Classic Audiobook Collection - Personal Recollections of Johannes Brahms by George Henschel ~ Full Audiobook [biography]

Episode Date: April 18, 2024

Personal Recollections of Johannes Brahms by George Henschel audiobook. Genre: biography In Personal Recollections of Johannes Brahms, George Henschel - celebrated baritone, conductor, and one-time close collaborator of Brahms - offers an intimate portrait of the composer as friend, colleague, and fiercely private artist. Drawn from meetings, rehearsals, dinners, walks, and correspondence, these sketches bring the reader into the everyday world behind the masterpieces: the practical realities of performance, the give-and-take of interpretation, and the mixture of warmth, shyness, blunt humor, and high standards that shaped Brahms' relationships. Henschel writes not as a distant historian but as a participant in a musical circle where a single remark at the piano could illuminate a whole aesthetic, and where a new song, chamber work, or symphonic idea might surface in casual conversation before taking the concert hall by storm. Along the way, he introduces the personalities and social rituals of late-19th-century musical life, revealing how friendships, rivalries, and public expectations pressed on a composer determined to answer only to the music. Part memoir, part character study, this is a vivid doorway into Brahms' creative world and the human voice behind the legend. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:10:04) Chapter 02 (00:41:15) Chapter 03 (01:06:30) Chapter 04 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Personal recollections of Johannes Brahms, some of his letters to and pages from, a journal kept by George Henschel, with portraits by George Henssel. Preface, Johannes Brahms. Excerpts from the journal I kept when traveling with Brahms in the 70s were published in the Noyes Tugblot of Vienna shortly after the master's death. A translation of them, to which was added a part of the recollections, appeared in the Century Magazine of March 1901, and it is the kindly reception those fragments found with public and press at the time, which led me to believe that a publication of the whole might not be unwelcome to the great number of English-speaking musicians and lovers of music,

who, whilst more or less familiar with Brahms, the composer, would fain improve their acquaintance with Brahms, the man. The addition of some of his letters to me will, I trust, serve to enhance what value there may be in the following pages, which, disclaiming all pretense to literary merit, are merely intended to be a help toward more completely understanding and appreciating the personal character of the last of the classics. G. H. Alt-Nakrish, Scotland, Summer, 1906. Johannes Brahms It was on the occasion of the Lower Wrennish Musical Festival at Cologne in May 1874 that I first met Brahms. For weeks beforehand, my mind had been occupied by the thought of seeing face to face, the great composer whose name was then on every musician's lips as that of a man whose genius,

Robert Schumann, had publicly proclaimed in the glowing language of an inspired prophet. And I well remember my embarrassment and the sensation it gave me when at last I, was permitted to shake hands with him after the rehearsal of Handel Samson, in which oratorio I had been engaged to sing the part of Harapha. A few kind and encouraging words soon put me at my ease, and I could give myself up to scrutinizing Brahms' personal appearance. He was broad-chested, of somewhat short stature, with a tendency to stoutness. His face was then clean-shaven, revealing a rather thick, genial underlip, the healthy and ruddy color of his skin indicated a love of nature and a habit of being in the open air in all kinds of weather. His thick straight hair, brownish color, came nearly down to his

shoulders. His clothes and boots were not exactly of the latest pattern, nor did they fit particularly well, but his linen was spotless. What however struck me most was the kindliness of his eyes. They were of a light blue, wonderfully keen and bright, with now and then a roguish twinkle in them, and yet at times of almost childlike tenderness. Soon I was to find out that that roguish twinkle in his eyes corresponded to a quality in his nature, which would perhaps be best described as good-natured sarcasm. A few illustrations will explain what I mean. A rather celebrated composer had asked Brahms to be allowed to play to him from the manuscript, his latest composition, a violin concerto. Brahms consented to hear it and seated himself near

the piano. Mr. Dash played his work with great enthusiasm and force. The perspiration, it was a very warm day, streaming down his face. When he had finished, Brahms got up, approached the piano, took a sheet of the manuscript between his thumb and middle finger, and rubbing it between them, exclaimed, I say, where do you buy your music paper? First rate. In the evening of the day of our first meeting, I found myself sitting with Brahms in Neknaipa, one of those cozy restaurants, redolent of the mixed perfumes of beer, wine, tobacco, coffee, and food, so dear to Germans in general, and to German artists in particular, in the company of four or five prominent composers of the day who had come from their different places abode to attend the festival.

The musical proceedings of the day had been the chief topic of conversation on one of the programs having figured some new songs of mine, when suddenly one of the Heron-Capelmeister pointing toward me exclaimed, just look at that lucky fellow Henschel. He can both sing and compose, and we, describing with his hands a circle, which included Brahms, we can compose only. And not even that. It came instantly from Brahms, whilst his countenance bore the expression of the most perfect innocence. Brahms was very fond of sitting with good friends over his beer or wine or his beloved café with the accent after the Viennese fashion on the last syllable in the Knaipa till the small hours of the day. After the performance,

of Samson, our party did not break up until half-past two in the morning. For a young singer to sit late at night in a stuffy room full of tobacco smoke for hours at a stretch, and that between two public appearances is not precisely a thing I could conscientiously recommend anyone to imitate, but at that time nothing would have induced me to leave the room before Brahms. So fascinated was I with his personality, so jealous of every minute of his company. It was not until the early spring of the following year, 1875, that I met Brahms again. In the meantime, some letters have passed between us, relating to my singing for the Society of the Friends of Music at Vienna, of whose concerts Brahms at that time was the conductor. I had been engaged to sing the part of

Christ in Bach's passion, according to St. Matthew, and that of Odysseus, in Mox-Brook's secular oratorio of that name. And it may be imagined how great an inspiration it was, was for a young musician like myself to sing under the direction of Brahms and to be in daily and intimate intercourse with him, in anticipation of which privilege I had made arrangements for a prolonged stay in the Austrian capital. We went for a walk together every day, mostly in the Prater, the favorite out-of-door resort of the Viennese, and it seemed a matter of no small gratification to Brahms to find himself recognized and deferentially greeted everywhere we happened to drop in for an occasional rest. The numerous public gardens where gypsy bands played especially attracted us,

and it was a delight to notice the increased spirit those brown sons of the putsta put into their music in the presence of the master, who had done so much toward opening up to their beloved tunes, a wider sphere of popularity. The two concerts mentioned above went off beautifully. Brahms had trained the chorus with infinite care and conducted with great earnestness. The performance of Odysseus was the last that Brahms directed for the society, having resigned his post early in the year. It took place in the forenoon and was followed by the solemn ceremony of presenting Brahms with an illuminated address of farewell, acknowledging his great achievements as conductor of the society, and expressing the societies and the chorus's regret at his resignation. A local celebrity, rather

Naudily styled by Brahms, the poet of the inner town, delivered a very eulogistic oration, which Brahms, who could hardly disguise his being considerably bored, merely acknowledged with a painfully curt, thank you very much. Then he took under his arm the folio containing the address and walked away. He afterwards told me that such official proceedings were exceedingly distasteful to him. Far more to his liking was a supper at one of the leading hotels, to which on the evening of that day, a great many of his friends sat down with him in which the presence of ladies made all the more acceptable to the guest of the evening the memory of the anniversary of beethoven's death march twenty sixth in that year will never fade from my mind since it was my great privilege to spend part of the day with brahms in the very chamber in which the great composer had died common friends of ours were then living in the suite of rooms once occupied by beethoven in the schwartz spaniard house from the corner of the room in which beethoven's bed had stood his bust adorned with a laurel wreath looked down upon us and though nearly half a century had passed away since that historical thunderstorm during which the immortal soul of the titan had freed itself from its earthly fetters so deeply were we impressed by the solemnity of the hour that when after a long silence we began to speak again we did so in a subdued whisper only

it was in the following year that i began my journal my profession brought me into frequent contact with the master who to my gratification seemed to have permitted the young enthusiastic musician to have an intimate hours an occasional deeper insight into the workings of his mind and the remoter recesses of his heart then was vouchsafed to the outer world against which he appeared to be fortified with the s triplex of irony sarcasm and indifference i was anxious to preserve the the many interesting things he had to say on musical and other matters, and scrupulously jotted down my recollections in the evening of each day spent in Brahms' company. I have not attempted to embellish or improve upon the style, if style there be, of these cursory notes, but give them, translated literally from the manuscript, as it lies before me, written in pencil, and with no corrections whatever, thus indicating the utter absence at that time of any desire on my part to let them see the light of publicity.

