The Life of Johannes Brahms (Vol 1 of 2)
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Title: The Life of Johannes Brahms (Vol 1 of 2)
Author: Florence May
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF JOHANNES BRAHMS (VOL 1 OF 2) ***
[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.
CHAPTER II
1845-1848
Edward Marxsen--Johannes' first instruction in theory--Herr Adolph
Giesemann--Winsen-an-der-Luhe--Lischen--Choral society of
school-teachers--'ABC' Part-song by Johannes--The Amtsvogt
Blume--First public appearance--First visit to the opera.
Edward Marxsen was born on July 23, 1806, at Nieustädten, a village
close to Altona, where his father combined the callings of schoolmaster
and organist. His musical talent showed itself in early childhood, and
was cultivated by his father to such good purpose that, whilst still a
lad, he became competent to take the organist's duty from time to time
when a substitute was needed. He was not, however, destined for the
musical profession, and was on the verge of manhood when he was at
length allowed to follow his unconquerable desire to apply himself with
all his energies to the serious study of art. At eighteen he became the
pupil of Johann Heinrich Clasing, a musician well qualified to bring up
his students in the traditions of the classical school in which he had
himself been trained.[8] His warm interest was soon aroused by the
enthusiasm and unremitting application of his new pupil. Marxsen allowed
nothing to interfere with the regularity of his lessons, and walked the
two miles separating Nieustädten from Hamburg and back again, on dark
winter evenings, by the light of his hand-lantern, no matter how stormy
the weather. He continued to live at home, studying, teaching, and
helping more and more frequently with the organ, till he reached the age
of twenty-four, when his father's death left him free from ties. He soon
resolved to go to Vienna, with the especial purpose of perfecting his
theoretical knowledge under Ignaz von Seyfried, a prolific composer now
chiefly remembered as editor of the theoretical works of his master, the
renowned Albrechtsberger. Seyfried received the new-comer cordially,
and, probably finding Marxsen's musicianship to be but little inferior
to his own, treated him, during his lengthened sojourn at Vienna, more
as a friend than a pupil. He did not give him formal instruction, but
admitted him to frequent musical intercourse, which was chiefly devoted
to the discussion of artistic questions and to the free interchange of
opinion, and which brought to the younger musician, amongst other
benefits, the special gain of thorough familiarity with the great forms
of Beethoven. Seyfried's society was interesting and stimulating. He had
had pianoforte lessons, as a child, from Mozart, and had been on terms
of personal acquaintance with Haydn and with Beethoven, who was his
hero. He was of a kind disposition, moreover, and the many opportunities
he was able to offer for forming friendships, for hearing music, and for
living in musical society, were placed unreservedly at the disposal of
his protégé. Marxsen at the same time pursued his study of the
pianoforte under Carl Maria von Bocklet, a pianist and musician of
eminence, and a very successful teacher, who had enjoyed the favour of
Beethoven and been the close intimate of Schubert. Bocklet was one of
the earliest to appreciate the genius of the younger master, and, with
his colleagues Schuppanzigh and Klincke, gave the first performances,
early in 1828, of Schubert's two pianoforte trios, written a few months
previously.
Marxsen returned to Altona, after an absence of between two and three
years, with the matured confidence of the travelled musician who has
associated with the authorities of his art, his previous enthusiasm for
the works of the great Vienna masters and for the then known
instrumental works of the mighty Sebastian Bach fanned into ardent
worship. That his mind was sufficiently powerful to rise entirely above
the musical artificiality and bad taste of his time cannot be said. To
us, who belong to a generation that has been educated on the purist
principles first made widely acceptable by Mendelssohn's influence and
since popularized by the genius of a few famous executants, with Clara
Schumann, Rubinstein, and Joachim at their head, it is difficult to
realize the revolution that has taken place in the general condition of
musical art since the days when Marxsen, three years Mendelssohn's
senior, was young. Many things were then accepted and admired in Vienna,
in Berlin, in Leipzig, in London, which would now be regarded as
impossible atrocities. Marxsen was capable of setting the Kreutzer
Sonata for full orchestra, but this is hardly so surprising as that the
Leipzig authorities should have produced the arrangement at one of the
Gewandhaus concerts, or that Schumann should have mentioned it
indulgently, on whatever grounds, in the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_.
Marxsen came for the first time before the public of Hamburg on November
19, 1833, at the age of twenty-seven, in a concert of his own
compositions. Such a programme was a novelty in the northern city, and
excited attention. The occasion was successful, and established the
reputation of the concert-giver as a sound and earnestly striving
musician, and from this time his position as a teacher and theorist
continuously rose. He was a man of catholic tastes and liberal culture,
and his influence over his pupils was not merely that of the instructor
of a given subject, but was touched with the power of the philosopher
who has a wide outlook on life. The central aims of his theoretical
teaching were to guide his pupils to a mastery of the principles
illustrated in the works of the great composers, and to encourage each
student to develop his own creative individuality on the firm basis thus
afforded. He produced a very large number of works, which include
examples of the most complex as well as of the simpler forms of
composition, and many of them were brought to a hearing. That few show
the attempt to appeal to a higher tribunal than the musical taste of the
day may, perhaps, be a sign that Marxsen was conscious of not being
endowed with original creative power, and did not try to go beyond his
natural limitations. He had a genial, encouraging manner which invited
his pupils' confidence, and his lively interest in all questions
concerning literature, philosophy, and art gave constant impulse to the
minds of the really gifted amongst them, which was not the least of the
benefits they derived from association with him.
We shall not be far wrong if we fix the age of Johannes, at the time he
became entirely Marxsen's pupil, as about twelve; and from this date his
time, always well employed, must have been very fully occupied. He had
to go to Altona for his pianoforte lessons (the question of his learning
composition had not yet arisen), to practise at Cossel's or at the
business house of some pianoforte firm--for there were too many
interruptions at home--and to go regularly to school. Not to the one on
the Dammthorwall mentioned above. He now attended F. C. Hoffmann's
school in ABC-strasse, an establishment several grades higher than that
of which he had formerly been a pupil, and one of good repute in its
degree. Hoffmann was a conscientious as well as a humane man, and won
the liking and respect of his scholars. He gave them sound elementary
instruction, and even had them taught French and English. Brahms
retained some knowledge of both languages, as the present writer can
testify from her personal acquaintance with him, begun when he had
entered middle age. He could read English to some extent, though he
could not speak it, and was able to help himself out, when necessary,
with a phrase or two of French, though his accent was hopeless. He
preserved a pleasant remembrance of Hoffmann in after-life, recommended
his school on one or two suitable occasions, and sent him a present on
the celebration of his jubilee in the middle of the seventies.
