Part 18

His first halting-place was the little town of Winterthur, between Zurich and Constance. German Switzerland had long shown a warm hospitality to musicians, and a cordial interest in their art; moreover one of the great Leipsic publishers had an outpost in Winterthur itself, and the organist there was Theodor Kirchner, the most gifted of Schumann's pupils, and the most ready to offer a hand of fellowship to the genius whom Schumann had heralded. In a very short time the new arrival found himself among friends, and forthwith settled down to work after his usual undemonstrative fashion. It was not an opulent life, but it was comfortable and adequate: there were pupils to teach, there were audiences to delight, and above all, there was Rieter-Bidermann's printing office as a stimulus to further composition. Yet in truth there was little need of stimulus. The treasures, accumulated during four years of self-imposed economy, were only waiting to be coined and expended; now the mint was opened and the golden currency scattered with a lavish hand. In 1861 appeared the beautiful Ave Maria for female chorus and orchestra, the fine sombre Funeral Hymn, the D minor Concerto, the first two sets of pianoforte variations, and a couple of volumes of songs and duets; in 1862 followed four exquisite part-songs for female voices with horn and harp accompaniment, a string sestett in B flat, the most magnificent piece of chamber music that had appeared since the death of Beethoven, two books of Marienlieder, another volume of songs, and finally two new sets of variations for the piano, one on a theme from Handel's Harpischord lessons, one[51] on the pathetic melody that had haunted the last sane moments of Schumann's life. Even with these the record is not exhausted. There still remain the Pianoforte Quartetts in G minor and A major, which, though not published till 1863, were certainly written before the end of the previous year. And when we realise that in all this catalogue almost every work is a masterpiece, almost every form a development of preceding types, it is hard to see where, except in the greatest of all composers, we can find a parallel to the achievement. Schubert, no doubt, could pour a more 'profuse strain of unpremeditated art,' but art, at any rate in its larger forms, is the gainer by premeditation. Mozart could fill the accustomed channels with a more copious stream of melody, but he was content that its waters should run their course in familiar regions. Here is a man whose originality never betrays him into carelessness, whose certainty of touch never degenerates into formalism, whose thought, even in its deepest and most recondite utterance, is always firmly conceived and clearly articulated. Such a mastery of phrase and structure is not only slow of acquisition, but also, in some degree, slow of exercise. It is impossible that the most eloquent genius, the most elaborate training should have enabled Brahms to write one of his great chamber works with the rapid facility that has so often been a mark of the chief composers. An organism so coherent and so complex is not created by a single flash of the artistic will.

By an odd coincidence, the first chapter of Brahms' life may be said to end with this temporary climax of production. In the autumn of 1862 the _coterie_ at Winterthur was broken up by Theodor Kirchner's acceptance of an appointment at Zurich; and Brahms, beginning perhaps to feel that the place where he dwelt was too strait for him, set himself to find a wider habitation and a more enlarged sphere of energy. It was in many ways unadvisable that he should follow his friend. For one thing, Zurich was hardly central enough to satisfy his requirements, for another, it was much dominated by the influence of Wagner and Liszt, and the school which they were taken to represent had never forgiven Brahms his public defection from its ranks.[52] Besides, he had recently been manifesting some special interest in the bright rhythms and piquant phraseology of Hungarian music: one of his first sets of pianoforte variations had been on a Hungarian theme; the finale of his G minor Quartett was ostensibly affected by a similar attraction; in other of his more recent works there were details of style which showed that he had begun to think, like Schubert, of holding the balance between two artistic languages. Everything, in short, pointed towards Vienna. It was still the capital of European music; it possessed traditions from which any composer might be proud to draw inspiration and stimulus; it contained the most critical public to which any artist of the time could appeal. There was no question of alternative; without more ado Brahms 'set his face to the east,' and, before November, had established himself in the city which he was afterwards content to call his home.