End of Section 1. Section 2 of personal recollections of Johannes Brahms, some of his letters to and pages from a journal kept by George Henschel with portraits by George Henssel. This Libre box recording is in the public domain. The journal, Part A. Munster, Vesphalia, February 3, 1876. Brahms arrived yesterday. I am glad my hoarseness is gradually disappearing, for the thought of singing at the

concert day after tomorrow, those high notes in his triumphal hymn for double chorus and baritone solo, rather troubled me. I asked him if eventually he would object to my altering some of the highest notes into more convenient ones on account of my cold, and he said, not in the least. As far as I am concerned, a thinking, sensible singer made without hesitation, change a note, which for some reason or other is for the time being out of his compass into one which he can reach with comfort, provided always the declamation remains correct and the accentuation does not suffer. February 6th yesterday was the concert. Brahms played his piano forte, concerto, and D minor superbly. I especially noted his emphasizing each of those tremendous shakes in the first movement

by placing a short rest between the last note of one and the first small note before the next, Next, during those short stops, he would lift his hands up high and let them come down on the keys with a force like that of a lion's paw. It was grand. Dear old Isagram conducted and fairly chuckled with joy at every beautiful phrase. The glorious but horribly difficult triumphal hymn conducted by Brahms went splendidly. It was a veritable triumph for the composer. The joy and gratification expressed in Brahms' face at the end when acknowledging the enthusiastic acclamations of audience. chorus and orchestra, was evidently caused as much by the consciousness of having written a truly great work as by its reception and appreciation, and most welcome change from the affected excess of modesty often exhibited on concert platforms. My throat not being quite well yet, I changed with Brahms' approval the dreaded phrase, and sang it like this, by which Brahms' intention of emphasizing the word heavens was still carried out, the note C, remaining the highest of the phrase. Coblant's on the Rhine, February 26th. Brahms and I were the soloists at the orchestral

concert, which took place last night under Moskowski's conductorship. The day before was a final full rehearsal, General Proba, to which in most places in Germany the public are admitted. Brams had played Schumann's concerto in A minor and missed a good many notes. So in the morning of the day of the concert, he went to the concert hall to practice. He had asked me to follow him, thither a little later, and to rehearse with him the songs, his, of course. He was to accompany me in the evening. When I arrived at the hall, I found him quite alone, seated at the piano and working away for all he was worth on Beethoven's choral fantasia and Schumann's concerto. He was quite red in the face, and interrupting himself for a moment on seeing me stand beside him, said with that

childlike confiding expression in his eyes, really, this is too bad. Those people tonight expect to hear something especially good, and here I am likely to treat them to a hoggish mess. I assure you I could play today, with the greatest ease, far more difficult things, with wider stretches for the fingers. My own concerto, for example, but those simple diatonic runs are exasperating. I keep saying to myself, but Johannes, pull yourself together, do play decently, but no use, it's really horrid. After our little private rehearsal of the songs, Brahms Moskowski, who had in the meantime join us, and I repaired to Councillor Wengler's, Brahms's host, in accordance with an invitation to inspect the celebrated and really wonderful wine cellars of his firm, and to partake of a little

luncheon in the sample room afterwards. Toward the end of the repast, which turned out to be a rather sumptuous affair, relished by Brahms as much as by any of us, a bottle of old Rowanthaler of the year 65 was opened with due ceremony by our host. It proved indeed to be a rare drop, all sat in almost reverential silence bent over the high light green goblets which we held in close proximity to our respective noses veggler at last broke the silence with the solemn words yes gentlemen what brahms is among the composers this rawhenthaler is among the wines quick as lightning brahms exclaimed ah then let's have a bottle of bach now the concert went off well as did the supper afterward brams was in particularly high spirits the many proofs of sincere admiration and affection he had received during his stay in Koblenz had greatly pleased and touched him, and he went so far as to make a speech, a very rare thing with him. B. Spaden, February 27, 1876. Yesterday, Brahms and I left Koblenz. We were quite alone in our compartment, and I had the

happiness of finding him in regard to his own self and his way of working, more communicative than ever before. Commencing by speaking of the events of the past days, we soon driveting, into talking about art in general, and music in particular. There is no real creating, he said, without hard work. That which you would call invention, that is to say a thought, an idea, is simply an inspiration from above, for which I am not responsible, which is no merit of mine. Yea, it is a present, a gift, which I ought even to despise, until I have made it my own by right of hard work. And there need be no hurry about that either. It is, as with the seed-corn. It germinates unconsciously and in spite of ourselves.

When I, for instance, have found the first phrase of a song, say, I might shut the book there and then go for a walk, do some other work, and perhaps not think of it again for months. Nothing, however, is lost. If afterward I approach the subject again, it is sure to have taken shape. I can now begin to really work at it. But there are composers who sit at the piano with a poem before them, putting music to it from A to Z until it.

is done. They write themselves into a state of enthusiasm which makes them see something finished, something important, in every bar. Immediately after our arrival here, we had a rehearsal for tonight's concert. Brahms played his concerto in D. Minor magnificently. His touch is wonderfully crisp and clear. After the concert, we went to the house of the princess of Hesse Bachfeld to supper. Although Brahms, Ernst Trank, the genial composer and conductor, who had come over from Monheim and I were the only non-aristocratic guests present, the affair was very charming and gamutlik. Brahms' neighbor at table was the very handsome and fascinating wife of a celebrated general, and this fact, together with the fiery Rhine wine had a most animating effect on him. After supper, the greater part of the

company had a very lively game of billiards, and just before leaving, the princesses'clock presented Brahms with a handsome box of ebony to the lid of which a laurel wreath of silver was attached. Each leaf of the wreath had the title of one of Brahms' works engraved on it. He was delighted, though much amused at finding it on one of the leaves, Triumph Lead, that colossal song of triumph for double chorus and orchestra, and on the very one next to it, Vigin Lead, the sweet little lullaby of 18 bars. Berlin, February 28, 1876. Just arrived home from Wiesbaden, spent another highly interesting day there with Brahms yesterday. In the morning there was a matinee musical at the house of the same princess of Hesse Barchfeld. The Frankfurt string quartet,

Hugo Hirman, leading, had come over for the purpose. Brahms played with them his quartet in C minor, Op. 60, and then accompanied me in the longest, and to me the finest, of his romances from Teke's beautiful Maggillone, Vilsa I. De Freude de Vonae de Troi'Oen de Troyes. Number six. After the matinee, Brahms took me to the L'Anne Gravian Anna of Hess, a princess of considerable musical talent, whom, however, as he told me, he mostly admired for her simple and modest, yet extremely cordial and affable manners. Otherwise, he does not particularly care for personal intercourse with the highest spheres of society, as he called it. Last night, being Sunday before Shrove Tuesday, we had intended to go to the masked ball at the Kursal, to which he had already

taken tickets. In the afternoon, however, Brahms came to my room in the hotel and said, I say, I have another idea. Let us give the tickets to the head waiter, and ourselves rather go to Mr. X. Footnote, a composer of the most wonderful fertility, at that time quite celebrated and rather popular. End of footnote, which will entertain us just as well. You know, I am really fond of the man, but can't help being amused at his good-natured loquacity, which to me is as good as good is a play. Do make him speak of Wagner. I like that especially, and also ask him to show you one of his orchestral scores. They are really models about copying ought to be. You will see that Mr. X is an extraordinary fellow. He is not happy unless he composes a certain number of hours every day,

and, with all that, he copies even the parts of his symphonies himself. Well, to Mr. X's house, we went accordingly, finding to our satisfaction both him and his wife at home. Bram seemed tired. spoke little, which, however, was only natural, since both Mr. X and his wife seemed to vie with each other as to which could talk most and quickest. At last Mr. X, who constantly reminded me of Don Bartolo, without the wig, was called away into the next room by his barber, who had come to shave him, and the task of entertaining us rested on Mrs. X's shoulders alone. You have no idea, she said, how hard a worker X is. She never said my husband. I am proud and happy to have at last prevailed upon him to go for a walk with our daughter every day for two hours,

thus keeping him at least for two hours a day from composing. Ah, that's good. That's very good, said Brahms instantly, again, looking as innocent as a newborn babe. Mr. X, upon our taking leave, offered to accompany us on a little stroll through the park, during which he told us he had received an invitation to conduct one of his symphonies at a coming musical festival in Salasia. upon my speaking rather disparagingly of the musical achievements of the moving spirit of that festival, a member of the highest aristocracy who had published and produced several pretentious and very inferior compositions of his own, Brahms said to me, with a pretense of a serious rebuke in his voice, my dear Henschel, let me warn you to be more cautious when speaking of a nobleman's compositions,

