The energy of imagination dwelling within Brahms' songs is often the more striking from its concentration within the short form preferred by the composer in the majority of instances. In it, as time went on, he gave vivid expression to thoughts wistful or bright, playful or sombre, naïve or deeply pondered; and whilst his lyrics are especially characterized by the clear shaping of the song-melody, and the distinctness of the harmonic foundations upon which it rests, many of them derive an added distinction from a quiet significance in the accompaniment, which, whilst helping the musical representation of a poetic idea, never embarrasses the voice. In spite of their apparent simplicity, the accompaniments are, however, frequently difficult both to read and to perform.
It is to be said, generally, of Brahms' songs that they do not betray the marked influence of either of the two great lyrical composers who preceded him. They have no affinity with those of Schumann, and if many of them share the fresh naturalness of Schubert's inspirations, this is rather to be traced to a partiality for the folk-song, in which both composers found an inexhaustible stimulus to their fancy. On the other hand, in Brahms' songs we frequently meet the musician who has penetrated so deeply into the art of Bach that it has germinated afresh in his imagination, and placed him in possession of an idiom capable of serving him in the expression of his complex individuality. Each song bears the distinctive stamp of the composer's genius, though hardly two resemble each other, and it would be difficult to point to one that could be mistaken for the work of another musician.
The young Kreisler was in the habit of presenting his manuscripts, and especially those of his songs, to intimate friends. Most of these gifts bear his boyish, affectionate inscriptions, some only the date and place of composition. 'Göttingen, July, 1853,' is written at the end of an autograph copy of 'Ich muss hinaus' presented at Düsseldorf to the Japhas. 'Weit über das Feld' has a friendly inscription in his hand to the sisters. His manuscripts—probably the originals—of some of the songs from Op. 3, notably 'O versenk' and 'In der Fremde,' the latter dated 1852, were given 'To my dear Julius in kind remembrance' (J. O. Grimm). Touching pictures arise in the mind as one looks at these pages, some of them discoloured by time, of the young idealist with his girlish face and long fair hair sitting at his night toil, his soul whole and in his possession, his thoughts straining towards the early morning hours, the only ones of the twenty-four which he was certain of being able to devote to the loveliest inspirations of his muse. In the eager affection of the inscriptions is to be read his bounding joy at his release; in the devoted remembrance with which his gifts have been treasured may be perceived one of the qualities of his personality which he, perhaps, but little understood—the power of attracting the abiding love of loyal friends.
It is now time to sum up the real significance in the life of Brahms of the remarkable first concert-journey, the account of which has so long occupied our attention, and this may be done in a very few words. The journey was the transformation scene of his life. The obscure musician who, having been guarded from the dangers of prodigy fame, had started from Hamburg in April without prestige, without recommendations, without knowledge of the world, its manners or its artifices, had passed from the two or three provincial platforms on which he had appeared as Reményi's accompanist, to present himself as pianist and composer in the Leipzig Gewandhaus, and to return to his home in December the accepted associate of the great musicians of the day; recognised by Weimar, appreciated by Leipzig; encouraged by Berlioz and Liszt, claimed by Schumann and Joachim. Before he had well begun to climb the steep hill of reputation he had found himself transported to its summit. Starting hardly as an aspirant to fame, he had come back the proclaimed heir to a prophet's mantle. His life's horizon had been indefinitely widened, his whole existence changed. Back again amid the familiar scenes of Hamburg, the events of the past nine months must have seemed to him as the visions of an enchanted dream.
To the wise and faithful friend in Altona the occurrences which had startled the musical world had seemed in no wise astonishing.
'There was probably,' wrote Marxsen later to La Mara, 'but one man who was not surprised—myself. I knew what Brahms had accomplished, how comprehensive were his acquirements, what exalted talent had been bestowed on him, and how finely its blossom was unfolding. Schumann's recognition and admiration were, all the same, a great, great joy to me; they gave me the rare satisfaction of knowing that the teacher had perceived the right way to protect the individuality of the talent, and to form it gradually to self-dependence.'
These last words seem to indicate that here is a fitting opportunity for the brief consideration of a question which has not seldom been raised, and has received various answers, often biassed by prepossession. What was Marxsen's share in the art of Brahms? A Brahms would have learned what he did learn, if not from Marxsen then from someone else, has been the opinion of some people to whose judgment respect is due. Such influence as Marxsen had on Brahms' development was merely negative, is the reply of others; and it has been affirmed, on the authority of Herr Oberschulrath Wendt, that Brahms declared on one occasion that he had learned nothing from his master.[43]
Without stopping to discuss whether it has been just to the memory either of Brahms or of Marxsen to give the permanence and emphasis of print to whatever depreciatory words Brahms may have let fall in an unguarded moment to an intimate friend, it may safely be asserted that if our composer fortunately became aware, at an early age, of what had been the weak points of his master's teaching, he preserved, when at the height of his mastership, a clear recognition and grateful appreciation of the strong ones.
Marxsen has himself indicated, in the last sentence of the above quotation from his letter, the two main purposes of his teaching, both of which were attained by him in the case of Brahms with absolute success. To have 'protected the individuality' of an endowment so powerfully original as that of our composer might, perhaps, be regarded as an easy achievement if taken alone; though even here it should be remembered that Marxsen made himself responsible, when the affectionate and impressionable Hannes was at a tender age, for his musical education, and must, therefore, have been instrumental in directing his creative energy to that study of the highest art by means of which it developed to such good purpose. To have trained his talent to the 'self-dependence' it had attained by the time the young composer was twenty, however, implies in the teacher a distinctness of aim, a knowledge of method, an insight and originality, an active and potent influence, which few will fail to attribute to Marxsen who have a real acquaintance with the large works of Brahms' earliest period, written at the time that his formal pupilage was drawing or, in the case of one work, had just drawn, to its close.
Limitation of space prevents the possibility of giving here a detailed description of Marxsen's methods of instruction, but, as some account of their excellencies and shortcomings seems to be called for, it may be said that as a teacher of free composition, and especially of the art of building up the forms which may be studied in the works of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, he was great—the more so that he did not educate his pupils merely by setting them to imitate the outward shape of classical models. He began by teaching them to form a texture, by training them radically in the art of developing a theme. Taking a phrase or a figure from one or other of the great masters, he would desire the pupil to exhibit the same idea in every imaginable variety of form, and would make him persevere in this exercise until he had gained facility in perceiving the possibilities lying in a given subject, and ingenuity in presenting them. Pursuing the same method with material of the pupil's own invention, he aimed at bringing him to feel, as by intuition, whether a musical subject were or were not suitable for whatever immediate purpose might be in view. The next step was that the idea should be pursued not arbitrarily, but logically, to its conclusion—a conclusion that was not, however, allowed to be a hard-and-fast termination. Marxsen's pupils were taught to aim at making their movements resemble an organic growth, in which each part owed its existence to something that had gone before. 'Unity clothed in variety' might have been his motto.