FOOTNOTES:

[48] The account of this episode is taken partly from Ehrlich's Künstlerleben, partly from an article by Dr Schubring in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung.

[49] It should be noted that the first version of the Serenade in A (Op. 16) was also produced in this year and published at Bonn in 1860. Brahms, however, subsequently withdrew it for revision, and its present form dates from 1875.

[50] The Neue Zeitschrift mentions the successful début of Fritz Brahms at Hamburg in January 1864.

[51] The Thematic Catalogue gives the date of this work as 1866. But it must have been published earlier, for it is reviewed in the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_ for Sept. 9, 1863.

[52] See Ehrlich's _Künstlerleben_, p. 156 _n._

II

MATURITY

Vienna, in 1862, was entering upon its second period of musical activity. After the death of Schubert it had suffered something of a reaction; not, indeed, enough to dim its prestige, but enough to prevent it from making any considerable addition to its record. Now, however, the interval of repose was ended, and for the past few years the city had been gradually rousing itself into fresh energy and fresh achievement. Among its creative musicians could be numbered many names of interest: Robert Volkmann, Saxon by birth, Austrian by residence, a lesser Schumann, whose work had been unjustly eclipsed by his great compatriot; Goldmark, the epigrammatist of the orchestra, brilliant, witty and self-reliant; Bruckner, already completing the foundations on which he has built his strange composite structure of romance and counterpoint; Ignaz Brüll, fresh from the triumph of his first public performance; Johann Strauss, who, like his father, had raised dance music to the level of a fine art, and whose orchestra was still 'worth a journey to Vienna on foot.' Even higher was the standard of executance. There were at least three conductors of the first rank:--Esser at the Opera House, Otto Dersoff at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, and Herbeck, recently appointed to an engagement at the Gesellschaft; the chamber concerts of Laub and Hellmesberger had won European reputations: every day one could hear a pianist like Epstein, or a violinist like Grün, or a horn-player like Hans Richter of the Kärnthnerthor, for whose career renown was prophesying a triumphant future. And for criticism, though here, as everywhere, could be found journalists who made up in vociferation what they lacked in knowledge; yet here, as in most places, the mass was leavened by some genuine exponents of sound principle and earnest judgment. Ambros lived close at hand, and could sometimes spare a moment from his historical work to estimate a contemporary; while in the city itself were Grillparzer, who thirty years before had discovered Schumann, and Hanslick, who, though something of a specialist and something of a partisan, has always maintained his standpoint with clear logic and steady conviction.

It was into this assembly that Brahms made his way. As yet his compositions were little known, but there was no musician in Vienna who had not heard his name or felt some expectation at his arrival. Before long, introduction had ripened into acquaintance and acquaintance into a many-sided friendship. Men were glad to welcome a new genius of conspicuous power and encyclopædic knowledge, who never spoke of himself, who never wrote a line in his own defence, who never attacked an opponent or depreciated a rival. Add to this the quiet voice, the undemonstrative manner, the kindly disposition that expended itself in a thousand services, the upright honesty that would never stoop even to conquer, and it is not hard to explain a personal popularity which has lasted unimpaired to the present day. The artist is too often to be described, in Mr Stevenson's phrase, as 'a man who sows hurry and reaps indigestion,' who 'comes among people swiftly and bitterly to discharge some temper before he returns to work.' It is not a little refreshing to contemplate a genius who, with all the astonishing amount that he accomplished, yet found time to enjoy his dinner, to bear his part in the company of his friends, and to become the sworn ally of all the children in the neighbourhood.

