CHAPTER VI

MENDELSSOHN, SCHUMANN AND BRAHMS

Influence of musical romanticism on pianoforte literature--Mendelssohn’s pianoforte music, its merits and demerits; the ‘Songs without Words’; Prelude and Fugue in D minor; _Variations Sérieuses_; Mendelssohn’s influence, Bennett, Henselt--Robert Schumann, ultra-romanticist and pioneer; peculiarities of his style; miscellaneous series of piano pieces; the ‘cycles’: _Carnaval_, etc.--The _Papillons_, _Davidsbündler_, and _Faschingsschwank_; the Symphonic Études; _Kreisleriana_, etc., the Sonatas, Fantasy and Concerto--Johannes Brahms; qualities of his piano music; his style; the sonatas, ‘Paganini Variations,’ ‘Handel Variations,’ Capriccios, Rhapsodies, Intermezzi; the Concertos; conclusion.

The progress of German pianoforte music is consistent and unbroken from the death of Schubert down to the end of the nineteenth century. All composers, both great and small, with the exception of a few who would have had music remain in the forms of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, even at the price of stagnation little better than death, submitted themselves and their art to the influences of the Romantic movement which had placed so distinct a mark on the music of Weber and Schubert. We meet with relatively few long works. The best of these are frankly called Fantasies, claiming little relation to the sonata. Hundreds of sets of short pieces make their appearance. Rarely have the separate pieces in a set any conventional or any structural relation. The set as a whole is given a name, simple and generic, or fantastical. We meet ‘Songs Without Words,’ ‘Fantasy Pieces,’ ‘Melodies for Piano,’ ‘Nocturnes,’ ‘Ballads,’ ‘Novelettes,’ ‘Romances,’ ‘Night Poems,’ ‘Love Dreams,’ ‘Rhapsodies,’ ‘Diaries,’ and ‘Sketch-books.’ There are Flower, Fruit, and Thorn pieces, Flying Leaves, Autumn Leaves, and Album Leaves, even the ‘Walks of a Lonely Man’ and _Nuits Blanches_.

Most of these short pieces conform to one of three types. Either they are moods in music, in which case they have no distinctive features; or they are _genre_ pieces, a diluted, watery (usually watery) picture music; or, by reason of the constant employment of a definite technical figure, they are _études_ or studies. Most of them are mild and inoffensive. Few of them show marked originality, genuine fervor or intensity of feeling. They are evaporations rather than outpourings; and as such most of them have been blown from memory. A cry against this vigorous wind of Time, harsh and indiscriminating as in many cases it may appear to be, is hopeless. Not refinement of style nor careful workmanship can alone save music from the obliterating cyclone. One may as well face the fact that only a few men’s moods and reveries are of interest to the world, that sentimentality must ever dress in a new fashion to win fresh tears and sighs.

I

The sweetest singer of songs without words was Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. He sang the sweetest stories ever told. He was thoroughly prosperous in his day; he was even more than that, he was admirable and worshipful. The whole of his life reads much like the accounts of Mozart’s early tours. He was the glass of fashion and the mold of form in music; not only in pianoforte music, but in orchestral and vocal music as well. One might continue the quotation, and remark how the observed of all observers is now quite, quite down; but one may never say that his music is out of tune and harsh. Its very mellifluousness is what has condemned it. It is all honey, without spice. For this reason it has become the fashion now to slight Mendelssohn, as it once was to revere him.

This is unjust. His pianoforte music is such an easy mark for epigrams that truth has been sacrificed to wit. There is much in it that is admirable. Some of it will probably come to life again. Indeed, it has not all the appearance of death now, choked as it may seem to be in its own honey. A few of the ‘Songs Without Words,’ the Prelude and Fugue in E minor, opus 35, some of the short capriccios and the _Variations sérieuses_ still hold a high place in pianoforte literature.

The mass of his music, however, has fallen into disgrace. This is not wholly because the world ate too much of it and sickened. One does not look askance at it as one looks at sweets once immoderately devoured and henceforth distressful even to the eye. One sees weakness and defects to which its fate may be attributed.

At the basis lies a monotony. His melodies and harmonies are too unvaryingly alike. He is a slave to milky mannerisms. The curves of his melodies are endlessly alike; there is a profusion of feminine endings, dwellings in commonplaceness, suspensions that have no weight. His harmonies are seldom poignant. His agitation leads no further in most cases than the diminished seventh. To this he comes again and again, as regularly or as inevitably as most Romanticists went to tombstones for their heroics. The sameness of melody, the threadbare scheme of his harmonies, these mark a composer with little great creative force.

In the pianoforte music one finds even a lack of ingenuity. He has nothing to add to the resources of the instrument. He knew himself to be sterile in pianoforte figures. The ‘Songs without Words’ show but two or three types of accompaniment, and these are flat and monotonous. There are the unbroken chords, usually without a trace of subtlety in line, such as we find in the first, the fifteenth, the twenty-first, the thirty-seventh, and numerous others. There are plain chords, usually triads, monotonously repeated, as in the tenth, twentieth, twenty-second, and thirty-ninth, flat with the melody, or in syncopation as in the fourteenth and seventeenth. There are the rocking figures such as one finds in all the ‘Gondola’ songs, in the so-called ‘Spring Song,’ and in the thirty-sixth. Only rarely does he give to these figures some contrapuntal flexibility, as in the fifth and in the thirty-fourth, known as the ‘Spinning Song,’ and in the eleventh.

There are many songs which have no running accompaniment, which are in the simple harmonic style of the hymn tune. These are usually extremely saccharine. The few measures of preludizing with which they begin are monotonously alike--an arpeggio or two, as if he were sweeping the strings of his harp, as in the ninth and the sixteenth. Some, however, are vigorous and exciting, like the ‘Hunting Song’ (the third), and the twenty-third, in style of a folk-song.

It is the lack of variety, of ingenuity and surprise which makes the ‘Songs without Words’ so extraordinarily sentimental and inanimate as a whole, both to the musician and to the pianist. The workmanship is always flawless, but there is little strain to pull it out of perfect line. Mendelssohn had considerable skill in picture music. The overture to ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and the overture suggested to him by his visit to Fingal’s Cave are successful in this direction. It is worthy of note that at least two of the best of the ‘Songs without Words’ are in the nature of picture music--the so-called ‘Hunting’ and ‘Spinning’ songs. The gondolier songs likewise stand out a little from the rest in something like active charm. These offer him an external idea to work on and he brings to his task a very neat and sensitive, though unvaried, technique.

He had also a gift, rather special, for light and tripping effects. It does not often show itself in the ‘Songs without Words.’ There is one in C major, published after his death, which shows him to advantage in this vein, and the light ‘Spring Song’ has a touch of it. Among his other pieces the _Rondo Capriccioso_ in E major and the little scherzo in E minor stand out by virtue of it.

Of the longer pieces we need touch upon only two. These are the Prelude and Fugue in E minor and the _Variations sérieuses_. The former is the first of six such works published in 1837 as opus 35. The prelude is the best part of it. Though here as elsewhere he seems to have no new or interesting means to set the piano in vibration, though he holds without change to close arpeggio figures throughout, yet there is a breadth of style and a sweep which approaches real power of utterance. The fugue is excellently put together. The theme itself recalls Bach, for whom, be it mentioned, Mendelssohn had profound and constant admiration, and whose works his untiring labor resurrected and brought to public performance. Still it need hardly be added that this fugue is a work of art, more than of expression. The inversion of the theme is clever, and there is a certain pompous grandeur in the sound of the chorale just before the end. The other preludes and fugues in the set are relatively uninteresting.