for you can never know who did him. We left Wiesbaden last night for Frankfurt on the mine. Arriving at the old hotel, where I had been in the habit of putting up, room number 42 was allotted to us by one of the menials. While, however, we were sitting in the tap room over a farewell bottle, a rind wine, the head waiter, who knew us, came up to me announcing that a far better room, number 11, had been placed at our disposal. After a cozy chat, in the course of which, to my great delight, Brahms had asked me if I knew of a very remote, quiet spot, untrodded by excursionists, where, during the summer, summer vacation we might spend a week or two together, we retired to room number 11, and it was my instant and most ardent endeavor to go to sleep before Brahms did, as I knew from past experience that otherwise his impertinently healthy habit of snoring would mean death to any hope of sleep on my part. My delight had seen him take up a book

and read in bed was equaled only by my horror when, after a few minutes, I saw him blow out the light of his candle. A few seconds later the room was fairly ringing with the most unearthly noises issuing from his nasal and vocal organs, what should I do? I was in despair, for I wanted sleep, and moreover had to leave for Berlin early next morning. A sudden inspiration made me remember room number 42. I got up, went downstairs to the lodge of the porter, whom, not without some difficulty, I succeeded in rousing from a sound sleep. Explaining cause and object, I made him open room number 42 for me. After a good night's rest, I returned, early in the morning to the room in which I had left Brahms. He was awake and affectionately looking

at me with a familiar little twinkle in his eye and mocked seriousness in his voice, said to me, well knowing what had driven me away. Oh, Henschel, when I awoke and found your bed empty, I said to myself, there he's gone and hanged himself. But really, why didn't you throw a boot at me? The idea of my throwing a boot at Brahms? During our hurried breakfast, Brahms returning to Vienna also had to take an early train. We again spoke of the coming summer, and he seemed rather attracted by the glowing description I gave him of the island of Rugen in the Baltic Sea, which I had visited before and was very fond of, but which was quite unknown to him. So we parted with the hearty Alf Vita Zain, which made me very happy. I love him dearly. Sassnitz on the island of

Rugen, Saturday, July 8th, 1876, arrived here last night. The diligence was delayed by one of the heaviest thunderstorms I can remember, and I did not pull up at the little hostelry, which also contains the post office, until half-past eleven. But in spite of the inclemency of the weather, and the late hour, Brahms was there to welcome me, and we had an hour's chat in the little coffee room. Then he returned to his lodgings down in the village, whilst I came up here to the hotel on the Farnberg, where, however, to my great delight, Brams is going to have his midday and evening meals regularly. Sunday, July 9th. Early yesterday morning, Brahms came up to go bathing with me. There was a fine surf on, and the temperature of the water being rather high, we stayed in it for nearly half an hour,

enjoying ourselves hugely. I greatly admired Brahms' burly, well-knit muscular body, which is only rather too much inclined to stoutness, I fear. In the water, he drew my attention to the possibility of keeping one's eyes wide open when diving. It is not only possible, he said, but also very agreeable and strengthening for the eyes. I at once followed his advice to try, succeeding immediately, and we greatly amused ourselves by throwing little copper coins into the water and diving for them. In the evening we sat together in the Farenberg. I showed him the new series of Moritz Houtt-Hoptman's letters. Footnote. Houttman was a composer, rather dry and academical, and up to his death, in 1868, canter of the church of St. Thomas in Leipzig. End a footnote. After we had read a few,

he said, how discreet one ought to be in writing letters? Who knows, someday they'll be printed. Now, there's hardly anything in these letters which would not read just as well if their contents were reversed. To be sure, it is an agreeable gift to be able to write clever letters, but only letters of purely scientific purport are, in my opinion, a real value to any but those. they are written to. I drew Brahms' attention, especially to one letter, written to Professor R. Footnote, an able, but decidedly mediocre composer of good birth, who at that time occupied a rather prominent position as teacher at one of the musical state institutions of Berlin. End of footnote. I expressed my surprise at the lenient and amiable way in which Hauptmann

spoke of that gentleman's compositions. Well, said Brahms, you see, R had very aristocrat. connections and helped one a very delicate nature. In the course of our talk, one of the greatest virtuosos of the day, a personal friend of Brahms was mentioned. There are people, Brahms said, who can talk and talk about the most unlikely, impossible thing, until they actually believe it themselves. It's what I would call twaddle. For instance, the other day after having played the last movement of my C minor quartet, in which a friend detected a certain resemblance to Mendelsso's trio and C minor, without realizing that what there is theme itself is with me simply an accompanying figure. My friend asked me, in all seriousness, mind.

Now, am I not right? You wanted to show what you could do with that theme. How silly. Two stories which Brahms told me I write down as showing what a tender, sympathetic heart he has. Both stories refer to Mr. N. Footnote, a well-known writer and commentator on music. Then Living in Vienna. End of footnote.

With Us in Vienna, Brahms began, it frequently occurs that the postman, though officially obliged to deliver all letters at the doors of the respective flats, to which they are dressed, leave them with the concierge of the house, who, as you know, always has his little lodgings in the suit to rain. Well, Mr. N., who lived in the fourth floor, once received a letter, in that way 24 hours later than he ought to have, if the postman had delivered it according to his duty at the door. without warning, N lodged an information against the offender with the general postmaster, who ordered the matter to be investigated. In the meantime, a colleague of the poor postman had succeeded in persuading Mr. N's servant girl to take the blame upon herself, since nothing could happen to her, whilst the postman, who is a married man with a family, would surely be dismissed. When consequently, the post office commissioners appeared at N's house to ascertain the exact facts of the case, the servant girl stepped forward, boldly declaring that was she who had

omitted to deliver the letter, which had been in her pocket those 24 hours, and the postman was saved. Brahms' whole face beamed with joy as he told the story, and especially the action of the brave and generous girl. He could not praise highly enough. The second story is equally pathetic. In and I, said Brahms, met at the same table in a certain coffee house regularly on two or three evenings in the week, and it always used to embarrass me greatly when on paying our bills N suspiciously scrutinized his, questioning the waiter as to this or that little item, which he was not sure of having had, etc. One evening when this had happened again, the waiter came close up to N and whispered into his ear, his voice trembling with excitement and indignation, I beg of you, Mr. N,

not to mistrust me. I could not live if I thought you doubted my honesty. Then he retired. N got up without changing a muscle in his face and left. A little later, when I went home myself, I gave the waiter an unusually large d'osur and said, this is from the other gentleman as well. Brahms is looking splendid, his solid frame, the healthy dark brown color of his face, the full hair, just a little sprinkled with gray,

all make him appear the very image of strength and vigor. He walks about here just as he pleases, generally with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hat in his hand, always with clean linen, but without collar or necktie. These he dons a tablea dot only. His whole appearance vividly recalls some of the portraits of Beethoven. His appetite is excellent. He eats with great gusto, and in the evening regularly drinks his three glasses of beer, never omitting, however, to finish off with his beloved café. July 10th. Yesterday afternoon I spent nearly three hours in Broms' rooms, He showed me new songs of his, asking me if I could suggest a short way of indicating

that a certain phrase in one of them was not his own. I have, he said, taking a charming motif of Scarlatti's, as the theme of a song I composed to one of Gerta's poems, and should like to acknowledge my indebtedness. I proposed, as the best and simplest way, that he should merely place Scarlatti's name at the end of the phrase in question. He also showed me the manuscript of an unpublished song and the first movement of a requiem mass, both by Schubert,

enthusiastically commenting on their beauty. The first two issues of the Bach Society's publication of cantatas were lying on his table, and he pointed out to me how badly the accompaniments were often arranged for the piano, how, in fact, the endeavor to bring out as nearly as possible every individual part of the orchestra had rendered the arrangement well-nigh unplayable for any but a virtuoso. The chief aim, he said, of a piano forte arrangement,

of orchestral accompaniments must always be to be easily playable whether the different parts move correctly i e in strict accordance with the rules of counterpoint does not matter in the least then we went together through the full score of mozart's requiem which he had undertaken to prepare for a new edition of that master's works i admired the great trouble he had taken in the revision of the score every note of susmeyers was most carefully distinguished from mozart's own it was a wonderful experience to have this man's company quite to myself for so long a time. During all these days, Brahms has never spoken of anything, which is not really interest him, never should anything superfluous or commonplace except at the tabla d'ote, where he purposely talks of hackneyed things, such as the weather, food, the temperature of the water, excursions, etc., etc. July 11th. I bought a strong hammock yesterday, and Brahms and I went into the lovely beechwood and hung it up between two trees, on a spot from which through the foliage we could see the sea far below us. We both managed to

climb into it simultaneously, and amusing, though by no means easy task to accomplish. After having comfortably established ourselves in it, we enjoyed a very cozy, agreeable hour or two of Dolce Farniente. Brahms was in an angelic mood and went from one charming, interesting story to another, in which the gentler sex played a not unimportant part. In the afternoon, we resolved to go on an expedition to find his bullfrog pond, of which he had spoken to me for some days. His sense of locality, not being very great, we walked on and on across long stretches of waste moorland.