His first public appearance took place at a Hellmesberger concert on November 16, when he played the pianoforte part in his G minor Quartett. From the outset there was no question about his recognition as a pianist; the critics were keen-sighted enough to see that the absence of virtuosity was a merit, and to estimate with full justice the broad masterly musicianship of the interpretation; but at the same time it must be confessed, that the first judgment of his composition was seriously adverse. 'We do not propose,'[53] said the _Blätter für Theater Musik und Kunst_ 'to condemn Herr Brahms altogether until we have heard more of his work, but the present specimen will not induce the Viennese people to accept him as a composer. The first three movements are gloomy, obscure and ill-developed: the last is simply an offence against the laws of style. There is neither precedent nor excuse for introducing into Chamber Music a movement entirely conceived in the measure of a national dance, and it is much to be regretted that Herr Brahms should have departed in this matter from the example set by Beethoven and Schubert.' The criticism is worth quoting as an example of that dogmatic error which is sometimes allowed to pass current for certainty. It is of course wholly wrong upon the point of fact. Brahms' movement follows in perfectly natural development from the Minuet finales of Haydn, from the Turkish March finale of Mozart, from the 'Alla Tedescas' of Beethoven himself, and even if it did not, even if it were a new departure in detail, a good deal of analysis would be required to show that absence of precedent involved absence of justification.

The composer, however, soon showed that if he had for the moment declined in public estimation, it was only 'pour mieux sauter.' A week later, the Serenade in D was successfully given by the Gesellschaft; on November 29 followed the A major Quartett, far more favourably received than its predecessor; fame, once established, gathered and grew with steady persistence, and at last, in December 1863, opposition itself was silenced by a magnificent performance, under Hellmesberger, of the Sestett in B flat. For once the audience was unanimous; the critics forgot to cavil; even Brahms' old enemy, the _Blätter_, admitted itself convinced, and, in the first flush of enthusiasm, supplied this most rigorous of classical compositions with a romantic programme. 'The opening movement,' it said, 'is a walk in spring when the sky is cloudless and the flowers are blooming in the hedgerows. The second' (_i. e._, the Air with variations) 'represents a gipsy encampment--dark-eyed maidens whispering secrets, and afar-off the subdued tinkle of the mandolin. The third is a rustic dance; and the fourth--well, we suppose that fourth must mean the journey home.' This is not remarkably conclusive as an exposition of the Sestett, but it appears to have been kindly meant, and, at any rate, it succeeded in calling public attention to the work, and preparing, in some measure, for a more adequate discussion of its merits.

Meantime Vienna was shaken to its foundations by another inroad. At the end of 1862 Wagner appeared, gave two or three concerts in the course of the winter, and finally established himself at Penzing, where he worked at Meistersinger, and received his friends with his accustomed Oriental hospitality. His relation with Brahms appears to have been always of the slightest. The two composers met occasionally on neutral ground, but they were never intimate, and it was impossible that they should be attracted to each other by any real artistic sympathy. Wagner, indeed, seems to have looked on his great rival as Victor Hugo looked on Corneille and Racine: Brahms, for his part, was content to avow that he did not understand the theatre, and that for him the magic of Walküre and Tristan had no enchantment. It may be that the sense of contrast gave additional point to a famous and frequently-quoted epigram of the younger artist. One day Hanslick was rallying him on his anchorite habits and suggesting marriage as an antidote. 'No,' said Brahms, 'it is as hard to marry as to write an opera. Perhaps--in both--a first success might embolden one to try again; but it wants more courage than mine to make a start.' The mind naturally reverts to an enthusiastic and rather callow reformer, who had once endeavoured to inculcate a short-service system of matrimony in an opera called Das Liebesverbot.

Apart from a fine organ fugue in E flat minor, the only compositions published in 1863 were the two Pianoforte Quartetts. This sudden fit of reticence may possibly be explained by Brahms' appointment in June, to the conductorship of the Vienna Singakademie, a responsible post, which necessitated a good deal of work, and not a little anxiety. It was for this body that he wrote many of his smaller vocal quartetts and choruses, _e.g._, the _Abendständchen_, the _Vineta_, the _Wechsellied zum Tanze_, and the _Neckereien_, some of which were performed at a 'Brahms' Concert on April 17, 1864, and printed shortly afterwards. At the beginning of May he was unanimously re-elected to his office; but finding, as usual, that he had little taste for either the labour or the rewards of a public position, he resigned in July, and betook himself once more to his study and his proof-sheets. It is worth noting, as an example of the influence of environment, that all the works published during 1864 are vocal. In the spring appeared a setting of the 23d Psalm, then followed four duets for Alto and Baritone, then three choral works and three quartetts, and finally, at the close of the year, two volumes of delightful songs, which end, as a fitting climax, with the immortal melody of 'Wie bist du meine Königin.'