The Variations are worthy of study and are by no means lacking in musical value. The theme itself was happily chosen. There is a respectable sadness and melancholy in it far more dignified and genuine than the sentimentalities of the ‘Songs without Words.’ The harmonies which underlie it are hardly bold enough to dash beyond the diminished seventh; but a number of chromatic passing notes give the whole something like poignancy and considerable warmth. Moreover, it suggests chromatic treatment in the subsequent variations.

The variations themselves are full of change and offer a range of contrast of which Mendelssohn was not often master. The effect of the series as a whole is therefore stimulating and rather brilliant.

The first variation adds a counterpoint to the theme in groups of four sixteenths. The counterpoint in the second is of groups of six sixteenths. The first two variations thus seem to set the piece gradually into a free motion, which throughout the next two grows more vigorous and more nervous. The fifth is typical of Mendelssohnian agitation; but it serves as an excellent introduction to the chords of the sixth and seventh. The eighth and ninth work up to a frenzy of quick motion. Then follow two in a suppressed and quiet style, the first a little fugue, the second a brief and exquisite _cantilena_. The twelfth is the most vigorous of the lot, a movement as near the virtuoso style as Mendelssohn ever was able to produce. The thirteenth is interesting by reason of the contrast between the legato melody in the left hand and the excellent staccato counterpoint. A short adagio, rather superior to most of the songs in a similar style, forms the fourteenth. The fifteenth is transitional, the sixteenth and seventeenth merely lead up to the presto at the end. The entire group presents nothing in the treatment of the piano in advance of Weber, if, indeed, it anywhere equals him; but it is both in quality and in style a very fine piece of pianoforte music, which can hardly fall under the censure to which most of his music for the instrument is open.

There are two concertos and a concert piece for piano and orchestra. The latter owes its form and style very clearly to Weber’s concert piece in F minor. Both the concertos are fluent and plausible enough; the orchestra is handled with Mendelssohn’s customary good taste and sensitiveness; but the writing for the pianoforte is wholly commonplace and the themes themselves of little or no distinction.

The ‘Songs without Words’ were published in six groups of six pieces each during his life. After his death in 1847 two more sets appeared. The influence of all these was widely felt, particularly among composers of mediocre gifts. Chopin had no liking for them. In fact, Mendelssohn’s music was more than ordinarily distasteful to him; and he is said to have declared that Mendelssohn never wrote anything better than the first song without words. In some respects this is true. Schumann had a great admiration for Mendelssohn; admired his orderly style and manner. But Schumann’s individuality was far too pronounced, especially in pianoforte predilections, to submit to the milky sway of Mendelssohn.

In pianoforte music, William Sterndale Bennett (1816-1875) carried on the Mendelssohn tradition quite undefiled. Bennett was more than a pupil of Mendelssohn; he was a devoted and unqualified admirer. His own pianoforte works are numerous, but they have suffered something of the same malice of Fate that still preserves the ‘Songs without Words’ chiefly for fun. They include four concertos, and many short pieces, studies, diversions, impromptus. They have the merits of their prototypes, clear, faultless writing and melodiousness.

A contemporary of Mendelssohn whose life led him finally to Petrograd, is still remembered by one or two of his studies. This is Adolf Henselt (b. 1814-89). Henselt’s work is really independent of Mendelssohn. His style was founded upon a close acquaintance with Weber’s. In 1836 he gave private recitals in Berlin and was especially prized for his playing of the Weber sonatas. Two sets of concert studies were published as opus 2; and in them is the still famous and delightful _Si oiseau j’étais_. Besides these he composed numbers of Rhapsodies, Ballades, and other short pieces in the romantic style; all of which together show distinctly more originality in the treatment of the piano than Mendelssohn showed.

II

Meanwhile Robert Schumann was composing sets of pieces which have been and long will be regarded as one of the most precious contributions of the Romantic movement to pianoforte literature. Schumann was an enthusiast and an innovator. He was a poet and a warm-hearted critic. He was the champion of the new and the fresh, of self-expression and noble sentiment. In his early manhood a strained finger resulted from over-enthusiastic and unwise efforts to make his hand limber, and cut short his career as a concert pianist, for which he had given up his study of the law, not without some opposition. He turned, therefore, with all fervor to composing music for the pianoforte, and before his long-delayed marriage with Clara Wieck, daughter of his teacher, had published the sets of pieces on which a great part of his fame now rests.

Schumann was steeped in romantic literature, particularly in the works of Jean Paul Richter and E. T. A. Hoffmann; and most of his works show the influence of these favorite writers upon him. One finds symbolical sequences of notes, acrostics in music, expressions of double and even triple personalities; but these things are of minor importance in his music. The music itself is remarkably warm and poetic, remarkably sincere and vigorous whatever the inspiration may have been. It is happily sufficiently beautiful in itself without explanation of the cryptograms which oftener than not lie underneath it.

He was, as we have said, an explorer and an innovator by nature; and his music is full of signs of it. Though his treatment of the piano lacks the unfailing and unique instinct of Chopin, nevertheless his compositions opened up a new field of effects. Not all of these are successful. Experiments with overtones such as one finds, for instance, at the end of the Paganini piece in the _Carnaval_ can hardly be said to be worth while. The result is too palpably an isolated effect and nothing more. It is too self-conscious. But he was of great significance in expanding the sonority of the instrument, in the use of the pedal, in the blending of harmonies, in several finer touches of technique. The combination of two distinct themes in the last movement of the _Papillons_, the fluent and sonorous use of double notes in the _Toccata_, the wide skips in the ‛_Arlequin_’ and the ‛_Paganini_’ numbers of the _Carnaval_, the latter with its cross-accents; the _Reconnaissance_ in the same series, with its repeated notes; the rolling figures in the first movement of the _Kreisleriana_; these, among other signs of his originality, are new in pianoforte music.

His compositions demand from the pianist an unlimited and a powerful technique, yet it cannot be said of any that it is virtuoso music. He employed his skill not so much to display as to express his ideas. Nowhere does the pianoforte seem more the instrument of intimate and highly romantic sentiment. Of figure work and ornamentation there is very little. His music is not at all dazzling. Much of it is veiled. At the most he is boisterous, as in parts of the _Faschingsschwank_ and the last movements of the _Études Symphoniques_. He rather avoids the high, brilliant registers of the keyboard, stays nearly constantly in the middle of things, deals in solid stuff, not tracery.

Perhaps the most distinctive feature of his style is his frequent use of syncopated rhythms. This becomes at times an obsession with him; and there are many passages in his music so continuously off the beat, that the original measure is quite lost, and the syncopation is to all practical purpose without effect. In such passages it seems hardly possible that Schumann intended the original beat to be kept in mind by the accentuation of notes that are of secondary importance; unless, of course, the interest of the music is chiefly rhythmical. Yet in some passages of purely melodic significance this may be done without awkwardness, producing an effect of dissociation of melody and harmony which may be what Schumann heard in his mind.

These are problems for the pianist, but a few of them may be suggested here. The last movement of the very beautiful concerto is in 3/4 time. There is no change of time signature for the second theme. This, as first announced by the orchestra in E major and later taken up by the piano solo in B major, is none the less in 3/2 time. Such must be the effect of it, because the passage is long and distinct enough to force the 3/4 beat out of the mind, since no note falls in such a way as to accent it. But when the orchestra takes up this theme, again in E major, the piano contributes a steadily flowing stream of counterpoint. In this it is possible to bring out the original measure beat, throwing the whole piano part into a rhythm counter to the rhythm of the orchestra. Such an accentuation is likewise out of line with the natural flow of the counterpoint; yet it may be what Schumann desired here, as well as in the following section, where, though the orchestra is playing in 3/2 time, the pianist may go against the natural line of his own part and bring out a measure of three-quarter notes.