Marxsen's interest and pleasure in Johannes' progress increased every
week as he became more convinced of his exceptional capacity. 'One day I
gave him a composition of Weber's,' he says,[9] 'going carefully through
it with him. At the following lesson he played it to me so blamelessly
and so exactly as I wished that I praised him. "I have also practised it
in another way," he said, and played me the right-hand part with the
left hand.' (No doubt Weber's _moto perpetuum_, published by Brahms,
without opus number, as a left-hand study.)
Part of Marxsen's discipline was to accustom Johannes to transpose long
pieces at sight, a practice he had probably learnt from Seyfried, who
relates as a _tour de force_ of Albrechtsberger that on some public
occasion, when he had to play on a low-pitched organ, he transposed an
entire Mass from G to G sharp at sight, and without error. Brahms, it
may be parenthetically remarked, continued to find diversion in this
pastime, and would play fugues of Bach and other works for his own
edification in various transposed keys when at the height of his
mastership.
The boy had, almost from infancy, shown signs of the tendency to
creative activity. Widmann[10] speaks of a conversation held with Brahms
within the last decade of his life, during which the master, recalling
early memories, described the bliss experienced by him as a very young
child on making the discovery, unaided, that a melody could be
represented on paper by placing large round dots in higher or lower
positions on lines. 'I made a system for myself before I knew of the
existence of such a thing.' When a few years older, he was fond of
writing the separate parts of concerted works one under the other--of
copying them into score, in fact. Nor was he to be kept from trying his
hand at original composition. Louise Japha, an eminent pianist of
Hamburg, whose more intimate acquaintance the reader will make later on,
speaks of having heard him play a sonata of his own when he was about
eleven, at the pianoforte house of Baumgarten and Heins, where she one
day found him practising. Cossel, responsible for his advance in
playing, is said to have been anxious at his spending too much of his
time in these childish attempts; but the instinct was unconquerable, and
Marxsen no doubt discovered this when he had Johannes constantly with
him. After a time he began to teach him theory. Referring to the
commencement of the new study, he writes to La Mara:
'I was captivated by his keen and penetrating intellect, and yet,
when he came later on to original composition, it was at first
difficult to him, and required a good deal of encouragement from
me. Still, though his first attempts produced nothing of
consequence, I perceived in them a mind in which, as I was
convinced, an exceptional and deeply original talent lay
dormant.... I therefore spared myself neither pains nor trouble to
awaken and cultivate it, in order to prepare a future priest of
art, who should proclaim in a new idiom through his works, its
high, true, and lasting principles.'
At what age precisely Johannes began to earn regular money by playing in
the dancing-rooms and Lokals of Hamburg cannot now be ascertained. It is
possible that he occasionally performed on the violin from early
childhood, in cases of emergency, as substitute for his father or one of
his father's colleagues, though the conjecture is not borne out by
reliable record. There is no doubt, however, that loosely repeated
anecdotes have given rise to considerable false impression on the point.
The notion which has been partially prevalent, that Jakob made
systematic use of his boy from a tender age, employing his gifts for the
family benefit, is warmly repudiated by those who have the best means of
knowing the circumstances. 'With the best will,' says Christian Otterer,
who, about twelve years Johannes' senior, has till lately led an active
professional life, and retains a bright and unclouded remembrance of old
days, 'I cannot recollect that Johannes played, as a young child, in
Lokals. I was daily with his father at the time, and must have known if
it had been the case. Jakob was a quiet and respectable man, and kept
Hannes closely to his studies, and as much as possible withdrawn from
notice.'
'It cannot be true,' said Mrs. Cossel repeatedly, referring to such
tales; 'my husband never mentioned such a thing to me when speaking of
Johannes' childhood; and even if it had been proposed, I am sure he
would never have allowed it.' Two authentic sources of information,
however, establish the fact that from the age of about thirteen the boy
regularly fulfilled engagements of the kind. The earnings derived from
them were eagerly contributed to the general family fund.
A glimpse of him at this period is furnished by Christian Miller,[11]
then a young musical student, who has related that he used to play for a
small payment on Sunday afternoons during the summer of 1846, at a
restaurant in Bergedorf, near Hamburg. Miller heard him there, and,
fascinated by his performance, begged to be allowed to play duets with
him. After this the two lads met frequently until Miller left Hamburg to
become a pupil of the Leipzig Conservatoire. The companionship would
seem to have been tolerated rather than actively desired by Johannes,
who rarely spoke when out walking with Miller, but was accustomed to
march along hat in hand, humming!
The reader will not have forgotten the band of six members which had,
during the late thirties, delighted the fashionable loungers of the
Jungfernstieg, patrons of the Alster Pavilion. Its activity had been
continuous up to the year 1842, when the disastrous fire which broke out
in Hamburg during the night of May 4-5, and was not extinguished till
the morning of the 8th, destroying the churches of St. Nicholas and St.
Peter, St. Gertrude's Chapel, the Guildhall, the old Exchange, the Bank,
and over 1,200 dwelling-houses and warehouses, had interrupted the
pleasant labours of the musicians. The Alster Pavilion had miraculously
been left untouched by the flames, whilst the Alster Halle, a similar
establishment close by, had been razed to the ground; and the demolition
of the row of shops and houses on the Jungfernstieg had changed the
agreeable promenade into a scene of ruin. Little could be thought of in
the city for a time save how to meet and repair the ravages inflicted by
the calamity, which had stricken the grave citizens of Hamburg with
dismay, and made an impression of mixed bewilderment and awe upon the
sensitive soul of our little Hannes that was never completely effaced.
Gradually, however, public edifices and private houses were rebuilt,
Hamburg was restored and beautified, and long before the year 1847, at
which our story has arrived, the little orchestra had again become used
to assemble, though with a somewhat changed personnel, in the familiar
room of the Pavilion, to discourse in lively strains before the
ever-shifting guests of the establishment. Jakob retained his position
as bass player, and, from his long association with the house, had come
to be regarded as an important support to its artistic attractions.