The compositions of 1865 include the great Pianoforte Quintett in F minor and the first two books of Romances from Tieck's 'Magelone.' In March the A major Quartett was given at Leipsic, with Madame Schumann at the piano and David to lead the strings; and later in the year, after a long visit to Theodor Kirchner at Zurich, Brahms undertook a concert tour on his own account, and made a triumphant progress through Mannheim, Cologne, where he conducted the D major Serenade, Carlsruhe, where he played sonatas with Joachim, and Oldenburg, where, in January 1866, he brought out his new Trio for piano, violin and horn. All this time he was writing with his usual tireless industry, and, in the course of the next few months, saw safely through the press his Variations on a Theme of Paganini, his Sestett in G major, hardly inferior to its more famous predecessor, and his first Violoncello Sonata, a remarkable example of mastery over a very difficult medium.

We may gain an indication of Brahms' growing importance in the artistic world, from the amount of attention bestowed upon him during these years by the _Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung_. This journal, ever since Chrysander's occupation of the editorial chair, had gradually won its way to the forefront of German criticism, and from 1863 onwards it treated Brahms with a respect that no other contemporary musician either merited or received. Each of his works in turn was welcomed as an event in musical history, subjected to an exhaustive analysis, often extending over two numbers, and discussed throughout with admirable sympathy and intelligence. Amid our chaos of hasty and ill-considered judgments, it is not a little reassuring to read such articles as that of Chrysander on the F minor Quintett, or that of Deiters on the Sestett in G. There is here no indiscriminate praise, no prejudiced or ill-natured censure, no evasion of the point at issue under a nebulous mist of semi-poetical fancies: from first to last, the critic shows a due reverence for genius and a real attempt to understand the purport of its message. Work such as this, while it justly reacts upon the credit and position of the writer, involves also the recognition of a high value in the object to which it is applied. No great critical essay could ever be written on a poor or trivial theme. The judge may be as denunciatory as Macaulay, or as humorous as Mr Andrew Lang; he may call to his aid all the Graces of Parnassus, or condemn with all the authority of the Stygian tribunal; but sooner or later the world comes to see that mere denunciation is barren, and that mere banter is ephemeral. The highest criticism, in short, means a judicial estimate of the highest merit, and though the intrinsic worth and splendour of genius can in no way be enhanced by any act of homage, yet it is well, both for genius and the world at large, that the act of homage should sometimes be rightly and adequately performed.

In October 1866, Brahms made a short concert-tour in German Switzerland, with Joachim for companion. The pair visited Schaffhausen, Winterthur, and Zurich, playing everywhere to enthusiastic audiences, but meeting with no adventure worth recording. The days of flat pianos and officious superintendents had long gone by, and in the path of two such artists there were no longer any obstacles to retard progress, or arouse reminiscence. At the end of November they separated; Joachim to fulfil an engagement in Paris; Brahms to return for the usual winter season in Vienna, where, in January 1867, Hellmesberger led the first performance of the G major Sestett. It is no discredit either to composer or to audience that the new work was received with more astonishment than delight. The extremely elaborate polyphony, which is one of its distinguishing attributes, is probably too intricate to be comprehended by anyone at a single presentation, and we may infer that the public actually did not hear the melodies for the simple reason of their abundance. The complaint of tunelessness which has been brought against every great composer in turn, usually emanates from a criticism that cannot see the wood for the trees, and on this occasion it may be noted that Vienna saved its repute by wisely reserving judgment; and that Brahms' only repartee was to publish forthwith a delightful set of four-hand waltzes, in which the top part had the tune and the other parts had the accompaniment, and everybody was satisfied.

