The nineteenth century saw, among others, a dramatic shift in the social practices relating to music, and, consequently, in the aesthetics of music. Several important philosophers and thinkers, on the thresholds between Illuminism, Idealism, and Romanticism, had pointed out music as the new “religion” of their times. Indeed, for some of the founders of the Romantic thought, music was the highest expression of the Spirit, and the very summit of all arts and of all human forms of expression. This implied that music required proper settings and a rituality which mimicked closely that of religion. The concert hall became the new temple, the concert the new liturgy, the performers were the priests of this new religion. As a consequence, many contexts in which music-making used to be found, in less formal settings than that of the concert hall, disappeared or became marginal; the concert hall became the protagonist of musical life (and this, with time, would also lead, regrettably, to the professionalization of music. Today, many forms of amateur music which were common fare in the past have been annihilated).
This attitude, joined with the newly-found “historicist” approach to music also brought an unexpected phenomenon: works and genres which had not been originally conceived for public performance – let alone performance in a large concert hall – were admitted, welcomed, and eventually almost restricted to that temple of music. The concert hall became the museum of music, in which de-contextualisation of earlier works became as common as it is in visual art museums. Like altarpieces migrating from churches to secular places, works of sacred music left the church and found their new home in the concert hall; but also chamber music underwent a dramatic change, which, ironically, countered its very name.
“Chamber” music was a concept initially opposed to church music, but it implied a different approach to composition, performance, and reception. The church, in fact, used to be “the” venue where public performance of music was normally offered, and the largest gatherings of music-listening people could be found. By way of contrast, “chamber” music was originally the genre of private music-making, often played by amateurs, or by combinations of amateurs and professionals, and frequently addressed to aristocratic and/or cultivated listeners (if indeed there were listeners besides the performers themselves). Chamber music used to be the realm where virtuosity (in terms of spectacular technical feats) was less needed, whilst musical intelligence was indispensable.
In 1829, Goethe had defined Beethoven’s string quartets as “four intelligent people conversing among themselves”, but he was merely repeating (perhaps with a more elegant turn of phrase) something that was already a platitude at his time, something which had been believed and preached for decades. Chamber music was normally conceived of as a kind of collaborative, rather than competitive, music-making; no-one was to become a soloist, no-one an accompanist, but all had to cooperate in view of the final result. Thus, no spotlight was to be cast for too long a time on any one musician; the lights were, in fact, the more tenuous ones of aristocratic palaces, or of the refined halls of the wealthy and cultivated bourgeoisie.
But if church music was increasingly being performed in the concert hall, so it also happened to chamber music, both of the past and of the present. And this entailed a development of chamber music itself, in terms of compositional and structural elements. It was not to be primarily conceived for the pleasure of the performers, but rather for the enjoyment of a listening audience (and of one which could be very large, at times). It was no more the private talk of a small number of gentlemen or ladies, but rather a public speech, and, at times, something like a public debate between rival candidates – or like a theatrical scene among performing actors. It frequently lost its ironic, playful, nonchalant, and understating component – one which had frequently been present in chamber music of the past – and it acquired a spectacular, “serious”, engaged, and solemn dimension.
The Second Piano Quartet by Johannes Brahms, with is gigantic size, is a typical example of this new attitude. Of course, it was also played in private and semi-private settings, both before and after its public premiere, but it was primarily conceived as a work for public performance, with symphonic ambitions in terms of form, content, and development. Brahms wrote it in 1860-1861, and the piece would (typically) be premiered in no minor venue: it was the Großer Saal of the Musikverein in Vienna that welcomed the work of a Brahms who was approaching his thirties.
The chamber music works he had composed until then mostly included a piano part, which he frequently played himself on public occasions. In fact, his career as a pianist had begun in a duo he had formed with Hungarian violinist Ede Reményi; the two had toured Europe extensively and, through Reményi, Brahms had become deeply familiar with the musical gestures and rhythms of the Hungarian and Gypsy tradition.
He had already tackled the form of the Piano Quartet, one which was (and would remain) less frequently practised by composers than that of the Piano Trio. The gestation of his First Piano Quartet, op. 25, took him four long years, between 1857 and 1861, but the result was extremely satisfactory and rewarding. Immediately after, in fact, he set to work on another piece for the same ensemble, and, this time, the process of composition was considerably speedier. In his elaboration of this work, as of many others, Brahms always welcomed the frank opinion of musicians he held in high esteem, and who had considerable experience in chamber music making. One of them, of course, was Clara Schumann (Robert had died in 1856), and another was Joseph Joachim, the legendary violinist, who frequently commented upon Brahms’ writing for bowed string instruments. Clara had premiered, in November 1861, Brahms’ G-minor Piano Quartet, in a Hamburg concert within the framework of the ladies’ choir season. At that time, Brahms was living for some time in his birth city, Hamburg; having resided with his parents for a while, he had opted for a more independent accommodation, finding it at Elisabeth Rösing’s place: she would become the dedicatee of the new Quartet.
Premiered, as stated before, in Vienna, the op. 26 Quartet was presented to the audience by Brahms himself at the piano, with three members of the Hellmesberger String Quartet as his chamber music partners. The premiere took place at a difficult moment of Brahms’ career: he had been informed that the post of conductor of the Harmburg Philharmonic Orchestra had been given to his competitor, Julius Stockhausen. The successful performance of the new Quartet was therefore a welcome respite in that negative atmosphere; however, not all critics were enthused about the A-major Quartet. In particular, the famous critic Hanslick (ferociously ridiculed by Wagner precisely due to his usual support to Brahms) found it dry, whilst Clara Schumann preferred it to its earlier homologue.
In fact, it is a challenging work. It is, on the one hand, pure chamber music, and, on the other, a concert piece. Its size and ambitions qualify it fully as an almost “symphonic” work (indeed, its length abundantly exceeds that of most Symphonies by Brahms!); on the other hand, in comparison with op. 25, it is less spectacular, virtuosic, and memorable. It requires more attention, focus, patience, and a contemplative attitude of the listener; its closest model is, rather patently, Franz Schubert – in terms of unendliche Melodie, and in terms of intimate, colloquial shades and nuances.
Rather unusually, if not uniquely, three of its four movements are written in a more-or-less traditional Sonata form, and this includes even the Scherzo. This provides the complete work with impressive cohesion and the capability to stand its own length, to support its size by the forceful power of its inspiration and compositional technique. The first movement opens with a tranquil and radiant theme by the piano, to which the strings respond; the second theme does not establish a very marked affective contrast, which is instead found in a third, march-like theme: it will provide the stimulus for the catharsis of the development, while the reprise formally corresponds to the traditional canons.
The slow movement is one of the unforgettable masterpieces issued from Brahms’ pen, with its fascinating incipit characterized by a misty atmosphere, fashioned by the muted strings. Among the other captivating elements of this movement is the use of Chorale-like passages, which infuse a marked spiritual component within its frame.
The Scherzo is a standalone both from the formal viewpoint (as stated previously) and for its character, which, untypically for movements in this genre, is not exceedingly brilliant. Similarly, the fourth movement creatively blends the rondo with the sonata form, creating a surprising combination which supports the huge concept of this finale and of the entire Quartet.
The formal innovations, rooted within Brahms’ deep understanding of, and reverence for, tradition, concur in establishing this Quartet as an absolute masterpiece, which successfully surpasses the tension between chamber music and concert hall, between cultivated and general audience, granting to all a touching and deeply involving listening experience.
Chiara Bertoglio © 2023
Johannes Brahms: Piano Quartet No. 2 Op. 26
