CHAPTER I

[Illustration: _Brahms at the age of 20._

LONDON. EDWARD ARNOLD: 1905]

THE LIFE

OF

JOHANNES BRAHMS

BY

FLORENCE MAY

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I.

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_

LONDON

EDWARD ARNOLD

41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, BOND STREET, W.

1905

(_All rights reserved_)

TO

THE MANY KIND FRIENDS

WHOSE SYMPATHY

HAS HELPED ME DURING THE WRITING OF THESE VOLUMES,

THEY ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

PREFACE

The biographical materials from which I have written the following Life

of Brahms have, excepting in the few instances indicated in footnotes,

been gathered by me, at first hand, chiefly in the course of several

Continental journeys, the first of which was undertaken in the summer of

1902. Dates of concerts throughout the volumes have been authenticated

by reference to original programmes or contemporary journals.

My aim in giving some account of Brahms' compositions has not been a

technical one. So far as I have exceeded purely biographical limits my

object has been to assist the general music-lover in his enjoyment of

the noble achievements of a beautiful life.

I feel it impossible to ignore numerous requests made to me to include

in my book some particulars of my own acquaintance with Brahms--begun

when I was a young student of the pianoforte. I have not wished,

however, to interrupt the main narrative of the Life by the introduction

of slight personal details, and therefore place together in an

introductory chapter some of my recollections and impressions, published

a few years ago in the _Musical Magazine_. These were verified by

reference to letters to my mother in which I recorded events as they

occurred. Written before the commencement of the Biography, they are in

no way essential to its completeness, which will not suffer should they

remain unread.

* * * * *

I am indebted for valuable assistance and sympathy to:

H.R.H. Alexander Frederick, Landgraf of Hesse.

Herr Carl Bade.

Fräulein Berninger.

Mrs. Jellings Blow (b. Finke).

Fräulein Theodore Blume.

Frau Professor Böie.

Herr Professor Dr. Heinrich Bulthaupt.

Herr Professor Julius Buths.

The late Gerard F. Cobb, Esq.

Frederic R. Comec, Esq.

Herr Hugo Conrat.

Fräulein Ilse Conrat.

Fräulein Johanna Cossel.

Frau Elise Denninghoff-Giesemann.

Herr Geheimrath Dr. Hermann Deiters.

Herr Hofcapellmeister Albert Dietrich.

Herr k. k. Hofclavierfabrikant Friedrich Ehrbar.

Herr Geheimrath Dr. Engelmann.

Herr Professor Julius Epstein.

Fräulein Anna Ettlinger.

Frau Dr. Maria Fellinger.

Herr Professor Dr. Josef Gänsbacher.

Otto Goldschmidt, Esq., Hon. R.A.M., Member of Swedish A.M., etc.

Dr. Josef Ritter Griez von Ronse.

Herr Carl Graf.

Fräulein Marie Grimm.

Frau Grüber.

Herr Professor Robert Hausmann.

Fräulein Heyden.

Herr Professor Walter Hübbe.

Herr Dr. Gustav Jansen.

Frau Dr. Marie Janssen.

Herr Professor Dr. Joseph Joachim.

Frau Dr. Louise Langhans-Japha.

Mrs. Johann Kruse.

Herr Carl Lüstner.

J. A. Fuller Maitland, Esq., F.S.A.

Herr Dr. Eusebius Mandyczewski, Archivar to the Gesellschaft

der Musikfreunde.

Carl Freiherr von Meysenbug.

Hermann Freiherr von Meysenbug.

Herr Richard Mühlfeld, Hofkammermusiker.

Herr Professor Dr. Ernst Naumann.

Herr Professor Dr. Carl Neumann.

Herr Christian Otterer.

Fräulein Henriette Reinthaler.

Herr Capellmeister Dr. Rottenberg.

Herr Kammermusiker Julius Schmidt.

Herr Fritz Schnack.

Herr Professor Dr. Bernhard Scholz.

Herr Heinrich Schröder.

Fräulein Marie Schumann.

Frau Simons (b. Kyllmann).

Herr Professor Josef Sittard.

Herr Dr. Julius Spengel.

Mrs. Edward Speyer.

Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, Mus. Doc.

Mrs. Edward Stone.

Frau Celestine Truxa.

Herr Superintendent Vogelsang.

Herr Dr. Josef Victor Widmann.

And others who prefer that their names should not be expressly mentioned.

F. M.

SOUTH KENSINGTON,

_September, 1905_.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

PAGE

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 1

CHAPTER I

1760-1845

The Brahms family--Johann Jakob Brahms; his youth and marriage--Birth

and childhood of Johannes--The Alster Pavilion--Otto

F. W. Cossel--Johannes gives a private subscription concert 45

CHAPTER II

1845-1848

Edward Marxsen--Johannes' first instruction in theory--Herr Adolph

Giesemann--Winsen-an-der-Luhe--Lischen--Choral Society of

school-teachers--'A.B.C.' Part-song by Johannes--The Amtsvogt

Blume--First public appearance--First visit to the opera 63

CHAPTER III

1848-1853

Johannes' first public concert--Years of struggle--Hamburg

Lokals--Louise Japha--Edward Reményi--Sonata in F sharp

minor--First concert-tour as Reményi's accompanist--Concerts in

Winsen, Celle, Lüneburg, and Hildesheim--Musical parties in

1853--Leipzig and Weimar--Robert Schumann--Joseph Joachim 83

CHAPTER IV

1853

Brahms and Reményi visit Joachim in Hanover--Concert at Court--Visit

to Liszt--Joachim and Brahms in Göttingen--Wasielewsky,

Reinecke, and Hiller--First meeting with Schumann--Albert

Dietrich 106

CHAPTER V

1853

Schumann's article 'New Paths'--Johannes in Hanover--Sonatas

in C major and F minor--Visit to Leipzig--First publications--Julius

Otto Grimm--Return to Hamburg viâ Hanover--Lost

Violin Sonata--Songs--Marxsen's influence as teacher 126

CHAPTER VI

1854-1855

Brahms at Hanover--Hans von Bülow--Robert and Clara Schumann

in Hanover--Schumann's illness--Brahms in Düsseldorf--Variations

on Schumann's theme in F sharp minor--B major Trio;

first public performance in New York--First attempt at symphony 153

CHAPTER VII

1855-1856

Lower Rhine Festival--Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt--Edward

Hanslick--Brahms as a concert-player--Retirement and study--Frau

Schumann in Vienna and London--Julius Stockhausen--Schumann's

death 179

CHAPTER VIII

1856-1858

Brahms and Joachim in Düsseldorf--Grimm in Göttingen--Brahms'

visit to Detmold--Carl von Meysenbug--Court Concertmeister

Bargheer--Joachim and Liszt--Brahms returns to Detmold--Summer

at Göttingen--Pianoforte Concerto in D minor and

Orchestral Serenade in D major tried privately in Hanover 204

CHAPTER IX

1859

First public performances of the Pianoforte Concerto in Hanover,

Leipzig, and Hamburg--Brahms, Joachim, and Stockhausen

appear together in Hamburg--First public performance of the

Serenade in D major--Ladies' Choir--Fräulein Friedchen

Wagner--Compositions for women's chorus 225

CHAPTER X

1859-1861

Third season at Detmold--'Ave Maria' and 'Begräbnissgesang'; performed

in Hamburg and Göttingen--Second Serenade first publicly performed in

Hamburg--Lower Rhine Festival--Summer at Bonn--Music at Herr

Kyllmann's--Life in Hamburg--Variations on an original theme first

performed in Leipzig by Frau Schumann--'Marienlieder'--First public

performance of the Sextet in B flat by the Joachim Quartet in

Hanover 243

CHAPTER XI

1861-1862

Concert season in Hamburg--Frau Denninghoff-Giesemann--Brahms

in Hamm--Herr Völckers and his daughters--Dietrich's visit to

Brahms--Music at the Halliers' and Wagners'--First public performance

of the G minor Quartet--Brahms in Oldenburg--Second

Serenade performed in New York--First and second Pianoforte

Quartets--'Magelone Romances'--First public performances of

the Handel Variations and Fugue in Hamburg and Leipzig by

Frau Schumann--Brahms' departure for Vienna 262

APPENDIX No. I

MUSICAL FORM--ABSOLUTE MUSIC--PROGRAMME MUSIC--BERLIOZ

AND WAGNER 282

APPENDIX No. II

THE MAGELONE ROMANCES--PIERRE DE PROVENCE 290

APPENDIX No. III

RULES OF THE HAMBURG LADIES' CHOIR 304

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

BRAHMS AT THE AGE OF TWENTY _Frontispiece_

No. 60, SPECKSTRASSE, HAMBURG _To face page_ 52

BRAHMS AND JOACHIM, 1855 " 182

BRAHMS AND STOCKHAUSEN, 1868 " 262

THE LIFE OF JOHANNES BRAHMS

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS

BADEN-BADEN.

It was to the kindness of Frau Schumann that I owed my introduction to

Brahms, which took place the very day of my arrival on my first visit to

Germany. I had had lessons from the great pianist during her visit to

London early in the year 1871, and on her departure from England she

allowed my father to arrange that I should follow her, as soon as I

could possibly get ready, to her home in Lichtenthal, a suburb of

Baden-Baden, in order to continue my studies under her guidance.

I can vividly recall the bright morning in the beginning of May on which

I arrived at Baden-Baden, rather home-sick and dreadfully tired, for

owing to a railway breakdown _en route_ my journey had occupied fourteen

hours longer than it ought to have done, and my father's arrangements

for my comfort had been completely upset. It was too early to go at once

to Frau Schumann's house, and I remember to have dreamily watched,

whilst waiting at the station, a passing procession of young girl

communicants in their white wreaths and veils, as I tried to realize

that I was, for the first time in my life, far away from home and from

England. When the morning was sufficiently advanced, I took an open

Droschke, and driving under the great trees of the Lichtenthaler Allée

to the door of Frau Schumann's house, I obtained the address of the

lodgings that had been taken for me in the village. Without alighting, I

proceeded at once to my rooms, where I was almost immediately joined by

Frau Schumann herself, who came round, as soon as she had finished

breakfast, to bid me welcome.

My delight at seeing the great artist again, combined with her

irresistible charm and kindness, at once made me feel less strange in my

new surroundings, and I joyfully accepted the invitation she gave me at

the close of a few minutes' visit, to go to her house the same afternoon

at four o'clock and take coffee with her in her family circle.

On presenting myself at the appointed hour, I was at once shown into a

pleasant balcony at the back of the house, overlooking garden and river.

In it was seated Frau Schumann with her daughters, and with a gentleman

whom she presently introduced to me as Herr Brahms. The name awakened in

my mind no special feeling of interest, nor did I look at its owner with

any particular curiosity. Brahms' name was at that time almost unknown

in England, and I had heard of him only through his arrangement of two

books of Hungarian dances for four hands on the pianoforte. As, however,

from that day onwards I was accustomed, during a period of months, to

meet him almost daily, it may be convenient to say at once a few words

about his appearance and manner as they seemed to me after I had had

time to become familiar with them.

Brahms, then, when I first knew him, was in the very prime of life,

being thirty-eight years of age. Below middle height, his figure was

somewhat square and solidly built, though without any of the tendency to

corpulency which developed itself at a later period. He was of the

blonde type of German, with fair, straight hair, which he wore rather

long and brushed back from the temples. His face was clean-shaven. His

most striking physical characteristic was the grand head with its

magnificent intellectual forehead, but the blue eyes were also

remarkable from their expression of intense mental concentration. This

was accentuated by a constant habit he had of thrusting the rather

thick under-lip over the upper, and keeping it compressed there,

reminding one of the mouth in some of the portraits of Beethoven. His

nose was finely formed. Feet and hands were small, the fingers without

'cushions.'

'I have none,' he said one day, when I was speaking to him about

pianists' hands; and he spread out his fingers, at my request, to show

me the tips. 'Frau Schumann has them, and Rubinstein also; Rubinstein's

are immense.'

His dress, though plain, was always perfectly neat in those days. He

usually wore a short, loose, black alpaca coat, chosen, no doubt, with

regard to his ideas of comfort. He was near-sighted, and made frequent

use of a double eyeglass that he wore hanging on a thin black cord round

his neck. When walking out, it was his custom to go bare-headed, and to

carry his soft felt hat in his hand, swinging the arm energetically to

and fro. The disengaged hand he often held behind him.

In Brahms' demeanour there was a mixture of sociability and reserve

which gave me the impression of his being a kindly-natured man, but one

whom it would be difficult really to know. Though always pleasant and

friendly, yet there was a something about him--perhaps it may have been

his extraordinary dislike to speaking about himself--which suggested

that his life had not been free from disappointment, and that he had

reckoned with the latter and taken his course. His manner was absolutely

simple and unaffected. To his own compositions he alluded only on the

very rarest occasions, nor could he be induced to play them before even

a small party. His great satisfaction and pleasure were evidently found

in the society of Frau Schumann, for whom he displayed the most devoted

admiration, an admiration that seemed to combine the affection and

reverence of an elder son with the sympathetic camaraderie of a

colleague in art. He had established himself for the spring and summer

months at Lichtenthal, in order to be near her, and was always a welcome

guest at her house, coming and going as he liked. I met him there

continually at the hour of afternoon coffee, as on the day of my

arrival; and very often, when the coffee-cups were done with, it was my

good fortune to listen to the two great artists playing duets; Brahms,

the favoured, being always allowed to retain the beloved cigar or

cigarette between his lips during the performance, and taking his turn

in playing the treble part.

It was Frau Schumann's kind habit to invite me to her mid-day dinner on

Sundays, and frequently to supper during the week. Brahms was rarely

absent, and was sometimes accompanied by one or two of his friends. The

talk on these occasions was more or less general, but naturally my chief

interest was in listening to Frau Schumann and Brahms, who used to

discuss all sorts of topics with great animation. Brahms' interest in

politics was keen, and although he had been settled in Vienna for some

years, and had become much attached to that city and to his friends and

surroundings there, yet it was evident that he remained an ardent German

patriot.