Often we heard the weird call of bullfrogs in distance, but he would say, no, that's not my pond yet, and on we walked. At last we found it. A tiny little pool in the midst of a wide plain, grown with Heather. We had not met a human being the whole way, and this solitary spot seemed out of the world altogether. Can you imagine Brahms began anything more sad and melancholy than this music, the undefinable sounds of which forever and ever move within the pitiable compass of a diminished third? Here we can realize how fairy tales of enchanted princess and princesses have originated. Listen,

there he is again, the poor king's son, with his yearning mournful sea-flot. We stretched ourselves out in the low grass. It was a very warm evening, lighted cigarettes, and lay listening in deepest silence, not a breath of wind stirring for fully half an hour. Then we leaned over the pond, caught tiny little baby frogs, and let them jump into the water again from a stone, which greatly amused Brahms, especially when the sweet little creatures, happy to be in their element once more, hurriedly swam away, using their nimble little legs most gracefully, and according to all the rules of the natatory art, when they thought themselves quite safe, Brahms would tenderly catch one up again in his hand and heartily laugh with pleasure

on giving it back its freedom. During our walk homeward, we spoke almost exclusively of musical matters, and he said, you must practice more gymnastics, my dear, four-part songs, variations, string quartets, etc. That will be beneficial to your opera too. As we parted for the night, he called after me, come for me tomorrow morning to go bathing and bring new songs, Gerdes score, or other beautiful things, how he does like to tease. So this morning I brought him three new songs of mine. The afternoon was again spent in the hammock, and on the way home we came to talk of Wagner's trilogy, the Ring of the Nibylungs. I had just spoken of some to me, especially beautiful places, in the first act of the Valkyrie and of the fresh and breezy song of Sigfried in Siegfried from the

woodforth into the world fair certainly he said these are fine things but i can't help it somehow or other they do not interest me what you just hummed is no doubt beautiful and when sigmund in the Valky pulls the sword out of the tree that's fine too but it would in my opinion be really powerful and carry one away if it all concerned let us say young Bonaparte or some other hero who stands nearer to our sensibilities has a closer claim to our affection and then that stilted bombastic language he took a copy of the textbook listen on bernhilde's felsen ferret warby der d'noch loiter Weisset Logger to Valhau Then the Gertor

Ender Demmered Nune off So verf I The Brand In Valhau's Prangende Borg

Footnote By Brynhildas Rock Then take ye the road Who still there Flameth Loga Show him to Valha

For the end of the gods Is dawning at last Thus throw I the torch Into Valhau's Glittering Walls

End of footnote He recited The Words With greatly exaggerated pathos. If I read this to a counting house clerk, I'm sure it would make a tremendous impression. So verf, I do not understand this kind of thing. What really does happen with the ring? Do you know? And those endless and tedious duets. Look at even Gertes Tasso, a masterpiece of the first rank.

Every word there is pure gold. Yet the long duets in it, though fine reading, prevent the play from being interesting as a drama. July 12th. I went to Brahms. his rooms last night. He had been reading, but putting away his book, gave me a cordial welcome, and began looking through my new manuscript songs. He took up the one in E-flat, where angels linger, and said, now there is a charming song. And some of the others you seem to me too easily satisfied. One ought never to forget that by actually perfecting one piece, one gains and learns more than by commencing or half-finishing a dozen. Let it rest, let it rest, and keep going back to it, and working at it over and over again, until it is completed as a finished work of art,

until there is not a note too much or too little, not a bar you could improve upon. Whether it is beautiful also isn't an entirely different matter, but perfect it must be. You see, I am rather lazy, but I never cooled down over a work, once begun, until it is perfected, unassailable. Thus he continued speaking, drawing in the most amiable way, my attention to this little defect, that little blemish, so that I sat happy and silent, careful not to interrupt this to me, so precious, lesson. July 13th, I asked him yesterday if he had thought of going to the inauguration performances

of the Nebelung's ring at Beirut in August. I'm afraid, he said, it's too expensive. I have repeatedly heard Rheingold and Valcura at Munich, and confess it would greatly interest me, but, well, we'll think of it. Then taking up the volume of Huffman's letters, I had lent him, and pointing to one of them, he said, just look. Do you see these asterisks instead of a name? I did, and read the whole sentence, which described a certain composer, indicated by the asterisks, as a rather haughty young man. That's me, said Brahms amusedly. When I was a very young man, I remember playing at Gertiggen,

my sonata in sea, to Huttmann. He was not very complimentary about it, in fact, had much fault to find with it, which I, a very modest youth at that time, accepted in perfect silence. I afterwards heard that this silence had been interpreted and complained of as haughtiness. I confess the more I read of these letters, the clearer it becomes to me that they are written with a certain consciousness of importance. Beethoven would have laughed, if anyone, seen in one of his letters a remark on any subject whatever, had taken this as proving the justice of such remark. But there are people, take, for instance, Barnhagen, who never, having accomplished anything,

really great themselves, sit down at their writing desks in a peevish, sulky temper, pulling to pieces, even when praising, everything they can lay hold of, to twaddle about Bach or Beethoven, as is done in the letters to Hauser, in a chattering, foeltonistic way, is wholly unnecessary. They stand too firm for that kind of thing. July 14th, last evening we sat down, downstairs in the coffee room having supper, when suddenly someone in the adjoining dining hall began to play Chopin's study in A-flat on the piano. I sprang up, intending to put a stop to

it, and exclaiming, oh, these women, when Brahms said, no, my dear, this is no woman. I went into the hall to look and found he was right. Yes, he said, in this respect, I am hardly ever mistaken, and it is by no means an easy thing to distinguish by the sense of hearing alone, a feminine man, a masculine woman. July 15th. Yesterday morning I took to Brahms the orchestral score of Wagner's Gretter-Demmerong. In the afternoon he said to me, why did you bring it to me? He had particularly asked me for it. The thing interests and fascinates one, and yet, properly speaking, is not always pleasant. With the Tristan score, it is different. If I look at that in the morning, I am cross for the rest of the day. Today I read out from a Berlin paper the news of the death at Biotristen

of a member of the Wagner Orchestra. The first corpse, said Brahms dryly, in celebration of the sixth anniversary of the Declaration of War, footnote between France and Germany. End of footnote. We ordered a bottle of champagne. We had talked ourselves into a tremendous patriotism, and Brahms told me that his first thought, when the war was declared, was to go to Madame Schumann, who resided without the protection of a man at Baden-Botten. So great was my enthusiasm. he said that I was firmly resolved to join after the first great defeat the army as a volunteer, fully convinced that I should meet my old father there to fight side by side with me. Thank God it turned out differently. End of Section 2. Section 3 of personal recollections of Johannes Brahms,

some of his letters to and pages from a journal kept by George Henshel with portraits by George Henssel. The SleeperVox recording is in the public domain. The journal Part B. July 17th. Yesterday I was with Brahms from noon until 11 at night without interruption. He was in excellent spirits. We had our swim in the sea together and again found much amusement in diving for little red pebbles. After the midday dinner, Brahms was lying in my room in the hammock,

which I had secured between window and door, while I read to him, Mile Huck's amusing comedy, Latache. After the usual coffee at a coffee house on the beach, we went for a long stroll in the Hunzeman Park near Crumpas, the nearest village. We spoke, among other things of Karl Lowe. Brahms thinks highly of his ballads and Servian songs. However, with us in Vienna, he said, Lowe is, to my regret, much overrated. One places him in his songs side by side with in his ballads above Schubert and overlooks the fact that what with the one is genius with the other is merely talented craft. In writing songs, he cautioned me, you must endeavor to invent simultaneously with the melody a healthy, powerful bass. You stick too much to the middle

parts. In that song in E-flat, for instance, he again referred to where angels linger, you have hit upon a very charming middle part, and the melody too is very lovely. but that isn't all, is it? And then, my dear friend, let me counsel you, no heavy dissonances on the unaccentuated parts of the bar, please. That is weak. I am very fond of dissonances, you'll agree, but on the heavy accentuated parts of the bar,

and then let them be resolved easily and gently. Speaking of Schubert's setting of Gertes' songs, he said, Schubert's Sulaika songs are to me the only instances where the power and beauty of Gertes' words have been enhanced by the music. All other of Gertes' poems seem to me so perfect in themselves that no music can improve them. Passing from music to literature, he remarked,

Paul Heysa used to be one of the most charming men imaginable. He was beautiful and exceptionally amiable, and I hardly know of anyone who, suddenly entering a room, would illuminate it, so to speak, by his personality and the way Heiza did. Botenstet is greatly old. overrated. His poetry is my special aversion. Geibel, on the other hand, seems to me not appreciated enough. Perhaps I may be allowed here to interrupt the diary for a moment, and to draw the reader's attention to the discretion and judiciousness with which Brahms selected the words for his songs.

