Allusion as Narrative Premise in Brahms's Instrumental Music

Introduction

THIS BOOK PRESENTS a fresh look at an aspect of Brahms’s music that has been noted frequently from the nineteenth century to the present: Brahms’s employment of references to works of earlier and contemporaneous composers, whether through thematic allusion or the use of structural or stylistic models from the past. The main premise of the book, which distinguishes this study from earlier examinations of Brahms’s historical references, is that such references may be understood to play an important role in Brahms’s handling of the musical and narrative relationships between the different movements of works in which they appear. Thus, Brahms’s concern with the music of others, and especially historical works, affects his musical conception in a more global sense, rather than manifesting itself merely in isolated thematic reminiscences. In this book, I will demonstrate how Brahms’s employment of historically referential material in specific works may be read not as the result of a need for inspiration, nor even simply a desire to pay homage to composers he revered or friends he admired, but as generative of movement-spanning connections that suggest things about Brahms’s more nuanced, and sometimes conflicted, attitudes toward the material to which he alludes as he establishes and defines his own historical position in relation to his predecessors.

Scholars and critics from Brahms’s own time to the present have heavily underscored Brahms’s historical consciousness, identifying apparent references to earlier composers in most of his works. But even in studies that focus specifically on allusion in Brahms, the musical and dramatic relevance of each historical reference is often assumed to be limited to a particular passage, theme, or movement. It is frequently the case, however, that a historical reference in one movement of a work resonates meaningfully, musically, and dramatically, with material in other movements in ways not previously recognized. As we will observe, Brahms indeed appears, in many instances, to weave one or more such references into broad, cross-movement narratives that culminate in the decisive realization, transformation, or abandonment of the historical element(s). In this way, Brahms’s acute historical consciousness, so frequently and consistently emphasized in the existing scholarship, seems to take on an additional, as-yet-unappreciated dimension as an important factor in his construction of intermovement form and drama. The works in this sense represent expressive outlets for Brahms’s complicated orientation toward the music of others—music which, it is clear, inspired and in some cases burdened him as he emerged with his own, unique artistic voice and established his own place in music history.

The main intention here is not merely to identify specific allusions to earlier composers, but to suggest that we explore how such references may function structurally and expressively in Brahms’s music. With few exceptions, the historical references discussed here have long been observed and are widely accepted by the scholarly community as allusions to the music of others. (The two main exceptions are discussed in chapters 2 and 5, where I argue for the presence of previously undetected references in the 1854 version of Brahms’s Trio in B-Major, op. 8, and in the Fourth Symphony, respectively.)

The formation of Brahms’s relationship with Robert and Clara Schumann in the autumn of 1853, Brahms’s twentieth year, and the publication of Robert Schumann’s article Neue Bahnen shortly thereafter were clearly life- and career-transforming milestones for the young composer, greatly facilitating Brahms’s entry into elite musical circles and engendering extraordinarily lofty expectations for his artistic production and ultimate historical significance. In his article, Schumann hailed the relatively unknown Brahms as a musical messiah of sorts, charging him with the role of heir to and savior of the artistic principles represented by Beethoven and other great Austro-German composers of the past; these were ideals now threatened, in the minds of Schumann and Brahms, by the likes of Wagner, Liszt, and Berlioz.

Brahms’s historical awareness was extraordinarily high in the mid-1850s as he struggled to compose works worthy of the attention and praise that Schumann had so publicly lavished on him. It frequently appears that narratives involving recollection, transformation, or loss that are played out over the course of a multimovement work are tied intimately to thematic allusions or structural models from works of Beethoven or other predecessors of Brahms. As we will see, this tendency is something that carries over into the middle and later stages of Brahms’s career as well, evolving as Brahms himself evolves.

