Symphony No. 4 in D minor, Op. 120
Robert Schumann
b. Zwickau, Germany / June 8, 1810
d. Endenich, Germany / July 29, 1856
Schumann’s career spanned the early heyday of Romanticism, with its increased expression of emotion through music, and its search for new ways to do so. He and many of his contemporaries continued to compose symphonies, for example. But each of them also helped expand the horizons of what a symphony could express, and how it might achieve that goal.
Franz Liszt took extreme steps along this path of experimentation. He developed the symphonic poem, a form of music inspired by extra-musical concepts. In order to increase its cohesiveness and flow, a symphonic poem is based upon the transformation and interrelation of a handful of themes.
Schumann’s most extreme use of Liszt’s method came in Symphony No. 4. He completed the original version in 1841, just two months after the premiere of Symphony No. 1. As with one of Liszt’s symphonic poems, it is based on a small group of themes. He intended to have it performed as a continuous whole, but he retreated from that approach, instructing that only the last two movements be played without interruption. The indifferent response to the premiere led him to shelve it.
Following the successful launch of Symphony No. 3 in February 1851, he felt confident enough to perform a “rescue mission” on the Symphony in D Minor. His revisions included changes in orchestration and a strengthening of the interrelationships between themes. He also decided to carry through on his original intention, directing that all four movements be played without breaks between them. He also settled on calling it Symphony No. 4.
Virtually all the materials appear in the slow, unsettled introduction to the first movement; an urgent Allegro follows. The ensuing Romance offers strong, lyrical contrast, dotted with expressive passages featuring oboe, cello, and violin. The Scherzo is a rustic, strongly rhythmic affair. The uncertain mood of the following bridge passage is resolved by the arrival of the exuberant Finale.
Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat major, Op. 83
Johannes Brahms
b. Hamburg, Germany / May 7, 1833
d. Vienna, Austria / April 3, 1897
It was Robert Schumann and his brilliantly gifted wife, Clara, who helped bring Brahms’ budding talent to the attention of a wider audience. Brahms met them and their six children in Düsseldorf on September 30, 1853. He came to their home and played some of his own compositions on their piano (which he later purchased and treasured greatly). Both Schumanns were deeply impressed. As Clara wrote in her diary, “He played us sonatas, scherzos, etc. of his own, all of them showing exuberant imagination, depth of feeling, and mastery of form. Robert says there was nothing he could tell him to take away or add.” Throughout Brahms’ month-long stay, the Schumanns gave him the greatest encouragement.
Soon afterwards, an influential German music magazine published an article by Robert entitled New Departures. It said, “Many a new significant talent has appeared on the scene; a new force in music seemed imminent, as witnessed by many aspiring artists of recent times, even though their work is known to a rather narrow circle only. I felt that in following the progress of these select ones with the keenest of interest, that one day there must suddenly emerge the one who would be chosen to express the most exalted spirit of the times in an ideal manner, one who would not bring us mastery in gradual stages but who, like Minerva, would spring fully armed from the head of Jove. And he has arrived – a youth at whose cradle the graces and heroes of old stood guard. His name is Johannes Brahms.”
Brahms, of course, was immensely flattered by this ringing tribute from one of the most prominent musical figures of the day. He recognized, however, that the testimonial had its down side, too. “The public praise that you have deigned to bestow upon me will have so greatly increased the expectations of the musical world regarding my work that I do not know how I shall manage to do even approximate justice to it,” he wrote to Schumann later the same year. “You will readily understand that I am straining every nerve to bring as little disgrace as possible on your name.” Living up to Schumann's expectations for him – and those of a growing circle of other supporters – became a burden, one which undoubtedly inhibited his creative development.
As serious and traditional a composer as Brahms considered a concerto no less important than a symphony. Not for him the flashy, empty-headed concertos designed solely to show off soloists’ technique. Each of his four concertos is as substantial and thoughtful as any of his four symphonies.
Maintaining an interest in such long-standing musical forms as the concerto and the symphony set him apart from many of his contemporaries. Two of them, Franz Liszt and Richard Wagner – the self-declared creators of the “music of the future” – preferred to work in such freer, more innovative domains as the symphonic poem and opera. During the period when Brahms created this Concerto, for example, Liszt produced the piano piece La lugubre gondola, and Wagner, the opera Parsifal. The contrast between these ecstatic, forward-looking creations and Brahms’ sturdily conservative Concerto is as fascinating as it is immense. The year of the Concerto’s premiere also witnessed the births of two further artists destined to be innovators in their fields: composer Béla Bartók and artist Pablo Picasso.
The sketches for the Concerto date from 1878, the same year as Brahms’ Violin Concerto. His creative schedule was so crowded, however, that three years passed between the piano concerto’s conception and completion. He finished it during the summer of 1881, as part of a working holiday in the Austrian town of Pressbaum. Brahms himself was the soloist at the first performance, in Budapest on November 9, 1881, Hans von Bülow conducting.
In emotional terms, it is divided into two pairs of movements. The first couple contains virtually all the drama. The opening horn solo casts a spell of geniality over the broadly scaled opening movement. The mood becomes more agitated toward the center, only to reach a conclusion as optimistic as the opening. The second movement is a tough, often passionate segment that makes use of materials intended for the abandoned Scherzo of the Violin Concerto. Only its brief, dance like middle panel offers a haven from the emotional storms.
What follows is total contrast: one of the most serene of all Brahms’ inventions. The radiant third movement features a prominent role for solo cello. To conclude the Concerto, Brahms declines to repeat himself by offering a rambunctious or heaven storming Rondo. He serves up relaxed Viennese charm instead. Here is author Malcolm MacDonald’s description of the Concerto’s finale: “Brahms never wrote a movement that was more of an unalloyed entertainment, nor more feline in its humor; the proportions remain kingly, but the lion now moves with a kitten’s lightness and a cat’s precise, unconscious grace.”
© 2008 Don Anderson. All rights reserved.