In March and April, he gave a couple of pianoforte recitals, at which, as usual, his own works were very sparsely represented. It was at the former of them, by the way, that he brought out his Paganini Variations, and, on being enthusiastically recalled, played the Finale of Beethoven's third Rasoumoffsky Quartett as an encore. Towards the end of April came two concerts at Pesth, and in the early summer appeared a fine set of part-songs for male voices, usually known by the title of Soldatenlieder. But the great musical achievement of the year was the German Requiem, of which the original six numbers, written, it is said, as a monument for the Austrio-Prussian War, seem to have been completed by November. A seventh movement, the exquisite soprano solo, with choral interludes, was inserted next year in commemoration of a more intimate and personal sorrow.

As a preliminary, the first half of the Requiem was given at a Gesellschaft concert on December 1, and at once visited with a storm of Theological criticism. It was not a Requiem, said the purists; it was not even ecclesiastical in tone; it was a sacred cantata, far less suited to the church than to the concert-room. Even its defenders looked upon it with some misgiving, and could only plead that it was 'confessionslos aber nicht religionslos.' Now and then the controversy diverged as on a side issue to consider the music and discuss its relation to Bach and Beethoven, but, for the most part, critics seem to have been occupied in pointing out the impropriety of the name, and raising the equally important objection that there is nothing distinctively 'German' in the sentiment of the words. However, the world soon had an opportunity of judging the matter from a more appropriate standpoint. On Good Friday, 1868, the entire six numbers were performed in the Great Church at Bremen, to an audience of over two thousand people, including Joachim, Dietrich, Max Bruch and Madame Schumann. Representative musicians came from Austria, from Germany, from Switzerland, from England itself, and the impression that they carried away with them has steadily gathered and developed into a reverence that is almost too deep for praise. Grant that there are some genuine lovers of Music who find the Requiem an unequal composition, which only means that to them it makes an unequal appeal; the fact remains that there is nothing in the whole work, unless it be the difficulty of execution, against which any objective criticism can be directed. 'You cannot touch them,' said Heine of some disputed passages in Faust, 'it is the finger of Goethe.' And as the faults are imaginary, so the beauties are incontestable. If there be any man who can listen unmoved to the majestic funeral march, to the serene and perfect melody of the fourth chorus, to the two great fugues, which may almost be said to succeed where Beethoven has failed, then he can only conclude that he stands as yet outside the precincts of the art. It is no more a matter for controversy than are the poetic merits of the Antigone or the Inferno. We are not here dealing with a product of the second order, in which blemishes are to be condoned and qualities set in antithesis, and the whole appraised by a nice adjustment of the balance. To find a defect here, is to criticise our own judgment, and to stigmatise as imperfect not the voice that speaks but the ear that listens.

The summer of 1868 was spent at Bonn, partly in preparing the German Requiem for the press, partly in strenuous composition. The only other works published during this year, were five volumes of songs (Op. 43 and Ops. 46 to 49),[54] but it seems pretty certain that Rinaldo and the Rhapsodie from Goethe's Harzreise were written at the same time, and we may probably add the first set of Liebeslieder Waltzes for pianoforte duet, with vocal accompaniment, which appeared early in 1869. Of the songs, it is only necessary to say, that they include Von ewiger Liebe, Botschaft, Herbstgefühl, An ein Veilchen, and the Wiegenlied; the two cantatas have long established their position as the finest male-voice choruses in existence; and the Liebeslieder, though naturally conceived in a lighter mood, are as dainty as Strauss and as melodious as Schubert. Finally, there is some slight internal evidence for assigning to 1868, at least one of the two string quartetts which were printed a few years later as Op. 51. In any case, whether this assignment be correct or not, the year's record is one which would do honour to any artist in musical history.