If we look at the texts to his vocal music, of which there exists a vast mass, we shall find that the sources, individual or national, from which he drew his inspiration, have in themselves been to a greater or lesser degree inspired. All his songs, duets, quartets, etc., are set to beautiful, significant, worthy poems, truly a wonderful lesson to modern composers. If one of the chief aims of art be to elevate, i.e., to raise mankind for the time being above the commonplace routine of life, above paltry everyday thoughts and cares, in short, from things earthy to things celestial, surely such aim should be dismal. even in the smallest form of the expression of art. Just as the beauties of nature, testifying to the incomprehensible greatness of the divine power, reveal themselves as convincingly in a little primrose as in the huge trees of the Yosemite Valley, in the sweet prattling of a little brooklet, as in the warring thunder of the Niagara, in the lovely undulations of the Scottish hills, as in the awe-inspiring heights of the Himalayas. So beauty of soul, honesty of purpose, purity of

of mine can shine as brightly in the shortest song as in the longest symphony. No true artist then in the realm of music will debase his muse by wetting it to sentimental trash as far removed from poetry as a mole hill from Mount Parnassus, though it often be a difficult task, especially for young people to distinguish sentimentality from sentiment. The former may be described as superficial, aimless pity, affected unreal, unwholesome emotion. Sentiment on the other hand, is true emotion, is the feeling that grows naturally out of the sympathetic contemplation of a thing, and the sentiment it is, not the thing, which we ought to look for, even in a little song, in the first place, as a fit object for poetic and musical expression.

A true artist's spirit will not allow itself to be moved by versifications of penny-a-line newspaper reports, such as the capsizing of a little pleasure boat with two hapless lovers in it, or the death by starvation of a poor old seamstress ready to meet her lover in heaven, or effusions of a similar kind, generally ending in pseudo-religious inferences and exhortations, little short of blasphemy. The standing of the pale, hungry little boy outside the window of a confectioner's shop and observing inside the shop the rich, ready little boy eating his fill,

that is not poetry, even if put into faultless verse and rhyme, but simply a fact. and a sad one too, the contemplation of which might, in a fine poetic mind, produce the most beautiful sentiments of compassion with the sufferings of our fellow creatures, of tenderness, of love. But to let the poor little chap march straightway to heaven, to the fortissimo accompaniment of triplets on the last page of an up-to-date ballad, that is sentimentality and cruel mockery into the bargain. I well remember what fun Brahms and I had in later years when I showed him some specimens of the typical popular English ballad and how we laugh, especially over the sad ones,

but to return to the rest of the journal. After supper we sat, quite alone in the dark, on the terrace of the Farnberg. Soon our conversation took a more serious turn. He spoke of friendship and of men, and how, properly speaking, he believed very little in either. How few true men there are in the world, he exclaimed, the two Schumanns, Robert and Clara, there you have two true beautiful mention builder, images of man, knowledge, achievement, power, position. Nothing can outweigh this to be a beautiful mention build. Do you know Algeier in Munich? Footnote, an engraver and photographer with a great love for music, the intimate friend of the painter Anselm Feuerbach, and one of a small circle of musicians, painters and poets, then living in Munich, and comprising, among others,

Hermann Levi, Franz Lenbach, Paul Heiser, and Wilhelm Bush. End of footnote. There you have one, too, and then he began to talk with touching warmth of the time when in Algeyer's house at Karlsruhe, he wrote his Meinacht and the de-miner movement of his requiem. I sometimes regret, he said to me after some moments of silence, that I did not marry. I ought to have a boy of ten now. That would be nice. But when I was of the right age for marrying, I lacked a position to do so, and now it is too late. Speaking of this had probably revived in him reminiscences of his own boyhood, for he continued, only once in my life have I played truant and shirked school, and that was the vilest day of my life. When I came home, my father had already been informed of it, and I got a solid hiding. But still,

he said, my father was a dear old man, very simple-minded, and was a very simple-minded, and was, unsophisticated, of which qualities I must give you an amusing illustration. You know he was a double-base player in the municipal orchestra of Hamburg, and in his leisure hours tried to increase his scanty little income by copying music. He was sitting in his room at the top of the house, some fine day with the door wide open, absorbed in writing out the parts from an orchestral score, when in walked a tramp, begging. My father looked up at him quickly, without interrupting his work, and in his very pronounced Homborg dialect said, I cannot give you anything, my dear man. Besides, don't you know it's very wrong of you to come

into a room like this? How easily might you not have taken my overcoat that's hanging in the hall? Get out, and don't you do it again? The tramp humbly apologized and withdrew. When a few hours later, my father wanted to go out for a walk, the overcoat, of course, had disappeared. Brahms then touched upon his relations, to the members of his family, and told me he still supported his old stepmother. With his sister he had little in common, their interests had always been too far apart. Between his brother, whom he had likewise supported, and himself, there existed no intercourse, whatever. The other day, I happened to hum the theme of the Andante from his quartet in C minor. He seemed

rather to like my doing so, for when it came to the place he accompanied my humming with gentle movements of his hand, as if beating time to it. At last he smilingly said, I am not at all ashamed to own that it gives me the keenest pleasure if a song, an adagio, or anything of mine, has turned out particularly good. How must those gods, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven have felt, whose daily bread it was to write things like the St. Matthew Passion, Don Giovanni, Fidelio, Ninth Symphony? What I cannot understand is how people like myself can be vain. As much as we men, who walk upright are above the creeping things of the earth, so these gods are above us. If it were not so ludicrous, it would be loathsome to me to hear colleagues of mine,

praise me to my face, in such an exaggerated manner. Thus he went on, it was no longer modesty, it was humility, and I took good care not to disturb his mood by a single word. Soon, however, he smiled again and remarked, among other things, that he considered the agitato from his still unpublished quartet in B-flat, the most amorous affectionate thing he had written. When we parted that night, he said, you will write me from Byroy, won't you? I know you will rave about it, and I don't blame you. I myself must confess, Valkur and Gertadammerung have a great hold on me. For Rheingold and Sigmund, I do not particularly care.

If I only knew what becomes of the ring and what Wagner means by it, perhaps the cross, Hebel, in his Nibylunga, has dared it. and perhaps it was wagner's meaning too i am by no means a fanatic as to my devotion to the cross but that at least would be an idea thus to indicate the termination of the reign of the gods july eighteenth yesterday when after our usual swim we leisurely strolled to the farnberg for dinner a button on brahms's shirt suddenly came off as it was the one which served to hold the collar in its place brahms was greatly embarrassed i proposed to help him out and we went to my room where i took out of my valise a little box containing sewing materials which my mother had given me to carry with me when travelling the amusing situation of my sewing the button on to brahms's shirt while he had it a little box containing sewing materials which my mother had given me to carry with me when travelling the amusing situation of my sewing the button onto Bromsa shirt while he had it on again recalled memories of his youth. When I went on my first journey, he said laughingly, my mother also put such a little box into my bag and showed me how to use its contents. But I remember quite well

when I tore a hole in my trousers. I repaired it with sealing wax. It didn't last long, though. At luncheon, as it was my last day, we again indulged in a bottle of champagne. In the afternoon, the other guests, having partly retired to their rooms, partly gone on excursions, Brahms played the accompaniments to some songs for me. Since our arrival, this was the first time that he had touched the keyboard and that I had sung. I began with Brahms' Mainacht, then came a Schubert song, and then Beethoven's cyclist to the absent beloved. When we had ended, we were surprised to find that all of the adjoining rooms had filled with listeners. My host of the Farnberg was greatly touched and thanked Brahms for the honor he had done to his house.

In the train to Berlin, July 19th, this morning at 5 o'clock, I left Sussnitz. Strangely enough, it again poured in torrents as on the night of my arrival. A horrid chilly morning, Brahms was up at the Farnberg a little before five, and to my delight accompanied me in the diligence as far as Lanken, some three miles from Sussnitz. There he got out, we shook hands and parted. For a long time I looked after him out of the carriage window, in spite of the wind and the still pouring rain. It was a picture never to be forgotten, as far as the eye could reach, nothing but more, and clouds, and Brahms. Here closes the journal. During the 21 years of undisturbed friendship that followed, our intercourse had to be mostly by letter,

and our meetings fewer and further between, the channel, and later on the Atlantic, separated us bodily. After Brahms in 1878 had considerably changed his outward appearance by the growth of the long and flowing beard in the frame of which his face has become familiar to the last and present generations, our first meeting was marked by an amusing little incident illustrative of his ever-abiding love of fun. At the end of that year, I was engaged upon an extended recital tour through Austria and Hungary, together with my friend Ignat's Bruel, the composer and pianist. We commenced in Vienna. Having arrived only a day or two previous to the first recital, I had not seen Brahms as yet. At the end of the concert, Gruel and I were receiving

in the artist's room the congratulations of friends, when suddenly I saw a man unknown to me, rather stout, of middle height, with long hair and full beard, coming up toward me. In a very deep and hoarse voice he introduced himself, music director Mueller, making a very stiff and formal, baum which i was on the point of returning with equal gravity when an instant later we all found ourselves heartily laughing at the perfect success of brahmza's disguise for of course he it was of subsequent reunions two have been especially vividly impressed on my mind in order that my wife who hitherto had only occasionally met this great and admired friend should have an opportunity of knowing him more familiarly she and i travelled to vienna in eight for the sole purpose of spending a few days in Brahms' company. For once, dear friend, he had written to me on my announcing our visit, Simrock is right. Footnote. This was meant facetiously. Fritz Simrock, Brahms' publisher, was, and remained to the end, the most trusted and highly valued of his friends. End of footnote.