The middle section of the second movement of the great Fantasy in C major presents the same problem. Here we have a melody in long phrases. The notes of it are off the beat, the chords which furnish its harmony are _on_ the beat. Every eight measures the natural rhythm asserts itself; yet even these periodic reminiscences of the measure cannot serve to throw the whole melody into syncopation. The melody is too strong and its phrases too long. More than the occasional measures, it must, if allowed fully to sing, determine the rhythm of the passage. So it is usually played; so, without special effort to the contrary, it will impress the ear. Now is it possible that Schumann intended the accompanying chords to be distinctly accented? Such an accent, delicately applied, with the skillful use of the pedal, will create a wholly new effect, which can be drawn from all the succeeding passages as well.

Other passages offer no alternative. There is no way to suggest the original beat except by movement of the body, or by grunting; both of which are properly discountenanced. Examples may be found in the first movement of the _Faschingsschwank_ and elsewhere.

Most of Schumann’s pianoforte music is made up of short pieces. Such are the _Papillons_, the _Carnaval_, the _Davidsbündler_ Dances, the _Faschingsschwank_, the ‘Symphonic Studies,’ and the _Kreisleriana_. Each of these is a cycle of pieces, and is at best only loosely held together by one device or another. The _Papillons_ are scenes at a fancy dress ball. The return of the first piece at the end gives a definite boundary, as it were, to the whole. The _Faschingsschwank_ are pictures of a fête in Vienna. There is no structural unity to the work as a whole. The fanciful idea upon which it rests alone holds the pieces loosely together.

The _Carnaval_, likewise a scene at a fair, representations in music of various people, sights, and sounds, is built on three series of notes which Schumann called ‘Sphinxes’ and which he had published with the music. It is very doubtful whether the employment of these sequences in one form or another gives to the whole series an organic interdependence. Only with care can the student himself trace them, in such varied guises do they appear; and to be left in entire ignorance of them would hardly interfere in the least with an emotional appreciation of the music. The return at the end of some of the movements and passages heard at the beginning, however, rounds off the work and makes an impression of proportions. Moreover, within the work many of the pieces lead without pause into the next, or are without an end at all, like the _Florestan_, which is left fulminating in the air.

In the _Davidsbündler_ there is again the return at the end of familiar phrases, but the _Kreisleriana_ is like the _Faschingsschwank_ without structural unity. Yet perhaps none of the Schumann cycles is less friable than the _Kreisleriana_. It is long and it is varied; but here, perhaps more than in any other similar works of the composer, there is a continuous excellence of workmanship and intensity of expression.

Besides these cycles there are sets of short pieces which are independent of each other. Such are the ‘Fantasy Pieces,’ the _Novelettes_, the ‘Romances,’ and the _Bunte Blätter_, among others. These may be fairly compared with the ‘Songs without Words’ of Mendelssohn. How utterly different they prove to be, how virile and how genuinely romantic! They are not only the work of a creative genius of the highest order, they show an ever venturesome spirit at work on the keyboard. Take, for example, the ‘Fantasy Pieces.’ The first, called _Des Abends_, is as properly a song as any of Mendelssohn’s short pieces which are so designated. The very melody is inspired and new, rising and falling in the long smooth phrases which are the gift of the great artist, not the mere music-maker. The accompaniment appears simple enough; but the wide spacing, the interlocking of the hands, above all, its rhythm, which is not the rhythm of the melody, these are all signs of fresh life in music. The interweaving of answering phrases of the melody in the accompaniment figures, the contrast of registers, the exquisite points of harmonic color which the accompaniment touches in the short coda, these are signs of the great artist. It is remarkable how little Mendelssohn’s skill prompted him to such beautiful involutions; how, master as he was of the technique of sound, he could amble for ever in the commonplace. And Schumann, with far less grasp of the science, could venture far, far beyond him.

The second of the ‘Fantasy Pieces,’ _Aufschwung_, calls imperiously upon the great resources of the pianoforte. There is power and breadth of style, passion and fancy at work. It is a wholly different and greater art than Mendelssohn’s. It is effective, it speaks, it proclaims with the voice of genius. And in the little _Warum?_ which follows it, skill is used for expression. There is perhaps more appreciation of the pianoforte in this piece, which by nature is not pianistic, than there is in all the ‘Songs without Words,’ an appreciation of the contrasting qualities of high and low sounds, of the entwining of two melodies, of the suggestive possibilities of harmony.

Take them piece by piece, the _Grillen_ with its brusque rhythms, its syncopations, its rapidly changing moods; the _In der Nacht_, with its agitated accompaniment, its broken melodies, and the soaring melody of the middle section, not to mention the brief canonic passages which lead from this section back to the wild first mood; the delicate _Fabel_, the _Traumes Wirren_ with its fantastic, restless, vaporish figures and the strange, hushed, shadows of the middle section; and the _Ende vom Lied_, so full for the most part of good humor and at the end so soft and mysteriously sad; these are all visions, all prophecies, all treasure brought back from strange and distant beautiful lands in which a fervid imagination has been wandering. Into such a land as this Mendelssohn never ventured, never even glanced. For Schumann it was all but more real than the earth upon which he trod, such was the force of his imagination.

The imagination is nowhere more finely used than in the short pieces called the _Kinderscenen_. Each of these pieces gives proof of Schumann’s power to become a part, as it were, of the essence of things, to make himself the thing he thought or even the thing he saw. They are not picture music, nor wholly program music. They are more a music of the imagination than of fact. Schumann has himself become a child in spirit and has expressed in music something of the unbound rapture of the child’s mind. So, even in a little piece like the ‘Rocking Horse,’ we have less the picture of the ‘galumphing’ wooden beast, than the ecstasy of the child astride it. In the _Curiose Geschichte_ there is less of a story than of the reaction of the child who hears it. In the _Bittendes Kind_ and the _Fürchtenmachen_ this quality of imagination shows itself with almost unparalleled intensity. The latter is not the agency of fear, it is the fear itself, suspense, breathless agitation. The former does not beg a piece of cake; it is the anguished mood of desire. Only in the last two pieces does Schumann dissociate himself from the moods which he has been expressing. The former, if it is not the picture of the child falling asleep, is the process itself; the latter is, as it were, the poet’s benediction, tender and heartfelt.

The whole set presents an epitome of that imagination which gave to Schumann’s music its peculiar, intimate, and absorbing charm. His might well be considered the most subjective of all pianoforte music. It is for that reason dull to practice. The separate notes of which it is composed give little objective satisfaction. The labor of mastering them routs utterly in most cases the spirit which inspired them. Fine as the craftsman’s skill may prove to be in many of the pieces, it is peculiarly without significance, without vitality, until the whole is set in motion, or set afire by the imagination.

The most imaginative and the most fantastic of the works as a whole is the series of twenty short pieces which make up the _Carnaval_, opus 9. Here there is a kaleidoscopic mixture of pictures, characters, moods, ideas, and personalities; the blazonry of spectacle, the noise and tumult, the quiet absorption that may come over one in the midst of such animation, the cool shadows beyond the edge of it wherein lovers may wander and converse; strange flashes of thought, sudden darting figures, apparitions and reminiscences. All is presented with unrelaxing intensity. One cannot pick out a piece from the twenty which does not show Schumann’s imagination at fever heat. There is a wealth of symbolism; the Sphinxes, mysterious sequences of notes that are common to all the pieces, and dancing letters which spell the birthplace of one of Schumann’s early loves.