He was a great walker, and had a passionate love of nature. It was his

habit during the spring and summer to rise at four or five o'clock, and,

after making himself a cup of coffee, to go into the woods to enjoy the

delicious freshness of early morning and to listen to the singing of the

birds. In adverse weather he could still find something to admire and

enjoy.

'I never feel it dull,' he said one day, in answer to some remark about

the depressing effect of the long-continued rain, 'my view is so fine.

Even when it rains, I have only another kind of beauty.'

He was considerate for others, even in trifles. I remember that one

evening, before we had quitted the supper-table, someone produced a copy

of 'Kladderadatsch,' and, pointing out to Brahms a set of sarcastic

verses dedicated to John Bull, begged him to read them aloud for the

entertainment of the assembled party. Brahms, after glancing down the

column, playfully declined to do as he was asked, indicating, with a

wave of the hand, his English _vis-à-vis_ as his reason for objecting;

and it was not until I had laughingly and repeatedly expressed my

earnest wish to hear whatever might be in store for me as Mr. Bull's

representative, that he at length, and still reluctantly, complied with

the request.

Frau Schumann often spoke to me of his extraordinary genius and

acquirements both as composer and executant, as well as of his general

intellectual qualities, and especially of his knowledge and love of

books. She wished me to hear him play, but said it was no easy matter to

do so, as he was extremely dependent on his mood, and not only disliked

to be pressed to perform, but was unable to do justice either to himself

or his composer when not in the right humour. The first time, indeed,

that I heard him, at a small afternoon gathering at Frau Schumann's

house, I was utterly disappointed. After a good deal of pressing, he

crossed over to the piano and gave the first movement of the G major

Fantasia-Sonata and the first movement of the A minor Sonata, Op. 42,

both of Schubert, but his playing was ineffective. It appeared to me to

be forced and self-conscious, and he himself seemed to remain, as it

were, outside the music. I missed the living throb and impulse of

feeling by which I had been accustomed to be carried away when listening

to Frau Schumann, and he left one of his audience, at all events, cold

and unmoved. When I told this to Frau Schumann afterwards, she answered

that I had not yet really heard him; that he had not wished to play, but

had yielded to over-persuasion, and that I must wait for a better

opportunity of judging before forming an opinion.

The opportunity came the very next evening, when the same friends were

assembled and Brahms played again. The next day I wrote home as follows:

'... Then Brahms played. It was an entirely different thing from

the day before. Two pieces were by some composer whose name I can't

remember, and then he played a wild piece by Scarlatti as I never

heard anyone play before. He really did give it as though he were

inspired; it was so mad and wild and so beautiful. Afterwards he

did a little thing of Gluck's. I hope I shall hear him often if he

plays as he did last night. The Scarlatti was like nothing I ever

heard before, and I never thought the piano capable of it.'

Such were the general impressions I formed of Brahms during the first

seven or eight weeks of my stay at Lichtenthal. To say the truth, I

thought but little about him at the time, my whole attention being

absorbed in my studies and in the charm of my new experiences of life.

To me he seemed a very unaffected, kind-hearted, rather shy man, who

appeared quietly happy and content when under the influence of Frau

Schumann's society. As yet I had had scant opportunity of testing my own

capacity for appreciating his musical genius, and next to none of

individual personal intercourse with him. Frequently, when my landlady's

servant came to attend me to my lodgings after an evening spent at Frau

Schumann's house, and Brahms and I took our leave at the same moment, he

would say, 'I am coming, too,' and, our ways lying partly in the same

direction, would walk the short distance by my side; but these occasions

did not add much to my knowledge of him. He would make a few casual

remarks, often playful, always kindly, on any topics of the hour, but

did not touch on musical subjects. One evening, however, I asked him if

he intended to visit England. 'I think not,' he immediately replied, as

though his mind were definitely made up on this point. I ventured to

pursue the subject, telling him he ought to come, in order to make his

compositions known. 'It is for that they are printed,' he said rather

decidedly, and with these words he certainly gave me some real insight

into his character. The composer of a long series of works which

included such masterpieces as the second serenade, the two string

sextets, the first and second pianoforte quartets, the inspired German

Requiem, and a host of others already before the world (but of which I

then knew nothing), could, of course, do no otherwise than allow his

compositions to rest quietly on their merits; and doubtless the intense

pride which is equally inherent with intense modesty in the higher order

of genius had its share in causing Brahms' reticence about all things

concerning himself.

From his determination not to visit England I do not believe he ever

seriously wavered. Only on one occasion--a few years before his

death--did I ever hear him speak doubtfully on the subject, and I then

felt sure that he was only playing with the idea of coming. Of when or

why he formed his resolution I cannot speak with absolute certainty; it

had become fixed before I made his acquaintance. His want of familiarity

with our language may have had something to do with it; he could read

English a little, but I never heard him attempt to speak it. He had a

horror of being lionized and of involving himself in an entanglement of

engagements; perhaps, also, he was possessed with an exaggerated notion

of the inflexibility of English social laws, especially as to the

wearing of dress-clothes and the restrictions with regard to smoking.

Before and behind all such superficial considerations, however, I

suspect that early in his career the idea had taken root in him, right

or wrong as it may have been, that to visit England would not further

his artistic development. Brahms had certainly formed the clearest

conception not only of his purpose in life, but of the means by which he

felt he could best pursue and achieve it, and from first to last he

inflexibly adhered to the conclusions he had come to on these points. If

his aim was to give the most complete possible expression in his musical

creations to the very best that was in him, his method, while it

satisfied an inner craving of his being, was yet, as I believe,

deliberately adopted; and it was to lay himself open to every kind of

influence which could healthily foster the ideal side of his nature, and

more or less completely to eschew all others. It would be ridiculous, at

the present time, to touch upon the completeness of his technical

musical equipment, to dilate on his easy grasp of all the resources of

counterpoint, on his mastery of form, of harmonic and rhythmic

combinations, and the like. These things are matter of course. But

Brahms knew that not alone his intellect, but his mind and spirit and

fancy, must be constantly nurtured if they were to bring forth the

highest of which they were capable, and he so arranged his life that

they should be fed ever and always by poetry and literature and art, by

solitary musing, by participation in so much of life as seemed to him to

be real and true, and, above all and in the highest degree, by the

companionship of Nature.

'How can I most quickly improve?' I asked him one day later on. 'You

must walk constantly in the forest,' he answered; and he meant what he

said to be taken literally. It was his own favourite prescription that

he advised for my application. For such a man, with a name practically

unknown in England, life in London, and especially during a concert

season, would have been not only uncongenial, but impossible. It would

only have been a hindrance to him for the time being. It was not his

business to push his works before either conductors or the public, and,

after early successes and failures in this direction, he had almost

entirely given up planning for the future of his compositions, and had

yielded himself wholly to his destiny, which was to create.

In adopting this attitude, there was nothing whatever of outward posing.

He simply did faithfully what he found lying before him to do, and did

not look beyond.

Life at Lichtenthal passed quickly onwards, and the time approached when

Frau Schumann would pay her annual visit to Switzerland. At the close of

one of my lessons she said to me:

'I have been thinking that perhaps you might like to have some lessons

from Herr Brahms whilst I am away. It would be a very great advantage

for you in every way, and he would be able to help you immensely with

your technique. He has made a special study of it, and can do anything

he likes with his fingers on the piano. He does not usually give

lessons, but if you like I will ask him, and I think he would do it as a

favour to me.'

I must here explain that my visit to Germany had been undertaken with

the special object of correcting certain deficiencies in my mechanism

which Frau Schumann had pointed out, she having advised me to study for

a year with this aim particularly in view.

It need hardly be said that I now eagerly accepted her proffered

kindness, and it was decided that she should sound Herr Brahms on the

question of his willingness to give me lessons. If he should show

himself favourable to the project, the arrangement was to be considered

as decided, subject only to the approval of my father, who was on the

point of starting from London to join me at Lichtenthal. The next

morning Frau Schumann informed me that Brahms had consented to the plan,

and a few days later, on my receiving my father's ready assent to my

request, all preliminaries were settled, and it was arranged that I

should have two lessons every week from Brahms.

'You must ask him to play to you,' Frau Schumann said; 'and if he will

do it, it will give you a real opportunity to hear him. And now, now you

will begin to know Brahms.'

BRAHMS AS TEACHER OF THE PIANOFORTE.

Brahms united in himself each and every quality that might be supposed

to exist in an absolutely ideal teacher of the pianoforte, without

having a single modifying drawback. I do not wish to rhapsodize; he

would have been the first to object to this. Such lessons could only

have come from such a man. I have never to this day got over the wonder

of his giving them, or the wonder and the joy of its having fallen to my

lot to receive them.

He was strict and absolute; he was gentle and patient and encouraging;

he was not only clear, he was light itself; he knew exhaustively, and

could teach, and did teach, by the shortest possible methods, every

detail of technical study; he was unwearied in his efforts to make his

pupil grasp the full musical meaning of whatever work might be in hand;

he was even punctual.

I cannot hope in what I may say to convey more than a faint impression

of what his lessons were to me. From the very first hour of coming under

his immediate musical influence I felt that it was a power which would

continue to act upon and develop within me to the end of life. Perhaps,

however, I may succeed in helping lovers of his music to add to their

conception of his character and his gifts, by writing of him as he was

in a capacity in which, so far as I know, he has not hitherto been

described. Such personal details as I may introduce will be given with

the object of illustrating that side of Brahms' character which I once

knew so well; of exhibiting him as the all-capable, single-hearted,

encouraging, inspired and inspiring teacher and friend.

Remembering what Frau Schumann had said of his ability to assist me with

my technique, I told him, before beginning my first lesson, of my

mechanical difficulties, and asked him to help me. He answered, 'Yes,

that must come first,' and, after hearing me play through a study from

Clementi's 'Gradus ad Parnassum,' he immediately set to work to loosen

and equalize my fingers. Beginning that very day, he gradually put me

through an entire course of technical training, showing me how I should

best work, for the attainment of my end, at scales, arpeggii, trills,

double notes, and octaves.

He not only showed me how to practise: he made me, at first, practise to

him during a good part of my lessons, whilst he sat watching my fingers;

telling me what was wrong in my way of moving them, indicating, by a

movement of his own hand, a better position for mine, absorbing himself

entirely, for the time being, in the object of helping me.

He did not believe in the utility for me of the daily practice of the

ordinary five-finger exercises, preferring to form exercises from any

piece or study upon which I might be engaged. He had a great habit of

turning a difficult passage round and making me practise it, not as

written, but with other accents and in various figures, with the result

that when I again tried it as it stood the difficulties had always

considerably diminished, and often entirely disappeared. 'How must I

practise this?' I would ask him, with confidence, which was never

disappointed, that some short-cut would be found for me by which my way

would be effectually smoothed.

His method of loosening the wrist was, I should say, original. I have,

at all events, never seen it or heard of it excepting from him, but it

loosened my wrist in a fortnight, and with comparatively little labour

on my part.

How he laughed one day, when I triumphantly showed him that one of my

knuckles, which were then rather stiff and prominent, had quite gone in,

and said to him: 'You have done that!'

It may seem incredible, but it is none the less true, that after a very

few weeks of work with him the appearance of my hands had completely

changed. My father says, writing to my mother:

'Her hand has an entirely different conformation from what it used

to have; it has lost all its angular appearance, and it really is

the case, as she says, that her knuckles are disappearing. I have

given up all idea of inducing her to go anywhere with me; she will

allow nothing to interfere with her practising. She is enthusiastic

in her admiration of Brahms, and says his patience is wonderful. He

keeps her strictly to finger-work.'

He was never irritable, never indifferent, but always helped,

stimulated, and encouraged. One day, when I lamented to him the

deficiencies of my former mechanical training and my present resultant

finger difficulty, 'It will come all right,' he said; 'it does not come

in a week nor in four weeks.'

Perceiving at once the extraordinary value of my technical studies with

him, I was desirous of not being hampered by feeling obliged, at first,

to get up many pieces to play through. That, he said, was quite right; I

must practise a great deal in little bits for a time. Here is an extract

from one of my letters. I copy it exactly as it stands, without altering

the careless wording of a girl's letter hastily penned for home perusal

in an interval between practice times:

'My lessons with Brahms are too delightful; not only the lessons

themselves, but he makes me feel I must practise all day and all

night. I have begun to eat a great deal for the mere purpose of

being able to practise! He is so patient, and takes such pains, and

I ask all sorts of questions, and the lessons are too delightful. I

can't understand his giving lessons, and yet he is never angry at

any sort of foolishness, only says, "Ah! that is so difficult." As

for an hour's lesson, that is nothing. He systematically arranges

for an hour and a half. I absolutely revel in my lessons. He makes

the saraband sound on the piano just as on a violin. Then he never

expects too much, and does not give much to learn, but is always

satisfied with little if one is really trying.'

He was extremely particular about my fingering, making me rely on all my

fingers as equally as possible. One day whilst watching my hands as I

played him a study from the 'Gradus,' he objected to some of my

fingering, and asked me to change it. I immediately did so, but said,

knowing there was no danger of his being offended by the remark, that I

had used the one marked by Clementi. Brahms, not having had his eyes on

the book at the moment, had not perceived this to be the case. He at

once said I must, of course, not change it, and would not allow me to

adopt his own, as I begged him, saying: 'No, no; he knew.'

I had with me at Lichtenthal my own copies of Bach, which I had brought

from England, but the edition was unfingered, and Brahms desired me to

get copies with Czerny's fingering, and always to use it. The other

indications in the edition I was not to adopt.

