff.
Fuller-Maitland finds in it a suggestion of the finale of Brahms’ third
symphony. For me it is most exotic, and has a flavor of the Asiatic
in its naked, monophonic, ballad-like measures. There is an evident
narrative of sorrowful mien, and you encounter a curious refrain in A,
as if one expostulated at the closing of some gruesome statement. Of
weighty import is this piece, and in it there is smothered irony and
slightly veiled suffering, and in it there stalks an apparition of woe,
of ennui. Page fourteen shows the hand of a master.
There are some who find this op. 117 a distinct gain over the previous
work. I cannot truthfully say that I appreciate this criticism, for
both volumes contain gems of the purest. Temperament has naturally its
own preferences. I have broadly indicated my favorite numbers, and
perhaps next year may discover new beauties in the compositions that
now fail to make a strong personal appeal. Certain it is that no number
should be slighted.
We now near the end, for only op. 118 and op. 119 remain to be
considered. The first intermezzo in A minor of the former opus starts
off in an exultant mood--a mood of joyful anticipation. In it you are
glad to be alive, to breathe the tonic air, to be smothered in the
sunshine. Tell me not in doleful numbers that Johannes Brahms cannot
be optimistic, cannot hitch his wagon to a star, cannot fight fate.
There is passionate intensity and swift motion in this intermezzo.
While playing it you are billowed up by the consciousness of power and
nobility of soul. The tonality is most diverting and varied.
The succeeding intermezzo is in F minor, and is andante. A very
graciously pretty piano piece it is, and well within the grasp of a
moderate technic. The melodic material is copious and rich, and the
harmonies very grateful. For example, play the F sharp section and the
following measures after the double bar in F sharp major; how genial,
what resource in modulatory tactics, what appreciation of diversity in
treatment!
A stirring and royal ballade in G minor follows. It is Brahms of the
masculine gender, the warlike, impetuous recounter of brave deeds and
harsh contest. Although the key coloring is gloomy, there is too much
action, spirit and bravery in the ballade for gloom to perch long on
the banners of the composer. A wonderful second subject in B interrupts
the rush of the battle, which is soon resumed. Even its pauses are
brilliant.
The fourth intermezzo in A flat has quite a savor of the rococo, with
its gentle theme and response. Something of the Old World hovers in its
rustling bars, the workmanship of which is very ingenious, especially
in the management of the basses in the second part. There is a tiny
current of agitation in this intermezzo, despite its delicacy of
contour, its lightness of treatment.
No. 5 is a romance suffused with idyllic feeling. There is atmosphere
and there is the heart quality, a quality lacking in most modern
composers. A very grateful composition, simple and serene, is this
romance.
E flat minor is the key of the last intermezzo of op. 118, and a trying
composition it is, requiring nimble fingers, fleet fingers and a light,
strong wrist. The idea reminds me of one of Brahms’ earlier pieces,
a mere kernel of a figure, which is expanded, amplified, broadened,
deepened by the composer at will. It is full of fantastic poetry, and
there is sweep and vision in the composition, which has a ring of
dolour and is full of the sombreness of a sad, strong soul.
Op. 119 ends the Brahms music for the piano. The daily studies were
doubtlessly written before. But the four pieces that comprise op.
119 may be said to be practically the last music for the instrument
he loved so faithfully. There is no falling off in inspiration or
workmanship. The idea and its expression are woven in one strand; there
is much polishing of phrase and no lack of robustness.
The opening number is in B minor, an intermezzo, an adagio, and full
of reverent, sedate music. Since Beethoven no one can vie with Brahms
in writing a slow, sober movement; one in which the man, moral,
intellectual and physical, girds up his loins, conserves his forces
and says his greatest and noblest. The sustained gravity, the profound
feeling never mellows into the pathetic fallacy, and of the academic
there is not a trace. This adagio is deeply moving.
The next intermezzo in E minor is of extreme loveliness; its poco
agitato is the rustling of the leaves in the warm west wind, but they
are flecked by the sunshine. A tremulous sensibility informs this
andantino, and its bars are stamped by genius.
Fancy the gayest, blithest intermezzo, marked “joyfully” and you will
hear the enchanting one in C. The theme is in the middle voice, and the
elasticity, sweetness and freedom throughout are simply delightful. It
is three pages of undefiled happiness, and only to be compared to that
wonderful rhythmic study in A flat by Chopin, the supplementary study
in the Fetis method. But Chopin is so sad and Brahms so merry, yet the
general architectonic is not dissimilar.
A very Schumannish and vigorous rhapsodic in E flat closes the set,
and is in all probability the last piano piece penned by the composer.
In it Brahms returns to an early love, Schumann, and there are echoes
of the march of the Davidsbündler in the beginning; no one but Brahms
could have written the section in C minor or A flat. This rhapsodie is
for me not as interesting as the one in G minor, but it is brilliant,
and requires wrists of steel.