As to the Sphinxes it may be said, as before, that the coherence which they may add can hardly exist outside the mind of the player, or of the student who has made himself thoroughly familiar with the work. The average listener may hear the whole work a hundred times, learn to know it and to love it, without ever realizing that the first intervals of the _Arlequin_, the _Florestan_, of the _Papillons_ and others are the same; those of the _Chiarina_, the _Reconnaissances_, and the _Aveux_ likewise, note for note identical. Such hidden relationships in music are vaguely felt if felt at all. Just as two words spelled the same may have different meanings, so may two musical phrases made up of the same intervals be radically different in effect.

The _Carnaval_ opens with a magnificent prelude. The first section of it suggests trumpeters and banners, the splendid announcement and regalia of a great fête. After this we are plunged at once into the whirr of merry-making. Schumann’s cross-accents and syncopations create a fine confusion; there is hurly-burly and din, a press of figures, measures of dance, light and tripping, an ever-onward rush, _animato_, _vivo_, _presto_! There is a splendid effect in the last section, the _presto_. The measure beat is highly syncopated. It will be observed that in the first eight measures the first notes of every other measure, which are in all dance music the strongest, are single notes. These alone keep up a semblance of order in the rhythm. By the extension of one measure to four beats, the sequence of notes is so changed that in the repetition of this first phrase the strong accent falls upon a full chord, thus greatly re-enforcing the intended _crescendo_.

The next two numbers in the scene are pictures of two figures common to nearly every fair, the Pierrot and the Harlequin. The distinction between them is exquisite. In Pierrot we have the clown, now mock-mournful and pathetic, only to change in a second and startle with some abrupt antic. Harlequin, on the other hand, is nimble and quick, full of hops and leaps. At the end of the _Pierrot_, by the way, there is the chance to experiment with the pedal in overtones. The sharp _fortissimo_ dominant seventh, just before the end, will set the notes of the following chord, all but the fundamental E-flat, in vibration if the pedal is pressed down; so that the keys of this second chord need hardly to be struck but only to be pressed. And when the pedal is lifted, this second chord will be left still sounding, by reason of the sympathetic vibration which was set about in its strings by the loud chord preceding.

Pierrot and Arlequin are professional functionaries at the fair. We are next introduced to a few of the visitors. There is a _Valse noble_ and then _Eusebius_. Schumann imagined within himself at least three distinct personalities of which two often play a rôle in his music. One is active and assertive. He is Florestan. The other is Eusebius, reflective and dreamy. Here, then, is Eusebius at the fair, wrapped about in a mantle of gentle musing. His page of music in the _Carnaval_ is one of the loveliest Schumann ever wrote. Elsewhere, too, the contemplative young fellow speaks always in gentlest and most appealing tones; as in the second, seventh, and fourteenth of the _Davidsbündler_ Dances, all three of which are subscribed with a letter E.

In the _Carnaval_, as in the Dances, Florestan breaks roughly into the meditations of Eusebius. He works himself into a very whirlwind of energy; and then Schumann, by a delicious sense of humor, lets the artful _Coquette_ slide into his eye and put an end to his vociferations. To her there is no reply but the gentle, short _Replique_. Are the _Papillons_ which follow masqueraders? The horn figures of the accompaniment bring in a new group to the fair, fresh from the outer world. They are gone in a flash, and their place is taken by three dancing letters, ‛_As_,’ C, and H; _As_ being German for A-flat, and H for B. And these letters spell the birthplace, as we have said, of one of Schumann’s early loves.

The love of his whole life follows--_Chiarina_, his beloved Clara; and, as if with her were associated the loveliest and most poetic of pianoforte music, he calls Chopin to mind. Chopin at this fair! It is a fantastic touch. More than when Eusebius speaks, the background of gay dancers and masqueraders fades from sight. For a moment Chopin is in our midst. Then he has vanished. And at once another thought of Clara, this time as _Estrella_; then an acquaintance in the throng. He has seen a face he knew, it is a friend. It is the Sphinx of _Chiarina_ in the music. Is it she he recognized? Are the lovely interchanges in the middle section conversations with her? If so, their mood is light. They have met at a fair. They are in the merry-making.

Two more professionals, masquers this time--the world-favorites, _Pantalon_ and _Colombine_; and at the end of their piece an exquisite thought of Schumann’s. Then the German waltz, simplicity itself; and in the midst of it none other than the wizard, _Paganini_! Surely, there was never a stranger trick of thought than that which thus placed Paganini in the midst of a simple, tender German waltz. He vanishes in a puff of smoke, as conjured devils are supposed to do; and the waltz goes on, as if all this intermission had been but a flash in the air above the heads of dancers too absorbed in their pastime to note such infernal phenomena.

After the waltz, a lover’s confession, hesitating but enraptured; and then a _Promenade_. There is full feeling, there is delight and ecstasy. Our lover whirls his maiden from the fair. Farther and farther they go, hand in hand, into the shadowy, calm night. Fainter and fainter the sounds of revelry, till all is silence.

There is a pause. The lovers are dispatched. Away with dreaming, away with sentiment! Back into the hurly-burly and the din. Here comes the band of David down the plaisance, hats in air, banners flying, loudly cheering. These are the sons of the new music. These are the champions of the new era of freedom, these the singers of young blood. More and more reckless, madder and more gay! Spread consternation abroad among the Philistines, put the learned doctors to rout, send them flying with their stale old tunes and laws! So the _Carnaval_ ends, with the flight of the old and dusty, and the triumph of the enthusiasm of youth.

Here is a phantasmagoria unmatched elsewhere in music. It is very long. It is too long; and, judged as a whole, the work suffers in consequence. It is overcrowded with figures, too full of symbolism; and the ear tires, the attention wearies. Yet there is not a piece in it which one would be willing to discard. All are beautiful and new and full of life. Many present something peculiar to Schumann, the fruit of his imagination, which is in advance of most of the music of his time. It must occupy an important place in the history of pianoforte music, as representing one of the finest accomplishments directly due to the influence of the Romantic movement.

III

The other cycles of Schumann comparable to it are the _Papillons_, opus 2, the _Davidsbündler Tänze_, opus 6, and the _Faschingsschwank aus Wien_, opus 26. The first of these is short and slight, but of singularly faultless workmanship and rare charm. The last must be cherished for the _Romanza_, the _Scherzo_, and the splendid _Intermezzo_; but the first movement is rather out of proportion, and parts of the last are perfunctory and uninteresting.