A good part of each lesson was generally devoted to Bach, to the

'Well-tempered Clavier,' or the English Suites; and as my mechanism

improved Brahms gradually increased the amount and scope of my work, and

gave more and more time to the spirit of the music I studied. His

phrasing, as he taught it me, was, it need hardly be said, of the

broadest, whilst he was rigorous in exacting attention to the smallest

details. These he sometimes treated as a delicate embroidery that

filled up and decorated the broad outline of the phrase, with the large

sweep of which nothing was ever allowed to interfere. Light and shade,

also, were so managed as to help to bring out its continuity. Be it,

however, most emphatically declared that he never theorized on these

points; he merely tried his utmost to make me understand and play my

pieces as he himself understood and felt them.

He would make me repeat over and over again, ten or twelve times if

necessary, part of a movement of Bach, till he had satisfied himself

that I was beginning to realize his wish for particular effects of tone

or phrasing or feeling. When I could not immediately do what he wanted,

he would merely say, 'But it is so difficult,' or 'It will come,' tell

me to do it again till he found that his effect was on its way into

being, and then leave me to complete it. On the two or three days that

intervened between my lessons, I would, after practising at the

pianoforte, sometimes take my music into the forest to try to think

myself more completely into his mind, and if, when he next came, I had

partially succeeded, he took delight in showing his satisfaction. His

face would light up all over, and he would be unstinting in his praise.

'Very good, quite right; Frau Schumann would be very surprised to hear

you play like that,' or, 'That will make a great effect with Frau

Schumann.'

In spite of his extraordinary conscientiousness about detail, Brahms was

entirely free from pedantry and from the tendency to worry or fidget his

pupil. His great pleasure was to commend, and if I played anything to

him for the first time, in the way he liked, nothing would induce him to

suggest, with one word, any change at all. 'That is quite right; there

is nothing to say about it,' he would say; and though I have felt

disappointed not to get any remark from him, and have entreated him to

make some suggestions, he would remain firm. 'No, it must be like that;

we will go on,' and there was an end of the matter.

One morning my father, coming into the room at the close of my lesson,

asked Brahms: 'Has she been a good girl to-day?' 'Sehr fein,'[1]

answered he, and suddenly turning to me added imperatively: 'Tell your

father that.' I was equal to the occasion, however, and promptly

translated: 'Herr Brahms says he is not very satisfied to-day, papa.' My

father's face fell a little. Brahms looked straight before him,

displeased and impassive. 'I have told him,' said I. 'No, you have not

told him.' 'But you don't know that; you don't understand English.' 'I

understand enough to know that'--stonily. 'Herr Brahms says I have done

pretty well,' I reassured my father; then to Brahms: 'Now I have.' 'Yes,

now,' he admitted, with relenting countenance.

Another day, in the middle of my lesson, the door of my sitting-room

opened, and my landlady begged to speak to me. 'No, Frau Falk,' I said;

'I am engaged and can see no one: you must please go away.' 'One moment,

gnädiges Fräulein,' she said, and persisted, to my displeasure, in

coming in. I then perceived she had with her a pretty little girl of

about five years old, who held some beautiful yellow roses in her hand.

Frau Falk led the child straight up to the piano and made her little

speech. The small maiden was the daughter of the gentleman living in the

neighbouring villa, and, being with her father in his beautiful

rose-garden, had begged him to let her carry some of his roses to the

Fräulein to whose playing they had been listening. The little one,

seeing I was not alone, became suddenly shy as she handed me the lovely

flowers, and, turning away her face, looked downwards with very red

cheeks as she stood quietly at Brahms' knee. But this was not the kind

of interruption to displease him. 'Na,' he said, coaxing her, 'you must

look at the Fräulein, and let her thank you. Look at her; she wants to

thank you.' Between us we reassured the little one, who held up her face

to me to be kissed, and sedately allowed Frau Falk to lead her away.

Soon after beginning my work with Brahms, I asked him at the end of my

lesson if he would play to me, telling him I did so by Frau Schumann's

desire. There was an instant's hesitation; then he sat down to the

piano. Just as he was about to begin, he turned his head round, and said

almost shyly: 'You must learn by the faults also.' That was the

beginning. From that day it became his regular habit to play to me for

about half an hour at the close of the hour's lesson, which he never

shortened. Oftenest he chose Bach for his performance. He would play by

heart one or two of the preludes and fugues from the 'Well-tempered

Clavier,' then take up the music and continue from book as the humour

took him. When he reached the end of a composition, I would say little

or nothing beyond 'Some more,' for fear of stopping him, and he would

turn over the leaves to find another favourite. I do not remember his

ever making a remark to me either between-whiles or after he had

finished playing, beyond, perhaps, telling me to get him another book.

Once, and once only, he resisted. I had made my usual request at the end

of the lesson, when he quaintly and unexpectedly replied: 'Not every

time; it is silly. Frau Schumann would say it is silly to play every

time'. 'It is so disappointing,' I wished to say, but was uncertain of

the right German word. He, as was his wont on similar occasions, made me

show it him in the dictionary. There was some little argument between

us, and he returned to the piano and took his place there. It was of no

use, however. He could not play that day, and almost seemed to take

pleasure in doing as badly as possible. Every time he was conspicuously

faulty he turned round to me with a sardonic smile, as though he would

say: 'There! you have got what you wanted; how do you like it?' 'Very

unkind,' I murmured, and he soon rose. 'I will _not_ play next time,' he

angrily declared as he took leave. 'I will _never_ ask you again,' I

rejoined. A shrug of the shoulders was his only answer, and, with the

usual 'good-day,' he left the room.

After two days came my next lesson. It passed off delightfully, as

usual, and at the close Brahms departed, without a word about his

playing being said on either side; but I was left with a feeling of

something having been very much wanting. In the middle of the following

lesson, giving way to a sudden impulse which I could not have explained,

but which, perhaps, arose from the fear of renewed disappointment, I

abruptly ceased playing in the middle of my piece, saying, 'I cannot

play any more to-day.' Brahms glanced at me with rather an inquiring

expression, and asked, 'Why?' 'I don't know; I cannot,' I replied. There

was an instant of dead silence, during which I did not look round. Then

Brahms spoke. 'I will play to you,' he said quietly, 'in order that you

may have something.' We immediately changed places, and he never refused

me again.

My father, writing to my mother, says:

'Brahms is recognised in Germany as the greatest musician living.

It is said to be most difficult to get him to play; however, after

every lesson he plays piece after piece. He is a delightful man--so

simple, so kind and quiet. He lives in a beautiful situation

amongst the hills, and cares only for seclusion, and time to devote

himself to composition. He was pleased the other day by F.'s asking

him about a passage in Goethe that she could not comprehend, and

went into it in a way which delighted her. With all his genius he

is thoroughly practical. Punctual to a minute in his lessons, and

of extreme delicacy.'

It was my happiness to hear, amongst other things, his readings of many

of the forty-eight preludes and fugues, and his playing of them, and

especially of the preludes, impressed me with such force and vividness

that I can hear it in memory still. His interpretation of Bach was

always unconventional and quite unfettered by traditional theory, and he

certainly did not share the opinion, which has had many distinguished

adherents, that Bach's music should be performed in a simply flowing

style. In the movements of the suites he liked variety of tone and

touch, as well as a certain elasticity of _tempo_. His playing of many

of the preludes and some of the fugues was a revelation of exquisite

poems, and he performed them, not only with graduated shading, but with

marked contrasts of tone effect. Each note of Bach's passages and

figures contributed, in the hands of Brahms, to form melody which was

instinct with feeling of some kind or other. It might be deep pathos, or

light-hearted playfulness and jollity; impulsive energy, or soft and

tender grace; but sentiment (as distinct from sentimentality) was always

there; monotony never. 'Quite tender and quite soft,' was his frequent

admonition to me, whilst in another place he would require the utmost

impetuosity.

He loved Bach's suspensions. 'It is here that it must sound,' he would

say, pointing to the tied note, and insisting, whilst not allowing me to

force the preparation, that the latter should be so struck as to give

the fullest possible effect to the dissonance. 'How am I to make this

sound?' I asked him of a few bars of subject lying for the third,

fourth, and fifth fingers of the left hand, which he wished brought out

clearly, but in a very soft tone. 'You must think particularly of the

fingers with which you play it, and by-and-by it will come out,' he

answered.

The same kind of remarks may be applied to his conception of Mozart. He

taught me that the music of this great master should not be performed

with mere grace and lightness, but that these effects should be

contrasted with the expression of sustained feeling and with the use of

the deep legato touch. Part of one of my lessons was devoted to the

Sonata in F major--

[Music: etc.]

Brahms let me play nearly a page of the first movement without making

any remark. Then he stopped me. 'But you are playing without

expression,' said he, and imitated me, playing the same portion, in the

same style, on the upper part of the piano, touching the keys neatly,

lightly, and unmeaningly. By the time he left off we were both smiling

at the absurd performance.

'Now,' he said, 'with expression,' and he repeated the first few bars of

the subject, giving to each note its place as an essential portion of a

fine melody. We spent a long time over the movement that day, and it was

not until the next lesson, after I had had two, or perhaps three, days

to think myself into his conception, that I was able to play it broadly

enough to satisfy him. At the close of the first of these two Mozart

lessons I said to him: 'All that you have told me to-day is quite new to

me.' 'It is all there,' he replied, pointing to the book.

Brahms, in fact, recognised no such thing as what is sometimes called

'neat playing' of the compositions either of Bach, Scarlatti, or Mozart.

Neatness and equality of finger were imperatively demanded by him, and

in their utmost nicety and perfection, but as a preparation, not as an

end. Varying and sensitive expression was to him as the breath of life,

necessary to the true interpretation of any work of genius, and he did

not hesitate to avail himself of such resources of the modern pianoforte

as he felt helped to impart it; no matter in what particular century his

composer may have lived, or what may have been the peculiar excellencies

and limitations of the instruments of his day.

Whatever the music I might be studying, however, he would never allow

any kind of 'expression made easy.' He particularly disliked chords to

be spread unless marked so by the composer for the sake of a special

effect. 'No arpége,' he used invariably to say if I unconsciously gave

way to the habit, or yielded to the temptation of softening a chord by

its means. He made very much of the well-known effect of two notes

slurred together, whether in a loud or soft tone, and I know from his

insistence to me on this point that the mark has a special significance

in his music.

Aware of his reluctance to perform his compositions, I let some weeks

pass before I asked him to play me something of his own. When I at

length ventured to do so, he objected: 'Not mine; something by another

composer.' But I had resolved to carry my point. 'No, no,' I insisted;

'a composition played by the composer himself is what I wish to hear,'

and my importunity gained the day. He gave me a splendid performance of

a splendid theme with variations, which, as I found out some months

afterwards, was from the now familiar string Sextet in B flat. It was

the first time I had heard anything of Brahms' composition with the

exception of one or two songs, and it raised in me a tumult of delight.

Probably I said to him little beyond thanks, but the power of the music

and the performance must have worked itself in me to some manifest

effect, for on my taking my seat directly after the lesson at the _table

d'hôte_ of the Hôtel Bär, the village inn where my father and I used to

dine, a lady of our acquaintance exclaimed: 'What is the matter with you

to-day that you look so excited?' I remember answering her: 'Brahms has

just played me something quite magnificent--something of his own--and it

keeps going in my head.'

Since then I have heard the movement times innumerable in England and on

the Continent, performed by various combinations of artists, but I never

listen to it without being carried back in thought to the gardener's

house on the slope of the Cäcilienberg where, in my blue-papered,

carpetless little room, Brahms sat at the piano and played it to me. The

scent of flowers was borne in through the open lattice-windows, of which

the green outside sun shutters were closed on one side of the room to

keep out the blazing August sun, and open on another to views of the

beautiful scenery.

The merits of our respective views had been the subject of some friendly

argument soon after my arrival at Lichtenthal. Brahms had declared that

no prospect from any windows in the village could possibly be as fine as

his, whilst I was equally sure that mine must be quite unrivalled. Two

of my windows looked right across the valley of the Oos as far as the

plain of Strassburg, and showed, in fine weather, the distant peaks of

the Vosges glimmering in the sunlight. Two others commanded a prospect

of the pine-covered ranges of Black Forest hills. The first time Brahms

came to my rooms, in order to give me a lesson, the variety and

loveliness of my view drew from him an exclamation of delight. 'But

yours is really grander and sterner, is it not?' I magnanimously asked.

'This is more suitable for a girl,' he prettily replied.

On the next occasion after the day when he had performed his own work, I

reminded Brahms that he had promised he would allow my father, who was

anxious to hear him play to better advantage than from the room

overhead, to share with me this great pleasure some time. 'But he is not

here,' he said, and taking this as a token of assent, I quickly called

my father, who was writing letters above, to come down. When we were all

three seated, I told Brahms I wished to have the piece he had played to

me two or three days before, but he said he would not play anything of

his own--'something else.' 'No,' I said, 'something of yours, and the

same; my father wishes to hear the same.' 'Ah, I forget what it was; I

have composed a great many things. I will play something else.' 'But no,

no, no!' I urged. 'I know what it was. I must have the same. Play the

first two or three chords.' 'Well, then, I think it was this,' said he,

giving way; and he repeated the movement from beginning to end, carrying

us both completely away.

Brahms' playing at this period of his life was, indeed, stimulating to

an extraordinary degree, and so _apart_ as to be quite unforgettable. It

was not the playing of a virtuoso, though he had a large amount of

virtuosity (to put it moderately) at his command. He never aimed at mere

effect, but seemed to plunge into the innermost meaning of whatever

music he happened to be interpreting, exhibiting all its details and

expressing its very depths. Not being in regular practice, he would

sometimes strike wrong notes--and there was already a hardness, arising

from the same cause, in his playing of chords; but he was fully aware of

his failings, and warned me not to imitate them.