Amongst the most faithful patrons of the Pavilion concerts of this
period was a certain Herr Adolph Giesemann, owner of a paper-mill
and a small farm in the not very distant country townlet of
Winsen-an-der-Luhe. He was in the habit of paying frequent business
visits to Hamburg, and, being very fond of music, a performer on the
guitar, and the possessor of a good voice, liked nothing better than to
spend a leisure hour on the Jungfernstieg listening to a movement of
Haydn or Mozart. A familiar acquaintance had grown up between him and
Brahms. Giesemann willingly listened to Jakob's eager talk about the
achievements of Johannes and the promise of his younger brother Fritz.
He had a little daughter of his own at home in Winsen, and hoped she
might some day be able to take her part in the private musical doings
there--at any rate, learn to play the piano well enough to accompany his
guitar. One evening in spring Jakob approached him with a request. His
Hannes had found constant employment during the past winter in playing
the piano until well into the night in the dancing-rooms of various
Hamburg Lokals, and the something under two shillings earned by each
engagement had amounted to a valuable addition to the scanty family
means. But the late hours had told sadly upon his health. Now the work
had ceased for a time, and the little toiler could be spared from home.
Would Giesemann give him a few weeks' holiday at Winsen? The boy's
musical services would be at his command in return. He could accompany
him, play to him, and give pianoforte lessons to the little Lischen, a
year younger than himself.
Giesemann's kind heart was instantly touched. He had no need to think
twice about his own reply, and could answer for that of his wife.
Johannes was to be made ready to accompany him back to Winsen after his
next visit to Hamburg, which would take place very soon.
And so, in the bright springing month of May, when the buds were
bursting and the birds singing, and the gray skies of Hamburg beginning
to show a little blue, our dear Hannes took his departure from his big,
busy native city to taste for the first time the delights of a free
country life, with a kind little sister as companion. He never for a
moment felt like a visitor on his arrival, but forgot his constitutional
shyness, becoming a child of the house to be petted and brought back to
health by fresh air and good food and Frau Giesemann's motherly care.
Lischen was at school all the morning, but this was quite a good thing.
Hannes had his tasks to attend to also, and could not afford to lose
time, for Jakob had made such arrangements as were at his limited
command to ensure that his boy's general progress should not suffer by
the holiday.
Fresh air, however, was all-important, so he had come provided with a
small dumb keyboard for the mechanical exercise of his fingers, and
every day after breakfast, after he had got through such practice as had
to be done in the house, Frau Giesemann used to turn him into the fields
with a bag slung over his shoulder, containing his books and lunch, the
clavier under his arm, the notebook, without which he never stirred
anywhere, peeping from his pocket, and orders not to show himself again
till dinner-time. Johannes had already been enjoying himself out of
doors long before this hour. He used to rise at four o'clock, and begin
his day by bathing in the river. Joined not long afterwards by Lischen,
the two would spend a couple of delightful hours rambling about,
discovering birds' nests and picking flowers. Johannes was quite a
simple child in spite of his fourteen years and hard experience, and
revelled in the happy days passed amidst sunshine, wild blossoms, and
fragrant air. He was very pale and thin, and had little strength on his
arrival, but soon gained flesh and colour, to which the glass of fresh
milk put by for him every day no doubt contributed. The animals about
the place--the cows and pigs, the big dog, the doe--gave him great
delight, and he was charmed when the crane spread its wings and flew
high overhead as he and Lischen approached it, clapping their hands. He
liked to join in the games with which the children of Winsen amused
themselves by the river-side on cool summer evenings, but could not be
persuaded to take part in the boys' rough sport, and would only play
with the girls. The lads, of course, despised him for this, telling him
he was no better than a girl himself; but he did not seem to mind, and
continued quietly to follow his inclination. One evening, however, soon
after his arrival, before he had picked up much strength, as he was
returning with several children from wading in the river, Lischen well
on in front, one or two rough boys set on him, emptied his pockets, and
robbed him of all his possessions, even of the precious pocket-book. He
could not help crying at this, but Lischen, seeing him standing on the
bank rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, soon found out what was the
matter, and, dashing back into the water, forced the molesters to
restore everything to her. To the pocket-book Johannes confided his
inspirations on every subject. Sometimes it was a melody, sometimes a
line or two of verse, that occurred to him. Then, whether he were
walking, or climbing trees, or practising, or doing his lessons, out
came the book that the idea might be fixed on the spot.
It was not long before his musical talents awakened the admiration of
the neighbourhood. There was a pleasantly situated Lokal at Hoopte, a
village about two miles from Winsen, which contained a large apartment
suitable for dancing and music. This and one or two adjoining rooms were
annually taken by the Giesemann circle for the Sunday afternoons of the
summer season, and after morning church and mid-day dinner as many of
the subscribers as felt inclined would meet there to pass a few sociable
hours. Johannes soon became the central figure of these occasions. It
was found that he could play, not only the most inspiriting music for
the dancers, but a variety of solos also, including some lovely waltzes
to which it was delightful to listen quietly; and on being asked, one
day, to conduct the men's choral society that was to contribute to the
afternoon's programme, he showed himself so astonishingly competent for
the rôle he consented to assume, and inspired such confidence and
sympathy, as he stood before his forces in short jacket and large white
turn-down collar, his fair girlish face, with its regular features and
shock of long, light hair, adding to the impression made by his
childlike manner, that he was unanimously elected conductor of the
society for so long as he should remain at Winsen; a period which was,
as now decided, to be prolonged until he should be recalled to the
recommencement of his autumn duties.
The men's choral society of Winsen consisted of about twelve members,
the majority of whom were school-teachers of the neighbouring villages.
The teachers Backhaus of Winsen, Albers of Handorf, Schröder of Hoopte,
belonged to it; other prominent members were the goldsmith Meyer and the
big master-baker Rieckmann, who had a splendid bass voice. The practices
were held on Saturdays from six to eight o'clock, generally in Rector
Köhler's schoolroom, because it contained a piano, but when this was not
available, in the billiard-room of the Deutsches Haus, Winsen's best
Lokal. The singers used to stand round the billiard-table, and Johannes
would take his place at the top. Lischen was privileged to attend all
meetings of the society during the period that her friend officiated as
its conductor.