In the writings of Brahms and of his contemporaries, we find clear indications that instrumental music was at least sometimes conceived in narrative terms. As Leo Treitler argues, a contemporary theoretical justification for narratological interpretations of music can be distinguished from a historical one . . . through evidence that composers or critics who were their contemporaries believed their music to have a narrative character and that, while such evidence should not be granted unquestioned authority, it provides sufficient grounds for a narratological approach as a hypothesis.¹ Treitler cites, for example, Robert Schumann’s talk of music’s successions as processions of ideas or of conditions of the soul.² In a letter to Adolf Schubring, Brahms himself explicitly refers to his composition of music as the building of stories.³ On the subject of musical meaning in nineteenth-century music more generally, I refer the reader to the work of such scholars as Robert Hatten, Leonard Ratner, Kofi Agawu, and Lawrence Kramer, among others, in addition to Treitler.⁴

Although we must exercise due caution in attributing any particular biographical or psychological meaning or significance to a work of art, it is entirely reasonable to assume that the circumstances of an artist’s life are going to have some influence on the work he or she produces. As composer György Ligeti suggests, it is a rather childish idea that a composer will write music in the minor key when he is sad, it is rather too simplistic. There is no doubt, however, that the stance of the artist, his whole approach to his art, his means of expression are all of them greatly influenced by experiences he has accumulated in the course of day-to-day living.⁵ Of course, exactly what the nature of that influence is, and the degree to which the composer is aware of and deliberately reflecting that influence in his or her work is, in most cases, not something that we can (or must) definitively determine. It is my intention here to contribute to a fuller appreciation of the ways in which Brahms’s historical sense may have influenced his handling of intermovement connections and to stimulate further thought and discussion on the matter.

It is not only logical, but perhaps even obvious, that the particular way in which Brahms handles a given historical reference almost necessarily reveals something of his own attitude toward the music to which he is alluding, and the idea that these works may contain biographical or expressive meaning beyond the purely abstract is very much in line with important trends in recent Brahms scholarship. One of these is a growing acceptance of the idea that Brahms’s music is not nearly so devoid of extramusical meaning as it once appeared, an idea supported by a number of publications over the past several years, including the recent book Expressive Intersections in Brahms: Essays in Analysis and Meaning.⁶ Another example is Peter Smith’s 2005 book on Brahms’s Werther Quartet, op. 60, which Smith presents as a case study for how it might be possible to steer a middle course between the old music theory, which tends to be purely analytical and formalist, and the new musicology, which often denies itself the insights of careful musical analysis in the pursuit of critical interpretation, asserting that the time is ripe to explore how our work can contribute still further insight into expressive content.⁷ Although we will not rely here on quite the same (e.g., Schenkerian) analytical methodologies as Smith, the present study nonetheless applies these principles to works beyond his focused consideration, aiming to broaden our understanding of the types of interactions that exist between form and expressive meaning in Brahms’s oeuvre.

Brahms’s attitudes toward allusion and extramusical meaning were likely influenced by the attitudes of those around him. In the mid-1850s, Schumann actively encouraged the young Brahms to use models from the works of earlier composers—particularly Beethoven—suggesting that Brahms keep in mind the openings of Beethoven’s symphonies and that he try to emulate certain aspects of them when composing his own works.⁸ Schumann was by no means the only influential figure of the period to endorse such practices; for instance, in his School of Practical Composition, published in 1848, Czerny recommends that composers hone their talents by modeling their musical structures on those of masterworks.⁹

In Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination, James Garratt characterizes the concept of originality in nineteenth-century German culture. He writes,

for Schopenhauer, there is seemingly no middle ground between originality and imitation; artists lacking the inspiration and spontaneity for genius inevitably produce reflective, contrived fabrications . . . [but] Schopenhauer’s conception of originality, while influential . . . was not shared by all his contemporaries. Goethe repeatedly dismissed the idea of originality, arguing that no artist could rely solely on instinct and inspiration . . . the idea that the artist can divorce himself from other artworks and produce a work unconsciously from the gift of genius is absurd . . . rather, every artist is a composite being indebted to a multiplicity of sources . . . the inevitability of the author being influenced by his predecessors makes it ridiculous [in Goethe’s view] for critics to attempt to discredit him by criticizing his dependence on their works. . . .¹⁰