He was acutely, though silently, sensitive to the susceptibility or

non-susceptibility of his audience. As I have already mentioned, but few

words passed between him and myself during the momentary intervals

between his playing of one piece and another, but he would now and then

suddenly turn his head round towards where I sat and give me a swift,

searching glance, as though to satisfy himself that I understood and

followed him. Once only he refused to go on. It was soon after his

performance before my father. I had begged for another of his

compositions, and he had begun to play one. I was sitting rather behind

him, listening intently and trying to follow, but I knew I did not

understand. Very soon he turned to give his usual scrutinizing look, and

immediately ceased playing, saying: 'No, really I can't play that.' I

did not attempt to make him think I had entered into the meaning of the

music, but only entreated him to begin it again and give me one more

chance, as it was difficult to follow. Nothing would induce him,

however, to play another note of it, and he went on to something by

another composer, much to my disappointment and mortification.

Brahms disliked to hear anything said which could possibly be

interpreted as depreciation of either of the great masters. Once, when

two or three people were present, a remark was made on the growing

indifference of the younger musicians to Mendelssohn, and particularly

on the neglect with which his once popular 'Songs without Words' had for

some time been treated. 'If it is the case, it is a great pity,'

observed Brahms, 'for they are quite full of beauty.'

He especially loved Schubert, and I have heard him declare that the

longest works of this composer, with all their repetitions, were never

too long for him.

He greatly admired my copy, which was of the original edition and in

good preservation, of Clementi's 'Gradus,' and asked me to lend it him

for a day or two to compare with his own. I did not at that time attach

much value to original editions; and, fancying he merely wished to

prevent me from overworking, against which he often cautioned me, I said

I could not spare it. 'You won't lend it me!' he exclaimed, very much

astonished indeed. I answered that if he did take it away it would make

no difference, as I could practise as well without it. Finding,

however, that he really wished to examine the copy, I said it was too

hot for him to carry so large a book in the middle of the day, and that

I would send it in the evening. 'I am not so weak!' he replied, but

consented to the proposal. He sent it back after a few days, strongly

scented with the odour of his tobacco, which it retained through many a

long year, and which rather enhanced its value to me.

Rather curiously, he liked the scent of eau-de-Cologne. My father

brought me a case from Cöln, and if, on my lesson day, I had an open

bottle near at hand, and offered some to Brahms, he would place his

hands together, palm upwards, for me to pour into, and, dipping his

head, would rub the scent over his forehead, protesting as he did so,

'But it really does not become a man.' Seeing that he liked it, I used

it sometimes to wash the keys of the piano when he was coming, but I do

not think he ever found me out.

He delighted in the music of Strauss' band, which was engaged to play

daily at Baden-Baden through some weeks of the season. It was then

conducted by the great Johann Strauss, Brahms' particular friend, and he

used to walk over every evening to hear it. 'Are you so engrossed?' said

a voice behind me one evening as I was standing in the Lichtenthal

village street with a friend, looking at the performances of a dancing

bear. On turning round I found Brahms, hat in hand, smiling with

amusement at our preoccupation, himself on his way, as usual at that

hour, to listen to the delicious music of the Vienna waltz-king.

Brahms disliked mere compliment, but he had a warm appreciation of the

genuine expression of friendly feeling towards himself, and did not try

to hide the pleasure it gave him. His countenance would change, and he

would answer in a simple, modest way that was almost touching. One day

when I told him how I valued his teaching, and felt it was something for

my whole life, 'You ought to tell Frau Schumann,' replied the composer

of the German Requiem, as though he were asking me to give a good report

of him. On my assuring him that I had already done so by letter, he

added hastily: 'But not too much; never praise too highly; always keep

within bounds.'

Shortly before Frau Schumann's return I said to him that I hoped he

would not lose all interest in my music at the termination of my lessons

with him, and that I should like, if it were possible, to make some

additional arrangement by which it might be maintained. He did not give

me any definite reply at the moment one way or the other, but on my

saying the same thing to him another day he replied: 'It is very nice

and very kind of you, but I don't think it can be done. You must,

however, play to me very often. Everything you learn with Frau Schumann

you must play to me.'

About this time, however, my father, who was about to start on his

homeward journey, persuaded me to go away with him for a week's holiday

before his departure for England, and on my return to Lichtenthal Frau

Schumann arranged that I should continue my studies under Brahms for the

remainder of my stay, saying I had become more his pupil than hers.

There were, indeed, but few more lessons to look forward to. Autumn had

set in, and everyone was thinking of departure. Brahms had to go

sometimes to Carlsruhe, where he was occupied with rehearsals, but he

punctually kept his remaining appointments with me. His concluding

lessons were as magnificent as the earlier ones, and when I went back to

England my ground was clear. I do not mean to assert that my hand was

already completely developed from a pianist's point of view, or my

technique as yet fully in my possession. These things were physically

impossible; but Brahms had shown me the path which led straight to my

goal, and had himself brought me a considerable distance on the way. A

cast of one of my hands taken on my return to England, when compared

with one that had been done shortly before I left, could not have been

recognised as being from the same person.

Those were, indeed, golden days, when Brahms sat by my side and taught

me; memorable to me no less for their revelation of an exquisite nature

than for the musical advantages they brought. I have often been told

that there was another side to his character, and that he could, even at

that time, be bitter and rough and satirical. I dare say he was not

faultless, but I do not think that he can at any period of his life have

been bitter in the sense of being soured. He no doubt had a strong

feeling about the indifference and downright antagonism against which

his works long had to struggle; but if it had ever been a feeling even

of disappointment, I am sure this had mellowed, before I knew him, into

a firm though silent belief in the future of his compositions, and had

only served to intensify, if possible, his determination to put into

them of his very best.

Rough he may have been sometimes, and in later years I had occasional

opportunity of perceiving that he was not always gentle, though he was

never otherwise with me. His roughness was, in certain instances, no

doubt caused by his resolution in protecting his time from

celebrity-hunters, and even from friends. It may have been partly

traceable, also, to the circumstances of his youth, when he must often

have been placed amid surroundings where rough-and-ready frankness of

speech was more cultivated than conventional polish of manner. It is,

however, certain that during the latter part of his life he sometimes

availed himself of the privilege of the _enfant gâté_ to yield to the

caprice of the moment, and that he now and again said things which could

not but wound the feelings of others. This was to be regretted, and it

hardly excused him that his pungent words came from the lips only, and

not from the heart. I am, however, quite certain that many of his

acerbities were assumed to cover his naturally acute sensibility of

temperament, of which he stood a little in dread, and which he liked to

conceal even from himself. He was a firm believer, for himself and for

others, in the salutary process of bracing both mental and physical

energies.

A year or two before Brahms' death I revisited Lichtenthal, staying a

night at the Hôtel Bär, where I used to dine in the old days. I looked

up old acquaintances, and amongst them the former mistress of the dear

old inn, whom I found retired and living in a charming villa close by,

her brother being still the proprietor of the hotel. She, of course, had

known Brahms well, and during the hour or two that I spent with her we

talked chiefly about him. She repeated the verdict given by everyone

really acquainted with him: 'So simple and natural, so kind and

cheerful, able to take pleasure in trifles. He was such a simple-hearted

man.' A tease, certainly, but his teasing was never unkind, never more

than mere raillery. He would often bring a friend to dine at the Bär in

the old days, and she always had the cloth laid for him in a private

room or in the back part of the garden, so that he should not be worried

by the visitors. 'He never minded what he did. He would sometimes drop

in, if he were passing, to say good-morning to us, and if we were very

busy he would make a joke of sitting down and amusing himself by helping

us cut up the vegetables for dinner. Only he could not bear to go into

formal society, or to have to wear his dress-clothes. I have not seen

him now for several years. The last time was in September, 1889, when he

paid a flying visit to the Bär. He was very angry to find that three

pine-trees had been cut down near the house where he used to lodge,

thinking the poetry of the view had been impaired, and he said he would

never stay in the place again. What a warm heart he had! He liked to

know all the country people of the neighbourhood, and took a pride in

feeling that every man, woman, and child whom he met in his early

morning walks interchanged greetings with him. I begged for his

autograph the last time he was here. You will like to see what he

wrote;' and my old friend sent for the album in which the master had

written:

'Johannes Brahms. ('J. B.

eines schönen Tages one fine day

im schönen Baden in beautiful Baden

im lieben Bären.' at the dear Bear.')

BERLIN.

Years were destined to elapse before my next meeting with Brahms. After

my return to England I worked unremittingly on the lines he had

indicated, and found that by the observation and practice of his

principles I was guided straight onwards in the path of progress. His

teaching had been of such a kind that its development did not cease with

the actual lessons. As the weeks and months went by I found myself

growing continually into a clearer perception of the aims and results it

had had in view. It caused me no surprise to find, on becoming

acquainted with his pianoforte compositions, that I must postpone for a

time the delightful task of getting them up. Brahms himself had prepared

me for this. He had always been extremely careful, when selecting music

for me to work at, to choose what would develop my technical power

without straining my hands, and when I had wished to study something of

his had answered that his compositions were unfit for me for the

present, as they required too much physical strength and grasp. He

fancied, indeed, at that time that nearly all of them were beyond a

woman's strength. When I asked why it was that he composed only such

enormously difficult things for the pianoforte, he said they came to him

naturally, and he could not compose otherwise ('Ich kann nicht anders').

In the winter of 1881-82 I found myself in Berlin. It is difficult to

describe the feelings with which I one day read the announcement that

von Bülow, in the course of a _tournée_ with the Meiningen Orchestra, of

which he was conductor, would shortly visit the city to give a three

days' series of concerts in the hall of the Singakademie; that Brahms'

compositions would figure conspicuously in the programmes; that Brahms

himself would be present, and that he would probably take part in one or

more of the performances. The life at Lichtenthal had come to seem to me

a sort of far-away fairy-tale impossible of any sort of renewal, and I

could hardly realize that I should soon see Brahms again. Finding,

however, from subsequent announcements, that the concerts were really to

take place, I lost no time in securing a subscription ticket for the

series.

Feeling sure that every moment of Brahms' short stay in Berlin would be

occupied, I decided that my only chance of getting a word or two with

him would be to gain admission to one of the rehearsals, and to watch

for a favourable moment in which to make myself known to him. As ill

luck would have it, I was claimed on the first day by engagements that

could not be postponed. I was, however, the less inconsolable since

Brahms was to take an active part only in the second and third concerts.

Their respective programmes included a new pianoforte concerto still in

MS. (No. 2 in B flat), to be played by the composer, with von Bülow as

conductor; and the first pianoforte concerto, with Bülow as pianist and

Brahms at the conductor's desk.

Betaking myself to the Singakademie in good time for the rehearsal on

the second morning of the series, I explained, to the friendly custodian

at the entrance-door, my claims to admission. He allowed me to enter the

hall and to take my place amongst the small audience of persons

privileged to attend.

The members of the orchestra were already assembled, and after some

moments of waiting von Bülow came in with several gentlemen. Lusty

applause broke forth from platform and stalls, and a small stir of

greetings took place. But where was Brahms? I could perceive him nowhere

at first, and it was only as the rehearsal proceeded, and he took his

place on the platform, that I felt certain he was really present. I had

prepared myself to find him looking changed and older, but not beyond

recognition. It is, however, no exaggeration to say that as I gazed at

him, knowing him to be Brahms, I was utterly unable to recognise the man

I had known ten years previously. There, indeed, was the great head with

the hair brushed back as of old, though less tidily than in former days;

but his figure had become much heavier, and both mouth and chin were

hidden by a thick moustache and shaggy, grizzled beard that had

completely transformed his appearance. When I first knew him at the time

of his early middle age, one might fancy that his countenance and

expression had retained more than a trace of his youthful period of

_Sturm und Drang_, but this had now quite vanished. I felt, with a

shock, that my foreboding that I should never see my old friend again

had been realized, though in a way different from that anticipated by

me.

Brahms received an ovation when he had finished his performance of the

new concerto, and as he was retiring from the platform Bülow, unable to

restrain his excitement, darted forward and gave him a kiss. It seemed

to take him rather aback, but he submitted passively.

At length the rehearsal came to an end, and Brahms was immediately

surrounded by friends eager to offer their congratulations and to

receive a word of greeting from him. 'Now or never,' I thought, and,

taking my courage in my hand, I managed to get near, though a little

behind him. 'I, also, should like to say a word of thanks to you, Herr

Brahms,' I said. Brahms turned his head. 'Are you here in Berlin, then?'

he rejoined instantly, answering as he might have done if we had met the

previous week. Someone else pressed forward to claim his attention as I

was replying, and I fell behind again. I did not like to wait for a

second opportunity, feeling there was no chance of his being free, so I

straightway departed and went back to my lodgings.

Thinking things over on my road, I came to the conclusion that Brahms

had not recognised me, but that when my words caught his ear he had

uttered the first casual reply that rose to his lips, and which might be

appropriate to any acquaintance whom he did not at the moment remember.

However exceptional his memory for faces might be, it appeared to me

incredible that, after the lapse of so many years, he should have known

me without the hesitation of a second at a moment when his attention

was preoccupied by the concert business of the day and by the claims of

his Berlin friends.

It was in this frame of mind that I took my seat in the evening to hear

the concert. Having got over the first excitement of seeing Brahms

again, and knowing what I had to expect in regard to his personal

appearance, I was able to listen to the music in a more composed mood

than had been possible to me in the morning. My pleasure in the

performance of the concerto was, of course, in some measure impaired by

the circumstance that the long, intricate work was quite new. I think,

however, that I should have enjoyed it more if Brahms had conducted and

Bülow performed the solo. I did not think Brahms' playing what it had

been. His touch in forte passages had become hard, and though he might,

perhaps, be said to have mastered the difficulties of his part, he had

not sufficiently surmounted them to execute them with ease. It could

not, in fact, have been otherwise. No composer having attained to the

height of Brahms' greatness could have kept his technical command of the

pianoforte unimpaired; life is too short for this. I knew, however, that

I had listened to a magnificent work of immense proportions, and longed

for opportunity to hear it again that I might assimilate it.