The boy found a most valuable ally in teacher Schröder, who had great
talent and love for music, had worked hard at thorough-bass and
counterpoint, and been a composer since his fourteenth year. When
Johannes came upon a knotty point in his theoretical studies that
required discussion, he would walk over to Hoopte and consult Schröder,
who was always ready with sympathy and counsel. He had not returned late
one evening from an expedition of the kind, and Giesemann, becoming
uneasy, was about to start in search of his young guest, when up drove
Mr. Carriage-overseer Löwe from Pattenzen, a few miles away. 'Here is
your Johannes,' he cried as the boy jumped from the gig; he went out by
the wrong gate this morning and missed his way. I found him asleep by
the side of a ditch some distance out on the Lüneburg Heath, the clavier
by his side and the notebook fallen from his pocket; lucky they had not
all rolled in together!'
The theoretical exercises and the little compositions for voices on
which Marxsen encouraged his pupil to try his hand were regularly
carried to Altona, for, with Marxsen's concurrence and the advice of the
schoolmaster Hoffmann, it had been arranged that Johannes should go
every week by steamboat to Hamburg and remain there two nights, which
allowed him a clear day for his music-lessons and for general private
instruction. Now and then Lischen was invited to accompany him, and to
share sister Elise's tiny chamber in the Brahms' little dwelling on the
Dammthorwall. The journeys were easily managed, for 'Uncle' Adolph
Giesemann's brother, manager of the restaurant at the Winsen
railway-station, was also contractor for the refreshment department of
the steamboat service to and from Hamburg, and nothing could be simpler
than for one or both of the children to go and return as his friends.
Frau Giesemann used to see that they started with a liberal supply of
'belegtes Brödchen,' a crusty roll cut through, buttered, and put
together again, with slices of cold meat, sausage, cheese, or what not,
between the two halves. Their friend the restaurateur provided each of
them, at the proper time, with a large mug of thin coffee, and Lischen
and Hannes, sitting together in the bottom of the boat, thoroughly
enjoyed these picnic dinners.
Johannes always began the day after his arrival at Hamburg by exercising
his fingers on the upright piano that stood against the parlour wall, on
the music-desk of which a book invariably stood open, into which he
poked his head--for he was very near-sighted--reading as he worked.
Lischen saw little of him afterwards, for his time was occupied by his
various lessons, but she did not mind this. She soon became very fond of
his dear, kind old mother, and liked to watch her at her duties,
sometimes able to help her by fetching water from the pump at the bottom
of the steps outside the house, a task which Johanna's lameness
prevented her from performing herself. Lischen much admired the portrait
of Frau Brahms that hung above the piano, and thought, as she looked at
the youthful figure arrayed in a pink dress made Empire fashion, with
flowing skirt, short waist, and low neck, the hair dressed with little
curls in front and a high comb behind, that Hannes' mother must have
been very pretty in her youth. The parlour was rather bare, containing
little beyond the piano, table, chairs, a few shelves filled with books,
and one or two small prints; but Lischen did not think this mattered, as
everything was so neat and shining. She felt sorry, however, that it was
so dark, and that its one small window had no other prospect than a
close, dreary courtyard--for Johanna still had her little shop in
front--and proposed to Hannes that they should bring some
scarlet-runners from Winsen, which could be planted in the courtyard and
trained up sticks. There would soon be something bright in front of the
parlour window. Johannes greatly approved of the plan, which worked well
up to the planting of the beans and the placing of some immensely high
sticks in readiness for the training. After this stage it disappointed
expectations, as the plants failed to do their part and firmly abstained
from growing.
It would have been impossible for Johannes to pass with entire enjoyment
through the months of his visit to Winsen if he had been without the
means of gratifying a taste hardly less strong in him than his passion
for music. From the very early age at which he was first able to read,
he had been devoted to books, and, whilst showing the child's natural
preference for the romantic and wonderful, had displayed strange
discrimination in the choice of his favourite tales. He had always
contrived by some means or other to provide himself with reading
material, preferring books for his little birthday and Christmas gifts,
buying them from time to time from pedlars' wheelbarrows with his
collection of halfpennies, or begging the loan of a volume from a
friend. Brahms' exceptional knowledge of the Bible grew from the time
when, as a young child, he was accustomed to eat his dinner with the
book lying open beside his plate, absorbed in the Old Testament stories
which were then his prime favourites, misty speculations forming in his
brain which laid the foundation of his future attitude towards many of
life's problems. He had not been long at Winsen before he had exhausted
the mental nourishment afforded by Uncle Giesemann's collection of
volumes. Fortunately, another resource was at hand. There was a lending
library in the neighbourhood belonging to a certain Frau Löwenherz, a
Jewess, who had a son called Aaron. With Aaron the two children made
friends, and of him, in the absence of sufficient funds to pay the full
price of a constant supply of literature, they sought counsel. He proved
an able adviser, and, whilst promising to obtain for them access to the
coveted books, showed that he was not wanting in the capacity of turning
opportunity to profit on his own account. He promised that he would, on
his private responsibility, bring one volume at a time for the perusal
of Hannes and Lischen, to be put back when done with and replaced by
another; the price demanded and agreed to for this secret service being
one groschen (about a penny) for each supply.
By this expedient Hannes and Lischen--the latter having probably been
the active partner in striking the bargain, for Johannes had few spare
pennies--found themselves provided with as many books as they could
desire. Their best time for reading was when they sat together by the
river-bank, or fished in the pond during the afternoon. Forgetting their
rods, they used to pore silently over the open book supported between
them, devouring one tale after another of knights and tournaments,
outlaws and bandits. Aaron received very particular instruction as to
the kind of selections he was to make, and took pains to suit the taste
of his patrons. He appeared one afternoon with a volume containing the
history of 'The Beautiful Magelone and the Knight Peter with the Silver
Keys.' That was a red-letter day in the history of the young subscribers
to the lending library which neither Hannes nor Lischen ever forgot. The
romance made an indelible impression on both of them. As for bandits,
what better could Johannes desire than a work bearing the stimulating
title of 'The Robbers,' which Aaron offered another day, insisting with
justifiable pride on the success of his researches? The book was written
by one Schiller, and proved so satisfactory that Hannes begged Aaron to
be on the look-out for other volumes bearing this name on the
title-page.
It might be expected that the young conductor of the Winsen Choral
Society and the pupil of the distinguished musician of Altona would turn
his studies to account by writing something for the use of his choir,
and so it was. Johannes composed an 'ABC' four-part song for his
school-teachers, consisting of thirty-two bars in two-four time,
preceded by three bars of introduction and followed by a kind of
signature. The introduction and first three of the four eight-bar
phrases had for their text the letters of the alphabet arranged, first
in order, and then in syllables of two letters as in a first spelling
lesson; the fourth phrase was set to a few words introduced at random.