One who is better qualified to speak on the subject than myself, Mr.
Max Vogrich, made the following suggestions as to the order in which
these pieces may be played in concert. He writes:--
As the pianist cannot possibly play all twenty pieces in one concert,
he must perforce undertake the painful task of selection. Every
concert player knows that he can never win over his audience to
sympathy, unless himself in fullest sympathy with the compositions
which he performs. He will therefore play op. 116 through, and
find in the very first number (Capriccio) an exquisite and highly
effective piece, teeming with trying octave passages. If he will, he
can sufficiently exhibit his technic--and his muscular fortitude--in
this number. No. 2 (Intermezzo) and No. 3 (Capriccio) will strike him
as less effective. But in No. 4 (Intermezzo) he will discover a gem
of the first water, an adagio enchanting in its wondrous sonority--a
study in tone. The two next following intermezzi, again, will
afford less complete gratification by reason of their overcharged
seriousness, also the Capriccio, conceived somewhat in the spirit of
a study, and forming the close of op. 116. Quickly taking up op. 117
(Three Intermezzi), the player opens it at No. 1, a slumber song, but
one excelling, in depth of feeling, delicacy and absorbedness of mood,
anything ever produced in this class of poetry, Schumann’s Träumerei
excepted. It was penned by a king, and only a king should play it to
lull to slumber a royal babe.
Would anyone be moved to tears by pure music, let him listen to the
two succeeding intermezzi, especially the last, which is fitted to
bring sentimental souls to the verge of despair. Brahms must have
experienced much evil in his life! Finally, our growingly enthusiastic
pianist reaches op. 118 and op. 119. And now he cannot tear himself
away from the piano. No further thought of concert or audience
disturbs him now; nor can he devote a thought to careful selection.
He further remarks that:
Since the days of the Fantasiestücke, the Kinderscenen, the
Kreisleriana and the Novelletten, that is, since more than half a
century, the entire range of piano literature has had nothing to show
which could be even remotely compared in intellectual import with
these twenty pieces by Brahms.
Brahms has the individual voice, and in his piano music his almost
Spartan simplicity sometimes unmasks the illusory quality of the
instrument. Yet, I protest if you tell me that he does not write
Klaviermässig. His technics are peculiar, but they make the piano sound
beautiful; an eloquent tone is needed for Brahms, and your ten fingers
must be as ten flexible voices. He never writes salon music, with its
weak, vapid, affected mien. You needs must play much Chopin and Liszt,
for too much Brahms makes the fingers sluggish, that is sluggish for
the older and more rapid-fingered composers.
Touching on the content of his piano music we find much variety.
He has felt the pessimism of his times, but his ideals were noble,
and no man could prefer Fielding as an author and not be robust in
temperament. He is often enigmatic and hard to decipher. Often and
purposely he seems to engage himself in a hedge of formidable quickset,
but once penetrate it and you find blooming the rarest flowers, whose
perfume is delicious. To me this is the eternal puzzle; that Brahms,
the master of ponderous learning, can yet be so tender, so innocent
of soul, so fragile, so childlike. He must have valiantly protected
his soul against earthly smudging to keep it so pure, so sweet to the
very end. I know little of his life, except that he was modest to
gruffness, that he loved beer, the society of women and good cooking.
Very material all these, but the man was nevertheless a great poet and
a great musical thinker.
His piano music is gay, is marmoreal in its repose, is passionate,
is humorous, is jolly, is sad, is depressing, is morbid, recondite,
poetic, fantastic and severe. He pours into the elastic form of the
sonata hot romantic passion, and in the loosest textured smaller pieces
he can be as immovable as bronze, as plastic as clay. He is sometimes
frozen by grief and submerged by thought, but he is ever fascinating,
for he has something to say and knows how to say it in an individual
way. Above all he is profoundly _human_ and touches humanity at many
contacts.
Let me conclude by quoting from that just critic of Brahms, Louis
Ehlert: “It is characteristic of his nature that he was born in a
Northern seaport, and that his father was a contrabassist. Sea air and
basses, these are the ground elements of his music. Nowhere is there
to be found a Southern luxuriance, amid which golden fruits smile
upon every bough, nor that superabundance of blissful exuberance that
spreads its fragrant breath over hill and dale. Now here, however, on
the other hand, may there be met that enervating self-absorption,
renunciation of effort or Southern brooding submission to fate.... He
neither dazzles nor does he conquer with an assault. Slowly but surely
he wins all those hearts that demand from art not only that it shall
excite, but also that it be filled with sacred fire and endowed with
the lovely proportions of the beautiful.”
Brahms is indeed an artist of the beautiful and nowhere is this better
exemplified than in his piano music.