There was a scene of tumultuous enthusiasm at the close of the work. The

public applauded wildly, and shouted itself hoarse; the band joined in

with its fanfare of trumpet and drum; Brahms and von Bülow were recalled

again and again, separately and together; and in the moment of the great

composer's triumph I saw the earlier Brahms once more standing before

me, for, whilst his eyes shone and his face beamed with pleasure, I

recognised in his bearing and expression the old familiar look of almost

diffident, shy modesty which had been one of his characteristics in

former days.

I did not, of course, seek for a further opportunity of speaking to

Brahms on the evening of which I am writing, but I laid my plans for the

next morning, and at the proper hour again made my way to the

Singakademie and successfully begged for admission to the rehearsal.

During the first part Brahms sat as one of the audience in the front row

of stalls, and in a convenient break between the pieces I sent my

English visiting-card to him, having written on it a few lines recalling

myself to his remembrance. He read it and looked round. 'I know that

already,' he said coldly, but rising and coming towards me. 'I saw you

yesterday.' 'But you did not know who I was?' I returned, still

sceptical. 'Yes, I knew.' 'It seemed to me quite impossible you could

have recognised me!' I ejaculated. 'Oh yes, yes--_oh_ yes!' said Brahms

in quite a different tone, and for a couple of seconds I forgot to look

up or say anything.

'Are you taking notes?' he asked by way of recalling me to myself,

touching my pencil. But the rehearsal had to proceed, and Brahms

presently took his place on the platform with Bülow for the performance

of the Concerto in D minor. When the rehearsal was over, I did not leave

the hall so quickly as on the previous day, but waited in the hope of

getting another word with Brahms, and was rewarded by having a good

many.

In the evening, as he faced the audience before the commencement of the

concerto, catching sight of me in the third row of stalls, he was at the

pains to bestow upon me a kind bow and smile of recognition. He glanced

slightly at me again once or twice during the evening, and I knew,

though his appearance still seemed a little strange to me, that Brahms

was in the world after all.

The execution of the D minor Concerto was one of those rare performances

that remain in the memory as unforgettable events. Brahms, when

conducting, indulged in no antics, and was sparing of his gestures,

often keeping his left hand in his pocket, or letting it hang quietly at

his side; but he cast the spell of his genius over orchestra and pianist

alike. The performance was remarkable for its power and grandeur, but

not chiefly so, for these qualities were to be expected. It was made

supremely memorable by the subtle imagination that touched and modified

even the rather hard intellectuality of von Bülow's usual style. Good

performances of Brahms' orchestral works may not seldom be heard, and

great ones occasionally; but the particular quality of his poetic fancy,

by which, when conducting an orchestra, he made the music sound from

time to time as though it were floating in some rarefied atmosphere,

vibrating now with fairy-like beauty and grace, now with ethereal

mystery, was, I should say, peculiar to himself, and is hardly to be

reproduced or imitated.

As soon as Brahms had finished his share in the evening's programme I

quitted the hall, for I was thoroughly exhausted by the excitement of

the past two days, and felt I could bear nothing more. Early the next

morning he left Berlin to fulfil engagements in another town.

VIENNA.

During the next four years much of my time was passed in Berlin. I

delighted in the concerts and general musical atmosphere of the German

capital, and did not allow my plans to be disturbed by a vague

invitation to visit Vienna which Brahms had given me in the course of

our short interview in the hall of the Singakademie. I felt that however

kind and friendly his recollection of me might have remained, yet I

could not hope to derive direct musical benefit from one absorbed in the

intense thought and brooding to which the life of a really great

composer must be largely devoted.

It was not until December, 1888, that I paid my first visit to Vienna. I

arrived there towards the end of the month, armed with letters of

introduction which met with a kind response and obtained for me

immediate admission into those English and Austrian circles to members

of which they were addressed. I waited for a week before letting Brahms

know of my arrival, as I wished not only to be settled before calling on

him, but also to be in such a position in regard to my acquaintance as

would make it impossible for him to suspect that I could want anything

whatever of him beyond the delight and honour of seeing him again, and

of recalling myself to his remembrance.

Meanwhile I gathered, from all I heard, that his dislike of anything

approaching to general society had steadily grown upon him. Some, even,

of his old friends spoke of the increasing rarity of his visits. A lady

at whose house he had been intimate for many years told me it had once

been his custom to announce himself for the evening from time to time at

a few hours' notice, with the proviso that he should find her and her

husband alone in their family circle, or at most with one or two chosen

friends. On these occasions he had been used to play to them one after

another of his newest compositions. This habit, however, he had almost

entirely given up.

I heard but one opinion, both from friends and outsiders, as to his

essentially high character and sterling qualities of nature; but his

manners were described with unanimity, by those not within his immediate

circle, as difficult, sarcastic, and arrogant. I was, indeed, so

repeatedly assured that I should do no good by trying to see him that I

almost began to fear I should find he had become rude and impossible, if

not hopelessly inaccessible. To all that was said to me on the subject I

answered merely that I had once known him well, and had never found him

otherwise than kind and simple, but that I had prepared myself to find

him changed and rough in his behaviour to me.

At length, on a dark afternoon of one of the closing days of the year, I

made my way to the Wieden, the quarter of Vienna inhabited by Brahms,

and, turning in at the doorway of No. 4, Carlsgasse, I ascended the worn

stone staircase as far as the third _étage_. Here I pulled the shining

brass handle of the old-fashioned door-bell, and the feeling of doubt

which had possessed me changed to one of positive alarm as I listened to

the prolonged peal I had awakened. I thought it must sound to Brahms

like the announcement of a most daring and determined intruder, and that

it would inevitably prove the death-knell of any chance of my

admission.

The door was soon opened by a friendly maid-servant, who told me,

indeed, that the Herr Doctor was not at home, but satisfied me that I

was not being put off with a mere phrase by adding that she thought he

would probably be back by six o'clock, and that she advised me to return

about that hour if I particularly wished to see him, as he was to start

on a journey early the next morning. I thanked the girl, said I would

follow her suggestion, and, without leaving my name, returned to my

rooms to wait for the evening.

The second visit was again unsuccessful, but on trying a third time, at

seven o'clock, I found that Brahms had returned. 'Please to walk in,'

said the landlady, who this time opened the door. But this unexpected

facility of access to the master was even more embarrassing than would

have been the conflict of argument I had anticipated. 'Please take my

card,' said I, 'to the Herr Doctor, and ask if he will see me.' 'Oh, it

is not necessary,' she said; but took it in, returning immediately and

asking me to enter. As I advanced, the formidable and overbearing Brahms

hastened to meet me. 'Why did you not leave your address? I should have

come to find you out,' he said, giving me his hand. And returning with

me to the sitting-room, he bade me take a seat on the sofa, whilst he

placed himself on a chair opposite.

He did not try to hide that he was pleased to see his old pupil. He

evidently wished me to understand that our acquaintanceship was to be

taken up from the exact point at which it had been last left, and

reminded me, when I alluded to his lessons at Baden-Baden, that he had

seen me since those early days. 'Oh, for a moment at the rehearsals at

Berlin,' I answered. 'But since then,' he insisted. 'Only at the

concert,' said I, rather surprised. 'Yes, at the concert,' he agreed,

'and you sat downstairs, I remember.'

I told him I had lately been getting up the same B flat Concerto which

he had played at the time, and had performed it in London before a

private audience. He was interested in hearing the particulars of the

occasion, and when I said, laughingly, that the fatigue entailed by the

practice of its enormous difficulties had given me all sorts of aches

and pains, and made it necessary for me to go into the country for

change of air after the performance was over, he replied in the same

vein: 'But that is very dangerous; one must not compose such things. It

is too dangerous!'

He informed me rather slyly, 'I am the most unamiable of all the

musicians here,' as though he would like to know if I had heard of his

reputation for cross-grained perversity, and was frankly gratified when

I answered: 'That I will never believe, Herr Brahms--never!' He was to

be absent at the longest for ten days only, and when I took leave of him

it was with the pleasant consciousness that he would be glad to find me

still in Vienna on his return.

In appearance, Brahms had again greatly altered since our meeting in

Berlin. Though not fifty-six, he looked an old man. His hair was nearly

white, and he had grown very stout. I had a good opportunity of

observing him, myself unnoticed, soon after his return from his journey.

The first public performance in Vienna was given of his newly-published

Gipsy Songs, at the concert of a resident singer, one of his friends.

Brahms had not been announced to take part in the performance, but when

the evening came, he walked quietly on to the platform as the singers

were arranging themselves in their places and took his seat at the

pianoforte as accompanist. Of course his appearance was the signal for

an outburst of enthusiastic welcome from the crowded audience, some

hopes, but no certainty, having been entertained that he would show

himself.

As I sat in my corner and watched, I was aware that not only his general

aspect, but his expression also, had undergone another and a curious

change during the last years. He now wore the happy, sunshiny look of

one who had realized his purpose, and was content with his share in

life; of one to whom the complete measure of success had come, and not

too late to be valued. If in Baden-Baden he had made upon me the

impression of a man awaiting full recognition, who had already waited

long for it; if in Berlin, the impression of one who, having attained a

glorious pinnacle of fame whilst still in the plenitude of his powers,

was untiringly pressing onward towards higher summits of fulfilment--I

had the feeling, when I looked at him in Vienna, that the second phase,

too, was more or less belonging to the past, and that he had entered

upon a period of reward, and perhaps of less strenuous exertion.

One of the very few opportunities I ever had of seeing Brahms avail

himself of a great man's license to follow his whims regardless of

convention, and, perhaps, of due respect to others, was afforded me at a

meeting of the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein, the musicians' club, of which

he was honorary president. It was one of the special social evenings of

the society, when the members supped together. Brahms was late in

coming, and when he arrived supper was proceeding. He allowed himself to

be conducted to the place, at the top of a long table, which had been

reserved for him as president, but did not sit down. Leisurely scanning

the assembled company, he picked out the position he preferred, which

happened to be at the side near the bottom. A slight space was certainly

there, but not enough for a seat. 'There,' he said, pointing to it, and

he sauntered down the room, apparently quite unconcerned at the

disturbance and inconvenience which he caused, a bench having to be

moved and several people being obliged to shift their places to make

room for him. When once in occupation of the seat he fancied, he

contributed his share to the cordiality of the evening, and was in no

hurry to leave.

Another occasion was very similar. He was again dissatisfied with a

place that had been assigned him at a supper-party. This time it was at

a private house, and, as he could not have declined the seat without

making himself unbearably rude, he submitted, with a kind of

half-protest, to occupy it. During the greater part of the

entertainment, however, he was not only in a wayward mood, but in a

thoroughly bad temper, which he could not control. There was, when all

is said, certainly no ill-natured intention in what he did on either

occasion, but at the worst a mere childish petulance and

over-excitability under slight disappointment.

I discovered, though Brahms had no fixed hour, that the right time to

call upon him was about eleven o'clock. Always an early riser, he had

then completed his morning's work, and if at home, as was generally the

case, was ready to receive a visitor. He was sometimes to be found

seated at the piano with an open volume (often Bach) on the music-stand,

which was placed on the closed top lid of the instrument, playing

softly, or silently studying the work in front of him. I have never felt

that I was disturbing him when I called. It is true that I only went

occasionally, and when provided with a legitimate excuse. Still, I do

not altogether understand how he acquired such a reputation for

incivility. He was, in his own way, of a sociable disposition.

One day when I was with him, some terrible pianoforte strumming was

going on in the flat above him. I commented on the strange constitution

of people who could deliberately plant themselves in his immediate

neighbourhood--for he had occupied the same rooms for years--and then

worry him with such noise. He said there was sometimes bad singing and

violin-playing, both of which he found even harder to bear than the

piano, but added: 'They have their rights, and I know how to help

myself;' and he held out his hands in keyboard position, to indicate

that when too much disturbed to do anything else, he shut out the sounds

and employed his time by playing.

Brahms generally went out at about a quarter to twelve at latest, and

would arrive before one o'clock at his favourite restaurant, Zum Rothen

Igel. After his early dinner he walked, finding his way to a café in

another part of the town, where he would read the papers over a cup of

black coffee. After this was his best time for paying visits, and about

six o'clock he often returned to his rooms to write letters or do other

work. Later on he would go out again to fulfil his evening engagements.

Sometimes it happened that he did not go home, after leaving in the

morning, until after supper. These details I learnt incidentally in the

course of my stay in Vienna.

Brahms made a great point of being polite to ladies on the question of

smoking, and was very particular in asking permission before lighting

his cigar. Of course, if I found him alone, he never smoked. One day,

however, when I had been with him only a very few minutes, the door-bell

rang, and two gentlemen appeared, one a friend of Brahms', the other a

youth whom he had brought to introduce to the master. Brahms wished me

to remain, and I therefore kept my seat. Very soon he produced his box

of cigars, according to Continental custom, and handed it to his

visitors, saying, however: 'But I do it unwillingly, as a lady is

present.' The elder of the two gentlemen put his cigar into his

breast-pocket, the younger lighted his and vigorously puffed away alone,

from sheer confusion, I think, at finding himself in the presence of the

master. Brahms returned to his seat without taking one. 'But won't you

smoke, Herr Brahms?' I said, after a few seconds. 'If you allow it,' he

answered, making as much as possible of the few words, and taking a

cigar.

Though Brahms was not, during the latter part of his life, a frequenter

of concert-rooms, he nearly always attended the concerts of the

Philharmonic Society and of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna,

sitting, usually, in the 'artists' box' in the gallery. In the intervals

between the pieces he would lean forward, both arms on the front, with

his opera-glasses to his eyes, spying out his acquaintances in different

parts of the hall.

When I called to say good-bye to him at the close of my first visit to

Vienna, I happened to mention that I had made a small collection of

works written for the keyed instruments of the seventeenth and

eighteenth centuries, and had picked up one or two rather valuable first

editions. He was greatly interested, and saying, 'We have done the same

thing,' took down from the bookcase one or two of his own old

music-books to show me. I especially remember an original edition of

Scarlatti's Sonatas, in first-rate preservation, but without the

title-page, of which he was particularly fond and proud. He asked if I

would bring one or two of mine to show him on my next visit, and I told

him that I happened to have one with me--an original Rameau--and that if

he had not got a copy I would send it him at once.