Most of the Dances of the _Davidsbündler_ are beautiful. The series is, however, much too long and too loose to be regarded as a whole. There are passages of unsuccessful workmanship, notably in the third; some of the dances are rambling, some rather commonplace. On the other hand, many may be ranked among the best of Schumann’s compositions. The second, seventh, and fourteenth have been mentioned as among the beautiful utterances of Eusebius; the fifth is less distinguished but is delightful pianoforte music. Florestan does not make quite such a good impression, except possibly in the fourth and the twelfth. The fifteenth speaks for both Florestan and Eusebius; and the E-flat major section is splendidly rich and full-throated music. The last dance of all is like a happy, wayward elf waltzing along in the wake of more substantial dancers. The series may properly end with the seventeenth; but, as Schumann said, though Eusebius knew well that the eighteenth was quite superfluous, yet one could see by his eyes that he was blissful over it.[32]

Both the ‘Symphonic Studies’ and the _Kreisleriana_ stand apart from the works previously discussed. The former, opus 13, was written in 1834, the latter, opus 16, in 1838. A brief glance at opus 1, the ‘Abegg’ variations, written in 1830, will serve to make clear the immense progress Schumann made in the art of composition in the brief space of four years. The early work is by no means lacking in interest. Schumann reveals himself in nearly every page. The theme itself is made up of the notes a, b, e, g, g, spelling the name of the honorable lady to whom the variations were dedicated. In the middle of the last movement he experiments with a new style of diminuendo, allowing a chord to die away by separate notes, till only one note of it is left sounding. He tried the same effect again at the end of the _Papillons_. But the workmanship, though clever, is for the most part conventional. The statement of the theme is laughably simple, particularly the ‘echoes,’ _pianissimo_, in broken octaves. Such a device recalls the ‘Maiden’s Prayer’ and fountain curls. The variations show a fine ear for pianoforte effects. The first especially is in virtuoso style and makes more use of the upper registers of the keyboard than is common in the later works. But the harmonies, though richly altered, are conventional, and so are the figures. The third, fourth, and fifth might have been written by Hummel.

The ‘Symphonic Études’ are immeasurably broader and more original. They are written as variations; but Schumann confines himself very little to the conventional scheme; and the third and ninth are not variations at all, but études made up of wholly extraneous ideas. The theme itself is dignified and rich, and its statement in the sonorous middle registers of the piano is impressive. In the first measures of the first variation there is little or no suggestion of the theme save in harmony. The opening phrase is given low down, repeated in higher registers, till the music has climbed nearly four octaves; at which point a phrase of the theme makes its appearance. Toward the end of the variation the same phrase is heard again; but the whole is distinctly dominated by the figure announced in the first measure.

In the second variation the theme is carried throughout in the bass; but a beautiful new melody is imposed upon it which carries the burden of the music. The third of the series is unrelated to the theme except in key. It is a study in light, wide, staccato figures for the right hand; under which the left hand carries a suave and expressive melody. In the next movement, the theme is treated consistently as a canon at the octave. The next is at once a study in a capricious dotted rhythm and a subtle variation of the theme. And in the following, the sixth, the theme is wholly prominent in both hands, the left anticipating the right by the fraction of a beat. The seventh is a magnificent study for the movement of the arm from one group of notes to another. It is in E major, and the theme makes but an occasional and fragmentary appearance. The eighth is a study in sharp cross-accents, the theme again wholly concealed, except for its harmonies; the ninth a study in double notes and octaves for the wrist. The tenth, eleventh, and twelfth are high-water marks in Schumann’s treatment of the pianoforte, both in brilliant and poetic effects. Particularly worthy of study are the accompaniment figure in the latter, with its rich shimmering of harmony, and the skillful interweaving of two melodies in the fashion not long before employed in the short _Warum?_. The finale, which, with the repeats Schumann incorporated into it, is far too long, practically exhausts the power of the piano in big chordal effects.

There is but little trace of the composer of the Abegg variations in these imposing and wholly beautiful studies. Schumann shows himself in them such a master of the pianoforte as has no need to display his wares, but may let their intrinsic richness and splendor speak for them. Only in the last of them does he lay himself open to the criticism of having treated the piano in a style too nearly orchestral, which expects from the instrument a little more than it can furnish. Elsewhere in the series the very spirit of the piano speaks, a noble and moving language, full of imagery and of color. The obvious virtuoso trappings of Weber are left far behind. We are on one of the great heights of pianoforte literature.

Schumann considered the _Kreisleriana_ to be his best work for the piano alone. It was inspired by the character of Johannes Kreisler, an eccentric, highly gifted kapellmeister who figured in the tales and musical papers of E. T. A. Hoffmann.[33] Just what it means few will venture to suggest. The last movement may recall the account of the last appearance of Kreisler on this earth, as he was seen hopping along the road beyond the town, with a red hat on the side of his head and a wooden sword by his side. Dr. Oskar Bie quotes from Hoffmann in connection with the second movement, the tale of the young girl who was lured to a magic oak by the sound of a lute, and there killed; whose heart grew into a twining rose-bush.[34] In the main, however, the music eludes analysis. It is eccentric. Though full of the mannerisms of Schumann, much of it presents an unfamiliar mood of the composer. The moods of it are different from the moods of the ‘Carnival,’ the ‘Symphonic Études,’ the ‘Fantasy,’ the ‘Scenes of Childhood.’ On the whole, it lacks the warmth of his other works. It is fantastic, and not unfrequently grotesque; parts of it strangely deliberate. Many pages of it are out of the usual and consequently baffling. It is more involved, too, in workmanship, and the separate movements full of contrasts that seem to be vagaries. Schumann has, of course, here as elsewhere put himself into the person of his inspiration; and the result is a tribute to the power of his imagination. Never was music more fantastic, less consequential.

It is, on the other hand, superb. The opening movement alone, with its figures like short waves in a windy sea, its sharp cross-accents, its filmy, elusive trio, is a masterpiece. The second movement is unbalanced, yet at times most wondrously beautiful. The opening theme in itself is inspired, though it is perhaps overworked. But what is the meaning of the harsh chords which interrupt it and shatter the mood which it might else instill? The style is polyphonic in places; there are inner melodies that slide long distances up and down the keyboard, oftenest in tenths. The two intermezzi furnish a welcome contrast to the intense subjectivity of most of this second movement. After the second there comes one of the loveliest pages in all Schumann’s pianoforte music.

The third movement is built on a restless, jerky figure, in ceaseless movement. There are strong accents and unusual harmonies. A middle section offers yet another happy instance of Schumann’s skill in dialogue between two melodies, such as we have already noticed in _Warum?_ and the eleventh of the ‘Symphonic Études.’ The movement is somewhat slower than the main body of the piece, but a strange sort of half-accompaniment does not allow the restlessness to subside altogether.

The fourth and sixth movements are slow. In both there is some thickness of scoring, a sinking too deep into the lower registers. Both are about the same length and both are constructed on the same plan; consisting of an incompleted, or broken, melody of the most intimately expressive character, a few measures of recitative, the melodious phrases again--in the one wandering down alone into the bass, disappearing rather than ending, in the other not completing itself, but developing into a contrasting section. In both there are these contrasting sections of more articulate and more animated music; and in both there is a return of the opening melody. There is wonderful music in these two short movements; but it is mysterious, fragmentary and incomplete, visionary, as it were, and without definite line.

The remaining movements escape language. The fifth is full of changing moods; the seventh more than the others, consistent, this time in a vein of something like fury. The eighth and last is delicate and whimsical. The right hand keeps to a light, hopping figure most of the time; the left hand has little more than long single notes, which pursue a course of their own, without regular rhythm.

There is a lack of titles, there is no motto, there is even no mark of Florestan and Eusebius. This most whimsical, most subjective, and, in many ways, most beautiful and most complicated of Schumann’s creations, stands before us, then, with no clue to its meaning except its title. This, as we have said, refers us to a half-crazy, fantastical musician. There is more in the music than lunacy, full of vagaries as it is. There is much poetry, a clearness and sanity in diction, inconsequential as the thought may be, a mastery of the science of music. Yet it is not surprising if some, bearing in mind the preternatural activity of Schumann’s imagination even in early manhood, and the breaking-down of his mind toward the end of his life, will hear in this music a note of something more tragic than whimsical fancies, will feel that Schumann has strayed perilously far afield from the world of orderly nature and warm blood.