Garratt concludes that the gulf separating Goethe and Schopenhauer, both of whom expressed these opinions at roughly the same time, is sufficient to confirm that no unified conception of originality existed in the early nineteenth century.¹¹

Nonetheless, Anthony Newcomb has asserted that, in mid-nineteenth-century Germany, thematic allusions to preexisting works by other composers were on the whole something to be avoided to the extent that they tended to be viewed negatively by critics and were not generally considered to be imbued with symbolic meaning.¹² Yet these factors, along with Brahms’s widely known disdain for the practice of reminiscence hunting on the part of critics, did not prevent him from making frequent reference, throughout his career, to works of other composers.¹³ Brahms is known, on various occasions, to have openly admitted to alluding to the music of others in his own work, in some cases expecting the references to be obvious to his audience. Most infamous is his retort to one critic who had pointed out the resemblance between a theme in the finale of Brahms’s First Symphony and the Ode to Joy melody from the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth: any ass can see that.¹⁴ It was perhaps the very shallowness and ignorance involved in the practice of seeking superficial reminiscences without considering that they might hold any meaning (beyond, possibly, a perceived lack of originality) that Brahms found so distasteful—and in any case he may simply have resented critics for prying into his compositional processes and intentions, things about which he was extraordinarily private. Even Newcomb feels obligated to acknowledge an intended meaning behind the reference to the Ode to Joy in the finale of Brahms’s First Symphony, a meaning that has to do with the iconic status of the referenced work itself and the relative historical position of Brahms’s own music; nonetheless, Newcomb denies intended, meaningful allusion elsewhere in Brahms’s oeuvre, including in the op. 8 Trio.¹⁵

Building on an appreciation of the importance of allusion in the music of Brahms that is reflected in the broader array of literature on this topic, with which I will be engaging deeply in the chapters to follow, I argue in this book for an alternative perspective on Brahms’s approach to alluding to the music of others, both in the Trio and in general. Christopher Reynolds has already made a strong case that for Schumann, Liszt, and others, allusive motives would have been the very essence of music: a symbolic language, claiming that as searches for musical unity are valid for music created in a time that valorized organicism, the interpretation of textual and symbolic meaning is justified for an era that understood the potential for meaning to exist in all things.¹⁶ All signs indicate that Brahms had a keen ear for thematic resemblances in his own music and in that of others and that, at least on many occasions, his allusions were intentional and meaningful. Kenneth Hull emphasizes that the plausibility of Brahms’s having made use of allusion in his compositions is enhanced by evidence of his keen interest in both literary and musical allusion in other contexts and provides examples to demonstrate that Brahms was a game-player, who enjoyed encoding musical messages for friends, who was quick to perceive the meaning of such puzzles himself, and who also used verbal allusion to test the puzzle-solving ability of his correspondents. He frequently sent cryptic messages to his friends in the form of musical quotations from vocal music which lacked . . . their accompanying texts.¹⁷ In his recent, insightful book, Brahms among Friends: Listening, Performance, and the Rhetoric of Allusion, Paul Berry explores in detail how some of these allusions may be understood within the contexts of Brahms’s friendships, bearing special meaning for certain individuals in his life.¹⁸

Nonetheless, it is not necessarily the case that Brahms’s handling of allusions always resulted from entirely conscious impulses, and it is certainly possible that his use of historical reference reveals things about him that he did not intend to say. As Reynolds emphasizes, the issue is not necessarily clear-cut; there is a spectrum of possibilities falling between the initial presence and the complete absence of intention. Reynolds suggests that

the either-or approach to the conscious-unconscious duality, which still informs many discussions of musical creativity, overlooks the rich and complex possibility for two-way exchanges between conscious and unconscious creativity, exchanges that were already acknowledged in the nineteenth century. Composers’ letters and sketches show that the path from initial musical inception to finished published work often progressed through many stages . . . including multiple drafts, informal performances for friends, and pre-publication performances for larger audiences. . . . The opportunities for a composer to get to know his own work in relationship to other works were therefore numerous, extended, and varied. However the ideas for a piece came to a composer . . . by the time a work was sent off for publication, the composer had had time to recognize unintended musical similarities with other works and then to enhance, obscure, ignore, or remove them. Each of these responses has implications for the issue of intentionality.¹⁹