'No,' he answered; 'it is too late now--you are going away

to-morrow--but next year when you come again.' 'But I mean,' I rejoined,

'that I will give it you.' Brahms did not immediately answer, and I

added: 'Would you rather not? If so, I will not do it.' 'No, I would

_not_ "rather not," but you must not immediately give your things away,'

he replied. 'Then I will do it,' I declared, delighted that I possessed

something he would like to have, and to accept from me. Later in the day

I sent him the book, with a few lines telling him how much pleasure it

would give me if I might leave it with him as a remembrance. Early the

next morning I left Vienna. I was not to arrive in London for another

week, having engagements _en route_, and this Brahms knew. On the

evening of my return home, as soon as my mother's first greetings were

over, she said: 'There is a letter for you from Brahms; it arrived this

morning.' 'From Brahms! How do you know?' I answered. 'From his having

written his name on the outside,' she returned, handing me the precious

missive.

On the outside of the envelope, above the adhesive, he had written 'J.

Brahms, Vienna, Austria,' and, opening the envelope, I read as follows:

'VERY ESTEEMED AND DEAR FRÄULEIN,

'It was too late the other evening for me to be able to do as I

wished, and come and express my thanks to you in person.

'Let me, therefore, send them very heartily after you, for your so

kind and valuable gift.

'It was indeed much too kind of you to part with the pretty

treasure in order to give me pleasure, and it shall still be at

your disposal next year!

'In the hope of seeing you here again next year, and of being able

to repeat my hearty thanks,

'Yours very sincerely,

'J. BRAHMS.'[2]

On my first visit to Brahms in the following winter, he led the way to

his bookcase and showed me the Rameau, saying: 'I shall die in ten

years, and you will get it back again.' I told him that should I outlive

him I should prefer not to have it back, but to let it go with his

collection, and thus the matter remained.

The success of my first visit to Vienna induced me to pay several

subsequent ones, the last of which took place rather more than a year

before Brahms' death. A minute account of each would be wearisome, and I

will only allude, therefore, to the opportunity that I had, in the

course of two separate winters, of hearing the concerts of the Joachim

Quartet in Vienna, and of seeing Brahms as one of the audience. On one

of these enchanting evenings the Clarinet Quintet was given, with

Mühlfeld as clarinettist. Brahms had his seat downstairs, at the end of

the room reserved for resident and other musicians, and separated from

the general audience by the performers' platform. My place was only two

or three away from his, and so situated that I could see him all the

time the work was being played. His face wore an unconscious smile, and

his expression was one of absorbed felicity from beginning to end of the

performance. When the last movement was finished, he was not to be

persuaded to come forward and take his part in acknowledging the

deafening clamour of applause, but, as it were, disclaimed all right in

it himself by vigorously applauding the executants. At the last moment,

however, as the noise was beginning to subside, up he got, and stepping

on to the platform, in his loose, short, shabby morning-coat, made his

bow to the audience. Another item in the programme was the Clarinet

Trio, played by himself, Mühlfeld, and Hausmann. Joachim, sitting on the

right-hand side of the piano, turned over for him. I changed my seat

during the performance of this work, taking the place that Brahms had

vacated, which was close to the piano and gave me a full view of the

keyboard. In spite of my several experiences of the master's tenacious

memory for small things, I confess that I felt a thrill of surprise at

the end of the first movement, and again at the end of the second, when

he turned his head suddenly round and glanced straight at me in the very

same quick, searching way to which I had been accustomed in the old

Lichtenthal days, as though to satisfy himself as to whether or not I

had understood.

ISCHL.

I spent several weeks at Ischl during the summers of 1894 and 1895, and

was much interested in observing the life of my old friend in

surroundings that were new to me. His habits, during these closing years

of his life, were in all essential respects the same as when I had first

known him in Baden-Baden. Rising soon after four o'clock, his days were

passed in the same simple, natural routine of walking, studying, and

composing, in the enjoyment of the society of his friends and of the

cordial relations which he maintained with the people of the country,

between whom and himself a perfect understanding existed.

His love of children has often been recorded. I have seen him sitting

reading on the bench of the little garden of his lodgings, apparently

quite undisturbed by his landlady's boys, who romped round and about

him, jumping on and off the bench, playing hide-and-seek behind his

back, and the like. Now and then he would interrupt his studies to

caress a couple of kittens that were taking part in the frolics.

'I know this man,' said a droll, tiny boy of about five or six, in a

funny red suit, who, taking a stroll along the promenade one afternoon

with some companions, came upon Brahms sitting under the trees before

Walter's coffee-house, the centre of a large group of musicians and

friends. The great composer was quite ready to acknowledge the

acquaintanceship, and called his small friend to his table to receive a

spoonful of half-melted sugar from his coffee-cup.

'My Katie knows Brahms,' said a village dressmaker to me, alluding to

her pretty little fair-haired daughter of eight. 'We have met him out

walking very early in the morning, but Katie was frightened the other

day and cried because he ran round her and pretended he wanted her piece

of bread.'

'The Herr Doctor has already seen him,' a young peasant mother observed

to me as she showed me her three-months-old son, 'and says he is a

strapping boy.'

One morning when I called on Brahms to say good-bye, I found him in the

midst of preparations for his own departure. An open portmanteau, in

process of being packed, was in the sitting-room, and there was a litter

of small things about. Brahms invited me to take a seat on the sofa. A

book which he had been reading lay open, face downwards. I ventured,

with an apologetic glance at him, to take it up and look at it. This he

did not at all mind. He had been amusing himself with an essay on

Bismarck. After we had chatted a little while, as I rose to say

farewell, my eye was caught by a table on which were a number of cheap

German playthings--small boxes of puzzles, toy knives and forks, etc.,

evidently destined for parting or returning gifts to quite poor

children.

'What is this?' I involuntarily exclaimed, taking up, before I knew

what I was doing, a toy fork of most ungainly make, broad, squat, and

almost without handle. An inquisitiveness, however, which seemed to hint

at the soft side of Brahms' nature could not be allowed. 'What does that

matter to you?' he cried. Then, instantly, as though afraid he had been

rough, he added: 'It is for small things--fruit, fish, or the like.'

Only I, having seen the clumsy toy, can quite appreciate the comicality

of the answer, which of course simply meant: 'No allusion, if you

please.' Brahms, however, had saved appearances, and without being hard

on me, had drawn a thin veil over his kind intentions to his little

friends. I held the fork another instant, and then replaced it on the

table, saying with gravity: 'I thought it was a plaything, Herr Brahms.'

A young lady, an inhabitant of Ischl, who taught singing, and gave an

annual concert there, and who, during the season, presided over a

milliner's business on the Promenade, was a great ally of Brahms', and

never omitted to stand outside the door of her atelier as the hour

approached for him to pass to his café, in order to get a greeting from

him. The little ceremony was duly honoured by the great composer, who

was always ready with, at the least, his genial 'Good-day.'

Fräulein L. talked of him to me in just the same way as all others did

who were content to be natural and unostentatious in their manner

towards him. He was so good-natured and bright, she remarked, and though

he loved to tease, his teasing was so kindly. He made a point of calling

on her formally once every season. Taking advantage of this ceremony,

she one day placed before him a cabinet photograph of himself, and asked

if he could do her the honour of writing his name underneath.

'Yes, I can do that,' he answered in his cheerful tone, 'I learned that

at school. But why do you keep this ugly old face? Why not have a

handsome, curly-haired one? Ah, what have we here?'--catching sight of a

little saucer containing cigar-ash. '_You smoke!_'

Fräulein L. laughingly assured him that neither she nor her assistant

had been guilty of the cigar. 'So much the worse!' he retorted. 'Who was

it? Is he dark or fair?'

By such genial intercourse and harmless banter, Brahms endeared himself

to all the towns-people with whom he came in contact, and his preference

for Ischl was a source of pride and gratification to them. His

sociability had in it no suggestion of patronage; it was that of a

friend with friends, and was valued accordingly.

A few words spoken to me by his landlady at Ischl are not without their

value, coming, as they do, from one who had the opportunity of knowing

him in small things. The occasion was as follows. My lodging was

opposite to Brahms' on the other side of the valley, but on a much

higher mountain slope. I could see his house from my balcony and

windows, but was too far away to have the least apprehension that he

could be disturbed by hearing anything of my piano. Someone suggesting

to me, however, that, with the wind in a certain direction, the sound

might possibly reach his windows, I went across one afternoon, when I

knew he would be out, to interview his landlady on the subject. She

assured me nothing had ever been heard, and added: 'You can play quite

without fear, gnädiges Fräulein; nothing is heard here--the water makes

too much noise. And even if a tone were to be heard now and then--it

could not be more--the master is not so particular: it would not disturb

him. He is not capricious: no one can say that of him.'

That Brahms had his little prejudices and limitations, however, cannot

be denied, and these grew more pronounced as he advanced in years and

became less pliable. The mere circumstance of his having inflexibly

adhered to the particular method of life adopted by him as a young man,

by which he shut himself away as much as possible from whatever was at

all distasteful to him in ordinary social intercourse, contributed, as

time went on, to increase his sensitiveness and make him impatient of

contradiction. He became rather too prone to suspect people to whom he

did not take a fancy, of conceit and affectation; and, without knowing

it, he acquired a habit, which sometimes made conversation with him

difficult, of dissenting forcibly from trifling remarks made more with

the object of saying something than for the sake of asserting a

principle. He had his own particular code of polite manners, and was

rigorous in expecting others to adhere to it, yet he was apt, in his

latter years, to be intolerant of those whose ideas of what was due to

the amenities of life were more extended than his own, or somewhat

differed from them.

What, however, were his prepossessions, his little sarcasms, and

occasional roughnesses, but as the tiniest flecks on the sun? We may

well be thankful, we musicians and music-lovers of this generation, to

have passed some part of our lives with Brahms in our midst--Brahms the

composer and Brahms the man. As his music may be searched through and

through in vain for a single bar that is not noble and pure, so also in

his mind dwelt no thought which was otherwise than good and true. We may

even be glad that he was not perfect, but human, the dear, great,

tenderhearted master, whose lofty message, vibrating with the pulsations

of the nature he so loved, was of such rare beauty and consolation.

The few lines with which I conclude these slight personal reminiscences

were the last I ever received from Brahms. They were written on his card

and sent, enclosed in an envelope, when I was at Ischl. I had been

expecting him to come to see me, and he had not appeared.

'ESTEEMED FRÄULEIN,

'Prevented by many things, I venture to ask if it is not possible

for you to call on

'Your most sincerely

'JOHANNES BRAHMS.'[3]

[1] An expression of commendation peculiarly German.

[2] 'SEHR GEEHRTES UND LIEBES FRÄULEIN,

'Es war neulich zu spät am Abend geworden als dass ich, wie

ich wünschte, Sie selbst noch hätte aufsuchen u. Ihnen meinen Dank

aussprechen können.

'So lassen Sie mich denn nachträglich diesen sehr herzlichen sagen

für Ihr so freundliches u. werthvolles Geschenk.

'Es war in der That gar zu liebenswürdig von Ihnen sich mir zu

gefallen von dem hübschen Schatze zu trennen u. es soll Ihnen

im nächsten Jahre auch noch zur Verfügung stehen!

'In der Hoffnung Sie aber im nächsten Jahre wieder hier zu sehen u.

Ihnen meinen herzlichen Dank wiederholen zu können,

'Ihr sehr ergebener,

'J. BRAHMS.'

[3] 'GEEHRTES FRÄULEIN,

'Mannichfach abgehalten, erlaube ich mir die Anfrage ob es

Ihnen nicht möglich ist vorzusprechen bei

'Ihrem ergebensten

'JOHANNES BRAHMS.'

CHAPTER I

1760-1845

The Brahms family--Johann Jakob Brahms: his youth and

marriage--Birth and childhood of Johannes--The Alster

Pavilion--Otto F. W. Cossel--Johannes' private subscription

concert.

Johannes Brahms came of a race belonging to Lower Saxony. This is

sufficiently indicated by the family name, which appears in extant

church records variously as Brahms, Brams, and Brahmst. The word Bram

belongs to the old Platt-Deutsch, the near kin to the Anglo-Saxon and

English languages. It is still the common name in the Baltic districts

of Germany, the Hanoverian provinces, and, with a modified vowel, in

England, for the straight-growing _Planta genista_, the yellow-flowering

broom, and is preserved in its original form in the English word

'bramble.'

The letter _s_ at the end of a name has the same meaning in German as in

English, and just as 'Brooks' is a contraction of the words 'son of

Brook,' so 'Brahms' signifies, literally, 'son of Bram,' or 'Broom.'

Peter Brahms, the great-grandfather of the composer, and the first of

his family of whom there is authentic record, was a child of the people.

He trekked across the mouth of the Elbe from Hanover into Holstein, and

settled down to ply his trade of joiner at Brunsbüttel, a hamlet or

small township situated in the fertile fen-country which lies along the

shore of the Baltic between the mouths of the Elbe and the Eider. This

district is remembered as the land of the Ditmarsh Peasants, who were

distinguished, some centuries ago, by their fierce and obstinate

struggles for the maintenance of their independence, but who finally

settled down about the year 1560 under the dominion of the Princes of

Holstein. They are said to have been pre-eminent amongst neighbouring

peoples, not only in courage, but in a simple untaught genius for the

arts of poetry and music. They loved to turn their various adventures

into verse, which they afterwards sang to the most expressive and

appropriate melodies of their own invention, and their war-songs and

ballads, though now forgotten, were long a cherished possession of their

children's children. The little country has in recent times proved not

unworthy of its former reputation. Niebuhr the traveller, and his son,

the celebrated historian, both belonged to Meldorf. Claus Groth, the

Low-German poet, was a native of Heide, where his grandfather and father

were millers living on their own land in patriarchal fashion. Groth has

drawn, notably in his volume 'Quickborn,' pathetically naïve pictures of

his beloved Ditmarsh; of its homely scenery, its changing cloud-effects,

its sudden bursts of storm, its simple, hard-working, honourable peasant

life; and it is a striking circumstance that he should have been in a

position to describe, as old family friends and neighbours, living

amongst the memories of his childhood, the great-grandfather,

grandfather, father, and uncle of Johannes Brahms.[4]

Old Peter the trekker was respected as a thoroughly well-mannered,

orderly citizen. He was short and robust, and lived to a ripe old age.