A few short pieces that Schumann published, like the _Novelletten_, are not held together in a cycle. In these the humor is prevailingly happy and active, the workmanship clear, and the form well-balanced. Fine as they are, in listening to them separately one misses something of Schumann. The man was a dreamer. He sank himself deep into moods. He lived in complete worlds, created by his fancy. A single piece like one of the ‘Novelettes’ hardly initiates the listener into these wide domains. Fully to put ourselves in touch with Schumann we must wander with him, and in the course of our wandering, drift farther and farther into his land of phantoms.

Four works in broad form must be reckoned among his greatest compositions. These are two sonatas: one in F-sharp minor, opus 11, one in G minor, opus 22; the great ‘Fantasy’ in C major, opus 17; and the concerto for pianoforte and orchestra in A minor, opus 54. It is hard to estimate the worth of the sonatas. That in F-sharp minor is rambling in structure, and too long; yet there are pages of splendid music in it. The introduction is full of a noble passion and strength; the first theme of the first movement has a vitality which, better ordered, would have made of the whole movement a great masterpiece; and the second theme is undeniably beautiful. But transitional sections and the development are monotonous and too little restrained. The second movement, making fuller use of the themes hinted at in the introduction, is wholly satisfying; the scherzo, likewise, with its grotesque Intermezzo and mock-heroic recitatives. But in the last movement again there is far too much music, far too little art; and, despite the healthy vigor of the chief theme, the piece staggers rather than walks.

The sonata in G minor is more concise, is, indeed, perfect and clear-cut in form. All of it is lovely, particularly so the _Andantino_ and the _Rondo_. There is perhaps too much restlessness in the first movement and, consequently, too little variety. It is all flame and no embers.

The Fantasy is colossal. It is said that Schumann intended the first movement to represent ruins, the second a triumphal arch, the last a starry crown. Subsequently he changed his intention; but something of these original characteristics still remains. The first movement is a strange mixture of stark power, tenderness, and romantic legend. It is not hard to find in it the groundwork of the triplex form. There is a first theme, the dominant theme of the movement, strangely gaunt and bare; and a contrasting theme beautifully melodious which Schumann associated with his beloved Clara. These two themes are presented fairly regularly in the first section of the movement; and the last section brings them back again, as in the triplex form. But there is a broad middle section, in legendary character, which presents a wealth of different material, some of which has been freely used between the first and second themes in the first section. The whole is greatly expanded, full of pauses, passages of unrestrained modulation. The effect is truly magnificent.

The second movement exceeds the finale of the ‘Symphonic Études’ in triumphant vigor. The last movement is long, richly scored, exalted in sentiment. The endings of the three movements, especially of the first and last, are inspired, wholly without trace of the commonplace. It is one of the truly big works for the piano, lacking perhaps in subtlety and refinement of technique, sometimes a little awkward and out of proportion, but full of such a richness of harmony and melody, of such passion, strength, and romance, of such poetry and inspiration, as to defy criticism. It is, as we have said, colossal.

The concerto stands as a flawless masterpiece. The themes are inspired. There is no trace of sentimentality or morbidness. The form is ruled by an unerring and fine sense of proportion and line. It is neither too long nor too short. There is no awkwardness, no tentativeness, no striving for effect. No note is unwisely placed. The treatment of both pianoforte and orchestra leaves nothing to be desired, either when the one is set against the other or when both are intimately blended. Though it in no way suggests the virtuoso, it is perfectly suited to the piano, bringing out unfailingly the very best the instrument is capable of. Thus it stands unique among Schumann’s compositions. There must be many to whom it stands for an ideal realized. To them it will be unique among concertos, the most excellent, the perfect type.

With this masterpiece we may take leave of Robert Schumann, for whom most pianists will ever have a special love. The first movement was composed in 1841, the Intermezzo and Finale in 1845, all after his marriage in the fall of 1840. After this happy termination to long and troubled years, his attention turned to other branches of music, to songs, to oratorios and symphonies; and, though he never forsook the piano entirely, the best of his work for it, with few exceptions, was left behind him. The ten years between 1830 and 1840 saw its creation. In this relatively brief period all the works we have mentioned, except the concerto, were composed. They were the flower of his early manhood, and they bear witness in every page to the romantic eagerness and fire of youth. In many a measure they show a lack of skill, an excess of zeal, an over-reaching that is awkward; but what are these in the fire of his poetic imagination? The spirit of Schumann rises far, far above them, one of the most ardent, soaring spirits that ever sought expression in music. It was destined to fall back, ruined, charred, and blackened by its own fire; but happily we have left to us in pianoforte music its song at the height of its flight.

IV

The only worthy successor to Schumann in the realm of German pianoforte music is Johannes Brahms. Into the hands of Brahms Schumann may be said to have given over the standard which he had carried so staunchly forward. In September, 1853, Brahms came with a letter from the great violinist Joachim, to visit Schumann and his family at Düsseldorf on the Rhine. He was at that time little over twenty years of age, but he brought with him two sonatas for the piano and a set of songs, in which Schumann at once recognized the touch of great genius. There followed the now famous article in Schumann’s paper, to which he had lately contributed little or nothing at all; an article hailing the advent of the successor of Beethoven, the man fit to carry German music yet another stage forward on its way. This prophecy roused skeptical opposition, made enemies for Brahms, reacted upon the young man himself, perhaps not wholly for the best. He found himself put into a place before he was free to choose it; and a strain of obstinacy in the man kept him there for the rest of his life, almost like a pillar of stone in the midst of a tumultuous river.

He was a man of powerful intellect and deep emotions, exceptional among composers in technical mastery of his art, of iron will. He was conservative, perhaps more by choice than by nature. All this is inevitably reflected in his music; which, therefore, speaks a language very different for the most part from Schumann’s. Schumann was open, enthusiastic, and free; Brahms was suspicious, outwardly hard and despotic. Schumann’s fancies were brilliantly colored, his music full of spontaneous warmth; Brahms inclined more and more to be gloomy and taciturn, his music came forth in sober colors.

[Illustration]

Johannes Brahms on his way to the ‘Red Porcupine’. _Silhouette (contemporary) by Dr. Otto Böhler._

But Brahms’ pianoforte music is still none the less romantic music. By far the great part of his works for pianoforte are short pieces, expressive of a mood. Few have the intensity of Schumann’s; there are but one or two descriptive titles, no bindings together in a round of fantastic thought. The enthusiasm of the younger romantics has cooled. Reason has come with calm step. Yet the quality of these short pieces is intensely romantic, suggestive of the north, of northern legends, of moorlands and the sea. There is not a whirr of many persons from strange lands, of sad and gay personalities, of Pierrot and Harlequin; the music is of lonely and wide places. It is, moreover, essentially masculine music. If it seems to wander into the life of towns, it seeks out groups of men. There is little feminine tenderness. There is little of sentiment in the pianoforte music, such as we associate with the romance of love. It has more of the heroic quality. It all demands profound thought and study; partly because of its intellectual complexity, partly because of its lack of superficial charm. One must make oneself familiar with it; one must learn its peculiar idiom; one must go far beneath the surface.

There is little to be said of it in words. The moods it expresses and the moods which it conveys are not of the kind that seek a quick and enraptured utterance. It is impersonal; it suggests the nature of sea and space, not human nature. Thus, though we can throw ourselves with delight into the music of Schumann and come forth from it with a thousand pictures and fancies in our minds, from the music of Brahms we more often come away thoughtful and silent.