I am not the last, nor by any means the only one rejoiced at the prospect of your coming. heartily welcome then, and may it be a cheerful meeting. On our arrival in Vienna, rather late in the evening of April 23rd, we found a note from Brahms awaiting us at our hotel. If not too tired after your journey, do come to us, quite close by, at the restaurant of the Music for Rhine, just as you are, informally, in your traveling clothes. Who could resist the temptation? Arrived at the indicated place, we found a little party of men and women,

mostly members of the ton Kunstler-Berrine, tone artist's union, gathered together in a social way, as usual, after one of their weekly concerts. Brahms surrounded, as always on such occasions, by a host of admiring ladies, young and elderly, to whose charms and homage, his successibilities had not by any means lessened with the advancing years, was in excellent spirits, and received us most cordially. If, however, truth must be told, his jokes, and he was very fond of. of them were not always characterized by that sense of delicacy which the presence of ladies should have made desirable and one lady at least there was need i name her who on such occasions did not join in the general chorus of amused acclamation ready though she too was to forgive much to the composer of the minacht and of the german requiem early the following morning we went to his rooms he received us as was his wont with friends irrespective of sex a tired and short jacket, of which the lowest button only was put to its proper use, without waistcoat or shirt collar and in slippers. The coffee machine, he always made his own coffee in the morning, was still standing on the table. The air of the large, yet cozy room was filled with the delicious

fragrance, peculiar to Viennese coffee. The sun shone brightly through the large windows, and the whole atmosphere was one of quiet inward happiness, contentment, and ease. Soon our host commenced to ransack drawers, covers shelves for things he thought might interest and entertain us, when suddenly, with that dear, familiar, twinkle in his eyes and a long-drawn ah, he motioned us to quickly settle down to a treat, which apparently he had in store for us. Then, smilingly, and with mock ceremoniousness, he opened a large portfolio, and showed and read to us with great gusto, the famous letters of Rickard Wagner to the milliner. He had bought the collection recently, and seemed very proud of the precious possession, chuckling with amusement as he went from one

amazing letter to the other. After a few days of charming intercourse with him and our mutual friends Ignox Bruy, Mokskalbeck, Karl Goldmark, and Johann Strauss, the famous composer of the Blue Daniel Balz, which Brahms often protested, he would have given much to have written himself. We left Vienna. And only once more was I privileged to see the great man in the flesh. That was in January 1896, when Brahms, Edvard Grieg, Arthur Nickish, and myself spent a delightful evening together at one of the favorite restaurants of Leipzig. Brahms, rather stouter, it seemed to me, than I had ever seen him before, was in the merriest of moods, and did ample justice to the excellent beer of Munich brew, of which he consumed an astounding quantity before we parted

long after midnight. Nothing seemed to indicate the approach of the mortal disease, which was to take hold of him so soon afterwards, and little did Nickish and I dream that night that our next meeting would be among the mourners at Brahms' funeral. It was in the evening of April 3, 1897, that I arrived in Vienna, too late to see the dear friend alive. He had breathed his last that morning. I hurried to the death chamber, which had been transformed into a chapelle ardente. The arrangements usual in Catholic countries, a plentiful display of silver crosses on draperies of black velvet, huge brass candelabra on which huge wax candles were burning, presented a strange contrast to the simplicity of the life and habits of the master, who had been a Protestant, and it was only the beautiful

flowers which love and admiration had piled up in great and fragrant masses on the floor beneath the canopy, until they reached high above the coffin, almost completely hiding it from sight, reconciled one to the inappropriateness of the official decoration of the room. The Tuesday following April 6th was the day of the funeral. As if nature had wished to present an image of the character of the master's music combining as it does, the gentle with a severe, cold winds of winter alternated with balmy breezes of spring. From early morning on, friends and deputations carrying reefs and flowers and palm branches followed each other in constant, session, up the three familiar flights of stairs to the master's apartments and the place before the

house of mourning. In the Karlsgasa began to fill with people ready to join in the procession. By noon, nearly the whole of the street and the open space in front of the adjoining Karlskirka were one mass of humanity. All musical Vienna seemed assembled, and the extraordinarily large number of eminent men and women who had come from far and near to pay their last tribute of love and devotion, to what had been mortal of Johannes Brahms, must have conveyed some idea of his greatness and popularity, even to those who hitherto had perhaps not quite realized either. One could not help being reminded of the historical answer the old peasant woman gave to the stranger, who had happened to arrive in Vienna on the day of Beethoven's funeral.

Whose funeral is this? the wondering stranger had asked, Why don't you know was the answer? They are a bearing the general of the musicians. At last the coffin, with its precious load, appeared in the doorway. Every head uncovered. Amid reverential and most impressive silence, it was lifted onto the open funeral car. To its lid were fastened two reefs of gigantic proportions, sent the one by the composer's native city, the free town of Hamburg, the other by the Corporation of Vienna, the home of his adoption, and the procession headed by a standard bearer, an old Spanish costume, riding on a black, horse started on its melancholy journey. The rather lugubrious impression created by the six riders in similar attire who also mounted on coal-black horses and carrying lighted tapers on long poles

followed the standard bearer was relieved by a wonderful sight, a succession of six high, open funeral cars, each freighted to the very top with an abundance of beautiful fresh flowers, laurels, palms, their many colored ribbons floating down to the ground. round, the sun which had come out gloriously by that time, shown as it were on a gigantic moving garden, a spectacle as lovely as it was solemn. Before the building of the Society of the Friends of Music, the procession halted. The doors and pillars were draped in black cloth on either side of the portal. From metal bowls, resting on the top of high candelabra and filled with the ignited spirit of wine, blue flames were flickering with a subdued mystical light. From underneath a

canopy, the singverine, which so often had sung under the inspiring direction of the master, now sang his own beautiful part-song farewell, opus 93 A number four. As the lovely strains rang out into the vernal air, there could be heard from the neighboring trees, the merry twittering of birds whose songs seem to have been kindled by the unwanted occurrence, no less, than by the approach of spring. At last, after a short choral service in the old church, In the Dorothea gaza, the cemetery was reached. Another touching farewell, another song, and the mortal remains of Johannes Brahms were lowered into their last resting place,

close to those of Beethoven and Schubert. There have at all times lived great artists who have been small men. In Brahms, both the man and the artist aspired to high and lofty ideals. It never was his aim or ambition to gain for himself, through cheap and dazzling play with tones or catching tooth. the quickly withering crowns of popular favor. Though undisguisedly delighted when finding himself appreciated and acclaimed, he coveted neither fame nor applause. He was of a very simple, kind, childlike disposition. He loved children whom, poor or rich, to make happy, was to himself

a source of pure happiness. He loved the poor, to whom his heart went out in sympathy and pity. He hated show of charity. But where he could comfort in silence, those who suffered in silence, those who struggled against undeserved misfortune, the sick and the helpless. There the man, so modest, sparing, and unpretentious in his own wants, became a benefactor ready for sacrifice. No better summing up of Brahms' character and personality can conclude this little volume than that contained in the words of his old friend Franz Wulner of Cologne. He has left us a precious inheritance, the noble example of of a rare truthfulness and simplicity in art and life, of a relentless severity toward himself,

of a hatred of self-conceit and pretense, of a high-minded, inflexible, unwavering, artistic conviction. To him may be truly applied, Gertes' fine words in his epilogue to Schillers' play of the bell, with mighty steps his soul advanced toward the ever true, good, beautiful. End of Section 3. four of personal recollections of Johannes Brahms, some of his letters to, and pages from a journal kept by George Henschel with portraits by George Henschel. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. Some letters from Johannes Brahms to George Henschel. 1.2. Berlin. Ruschlicon near Zurich, August 1874. My dear sir, I beg leave to venture the question whether you would care to sing in Vienna

these on April 18th, next in Brooks Odysseus. To be sure, I could offer you a honorarium of only 200 florins in silver, but might be able, should you so desire, to add a trifle more, which we could call traveling expenses. My idea would be that you give a concert on your own account besides, and by doing so complete what I hope will be a snug little sum. Artistic cooperation, you will have no difficulty in finding. I myself hope to be insufficiently good finger to offer my services.