He passed the closing years of his life at Heide, where he spent most of

his time sitting on a bench in front of his house, smoking a long pipe,

and was wont to startle the dreamy Claus Groth, as he passed by every

morning on his way to school, with a loud, jocular greeting.

Johann his son, who was tall and handsome, with straight, yellow hair

and fair complexion, combined the callings of innkeeper and retail

dealer first at Wöhrden and afterwards at Heide. He married Christiana

Asmus, a daughter of the country, and who knows what strain of latent

poetic instinct, inherited from some old minstrel and patriot ancestor,

may have been transmitted, through her veins, into the sturdy Brahms

family? There is some presumption in favour of such a conjecture.

Two sons were born of her marriage with Johann, each of whom had a

marked individuality. Peter Hinrich, the eldest, married at the age of

twenty, and settled down as his father's assistant and future successor.

Groth has described his adventure in the fields one memorable Sunday

afternoon. Accompanied by his little son, he carried a huge kite, taller

than himself, with a correspondingly long, thick string, which he

successfully started. A strong north-west wind carried it along, and, to

the delight of a crowd of small spectators, he tied to it a little cart

of his own manufacture, in which he placed his boy. The cart began to

move, drawn by the kite, slowly at first, then more quickly. Faster and

higher flew the monster, quicker and quicker rolled the wheels, the

child in the carriage, the father by its side. Then a scream, a crash!

The terrified Claus knew no more till next day, when he heard that the

little carriage had been dragged over a wall and upset, that the child

had fallen out unhurt, and the kite been found on a high post a mile or

two distant.

This Peter Hinrich added to the vocations of his father that of

pawnbroker, and gradually acquired a large business as a dealer in

antiquities. In the end, however, his delight in his possessions gained

decided predominance over his business instincts. Becoming partially

crippled in old age, he would sit in a large arm-chair for which there

was barely space, surrounded by his beloved pots and pitchers, weapons

and armour, and point out desired objects to would-be purchasers with a

long stick. Often, however, he could not persuade himself to part with

his curiosities, and would send his customers away empty-handed,

satisfied with the mere pleasure of showing the treasures with which he

packed his house quite full. His children and grandchildren remained and

spread in the Ditmarsh, where some of them prosper to this day.

Johann Jakob, the second son of Johann and Christiana, destined to

become the father of our composer, was his brother's junior by fourteen

years, and was born on June 1, 1806. From his early boyhood he seems to

have had no doubt as to his choice of a vocation. He could by no means

be persuaded to settle down to the routine of school-work, to be

followed in due course by the humdrum existence of a small country

innkeeper or tradesman, such as had sufficed for his father and

grandfather, and was contentedly accepted by his elder brother. He was

upright, good-natured, and possessed of a certain vein of drollery,

which made him throughout life a favourite with his associates; he was

born, also, with a quietly stubborn will. He had an overmastering love

of music--music of the kind he was accustomed to hear at neighbours'

weddings, at harvest merry-makings, in the dancing-rooms of village

inns. A musician he was resolved to be, and a musician, in spite of the

determined opposition of parents and family, he became.

There existed, not far from his home, a representative of the old 'Stadt

Pfeifereien,' establishments descended directly from the musicians'

guilds of the Middle Ages, whose traditions lingered on in the rural

districts of Germany for some time after the original institutions had

become extinct. The 'Stadt Pfeiferei' was recognised as the official

musical establishment of its neighbourhood, and was presided over by the

town-musician, who retained certain ancient privileges. He held a

monopoly for providing the music for all open-air festivities in the

villages, hamlets, and small townships within his district, and formed

his band or bands from apprenticed pupils, who paid a trifling sum of

money, often helped with their manual labour in the work of his house

and the cultivation of his garden or farm, and, in return, lived with

him as part of his family and received musical instruction from himself

and his assistants. At the termination of their apprenticeship he

provided his scholars with indentures of character and efficiency,

according to desert, and dismissed them to follow their fortunes.

Country lads with ambition, who desired to see something of the world,

or to attain a better position than that of a peasant or journeyman,

would persuade their parents to place them in one of these

establishments. They were expected to acquire a practical knowledge of

several instruments, so as to be able to take part upon either as

occasion might demand, and the bands thus formed were available for all

local functions. Johann Jakob would readily have applied himself to

learn, from the nearest town-musician, all that that official was able

to teach him, but his father could not be brought to consent to his

exchanging the solid prospects of a settled life in the Ditmarsh for the

visionary future of an itinerant performer. The boy's inclination was,

however, unconquerable, and he settled the matter in his own fashion. He

ran away from home several times and made his own bargain with his

musical hero. Twice he was recalled and forgiven, and after the third

escapade was allowed to have his own way, and bound over to serve his

time in the usual manner. 'I cannot give such proofs of my devotion to

music,' wrote his son Johannes to Claus Groth many years afterwards.

Five years of apprenticeship were spent, the last three at the more

distant town of Weslingbüren, in the study of the violin, viola, 'cello,

flute, and horn, and, in the beginning of the year 1826, the quondam

musical apprentice obtained his indentures, which testified to his

faithfulness, desire to learn, industry, and obedience,[5] and quitted

the old home country to try his luck at Hamburg.

It is not easy to imagine the feelings of this youth of nineteen or

twenty on his arrival, fresh from the simple life of the Ditmarsh

peasants, in the great commercial fortress-city, still the old Hamburg

of the day, with its harbour and shipping and busy river scenes; its

walls and city gates, locked at sunset; its water-ways and bridges; its

churches and exchange; its tall, gabled houses; its dim, tortuous

alleys. Refined ease and sordid revelry were well represented there; the

one might be contemplated on the pleasant, shady Jungfernstieg, the

fashionable promenade where rich merchants and fine ladies and gay

officers sat and sipped punch or coffee, wine or lemonade, served to

them by the nimble waiters of the Alster Pavilion, the high-class

refreshment-house on the lake hard by; the other, in the so-called

Hamburger Berg, the sailors' quarter, abounding in booths and shows,

small public-houses, and noisy dancing-saloons, in which scenes of

low-life gaiety were regularly enacted. Johann Jakob Brahms was destined

to appear, in the course of his career as a musician, in both

localities. He made his début in the latter.

Thrown entirely on his own resources, with a mere pittance in his pocket

for immediate needs, he had to pick up a bare existence, as best he

could, in the courtyards and dancing-saloons of the Hamburg Wapping. He

seems to have preserved his easy imperturbability of temper throughout

his early struggles, and to have kept his eyes open for any chance

opportunity that might occur. Helped by his natural gift for making

himself a favourite, he managed, by-and-by, to get appointed as one of

the hornists of the Bürger-Militair, the body of citizen-soldiers, or

town-guard, in which, with a few exceptions, every burgher or inhabitant

between the ages of twenty and forty-five was bound to serve. Each

battalion of the force had its own band, and each band its own uniform,

the musicians of the Jäger corps, to which Johann Jakob was attached,

wearing a green coat with white embroidered collar, headgear decorated

with a white pompon, and a short weapon called a Hirschfänger. This was

a distinct rise in the fortunes of the wanderer. He won for himself a

recognised place in the world, obscure though it might be, when he

acquired the right to wear a uniform of the city of Hamburg, and in due

time he enrolled himself as one of its burghers. The document of his

citizenship has been preserved, and will be mentioned again near the

close of our narrative.[6] It cannot be said that his further

advancement was rapid. His partiality for the music he knew of is

suggestive rather of a struggling instinct than an actual talent. His

professional acquirements were slender, and of general education he had

none; but he was not without shrewdness, was upright and diligent, and

he made gradual progress. He and his colleagues used to form themselves

into small brass bands, and to play wherever they saw opportunity,

sometimes getting trifling engagements in dancing-rooms, sometimes

dependent on the goodwill of a chance audience in a beer-garden or small

house of entertainment. He did not earn much, but was no longer entirely

dependent on the very meanest exercise of his industry, and may be said

to have obtained a footing on the lowest rung of fortune's ladder.

On June 9, 1830, a few days after completing his twenty-fourth year,

Jakob committed himself to the second great adventure of his life. He

married, choosing for his wife Johanna Henrika Christiana Nissen, who

was forty-one years of age and in very humble circumstances. She was

small and plain, and limped badly; was sickly in health, and somewhat

complaining; of a very affectionate if rather oversensitive disposition,

and had a sweet expression in her light-blue eyes that testified to the

goodness of her heart. She was an exquisite needlewoman, possessed many

good housewifely virtues which she exercised as far as her very limited

opportunities allowed, and is said to have been endowed with great

refinement of feeling and superior natural parts. One of her husband's

colleagues has described her as having faded, later on, into a 'little

withered mother who busied herself unobtrusively with her own affairs,

and was not known outside her dwelling.'

The strangely-matched couple began their life together on the smallest

possible scale, and in February of the following year a daughter was

born to them, who was christened Elisabeth Wilhelmine Louise. The young

father's material resources seem to have remained much as they were, but

before this time his dogged perseverance had added yet another

instrument to the list of those he had already practised. He contrived

to learn the double-bass, and as his friends increased, and he became

more known, he began to get occasional engagements as double-bass

substitute in the orchestras of small theatres. Meanwhile he did not

neglect his other instruments, but performed on either as occasion

presented itself.

On May 7, 1833, the angel of life again visited the poor little home,

and Johanna Henrika Christiana presented her husband with a son, who was

baptized on the 26th of the same month at St. Michael's Church, Hamburg.

The child, being emphatically the 'son of Johann,' was called by the

single name Johannes, after his father, mother, and paternal

grandfather, and the grandfather was one of the sponsors.

The house in which Johannes Brahms was born still stands as it was

seventy years ago, and is now known as 60, Speckstrasse. The street

itself, which has since been changed and widened, was then Speck-lane,

and formed part of the Gänge-Viertel, the 'Lane-quarter' of the old

Hamburg. Want of space within the city walls had led to the construction

of rows of houses along a number of lanes adjacent to one another, which

had once been public thoroughfares through gardens. A neighbourhood of

very dark and narrow streets was thus formed, for the houses were tall

and gabled, and arranged to hold several families. They were generally

built of brick, loam, and wood, and were thrown up with the object of

packing as many human beings as possible into a given area. The

Lane-quarter exists no longer, but many of the old houses remain, and

some are well kept and picturesque to the eye of the passer-by. Not so

60, Speckstrasse. This house does not form part of the main street, but

stands as it did in 1833, in a small dismal court behind, which is

entered through a close passage, and was formerly called

Schlüter's-court. It would be impossible for the most imaginative

person, on arriving at this spot, to indulge in any of the picturesque

fancies supposed to be appropriate to a poet's birthplace; the house and

its surroundings testify only to the commonplace reality of a bare and

repulsive poverty. A steep wooden staircase in the centre, closed in at

night by gates, leads right and left, directly from the court, to the

various stories of the building. Each of its habitations is planned

exactly as every other, excepting that those near the top are contracted

by the sloping roof. Jakob and Johanna lived in the first-floor dwelling

to the left on facing the house. On entering it, it is difficult to

repress a shiver of bewilderment and dismay. The staircase door opens on

to a diminutive space, half kitchen, half lobby, where some cooking may

be done and a child's bed made up, and which has a second door leading

to the living-room. This communicates with the sleeping-closet, which

has its own window, but is so tiny it can scarcely be called a room.

There is nothing else, neither corner nor cupboard. Where Jakob kept his

instruments and how he managed to practise are mysteries which the

ordinary mind cannot satisfactorily penetrate, but it is probable that

his easy-going temperament helped him over these and other difficulties,

and that he was fairly content with his lot. If Johanna took life a

little more hardly, it is certain that husband and wife resembled each

other in their affection for the children, and that the strong tie of

love which bound the renowned composer of after-years to father and

mother alike, had its earliest beginning in the fondness and pride which

attended his cradle in the obscure abode in Schlüter's-court.

[Illustration: NO. 60 SPECKSTRASSE, HAMBURG.]

The family moved several times during the infancy of Johannes, and their

various homes are partly to be traced in back numbers of the Hamburg

address-book, which may be consulted in the library of the Johanneum.

These early changes, however, have but little interest for the reader,

and it will suffice to record that when the hero of our narrative was

four or five years old, and the proud senior by two years of a little

brother Friederich, known as Fritz, they moved into quarters less

confined than those they had yet occupied, at 38, Ulricus-strasse. Here

the anxious wife and mother was able to add a trifle to Jakob's scanty

earnings, by engaging on her own account in a tiny business for the sale

of needles, cottons, tapes, etc., which had been carried on for many

years previously at No. 91 of the same street by the 'sisters Nissen,'

and by taking as boarder an acquaintance of her husband's, who, though

not a musician, remained a life-long family friend. The intimacy

descended to the next generation, and his son, Herr Carl Bade, has many

a droll anecdote to relate of Jakob, whom he remembers with affectionate

regard.

From such particulars as can be gathered, it is evident that the

childhood of 'Hannes' gave early promise of the striking characteristics

of his maturity, and that some of the most powerful sentiments of his

after-life are to be traced to influences acting on him from his birth.