Brahms’ style is very distinct. His pianoforte music calls for a special technique, quite outside the ordinary. Nothing of the style of Chopin or Liszt is evident, even in a work like the Paganini variations, which is essentially virtuoso music. These peculiarities are already evident in the first two sonatas, the works in which Schumann saw such great promise. The sonatas are worth study, not only from the historical point of view, but as unusual and beautiful music.

There are three sonatas, the first in C major, opus 1; the second in F-sharp minor, opus 2; the third in F minor, opus 5. The Scherzo in E-flat minor, opus 4, belongs to the same period. In the very first Brahms reveals himself; by the bare statement of the first part of the second theme; by the double thirds of the second part which conceal the sixths of which he was so fond; by the strangely hollow effect of the chromatic scale, not long before the end of the first section, with the sustained A below and the thin spacing of the whole; by the wide accompaniment figures at the end of the first movement. The octaves and sixths at the beginning of the Scherzo, the hollowness later on in the movement, the extraordinary distance between the hands in the thirty-sixth and thirty-seventh measures of the second part, these are characteristic of Brahms’ way of writing for the pianoforte. The trio of this Scherzo, by the way, might alone have accounted for Schumann’s enthusiasm. The broad sweep of its melody, the intense harmonies, the magnificent climax, have the unmistakable ring of great genius. At the end of it may be noted a procedure Brahms often employed: the gradual cessation of the movement of the music by changing the value of the notes, more than by retard. The last movement is splendidly vigorous. The chief theme may have been taken from the theme of the first movement. It gallops on over mountain and hill, full of exultation and sheer physical spirits. The coda is a very whirlwind. Brahms told Albert Dietrich that he had the Scotch song ‘My Heart’s in the Highlands’ in his head while he was writing this finale; and the spirit of the song is there.

The second sonata is as a whole less interesting than the first. The first theme is not particularly well suited to the sonata form; there is a great deal of conventionality about the passages which follow it. Yet the transitional passage is interesting, and the deep, bass phrases, so isolated from their high counterpoint, are very typical. One theme serves for andante and Scherzo. In the latter movement the trio is especially beautiful. It might easily be mistaken for Schubert.

The third sonata shows a great advance over the first and second. The passage beginning in the eighth measure of the first movement is in a favorite rhythmical style of Brahms. The right hand is playing in 3/4 time, the left hand seems to be rather in 2/4. This is because the figure of which it consists proceeds independently of the measure beat. So later on one finds groups of six notes in 3/4 time arranged very frequently in figures of three notes. In fact, the mixture of double and triple rhythm is a favorite device of Brahms throughout all his work. Two of the Paganini Variations are distinctly studies in this rhythmical complexity--the fifth in the first set, the seventh in the second set, in both cases the complexity being made all the more confusing by odd phrasing.

The _Andante_, especially the last part of it, and the _Scherzo_ of the third sonata are among the most beautiful of Brahms’ compositions. What the sonatas chiefly lack is not ideas nor skill to handle them, but success in many parts in the treatment of the instrument. The scoring is often far too thin. No relaxation is offered by passages of any sensuous charm. One follows with the mind an ingenious contrapuntal working-out that sounds itself empty, or leads to hollow spaces.

Except in the last movement of the second concerto, Brahms showed himself unwilling to make use of those subtle and delicate figures which succeed in giving to pianoforte music a certain warmth and blending of color. There is little or no passage work in his music. The Alberti bass which Schumann and Chopin varied and expanded, he intellectualized more and more, till it lost all semblance to the serviceable original and took on almost a polyphonic significance. There is an attendant sacrifice of delicacy for which only the nobility and strength of his ideas offer some recompense.

The Ballades, opus 10, for example, tread heavily on the keyboard. The first B major section of the second, with its appoggiaturas, its widely separated outer parts now in contrary motion, now moving together, and the mysterious single long notes between them, is marred by the low, thick registration of the whole. There is a similar thickness in the second section of the last ballade; an opposite thinness in the middle section of the little intermezzo. Yet it would be hard to find more romantic music than these Ballades, anything more grim and awful than the first, more legendary in character than the second, more gloomily sad than the last. There is a touch of sun in the first melody of the second. Elsewhere we are in a gray twilight.

‘The sedge has withered from the lake And no birds sing.’

After all, a delicate warmth, a subtle grace of movement are not in place in such music. The style is fitting to the thought.

The variations on a theme of Paganini are, on the other hand, remarkably brilliant as a whole. They show the uttermost limits of the Brahms pianoforte technique and style, and are, of course, extremely difficult. The first two are studies in thirds and sixths, and in the second especially the upper registers of the piano are used with striking effect. In the fourth there are brilliant trills over wide figures in violin style. The eighth in the second set is in imitation of the passages in harmonies in the Paganini _Caprice_ from which the theme is taken. Particularly effective on the pianoforte are the eleventh and thirteenth in the first set, the former with its shadowy overtonesin the right hand, the latter with the sparkling _glissando_ octaves. The twelfth in this set is like others that have been mentioned, a study in complex rhythms, but is remarkably clear and bell-like in sound as well. The sixth, ninth, and tenth are less effective and less interesting. The second, fourth, and twelfth in the second set are conspicuous for a less scintillating but more expressive beauty. The sets as a whole are more in the style of Paganini than the études of Schumann and Liszt, which owe their being to the same source. There is more of wizardry in them, more variety and more that is wholly unusual. They give proof of enormous thought and ingenuity applied to the task of producing effects from the piano that have the quality of eeriness, which, in the playing of Paganini, suggested to the superstitious the coöperation of infernal powers.

In the ‘Variations on a Theme of Handel,’ opus 24, the same powerful intellect may be seen at work in more orthodox efforts. The results are often of more scientific than musical interest. The set is extremely long in performance, and the cumbersome fugue at the end is hardly welcome. Some of the movements are heavily or thickly scored, like the mournful thirteenth and the twentieth. Others are intellectual or uninspired, like the sixth and the ninth. But others, like the second, the fifth, the eleventh, and the nineteenth, are truly beautiful, and many are brilliant or vivacious.

There are three earlier sets of variations, opus 9, opus 21, Nos. 1 and 2, which are small beside the two later sets just discussed. As far as pianoforte music is concerned, the variations on a theme of Handel, and the subsequent variations on a theme of Paganini, represent the culmination of Brahms’ conscious technical development, the one in the direction of intellectual mastery, the other in the direction of keyboard effects. Behind them lie the sonatas, the scherzo, and the ballades, all in a measure inspired, yet all likewise tentative. After them come numerous sets of short pieces which constitute one of the most beautiful and one of the perfect contributions to pianoforte music.

These sets are opus 76, Nos. 1 and 2; the two Rhapsodies, opus 79, and the last works for the instrument, opus 117, opus 118, and opus 119. There are few pieces among them which are unworthy of the highest genius matched with consummate mastery of the science of music. The two earlier collections, opus 76 and 79, differ from the later in something the same way that Beethoven’s opus 57 differs from his opus 110. They are impassioned, fully scored, dramatic, and warm. The two Capriccios, Nos. 1 and 5 in opus 76, are distinguished from his other pieces by a fiery agitation. The keys of F-sharp minor and C-sharp minor on the pianoforte lend themselves to intense and restless expression. In the former of these two pieces more is suggested than fully revealed.