The composition closed with the words 'Winsen, eighteen hundred seven
and forty,' sung in full chorus, _lento_ and _fortissimo_, on the
reiterated tonic chord. The little composition, tuneful and spirited,
showing a feeling for independent part-writing, and conceived in a vein
of boyish fun that was fully appreciated by the teachers, was soon
succeeded by a second, 'The Postilion's Morning Song,' composed to the
well-known words 'Vivat! und in's Horn ich stosse.' The young musician
was also requested by a deputation from the school-children of Winsen to
assist them in the performance of a serenade with which they were
desirous of greeting their Rector Köhler on his birthday. He accordingly
looked out one suitable to the occasion, arranged it in two parts,
practised the boys and girls until they were perfect with it, and
conducted the performance outside the Rector's house on the eve of the
birthday celebration. He was very strict and serious when engaged in
these professional duties, beat time with great verve, and insisted on
careful observance of the _pianos_ and _fortes_, as well as on the
proper graduation of the _rallentandos_. The singing of the Ständchen
was declared brilliantly successful by the quite considerable audience
that assembled near the Rector's house to enjoy it.
Rumours of the increased musical activity of Winsen could not fail to
reach the ears of the Amtsvogt, Herr Blume, an official of good social
standing residing there, whose duties, as administrator of some of the
rural districts of northern Hanover, brought him into touch with the
life of such parts of the country as were included in his circuit. Herr
Blume was not far short of seventy when Johannes paid his first visit to
the Giesemanns, but his interest in music and love for Beethoven's art
were as strong as ever, and Johannes, before leaving Winsen, was invited
to his house, and pressed to use his piano for practice. The boy
delighted the Amtsvogt by playing with him some four-hand pianoforte
arrangements of Beethoven's works, and won the heart of Frau Blume, in
spite of his shy, awkward manner, by his simple, childlike nature. If,
as was hoped, he should be able to repeat his visit to Uncle Giesemann
next year, he was to come often to the Blumes' house, and use the piano
as long as he liked. Great regret was felt throughout the circle of
Winsen friends at the news of the young musician's impending departure,
but the arrival of autumn brought with it the necessity for the
resumption of duties in Hamburg, and nothing remained save to hope for a
renewal of the pleasures his long visit had brought to many beside
himself.
Johannes returned to his home in such a satisfactory condition of health
and spirits that he was able, with Marxsen's approval, to take a decided
step forward in his career. He played in the Apollo Concert-room on
November 20, at a benefit concert given by Birgfeld, already known to
our readers as the violinist of the subscription concert at the 'Old
Raven,' performing Thalberg's Fantasia on airs from 'Norma.' Marxsen's
affection for his pupil and appreciation of his gifts are clearly to be
read in the summary of concerts which appeared a week later in the
_Freischütz_, a widely-read Hamburg paper to which he was one of the
chief contributors:
'Birgfeld's concert is said to have been interesting and enjoyable
as regards both the vocal and instrumental portions of the
programme. A very special impression was made by the performance of
one of Thalberg's fantasias by a little virtuoso called J. Brahms,
who not only showed great facility, precision, clearness, power,
and certainty, but occasioned general surprise and obtained
unanimous applause by the intelligence of his interpretation.'
On the 27th of the same month, Johannes appeared in the small room of
the Tonhalle at a concert of the pianist Frau Meyer-David, whom he
assisted in the performance of a duet for two pianofortes, also by
Thalberg, whose fame was at this time at its height. Marxsen's influence
is again apparent in the special mention of Johannes in the Freischütz
review, though it is evident, from the misspelling of the name, that he
was not the writer of the notice:
'The duet performed by the concert-giver and the young pianist
Bruns, who lately appeared for the first time in public with such
marked success, gave satisfaction, and was played with laudable
unity and facility.'
With the exception of a mere record of the same performance in the
_Hamburger Nachrichten_, no further mention of Johannes is to be found
in the newspapers of the winter 1847-48. It was passed by the young
musician in much the same routine of severe study by day and fatiguing
labour by night as the previous one had witnessed. He was, however,
spared in the spring for another visit to the Giesemanns' house, to
which he returned as to a second home. The members of the choral society
were delighted to welcome their conductor, who, in the course of the
season, added to their répertoire by arranging two folk-songs for use at
the practices. These must be accepted as the earliest recorded
illustrations of the partiality for national songs and melodies which
remained one of the great composer's most characteristic traits, and
which culminated, less than three years before his death, in the
publication, in seven books, of his well-known collection of German
Volkslieder.
Johannes was frequently at the Blumes' this year, and often played duets
with the Amtsvogt. Lischen's pianoforte lessons were not resumed, as
they had not been attended by any great result. It was difficult to
confine her to the house to practise on bright summer afternoons, when
she longed to be enjoying herself out of doors. She never entirely
forgot what Johannes had taught her on his first visit, however, and
continued to be very fond of music. It was hoped that by-and-by it might
be possible to have her voice thoroughly trained. Johannes felt sure it
would develop into a fine one.
Meanwhile she succeeded in procuring for her companion the greatest
pleasure he had as yet experienced. He wanted very much to hear an
opera, and Lischen thought she would like it, too, so one day, when they
were going together to Hamburg, she persuaded her father to stand treat
for two places in the gallery. It was to be a great night. Formes, then
of Vienna, had been secured for a few weeks by the managers of the Stadt
Theater (the opera-house of Hamburg), and was making a great sensation.
Lischen and Hannes were to hear him in 'Figaro's Hochzeit,' the
title-rôle of which was one of his great parts. They started early from
the house on the Dammthorwall, supplied by Frau Brahms with some
buttered rolls, and waited for two hours in the street before the door
opened, which was part of the pleasure. They got capital places, and
enjoyed sitting in the gallery before the performance, looking at the
house and seeing the people come in. But when the music began Johannes
was almost beside himself with excitement, and Lischen has never to this
day forgotten his joy. 'Lischen, Lischen, listen to the music! there
never was anything like it!' Uncle Adolph was made so happy when he
heard all about the evening and perceived the delight he had given, that
he said the visit to the opera must be repeated, and accordingly the
pair of friends went a little later on, to hear Kreutzer's 'Das
Nachtlager von Granada,' which both of them enjoyed very, very much.