Indications of his possession of the musical faculty were apparent at a

very tender age. He received his first actual instruction from his

father, but his sensitive organization, aided by the music of one sort

and another that he was constantly hearing, seems almost to have

anticipated this earliest teaching. In his clinging affection for his

parents the child was father to the man, and one of his constant

petitions was to be allowed to 'help.' It is easy to imagine the little

tasks he learned to perform for the mother whom he worshipped, and the

feeling of pride with which he watched his tall father on the

exercise-days of the Jäger corps may have had something to do with his

partiality for his beloved lead soldiers, the favourite toys which he

kept locked in his writing-table long after he was grown up. He was

sent, when quite a young child, to a little private school on the

Dammthorwall, close to his parents' house, where the teaching was

probably neither better nor worse than that of the very small English

day-schools of the period. Until he was nearly eight his musical

education was carried on at home, and did not include the study of the

piano. It seems to have been taken for granted that he would, in due

course, follow his father's calling, which was gradually ripening into

that of a reliable performer in the humbler orchestras of the city. It

is hardly surprising that Jakob, who knew nothing about genius, and was

not troubled by notions about art for its own sake, should have looked

forward contentedly to the career of an orchestral player for his boy.

He himself, after more than twelve laborious years, was only struggling

into a position of acceptance by musicians of this class. That Johannes

should begin life by taking his place amongst them as a fiddler or

'cellist, who might work his way to some distinction, must necessarily

have appeared to him a sufficiently ambitious object, the attainment of

which would enable his son to support himself and help the family. The

orchestral players of the Hamburg of that time carried on their work

under peculiar circumstances. They were bound together in a kind of

musical trade-union, the Hamburger Musikverein, founded in 1831, which

protected them from competition, no member being allowed to play in any

band that included an outsider. They met constantly at their 'Börse,' or

club, through which most of their engagements were made. It was open

every morning for a couple of hours for the transaction of business, and

there was a Lokal in the same building available for a chat over a glass

of beer and a smoke. The establishment was, for some time, presided over

by the father of Carl Rosa (originally Rose), who lived on the premises,

and Johann Jakob Brahms was one of the original members of the society.

His copy of the rules is still in existence, and bears, underneath his

signature the date May 1, 1831. The system of working by deputy was

extensively practised in the arrangements of the union. If a member

engaged for a certain performance happened to get a more lucrative offer

for the same day and hour, he would give notice to the 'Börse' to

furnish a substitute for the first appointment. The substitute might

repeat the process in his turn, and it sometimes happened that a single

engagement passed through several hands in succession before the date of

its fulfilment. Under these conditions music was very much a mere

business, but, on the other hand, orchestral players were expected to be

fairly good all-round musicians, capable of performing passably on

several instruments, and able to fill a gap at short notice. Many of

these men, who made the musical atmosphere with which Johannes Brahms

was familiar in his childhood, lived in the Lane-quarter, partly

because it was cheap, partly in order to be near their 'Börse,' which

was situated in the Kohlhöfen. They were, as a rule, shrewd,

hard-working, honourable members of their profession, happy in their

calling and in their mutual friendly intercourse, and striving to bring

up their children to improved circumstances. Those among them who were

not able to obtain better employment were glad to acquire experience,

and to earn something, by playing in dancing-saloons and Lokals of

various degrees of repute, hoping for a rise of fortune in days to come.

Proofs of continual advancement in Jakob's career are to be found in

the fact that, from about the year 1837 onwards, his services were

requisitioned from time to time as substitute in the small band which

played from six till eleven, every evening throughout the year, in a

room of the Alster Pavilion, and especially in the circumstance that

he by-and-by became one of its regular members, succeeding to the

duties of double-bass player. The orchestra was composed of two

violins, viola, two flutes, and double-bass, and performed 'evening

entertainment-music,' consisting of overtures, airs, operatic

selections, and pot-pourris. The public, which was a good one, was

served with light refreshments outside, or crowded into the house to

listen, according to inclination and the season, and the musicians were

paid by contributions collected during intervals between the pieces.

Count Woronzow from St. Petersburg, who was present with his son in the

audience one fine summer evening, was so delighted with the music, and

so gratified at hearing the Russian national air played _con amore_ in

his honour, that he not only put a gold piece on the plate, but wanted

to carry off the six performers to Russia, guaranteeing that they would

make their fortunes there, and would not take a refusal till they had

had a week or two to consider the matter.

There lived at this time at No. 7, Steindamm a young pianist of Hamburg,

Otto Friedrich Willibald Cossel, who was well known to the set of men

belonging to the musicians' union, and in great and just repute with

them as a teacher of his instrument. He was a pupil of the eminent

teacher and theorist Marxsen of Altona, and had cherished dreams of fame

as a pianoforte virtuoso. Adverse circumstances, delicate health, and

want of self-confidence, may have been the causes of his failure to

realize his aspirations; but whether or not this be the case, he has

left behind him the reputation of having been a good player, an

excellent instructor, and a thoroughly high-minded man. He was devoted

to his art, and had a large number of pupils; but they were chiefly

recruited from the classes who could not afford to pay much, and it was

not in Cossel's nature to be difficult on the question of remuneration.

He was fain to content himself with the consciousness of hard work well

done as a great part of his reward.

To Cossel came, one day in the winter of 1840-41, Jakob Brahms with the

little seven-year-old Hannes, a pale, delicate-looking child with fair

complexion, blue eyes, and a mane of flaxen hair falling to his

shoulders. He was as neat and trim as a new pin--a little

'Patent-Junge'--and wore over his home-knitted socks pretty wooden shoes

such as are seen to this day in the shops of Hamburg, an effective

protection against the wet climate of the city. Too pale and serious to

be called pretty, there was a something most attractive in his

appearance, and when his face lighted up on hearing the conclusion of

his father's business Cossel's heart was won.

'I wish my son to become your pupil, Herr Cossel,' said Jakob, speaking

in his native Low-German tongue. 'He wants so much to learn the piano.

When he can play as well as you do, it will be enough!'

The short interview brought about important results to Hannes, whilst

for Cossel it insured the future enduring respect of the musical world.

He soon perceived that in his new scholar he had no ordinary pupil, and

his affection went out more and more to the docile, eager, easily-taught

child. He got into the habit of keeping the little fellow after his

lesson that he might practise on his piano, and be spared some of the

fatigue entailed by constant walks between home, school, and the

somewhat distantly-situated Steindamm. Hannes, on his part, grew

passionately fond of his teacher, and the special relation in which

he stood to him was soon recognised and accepted by Cossel's other

pupils. The two were brought still closer together at the end of

about a year, for Jakob and his wife, on the impending marriage of

their boarder, moved again into smaller quarters close by--at No. 29,

Dammthorwall--whilst Cossel took over their rooms in Ulricus-strasse.

Well for Hannes that an admirable method of instruction enabled him to

get through the necessary drudgery of acquiring a good position of the

hand and free movement of the fingers at a very early age, and that he

was prepared by wise guidance easily to encounter successive steps of

his master's system, which included the practice of the best masters of

études--Czerny, Cramer, Clementi--of the great classical masters, and of

pieces of the bravura school in fashion at the time.

In the course of the year 1843 Cossel added to the many proofs he had

already given of his affection for his pupil, an admirable instance of

generosity and sacrifice of personal considerations. It became evident

to him that, notwithstanding--or perhaps in consequence of--the rapid

progress made by Hannes, influence was being brought to bear on Jakob to

induce him to transfer the boy to the care of some other teacher, and he

at once determined that in spite of the keen pangs of disappointment any

change would cause him, his darling should, if possible, be placed under

Marxsen. Various causes may have led him to this resolution--anxiety to

protect the boy from the chance of being thrown too early on the world

as a regular bread-winner, to the detriment of the quiet course of his

development; unselfish desire that he should grow up with the prestige

of association with a man of established musical authority; above all, a

profound sense of his own responsibility in regard to the genius of

which he found himself guardian, and of the duty incumbent on him to

submit its possibilities to the direction of the widest experience and

best skill attainable.

La Mara[7] has related, on Marxsen's authority, the steps taken for the

fulfilment of the plan, and their immediate issue. Cossel brought the

ten-year-old Johannes to Altona, with the request that his master would

examine the boy, and, if satisfied of his possession of the necessary

gifts, undertake his further musical instruction. Marxsen, however, did

not prove ready to accept this charge. After hearing Johannes play 'very

capitally' some studies from Cramer's first book, he pronounced him in

the best hands, saying nothing could be more desirable for the present

than that he should remain, as heretofore, under Cossel's guidance.

The friends of the family, however, continued to press Jakob, pointing

out that Cossel had been too retiring in his own case, prophesying that

the history of his career would be repeated in that of Johannes if some

change were not made, and insisting that the teacher was too cautious

and pedantic in his methods with the boy, who now required to be brought

forward. The upshot of these things was that, a few months after the

interview with Marxsen, a private subscription concert was arranged 'for

the benefit of the further musical education' of Johannes, which took

place in the assembly-room of the Zum Alten Rabe, a first-class

refreshment-house, long since pulled down, that stood in its own

pleasure-garden near the Dammthor. The programme included a Mozart

quartet for pianoforte and strings, Beethoven's quintet for pianoforte

and wind, and some pianoforte solos, amongst them a bravura piece by

Herz, the execution of which, by the youthful concert-giver, seems to

have caused immense sensation in the circle of his admiring friends.

Hannes, who was the only pianist of the occasion, was assisted in the

quintet by Jakob and three of his friends, and in the quartet by

Birgfeld and Christian Otterer, two well-known musicians of Hamburg, and

Louis Goltermann of the same city, afterwards professor at Prague (not

to be confounded with the 'cellist-composer C. E. Goltermann, native of

Hanover). The concert was a great success both from an artistic and a

financial point of view, and as its result Jakob himself visited Marxsen

to prefer, in his own name and that of Cossel, a second request that the

distinguished musician would accept Johannes as a pupil. This time

Marxsen consented, saying he would receive him once a week provided that

the lessons from Cossel were continued without interruption side by side

with his own. The mandate was carried into effect, and the arrangement

worked smoothly for a time without let or hindrance; but the successful

concert had brought danger as well as advantage in its train. An

impresario, who had obtained admission on the occasion to the 'Old

Raven,' conceived the idea of taking Johannes on a tour and exhibiting

him as a prodigy, and presently made proposals to this effect to Jakob,

who, not unnaturally, was transported to the seventh heaven by the

dazzling prospects which the wily stranger presented to his imagination.

The first step to be taken, for which he prepared, probably, with some

perturbation of mind, was to break the news to Cossel.

'Well, Cossel,' he said, finding the young musician at home, 'we are

going to make a pile of money.'

'What?' shouted Cossel.

'We are going to make a pile of money. A man has been who wants to

travel with the boy.'

Poor Cossel! all his worst fears seemed about to be realized; his heart

leapt to his mouth.

'Then you are a word-breaker!' he thundered.

It was now Jakob's turn to look aghast, for Cossel, as described by all

who knew him personally, was no stickler for ceremony, and could show

his wrath right royally when he felt he had righteous cause for

indignation. 'You are a word-breaker!' he cried, and, adopting a sudden

idea, went on: 'You said to me, "You shall keep the boy till he knows as

much as you do." He can only learn that from Marxsen!'

A heated argument followed, which ended in a compromise. The affair was

to be allowed to stand over for a time, and, in fact, several

succeeding months passed as quietly as heretofore. But the impresario

renewed his proposal, and the struggle recommenced. Cossel perceived the

only means of securing a permanent victory for the benefit of Hannes,

and he determined to use it, cost him what it might. It lay in his own

complete self-renunciation. He went again to Altona, and besought

Marxsen to take entire charge of the boy's musical career, only to be

once more refused. Marxsen did not yet feel convinced that the great

progress made by Johannes during the past year had been due to other

qualities than those of assiduous industry and eager wish to learn.

Cossel, however, was not to be beaten. He returned to the attack,

actually declaring to his bewildered master that the boy made such rapid

strides he felt he could teach him nothing more. The kind Marxsen at

length gave way, and consented to take the musical education of Johannes

into his own hands henceforth, and to teach him without remuneration,

saying he did so the more willingly since the parents were not able to

pay for the training they wished to secure for their child, and because

he had become fond of the little pupil for his own sake.

'How could you let yourself be put off from such business?' said Aunt

Detmering after the impresario had been finally dismissed. She had been

partner with Johanna in the little shop of the 'sisters Nissen,' and had

married into somewhat better circumstances than Jakob's wife. 'I can't

interfere in it,' answered Johanna simply, for her boy's good was more

precious to her than silver and gold, in spite of her hard, struggling

existence. 'Min soote Hannes!' she would say, throwing her arms round

him, when he came up sometimes to give her a kiss.

Thus was the rich, budding faculty of Johannes guided to the safe

shelter of Marxsen's fostering care, and it is not too much to say that

Cossel, by his noble action, secured the future of the genius the

significance of which he was the first to recognise. It would be idle to

speculate about the unrealities of a non-existent might-have-been, and

to contemplate a fancied picture of Brahms' career based upon

circumstances and events other than those actual to his childhood. It

is, however, certain that no mere natural musical endowment, however

splendid, can attain to its perfect growth without having been put in

the right way, and those who have entered into the heritage of Brahms'

songs and symphonies, his choral works and chamber music, may well

cherish Cossel's name in grateful remembrance. Although he will not

again occupy a prominent place in our account of Brahms' life, his

private relations with his pupil did not cease. His piano and his

sympathy were still at the service of Hannes, who was grateful for one

and the other, and who, remembering his early teacher and friend to the

end of his life with admiring affection, strove, as opportunity served

in later years, to obtain for him the more widely-known professional

position to which his qualities so justly entitled him. Cossel died in

1865 at the age of fifty-two.

[4] 'Brahms Erinnerungen,' in _Die Gegenwart_, No. 45.

[5] Printed verbally in Max Kalbeck's 'Johannes Brahms,' p. 4.

[6] Vol. II., Chap. XXI.

[7] 'Musikalische Skizzen Köpfe,' vol. iii.