The introduction, beginning in deep and ominous gloom, mounts up like waves tossed high in a storm. But the rush of the great C-sharps up from the depths is broken, as it were, upon the sharpest dissonance; the storm dies away suddenly, and over the wild confusion, now suppressed, a voice sings out a sad yet impassioned melody. This melody dominates the piece. The wild introduction returns in the middle part, but only to be suppressed once more.

The second of these Capriccios, No. 5, is more varied, more agitated, yet perhaps less intense. There is an almost constant complexity of rhythm, uniquely typical of Brahms, the combination of two with three beats; and at the end most complicated syncopations, the left hand, by reason of definite phrasing, seeming to play nearly four measures in 5/8 time. The Capriccio No. 8 and the Intermezzo No. 6 are similarly involved. The scoring of both is rich and full; and, though neither is agitated in mood, both have a quality of intensity. The Capriccio in B minor in the first set is justly a favorite with pianist and concert-goer alike. The two intermezzi which follow it are rather in the later style, and the former is conspicuous in Brahms’ music by a light grace. Even here, however, the composer cannot give himself over utterly to airy fancy. There are measures of involved workmanship and profound meaning.

The two ‘Rhapsodies,’ opus 79, are among the best known of Brahms’ pianoforte works. Both are involved and difficult; but the form and the ideas are broad and consequently more easily grasped than in the shorter pieces. Moreover, they are frankly vigorous and passionate; and the B major section of the former, with its bell-like effects, and the broad middle section of the latter, like the gallop of a regiment across the steppes, are relatively conventional.

In most of the pieces of the three last sets there is a touch of mysticism, often of asceticism. The style is transparent; the accompaniments, if one may speak of accompaniment in music that is so polyphonic, are lightly touched upon, barely sketched. They have no fixed line, but seem like flowing draperies about a figure in free, calm movement. Witness particularly the second piece in opus 117 and the sixth in opus 118. The latter is surely one of the most romantic of all Brahms’ pieces. Does it speak of some ancient ruin in the northern twilight? Is it some vision in a bleak, windswept place? Is not the opening phrase like the voice of the spirit of Time and Mortality? How the winds sweep it up, how it echoes and reëchoes through the night. And there comes a strain of martial music. The splendors that were rise like mist out of the ground. The shades of strong heroes pass by. Through the vision still rings the inexorable cry, till the spirits have vanished and the wind once more blows over a deserted place. It is all a strange, wailing invocation to the past.

All are unusual music, all masterpieces. There is the utmost skill, as in the canonic figures in the first intermezzo of opus 117, in the middle section of opus 118, No. 2, and all through opus 118, No. 4. There is a legendary quality in both opus 117, No. 1, and opus 117, No. 3. In the latter the A major section is extraordinarily beautiful and without a parallel in music. The last set is perhaps as a whole the most remarkable. There are three intermezzos and one rhapsody. In many measures of the first intermezzo the harmonies seem to unfold from a single note, to be shed downward like light from a star. The music drifts to a melody full of human yearning, rises again in floating harmonies, drifts slowly downward, too heavy with sadness. In the second and third the mood is happier, cool in the second, smiling in the third. The final rhapsody is without a trace of sentiment, healthy, sane, and enormously vigorous. Something stands in the way of its effectiveness, however. It is coldly triumphant. If there is any phase in human feeling which is wholly strange to music, it is the sense of perfect physical condition, entailing an unruffled mind and the flawless working of the muscles, without excess, with only the enthusiasm of physical well-being, and this entirely equable. The rhapsody in E-flat, opus 119, No. 4, is thus normal.

The features of Brahms’ style are clearly marked. There are the wide spacing of accompaniment figures demanding a large hand and the free movement of the arm, the complicated rhythms, the frequent use of octaves with the sixth included, the generally deliberate treatment of material, the employment of low and high registers at once with little or nothing between, the lack of passage work to relieve the usual sombre coloring. The enthusiast will have little difficulty in imitating him. Yet it is doubtful if Brahms will have a successor in pianoforte music. What makes his work tolerable is the greatness of his ideas, and this greatness makes them sublime. His procedures in the employment of another will be cold and dull. It is safer to imitate the virtuoso style of Liszt, for that has an intrinsic charm.

There are two concertos, one in D minor, opus 15, and one in B-flat major, opus 83. Brahms performed the first himself in Leipzig and was actually hissed from the stage. Yet it is a very great work, one of the few great concertos written for the pianoforte. A certain gloomy seriousness in the character of the themes stands in the way of its popular acceptance, and there are passages, notably in the middle movement, the ungainliness of which not even the most impassioned fancy or the deepest seriousness can disguise. The second concerto is longer and more brilliant. This, too, must be ranked with the earlier one, as one of the few great concertos, but chiefly by reason of the noble quality of the ideas, the mastery of art and form. Brahms’ treatment of the piano is nowhere conventionally pianistic. This second concerto is more than exceedingly difficult; but those qualities in the instrument which add a variety of color and light to the ensemble are for the most part not revealed in it. There is consequently a monotony that in so long a work is likely to prove tedious. A few figures and a few effects are peculiar to the pianoforte. These should rightfully be brought into prominence in a concerto. Mozart, Beethoven, and Schumann were able to do this, not in the least subtracting from the genuine value of their work, but rather adding to it. Brahms was less able to combine beauty and conventionality. Yet such a passage as the return to the first theme in the first movement of the second concerto shows a great appreciation of color; and there is a grandeur and dignity in both concertos, a wealth of romance in the first and of vitality in the second, as well, in the presence of which criticism may well be silent.

It is a long way in music from the simple _Moments musicals_ of Schubert to the B minor and E-flat minor _Intermezzi_ of Brahms. One sings of the dawn of the new era of enthusiasm, one is of the twilight at the end. Midway, in the full flush of noonday, stands Schumann. Yet all are manifestations of the same growth. In the department of pianoforte music Brahms is of the romantic. It is not only that his best work was in short pieces; it is the nature of these pieces themselves. They are the sound in music of moods, they are fantastical and lyrical. Furthermore, more than the music of Schubert or Schumann, Brahms is national; not so much German as northern. Strains of Hungarian melodies and echoes of Schubert are not sufficient to dispel the gloom which is characteristic of his race. He speaks a profound language that will claim universal attention, but it is unmistakably colored and thoroughly permeated with the ideals and the imaginings of a northern, seacoast people. It has not the perennial warmth of Schubert and Schumann. There are no quick-changing moods, no interchanges of smiles and tears, no flashes of merriment and wit. It is cold, it is still and serious. And who will say that it is not the more romantic for being so? Deep underneath there is mysterious fervor and passion.

To one of two ends the Romantic movement was bound to come from its confident stage of self-conscious emotionalism: on the one hand, to the glorification of the senses, on the other, to the distrust of them. In the music of Liszt the one goal is reached; unmistakably in this music of Brahms the other. The sober coloring of his pianoforte music, its intellectual complexity, its moderation, all speak of that development which in the world of philosophy and society was year by year intensifying the struggle between individualism and its arch-enemy, the natural sciences. In the music of Brahms the power of Reason has asserted itself. His music conforms first and always to law. And it is one of the paradoxes in the history of music that this composer, who, more than any other in modern times, acquired an objective mastery of his art, remained the slave of his intense personality.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] The following remark is prefixed to the eighteenth dance: _Ganz zum Überfluss meinte Eusebius noch Folgendes; dabei sprach aber viel Seligkeit aus seinen Augen_.

[33] According to C. F. Weitzmann, the original of Johannes Kreisler was Ludwig Böhner (1787-1860), a wandering, half-mad pianist.

[34] Part of the quotation is given in our ‘Narrative History,’ II, pp. 308f.

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