Johannes was not able to stay so long at Winsen this year as last, and
still greater sadness was felt as the day drew near on which his visit
would terminate, as it was the last of the kind he would pay. It was his
confirmation year. He was past fifteen now, his general school education
was finished, and he was to take his position in the world as a musician
who had his way to make and would be expected to contribute regularly to
the support of his family and the education of his brother Fritz,
destined for a pianist and teacher. He copied out the four-part songs,
dedicated to the Winsen Choral Society, beautifully, as a parting
present to Lischen, putting headings to each in splendid caligraphy, and
adding her name with a special inscription. Lischen treasured the
manuscripts long after she had become a wife and mother, in memory of a
happy episode of her youth.
There was a solemn farewell ceremony at the last meeting of the choral
society, which took place at the Deutsches Haus. After the conclusion of
the practice, the conductor addressed his singers in a poem written by
himself for the occasion, which began with the line: 'Lebt wohl, lebt
wohl, ihr Freunde schlicht und bieder' (Farewell, farewell, ye friends
upright and simple). An instant's sorrowful silence followed; then
there was a tremendous stamping and clapping and shouting, and the big
master-baker Rieckmann, calling out, 'Here, young one!' hoisted Johannes
over his shoulder pickapack, and marched several times round the table,
followed by Lischen and the other members of the society singing a last
chorus.
It was the concluding scene of Johannes' childhood, which had been
unusually protracted, in spite of its drawbacks; but, as everybody said,
he was to come often again to Winsen, and whenever he should be able to
take a short relaxation from the serious duties of life awaiting him, he
would know where to find a number of friends ready to greet his arrival
amongst them with heartiest welcome.
[8] Clasing was a pupil of C. F. G. Schwenke, who succeeded C. P.
Emanuel Bach as cantor and music-director of St. Catharine's Church,
Hamburg. On the death of Emanuel Bach in 1788, a portion of his library
came into Schwenke's possession, including the score, in Sebastian
Bach's own handwriting, of the great B minor Mass.
[9] La Mara, 'Studien Köpfe.'
[10] 'Brahms in Erinnerung.'
[11] Steiner's 'Johannes Brahms'. Neujahr'sblatt der Allg.
Musikgesellschaft in Zürich, 1898.
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 at
Winsen, Celle, Lüneburg, and Hildesheim--Musical parties in
1853--Leipzig and Weimar--Robert Schumann--Joseph Joachim.
It was on September 21 that Johannes made his fresh start in life by
giving a concert of his own, thus presenting himself to his circle as a
musician who was now to stand on an independent footing. It took place
in the familiar room of the 'Old Raven,' 'Herr Honnef's Hall,' with the
assistance of Marxsen's friends, Madame and Fräulein Cornet, and some
instrumentalists of Hamburg. The price of tickets was one mark (about a
shilling), and the programme, as printed in the _Hamburger Nachrichten_
of the 20th, was as follows:
FIRST PART.
1. Adagio and rondo from Rosenhain's Concerto in A major for Piano,
performed by the concert-giver.
2. Duet from Mozart's 'Figaro,' sung by Mad. and Fräul. Cornet.
3. Variations for Violin, by Artôt, performed by Herr Risch.
4. 'Das Schwabenmädchen,' Lied, sung by Mad. Cornet.
5. Fantasia on Themes from Rossini's 'Tell,' for Piano, by Döhler,
performed by the concert-giver.
SECOND PART.
6. Introduction and Variations for Clarinet, by Herzog, performed
by Herr Glade.
7. Aria from Mozart's 'Figaro,' sung by Frl. Cornet.
8. Fantasia for Violoncello, composed and performed by Herr
d'Arien.
9. _a_) 'Der Tanz' } Lieder, sung by Mad.
_b_) 'Der Fischer auf dem Meer' } Cornet.
10. _a_) Fugue by Sebastian Bach
_b_) Serenade for left hand only, by E. Marxsen
_c_) Étude by Herz, performed by the concert-giver.
Unattractive as it now seems, this selection of pieces was no doubt made
with a view to the taste of the day, and the inclusion of a single Bach
fugue was probably a rather daring concession to that of the
concert-giver and his teacher. The two vocal numbers from 'Figaro' may
be accepted as echoes of the boy's delight on the evening of his recent
first visit to the opera. No record remains of the result of the
concert, but its success may fairly be inferred from the fact that it
was followed, in the spring of 1849, by a second, for which the price of
the tickets was increased to two marks. This was announced twice in the
_Nachrichten_ as follows:
'The undersigned will have the honour of giving a musical soirée on
April 14 in the concert-room of the Jenisch'schen Haus (Katharine
Street, 17), for which he ventures herewith to issue his
invitation. Several of the first resident artists have kindly
promised their assistance to the programme, which will be published
in this journal.
'J. BRAHMS, Pianist.'
The programme was appended to the third and last advertisement of April
10:
FIRST PART.
1. Grand Sonata in C major, Op. 53, by Beethoven. (The
concert-giver.)
2. Romance from Donizetti's 'Liebestrank.' (Th. Wachtel.)
3. Schubert's 'Ave Maria,' performed on the Horn by Herr Börs.
4. 'O geh' nicht fort,' Lied, by E. Marxsen, sung by Frl. Cornet.
5. Fantasia for Piano on a favourite Waltz, composed and performed
by the concert-giver.
SECOND PART.
6. Concerto for Violin, by Fr. Mollenhauer, performed by Herr Ed.
Mollenhauer.
7. Songs. Me. Cornet.
8. Fantasia on Themes from 'Don Juan,' by Thalberg, performed by
the concert-giver.
9. Duet, sung by Me. and Frl. Cornet.
10. Variations for Flute, by Fräsch, performed by Herr Koppelhöfer.
11. Air Italien, by C. Meyer, performed by the concert-giver.
The performance of Beethoven's 'Waldstein' sonata, Op. 53, was regarded
long after the close of the forties, as a great technical feat, and,
taken together with the execution of the 'Don Juan' fantasia, would
represent something near the height of the pianistic virtuosity of the
time, whilst with the Fantasia on a favourite waltz the concert-giver
made his first public entrée as a composer. This work must be identified
with the variations on a favourite waltz mentioned by La Mara as having
been played at his concert by the young Brahms, of which one variation
took the form of a 'very good canon.' Marxsen's notice of the concert in
the _Freischütz_ of April 17 was the only one that appeared:
'In the concert given by J. Brahms, the youthful virtuoso gave most
satisfactory proofs of advancement in his artistic career. His
performance of Beethoven's sonata showed that he is already able to
devote himself successfully to the study of the classics, and
redounded in every respect to his honour. The example of his own
composition also indicated unusual talent.'