Maxbrook was here a few days ago and very pleased to hear, I intended to ask you to sing in his work. Would you kindly send me a line? The two music festivals you missed were very fair and afforded me the opportunity of getting stranded here on the shores of the Lake of Zurich, which I am very fond of. Excuse haste and accept best greetings. 2. To Berlin, Vienna, November 1874. My dear sir, you have placed the month of April at my disposal for Austria. Could that period not be stretched a little? Could you not sing for us on the Tuesday of Holy Week, March 23rd, in the St. Matthew Passion? After that, you might give concerts here and elsewhere and sing Odysseus on April 18th, a modest 200 Florens, for each of the two concerts. I fear, though, you will have a dozen. invitations for Holy Week already. Do write me a line, and if you could possibly agree, I think it would be a good thing in every respect. By the middle of April, all concert giving comes to an end here, and in Budapest. From Dunkel, footnote, he celebrated amateur,

music publisher, in concert entrepreneur in Budapest. End of footnote. I had an invitation yesterday for December 2nd to play my piano concerto, but cannot accept. I shall again invite Brooke, as I have beaten 150 Florence for him out of the directors, which seemed to me necessary and only decent. It would be charming if he would take part in your own concerts, be it as composer, or by accompanying the songs. Let me hear from you and accept best greetings. 3. To Berlin, Vienna, November 1874. I am extraordinarily curious to hear about the performance of Hercules. Footnote, on November 18, 1874, Yuwakum had conducted and eagerly and long looked for performance of Handel's Hercules in Berlin,

Madame Yuwakum singing the part of de Janeiro, I, the title part. It proved so great a success that it was quickly followed by two repetitions, one at the command of the old Emperor William, taking place at the Whitehall of the castle in Berlin. At the Dusseldor Festival of 1875, it was likewise produced under Yuwakum's conductorship and with the Berlin cast. end of footnote, and expect beautiful things and beautiful results. I should be glad to know if you welcome, on the Wednesday after our concert, would like to give another here. I have conditionally taken the small hall of the Society of the Friends of Music. Perhaps you would not mind asking him, and write me just one word, so that eventually I need not pay for the hall in vain. Greetings to

everybody. Four, to Berlin, Vienna, February 1875. My dear sir, Three arias in the passion music are at present not in our orchestral parts. Of your recitative, I propose, omitting none. You will have heard from Simrock how fearfully crowded we are with concerts here. Though having made a note of the few days on which you could sing here after the passion, I have not dared yet to actually engage the hall. In order, however, to get at the desired traveling expenses, I would make and recommend the following proposal.

On Saturday, March 20th, we have a sort of concert here called Artists Evening, My Society and myself take part in it. Would you like to sing a few songs twice during the evening and accept 20 gold dukots for it? Desoff, footnote at the time, conductor of the court opera, end the footnote, or I would accompany you. From the papers, I see you sing Loew and would recommend as one of your numbers his Henry the Fowler. At any rate, you must sing songs with which you can create the greatest furor, for this would be your first appearance here before a crowded house,

and we must make a big hit at once. I have, must have, my two rehearsals on Friday, and Monday at 3 o'clock. Will you be here on Friday? I think I may leave the question of an eventual own concert until you come. Your congratulations on my birthday,

I accept gratefully, though they come two months too early, the fault, I think, of this year's musical calendar. Please write so. soon and send proposals of songs in haste yours five to vienna vienna march eighteen seventy five heartily welcome in vienna if i only knew when and by what train you arrived i should prefer saying it to you in person the way into the town leads you past my house at any rate let me know of your arrival immediately especially should that be to-night friday as we ought to consult together about to-morrow best greetings six to st petersburg vienna april eighteen seventy five dear h i call that bad luck but might have thought of it when you read the enclosed footnote the directors of the society of the friends of music had not quite liked the idea of brahms giving a concert before conducting odysseus for them end of footnote you will understand that it would be rather indelicate on my part were i to insist on our concert i also should not like to open a back door by pretending the concert to be your own and i only taking part in it but as i said before it might have occurred to both of us

now i should be extremely sorry if this were to make a disagreeable hole in your calendar but again we ought to have considered beforehand how my gentlemen would hardly be likely to pay me a good salary and then have me give concerts of my own besides. Today I shall fetch your Donsiger. Footnote, a famous brand of liqueur called Dansiger Goldwasser, Dansig Goldwater, of which I had sent Brahms a few bottles, knowing he was very fond of it. End of footnote. From the custom house. If only I took greater pleasure in the giving of concerts, I might write down a number of plans, but I have to actually force myself to every public appearance. Right soon, and don't be angry with yours heartily. 7.

To Berlin. Sassnitz, Island, Rugen, July 2nd, 1876. I shall remain here at least until the 15th. Beyond that, I should not like to say anything definite. Now I should find it charming if you could soon decide on coming. We shall not disturb each other in the least. For you, the place swarms with ladies. In your free hours, you can compose songs for them,

the badness of which I, in turn, will expose, in my free hours. It is quite beautiful here, and the bathing and chanting. Mine host of the Farnberg has already inquired after you, then announce further and good things to yours. 8. To Zurich, Vienna, December 1877. Only, quite perhaps, shall I conduct my C minor symphony in Hamburg on January 18th and 22nd. I hardly think I shall allow myself to be persuaded to give concerts, but to listen, to rejoice, and afterwards to drink with you, all that I do to perfection. I envy you being able to stroll about the shores of the lovely lake. Ballads, I have several, but they all call for more than just one baritone. Your hurried. Nine to London, Vienna, 1878.

Dear friend, 18 volumes? Footnote. I had written Brahms that the number of bound volumes of his works, then in my library already amounted to 18. End of footnote. And that should not be worth the trouble of writing a letter? But poor man that I am, how heavily I feel the responsibility which rests on me, can I ever hope by a few last volumes to justify all previous ones? Following your example, I will now keep silence regarding everything I could say. I think, however, we may meet a Dusseldorf during Whitson Tide. Your 19th volume footnote, meaning his sentence. Second Symphony in D. End of Footnote. We'll have its turn there too. Only briefly, therefore, let me answer some of your interrogation points. Upon the whole, I prefer talking and am therefore looking forward to Dusseldorf. The score of volume 19 has not been in England, but Paul,

footnote, Richard Poll, a well-known writer on music and critic. End of footnote. The gentle traitor has confessed to me that bribed by some Englishmen, he had been making secret notes of it from the parts during rehearsals. The songs in the addition for low voice are still in the hands of the copyist, perhaps in those of the engraver already. As to the new things I am writing, you had better continue relying on your informant. He decidedly knows more about it than I myself. But to England, I shall not easily be persuaded to come. I have too great an aversion to concerts and similar disquietudes. It is nothing whatever to do with the question, whether I like English politics or English globetrotters or not.

The latter, however, are now being successfully outdone by the North Germans, from Berlin especially. The Handel arias, footnote, I had been commissioned by Dr. Chrysender, editor-in-chief of the Handel Society, to arrange the bass arias from Handel's Italian operas with a piano forte accompaniment for the society. Brahms had undertaken to do the same in regard to the tenor arias. end of footnote you will perhaps have in your valise in dussledorf i have myself about a hundred of them but am afraid my not altogether superabundant interest in them will not be particularly enhanced by seeing how others too well this sentence will never get straight again oh rivoir i hope here is my address port-shach omse can't hen let me know of you the handle arias the famous e flat song footnote where angels linger brahm's love to chaffmi with this particular song. End of footnote. A fiancé, etc., etc. are coming, with kindest greetings, yours. 10. To London. Vienna, 1879. The principal point of interest to you is that Richter,

footnote, Hans Richter, the famous conductor. End of footnote. The other day asked for your address and is expecting an orchestral piece from you with bass clarinet. Footnote. Teasing again. End of footnote. of course then out with it or it will be too late the chief point of interest as regards myself is that at least you should give up believing in the rumour that i had a special dislike for english concert rooms no more so than for others and to none of them do i ever go with pleasure and people ought to see how it is easier for me being caught once in a while in the snare of a german invitation than undertaking a long journey to england followed by a restless stay there you really could explain matters from time to time as they really are i have just enough to do with concerts anyhow and fight against it on the continent as well as over there for your concert i wish you good luck ah if i could come over and loaf about with you incognito but that would be treating rather too much unfriendly the many other kind invitations i have had well don't forget richter and explain to the old and new philharmonists what a grateful heart i have but what a shy one with best greetings yours eleven to london vienna february eighteen eighty dear h your letter reaches me just as i am happening to be at home for a few days a very rare occurrence this winter worse luck post festum my best congratulations upon the success of your concert. Footnote, on December 2, 1879, I had conducted at St. James's Hall the first performance in England of Brahms' triumph lead for double chorus and orchestra, Opus 55. End of footnote,

