Brahms conducted the first performance of the Parzenlied in Basle on December 8, 1882. Excellently sung by the members of the Basle Choral Society, the work met with extraordinary success, and was repeated after the New Year by general desire. Similar results followed its performance in other towns, of which Strassburg and Crefeld should be specially mentioned. The programme of the Crefeld concert included the fifth movement of the Requiem. 'What is your tempo?' Brahms inquired, on the morning of the rehearsal, of Fräulein Antonia Kufferath, who was to sing the solo. The lady, not taking the question seriously from the composer of the music, waived a reply. 'No, I mean it; you have to hold out the long notes. Well, we shall understand each other,' he added; 'sing only as you feel, and I will follow with the chorus.'
These are characteristic words, and valuable in more than one sense. To most of the few works to which the master has placed metronome indications—and the Requiem is amongst these—he added them by special request, and attached to them only a limited importance. An absolutely and uniformly 'correct' pace for a piece of genuine music does not exist. The pace must vary to some extent according to subtle conditions existent in the performer, and the instinct of a really musical executant or conductor will, as a rule, be a safer guide, within limits, than what can be at best but the mechanical markings even of the composer himself.
The Parzenlied, received with enthusiasm throughout Brahms' tour in Germany and Switzerland, was not equally successful in Vienna, where it was heard for the first time at the Gesellschaft concert of February 18 under Gericke. The austere simplicity of the music, which paces majestically onward with the concentrated, resigned calm of despair, adds extraordinary force to Goethe's poem, but does not appeal to every audience, and the work has never become a prime favourite in the Austrian Kaiserstadt. The song is set for six-part chorus with orchestra, in plainer harmonic masses and with less employment of imitative counterpoint than we usually find in the works of Brahms, who has accommodated his music here, as in 'Nänie,' to the classical spirit of the text. A singular deviation, however, which occurs in the course of the setting, from the uncompromising severity of the words, furnishes a remarkable illustration of the composer's unconquerable idealism. Comment was made in its place on the beautiful device by which he has sought to relieve the dark mood of Hölderlin's 'Song of Destiny'—the addition of an instrumental postlude which breathes forth a message of tender consolation that the poet could hardly have rendered in words. In Schiller's 'Nänie' the lament, with all its calm, gives expression to a sentiment of compassionate sorrow that is perfectly reproduced in the master's music. Goethe's Fates, however, in their measured recitation of the gods' relentless cruelty, would have seemed to offer no possible opportunity for even the inarticulate expression of ruth. Least of all, it might be imagined, could any concession to the demands of the human heart have been found in the penultimate stanza of their song:
'The rulers exclude from
Their favouring glances
Entire generations,
And heed not in children
The once so belovèd
And still speaking features
Of distant forefathers.'
Our Brahms, however, who, in spite of his increasing weight, his shaggy beard, his frequently rough manners, his unsatisfied affections, his impenetrable reserve, remained at fifty, in his heart of hearts, the very same being whom we have watched as the loving child of seven, the simple-minded boy of fourteen, the broken-hearted man of thirty, sobbing by the death-bed of his mother, cannot leave the dread gloom of his subject unrelieved by a single ray. He seems, in his setting of the last strophe but one, to concentrate attention on past kindness of the gods, and thus, perhaps, subtly to suggest a plea for present hope. How far the musician was justified in thus wandering from the obvious intention of his poet must be left to each hearer of the work to determine for himself. If it be the case, as has sometimes been suggested, that the variation was made by the composer in the musical interests of the piece as a work of art, it cannot be held to have fulfilled its purpose; for the striking inconsistency between words and music in the verse in question has a disturbing effect on the mind of the listener. We believe, however, that the true explanation of the master's procedure is more radical, and is to be found in the nature of the man in which that of the musician was grounded.
The Parzenlied was dedicated to 'His Highness George, Duke of Saxe-Meiningen,' and was included in a Brahms programme performed in Meiningen on April 2 to celebrate the Duke's birthday. The complete breakdown of Bülow's health necessitated his temporary retirement from his conductor's duties, which were divided on this occasion between Brahms and Court Capellmeister Franz Mannstädt, appointed to assist Bülow. Returning by a circuitous route to Vienna after a few days at the ducal castle, Brahms paid a short visit to Hamburg to take part in another Brahms programme arranged by the talented young conductor of the Cecilia Society, Julius Spengel. This was the first of several occasions on which the master gave testimony of his appreciation of Dr. Spengel's talents and musicianship by co-operating in the concerts of the society.
Brahms celebrated his fiftieth birthday by entertaining his friends Faber, Billroth, and Hanslick at a bachelor supper. He was occupied during the summer with the completion of a third symphony, on which he had worked the preceding year, and lived at Wiesbaden in a house that had belonged to the celebrated painter Ludwig Knaus, in whose former studio—Brahms' music-room for the nonce—the work was finished.
It was known to the composer that a delicate elderly lady inhabited the first-floor of the house of which Frau von Dewitz's flat, where he lodged, formed an upper story. Every night, therefore, on returning to his rooms, he took off his boots before going upstairs, and made the ascent in his socks, so that her rest should not be disturbed. This anecdote is but one amongst several of the same kind that have been related to the author by Brahms' intimate associates. Samples of another variety should not, however, be omitted.
A private performance of the new symphony, this time arranged for two pianofortes, was given as usual at Ehrbar's by Brahms and Brüll, and aroused immense expectations for the future of the work. Amongst the listeners was a musician who, not having hitherto allowed himself to be suspected of a partiality for the master's art, expressed his enthusiastic admiration of the composition. 'Have you had any conversation with X?' young Mr. Ehrbar asked Brahms; 'he has been telling me how delighted he is with the symphony.' 'And have you told him that he very often lies when he opens his mouth?' angrily retorted the composer, who could never bring himself to submit to the humiliation of accepting a compliment which he suspected—perhaps unjustly in this case—of being insincere.
A terrible rebuff was administered by him on the evening of a first Gewandhaus performance. It must be owned that Brahms was seldom in his happiest mood when on a visit to Leipzig; he was well aware that his music was not appreciated within the official 'ring' there, and suspiciously resented any well-meant efforts made to ignore this fact. 'And where are you going to lead us to-night, Herr Doctor?' inquired one of the committee a few minutes before the beginning of the concert, assuming a conciliatory manner as he smoothed on his white kid gloves; 'to heaven?' 'It is the same to me where you go,' rejoined Brahms.