Although the report adds that the room was so full as to oblige many
listeners to be content with seats in the ante-room, it is probable that
the young musician found concert-giving more vexatious and expensive
than useful or profitable. Though he appeared from time to time at the
benefit-concerts of other artists, and repeated his own fantasia at one
given on December 6 by Rudolph Lohfeldt, his third soirée in Hamburg,
given under conditions of which he could not at this time have dared to
dream, did not take place till after the lapse of another decade. The
four or five years immediately succeeding his formal entry into life
were, perhaps, the darkest of Brahms' career. Money had to be earned,
and the young Bach-Mozart-Beethoven enthusiast earned it by giving
wretchedly-paid lessons to pupils who lacked both talent and wish to
learn, and by his night drudgery amid the sordid surroundings of the
Hamburg dancing-saloons.
It was an amelioration in his life and a step forward in his career,
when he was engaged by the publisher, August Cranz, as one of several
contributors to a series of popular arrangements of light music,
published under the name 'G. W. Marks.' We have read in Widmann's pages
of the spirit in which the great composer, a few years before his death,
recalled these passages of his struggling youth:
'He could not, he said, wish that it had been less rough and
austere. He had certainly earned his first money by arranging
marches and dances for garden orchestras, or orchestral music for
the piano, but it gave him pleasure even now, when he came across
one of these anonymously circulating pieces, to think that he had
devoted faithful labour and all the knowledge at his command, to
such hireling's work. He did not even regard as useless experience
that he had often had to accompany wretched singers or to play
dance music in Lokals, whilst he was longing for the quiet morning
hours during which he should be able to write down his own
thoughts. "The prettiest songs came to me as I blacked my boots
before daybreak."'
And if the master could so speak and think of his early trials, must not
we, who are, perhaps, the richer through them, treasure the remembrance
of the nights of uncongenial toil through which he passed to become,
even on the threshold of life, its conqueror and true possessor? The
iron entered his soul, however, and the impression derived from his
night work remained with him till death. He was accustomed to read
steadily through the hours of his slavery. Placing a volume of history,
poetry, or romance on the music-desk before him, his thoughts were away
in a world of imagination, whilst his fingers were mechanically busy
with the tinkling keys. He did not lift his eyes to the scene before him
after his first entrance, though there were times when he felt it with
shuddering dismay. It is, however, right to repeat that, as we have
hinted in a previous chapter, this kind of industry was a more or less
recognised means by which struggling musicians of the class to which
Jakob Brahms belonged, were enabled to help their needy circumstances,
and it would not be difficult to name more than one executant afterwards
well known who fulfilled similar engagements in youth. The position of
Johannes was not in itself exceptional, though the contemplation of it
is now startling from its contrast with his tender nature, his sensitive
genius, and the great place which he ultimately won.
An engagement of which Kalbeck speaks, to act as accompanist behind the
scenes and on the stage of the Stadt Theater, may have been less irksome
to the young musician than his other hack work, and it is possible to
believe that the experience drawn from it may have been of some
appreciable value to him in after-life, even though his artistic
development did not result in dramatic composition. Evidence is not
wanting, however, to show that he kept his thoughts steadily fixed upon
the higher practical possibilities of his profession, and that, though
his position continued very obscure, it did not remain at a standstill.
His terms to pupils increased to about a shilling a lesson, and
occasionally he was able to get more. Every now and then he obtained a
small concert-engagement, or officiated at a private party, and on one
occasion he appeared with Otto Goldschmidt, the then leading pianist of
Hamburg, who was about four years his senior, in a performance of
Thalberg's duet for two pianofortes on airs from 'Norma.'
Conditions at home remained unfavourable for practice, and Johannes now
worked regularly at the establishment of Messrs. Baumgarten and Heinz,
where an instrument was always at his service. Here, one day, he met
Fräulein Louise Japha, who remembered the circumstance, already recorded
in these pages, of having heard him play five or six years previously as
a child of eleven. A talk ensued, a sympathetic note was struck, and a
comradeship quickly grew up between the two young musicians. Louise,
born in 1826, and therefore some seven years the senior of Johannes, was
possessed of high musical endowment. At the time of which we write, she
was the pupil of Fritz Wahrendorf for pianoforte, and of William Grund
for theory and composition. She achieved eminence later on, becoming
well known in Germany and a great favourite with the public of Paris.
Frau Dr. Langhans-Japha is now not far from eighty, but there is still a
peculiar charm in her playing, which is especially distinguished by
beauty of tone and phrasing. Her competent sympathy was a valuable
addition to young Brahms' pleasures in life, in the days when he knew
little of congenial artistic companionship. They met constantly to play
duets and compare notes as to their compositions, for Louise was a
song-writer of ability. Johannes used to discuss with her both his
favourite authors and his manuscripts. One day it was a long exercise in
double counterpoint that he brought to show her, another day a
pianoforte solo. On a third occasion he produced a pianoforte duet in
several movements, which he begged her to try with him, and,
acknowledging its authorship at the close of the performance, asked her
opinion of the work. This proving generally favourable, the composer,
going more into detail, took exception to one of his themes, which he
feared was rather 'ordinary'; but when Louise was half inclined to agree
with him, he cried angrily: 'Why did you not say so yourself? Why was I
obliged to ask you?'
He was always composing, and as time went on, was ably guided by Marxsen
to the practice of the large musical forms, over which he soon acquired
conspicuous mastery, showing extraordinary facility in applying to them
the skill he had gradually attained in free contrapuntal writing, whilst
allowing to his fancy the stimulus of the classical-romantic literature
that appealed with special force to his imagination. 'It came into my
head after reading so-and-so,' he would say. The whole of his small
amount of spare cash was devoted to the purchase of second-hand volumes
from the stalls to be found in the Jews' quarter of Hamburg, and what he
bought he read. Sophocles and Cicero, Dante and Tasso, Klopstock and
Lessing, Goethe and Schiller, Eichendorff, Chamisso, Pope, Young, and
many other poets, were represented in the library collected by him
between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one.[12] His favourite romances
were those of Jean Paul and E. T. A. Hoffmann, whose influence over his
mind is easily recognisable in the published compositions of his first
period. No other work on which he might be engaged, however, prevented
him from the composition of many songs. He threw one off after another.