which indeed must have been splendid. The question in your letter received today is somewhat obscure, indistinct. I hardly know what to answer. If the indications by figures of the Tempe in my requiem should be strictly adhered to. footnote, this question I had submitted to Brahms at the request of Mr. Otto Goldschmidt, then conductor of the Bach Choir, who at that time was preparing a performance of Brahms' German Requiem. End of footnote. Well, just as with all other music, I think here as well as with all other music, the metronome is of no value. As far at least as my experience goes, everybody has, sooner or later, withdrawn his metronome marks, those which can be found in. In my works, good friends have talked me into putting them there, for I myself have never believed that my blood and a mechanical instrument go well together. The so-called elastic tempo is,

moreover, not a new invention. Con discretion should be added to that as to many other things. Is this an answer? I know no better one. But what I do know is that I indicate, without figures, my tempi, modestly to be sure, but with the greatest care and clearness, remember me, kindly to Mr. Goldschmidt and tell him, please, that there is only one thing in the coming performance. I dislike thinking of, and that is that number five, footnote, the beautiful soprano solo, ye now are sorrowful. End of footnote. Will not be sung by his wife. I do wish I could have heard that once from her. In haste, and with kindest greeting, yours. Twelve, to Boston, USA. Vienna, 1881. Dear friend, accept my best thanks for at last giving me some news of you.

It is the least you can do, though it hardly can make up for the fact that you have so basely left us. Footnote, I had accepted the conductorship of the newly founded Boston Symphony Orchestra. End of footnote. I hope it will fit into your plans that my residence this summer will be Pressbaum near Vienna. I am sure you will be wanting to show your wife the beautiful old Kaisershtat. I shall be only a short distance away by rail, which, however, I always travel with great pleasure. Announce yourselves then, quick and surely. I should not like to be persuaded again to arrange chamber music for the orchestra.

A few times I have done it, but it once repented and put the thing aside. Were it not that nowadays everything possible is being arranged, for everything possible, I should be inclined to think we wrote only confusedly nowadays anyhow. Mind, I do not mean to try and dissuade you from doing it yourself. The thing seems to be the general fashion. I myself, however, prefer to retain my ears and know what is a piano forte piece and what an orchestral piece, what a song and what an aria, what a solo quartet, and what a chorus. But I have still little leisure or patience for writing letters.

Let me soon hear you are coming. Remember me to your young wife and be heartily greeted by yours. 13 to Nuremberg, Pressbaum, near Vienna, 1881. Dear friend, I have nothing to do, and am looking forward with great pleasure to your coming. The same do a great many besides myself. Five minutes from here, in Perkisdorf, Epstein, door with ladies, Hornbostel Magnus, Helen, five minutes further in Hutteldorf, Hassanbrooks, Ernst Frank, in Putz-Linzdorf, Dr. Bilrott, etc., etc. short, I hope you will make yourselves comfortable with us for a while, and should you not care to remain in the town itself, there is many a cozy spot out here. Always yours. 14. To Boston. Issue June 1882. Dear friend, the sheet of paper is lying ready, but to be on the safe side, I will send off my and Brule's heartiest congratulations, without waiting to see what else I might have to write to you, that you have undertaken to conduct another series, of 25 concerts is a very nice thing in itself, only not exactly to us a cause for rejoicing. The felicitations, therefore, mean the little daughter, footnote, Helen and Riette, born May 1882. End of footnote. Only, hardly yours. 15. To Boston, Vienna, 1882. Only with a hurried greeting,

can I answer your kind and chatty letter. I am always on the road, and under the circumstances, less than ever inclined and able to write. Just now I am coming from Budapest and going tomorrow to Stuttgart, etc. Your experiments in regard to the placing of an orchestra look very good and interesting. I should almost give preference to the first of the two drawings on account of the horns. The violas, however, seem to give trouble up to now. By far, the best feature in both arrangements, however, is the fact that no committee will be sitting in front of them. There is not a Capellmeister, on the whole of our continent, who would not envy you that. The Nenny, footnote, Opus 82, end of footnote, is being published by Peters.

Better are duets by Handel issued by the same firm. Have you seen them? Enough for today. A very hearty greeting, and thanks for every greeting from you, which always gives great joy to yours. 16. To Boston, Vienna, 1883. Dear H, with mortification, I thank you at last for so many kind, and good news. You really have deserved that one should settle down comfortably to write a comfortable

reply, but I beg you once, Peral, to remember that with me the moment is still to come when I shall write the first letter with pleasure. Moreover, it is most aggravating to write to one who has left us so completely, and whom we could make such excellent good use of here. I dare say it's useless to ask you if you would at all entertain the idea of taking the position at Breslau, which Schultz resigns this winter. For your friendly pressure regarding a manuscript work for performance, I must thank you, but it would be the first time I had allowed a manuscript to go out of my hands. A new piece of mine I like to hear several times in manuscript. If then it appears to me, so accidentally, worthy of being printed, it cannot, for any length of time,

escape that operation. Otherwise, I do not give it into other hands. Footnote, I was how However, later on, successful in procuring from Brahms, the manuscript of his concerto for violin and violin chettle, opus 102, for first performance in England. End of footnote. But we can, and shall make provision, that you have such novelties over there sooner than other people. Could you make use of a choral work? In that case, Simrock just now would have a rather pretty little one which you might secure. footnote. That pretty little one was no less important and serious of work than the Gazang de Potson, Song of the Fates, Opus 89, end of footnote. Now please give my greetings to yours and

ours, I mean our colleagues. Greet them from my heart, and let me have the pleasure of being allowed to keep in contact with them, though it be only by means of programs and newspapers. I quite see that I am not worthy of frequent news by letter, but you don't know my grateful disposition. and beforehand, many thanks. Heartily yours. 17. To Boston. Vienna, 1883. Dear H. UC, footnote. Enclosed was a letter to Brahms from Theodore Thomas, then conductor of the Philharmonic Society of New York, asking him to let him have, if possible, the score of the third

symphony in F, then still unfinished, for performance at the Cincinnati Musical Festival. End of footnote. Even in America, you are not. the first, nor will you be the last. Now think of everything else that reaches me in that way, and tell me, frankly, if it is possible to keep expressing one's thanks for such an abundance of kindly interest, or if one can do anything at all. I should like very much to answer the letter. In the meantime, however, I greet you heartily, yours. 18. To London, Vienna, 1887. Dear H, I thank you for your kind invitation.

Footnote, I had offered Brahms 10,000 marks, 500 pounds, for coming over to England and conducting a series of concerts with my, the London Symphony Orchestra. End of footnote. But I'm somewhat vexed at having to hear from you, too, the common rumor of my dislike of the English, etc.

You really ought to know, having heard it from me often enough that solely love of comfort, laziness, if you like, and aversion to concerts, prevent my going to England, but equally so to St. Petersburg or Paris, that my persistent refusal could be open to misinterpretation I'm well aware of. It would, however, be hopeless to explain this all, and to tell the people how it has absolutely nothing to do with music, if on the one hand we here

have a bohemian cabinet or you over there, a splendid opium war, etc., etc. It's all vanity anyhow. Again, thanks, yours. 19 to London, Tun Switzerland, August 1887, Menueto Gracioso, de Capo, and poe,

los deso convariations elegantissimo, and encore, da Cappo, co-repecione, etc. Cordiali, Saluti,

J.B. 20. To Vienna, issue, September 1892. Dear friend, every day I hope to start for Vienna,

but cannot say for certain when it really, will come to pass, I should be truly sorry if I were to miss all the beautiful things you are going to do there besides my D major. Footnote, I conducted, among other works Brahms' Second Symphony at one of the guest concerts arranged by the Committee of the Vienna Musical and Theatrical Exhibition of 92. End of footnote. But I sincerely trust you'll be induced to extend your visit for a little longer, and I may still have an opportunity of endearing myself to the utmost of my capacity, to your ladies. Hearty Greetings

21. To London. Vienna, December 1892. Dear friend, how I am looking forward to the moment when I shall be able to write you a chatty letter in comfort, and to the moment above all when I shall be working on that ballad, which, however, will be an elephant story, and for your wife, not for you. Alas, post-festom, I had to hear the people here rave about her and her enchanting singing. In the meantime, hearty greetings, from yours ever JBR.

End of Section 4. End of personal recollections of Johannes Brahms, some of his letters to and pages from, a journal kept by George Henssel, with portraits by George Henssel.