'I generally read a poem through very slowly,' he said to Louise, 'and
then, as a rule, the melody is there.'
Fräulein Japha was before her time in conceiving an enthusiasm for
Schumann's art, and tried hard to win over Johannes to an appreciation
of its beauties, but he was too entirely under the influence of Marxsen,
who, in training him as a composer rightly proceeded on strictly
orthodox lines, to become a present convert. He, on his part, made
efforts to induce Louise to change her teachers and put herself under
his master. She had quite other views, however. Schumann and his wife
paid a visit to Hamburg in 1850, appearing several times in public, and
Louise resolved that if it could be made possible, she would enter on a
fresh course of study of composition and the piano under the two great
artists respectively. She only waited for a convenient opportunity to
carry out her plan. Johannes approached Schumann in another fashion, by
sending a packet of manuscripts to his hotel and begging for his
opinion. It is no wonder that the master, who was besieged on all sides
during his week's stay, found no time to look at them, and returned the
parcel unopened.
It must not be supposed that the young Brahms was always so
companionable as we have shown him when in the society of his chosen
friends. He had his moods. Christian Miller's early experiences of his
persistent taciturnity had not been exceptional. He spent a few evenings
at the Japhas' house, but Louise's family, her sister Minna only
excepted, by no means took a fancy to her favourite. One evening, when
he was about eighteen, a gentleman of the Japha circle, who had been
interested in hearing him play the scherzo now known as Op. 4, the
earliest written of his published instrumental works, accompanied him on
the way home, and made repeated but quite hopeless efforts after
sociability. Not one word would Johannes say. Perhaps he felt subsequent
secret prickings of conscience, for he made confession to Louise, though
not in any apparently repentant spirit. 'One is not always inclined to
talk,' he said; 'often one would rather not, and then it is best to be
silent. You understand that, don't you?' 'No, you were very naughty,'
she told him, but forgave him nevertheless. She could overlook his
occasional whims. She perceived his genius, admired his candid nature,
and felt her heart warm to him when he talked to her of the old mother
to whom he was devoted, and of Marxsen, whom he revered with all the
enthusiastic loyalty of his true heart. Soon after his walk with the
Japhas' friend he had a chance opportunity of playing his scherzo to
Henry Litolff, who bestowed high praise on the composition.
Meanwhile the friends at Winsen faithfully remembered their young
musician. Uncle Adolph and friend Schröder seldom missed going to see
him when occasion brought either of them to Hamburg, and Lischen came
over to be introduced to Madame Cornet and Marxsen. Johannes persevered
in his desire that her voice should be trained for the musical
profession, and wished her to obtain a good opinion on the subject. The
verdict of the authorities proved, however, unfavourable to the project.
Of the general invitation to visit the Giesemanns Brahms gladly availed
himself, staying sometimes for a few days, sometimes in the summer for a
week or two, as his occupations allowed. He was never again able to
undertake the choral society, but there was always a great deal of music
at the Amtsvogt's house when he was at Winsen, as well as at the
Giesemanns' and Schröders'. Town-musician Koch was a good violinist, and
but too happy to have the chance of playing the duet sonatas of Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven with such a colleague, and every now and again
compositions were looked out in which Uncle Giesemann could take part
with his guitar. Pretty Sophie Koch, the younger of the town-musician's
two daughters, took great interest in these artistic doings, and it was
rumoured, as time went on, that her fondness for music was not untinged
by a personal element connected with the Giesemanns' popular guest. If
this were so, Johannes himself was probably the last person to become
observant of it. He was wholly absorbed in his profession, and several
quite independent informants have concurred in describing him to the
author as being, at this time of his life, something less than
indifferent to the society of ladies, and especially of young ones. For
his early playmate, Lischen, his affection continued unchanged, and with
her he remained on the old terms of frank and cordial friendship.
It happened as a natural consequence of the political revolution which
took place early in the year 1848 in Germany and Austria, that, during
the year or two following its speedy termination, there was an influx
into Hamburg and its neighbourhood of refugees on their way to America.
Conspicuous among them were a number of Hungarians of various sorts and
degrees, who found such sympathetic welcome in the rich, free
merchant-city that they were in no hurry to leave it. Some of them
remained there for many months on one pretext or another, and amongst
these was the violinist Edward Reményi, a German-Hungarian Jew whose
real name was Hoffmann.
Reményi, born in 1830, had been during three years of his boyhood a
pupil of the Vienna Conservatoire, studying under Joseph Böhm, now
remembered as the teacher of Joachim. He had real artistic endowment,
and played the works of the classical masters well, if somewhat
extravagantly; but something more than talent was displayed in his
rendering of the airs and dances of his native country, which he gave
with a fire and abandon that excited his hearers to wild enthusiasm.
Eccentric and boastful, he knew how to profit to the utmost by his
successes in Hamburg, where he created a furore. Johannes, engaged one
evening to act as accompanist at the house of a rich merchant, made his
personal acquaintance, and Reményi, quickly perceiving the advantage he
derived from having such a coadjutor, made overtures of friendship in
his swaggering, patronizing way, which were not repulsed by the young
pianist. Brahms had, in fact, been fascinated by Reményi's spirited
rendering of his national Friskas and Czardas; he was willing that the
chance acquaintance should be improved into an alliance, and, on his
next visit to the Giesemanns' house, was accompanied by his new friend.
The violinist had connections of his own in the neighbourhood. Begas, a
Hungarian magnate, had settled down into a large villa at Dehensen, on
the Lüneburg Heath, that had been placed at his disposal for as long a
time as he should find it possible to elude or cajole the police
authorities, and kept open house for his compatriots and their friends.
To his circle Brahms was introduced, and much visiting ensued between
Dehensen and Winsen, for one or two musicians staying with Begas were
pleased to come and make music with Reményi and Johannes, and to partake
of the Giesemanns' hospitality. It was a feather in Brahms' cap, in the
eyes of many of his friends, that he had been able to capture for Winsen
such a celebrity as Reményi, though they were not all quite of one mind.
Lischen, for example, did not care for him at all, but much preferred
the tall, handsome fiddler Janovitch, with his flashing black eyes and
his velvet jacket, who wrote a splendid characteristic waltz expressly
that he might dedicate it to her. The jolly party broke up suddenly at
last, running off to take speedy ship for America, for they had heard
that the po
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