Even if a composer does not initially intend to quote from the work of another composer, there are plenty of opportunities to notice resemblances between one’s own compositions and other works and, if one chooses, to strengthen the parallels and take responsibility for the resemblances.²⁰ Furthermore, a lack of intention does not equate to a lack of meaning; indeed, the possibility that the presence and handling of a particular allusion arises from subconscious inclinations lessens neither its musical nor psychological significance.

The scope of this study is limited to Brahms’s multimovement instrumental works, focusing especially, but not exclusively, on the music of Brahms’s formative twenties—that is, of the period immediately following Neue Bahnen, when Brahms had reason to be especially concerned with finding his artistic voice and comprehending his historical role. Examples from the middle and later periods of his career demonstrate that allusion continues to function similarly, even if evolving in accordance with Brahms’s changing historical perspective. We will examine works in a variety of instrumental genres, including piano, chamber, and orchestral music, leaving room for further inquiry into the vocal and choral compositions.

The first chapter of this book provides some preliminary context for what follows. The chapter begins with a brief, general overview of issues surrounding historicism in Brahms’s music. Examination of the interrelatedness of allusion, intermovement form, and narrative in Brahms has tended to focus on individual examples, while the fuller picture, the broader trend they represent, has not been fully appreciated. Some of the individual examples that have already been most closely examined and that are most familiar are drawn from the mature, middle-period works, whereas much more remains to be said about how this phenomenon applies to pieces from other periods, on which we must focus if we want to fill out the picture. As foundational context for this broader view, chapter 1 concisely presents three middle-period examples: the First Symphony (1862–76), the Horn Trio (1865), and the Third String Quartet (1875). Leading into the more extended analyses of other works to follow, the chapter will conclude with brief, preliminary examinations of two of Brahms’s early piano sonatas.

Chapter 2 addresses the two versions of Brahms’s Trio in B major, op. 8, a work composed in 1854 and then revised towards the end of Brahms’s career, in 1889. Although it has long been accepted that the 1854 version contains references to songs of Beethoven and Schubert, it has escaped notice that the piece also alludes, clearly and in a structurally significant manner, to a keyboard sonata of Domenico Scarlatti. Strong musical evidence for this additional allusion is corroborated by Brahms’s long-term, multifaceted engagement with Scarlatti’s music as demonstrated by his correspondence, music library, performance repertory, theoretical studies, and other compositions. The chapter explores the implications of this Scarlatti allusion both for the revisions and for the issue of extramusical meaning, suggesting that the original trio represents an elegy for the musical past, whereas the revisions represent the updated historical perspective of the mature composer.

Chapter 3 is concerned with the D-Major Serenade, op. 11 (1857–58), Brahms’s first completed orchestral work. Despite the fact that it represents a major milestone in his career, the Serenade has been the subject of relatively little serious analytical writing. Apart from the obvious evocation of the eighteenth century in his choice of genre, much remains to be said about the role of musical memory in this work. This chapter explores the ways in which the Serenade’s initial theme is recalled and transformed over the course of the work’s successive movements; examines the relationship of these thematic materials, and this process, to the finale of Haydn’s last symphony; and considers the implications of such factors for Brahms’s own historical self-positioning.

Chapter 4 focuses on Brahms’s First Piano Concerto, op. 15 (1854–59), a work that caused its composer a great deal of trouble as it evolved from incomplete two-piano sonata to unfinished symphony before being reconceptualized, completed, and revised. Not surprisingly, scholars have cited a need for inspiration as the cause for Brahms’s apparent modeling of the finale’s structure on that of Beethoven’s C-Minor Piano Concerto. I argue here that, even if Brahms employed this model out of necessity, the ways in which he deliberately deviates from Beethoven’s template reveal something of his attitude toward that model (and perhaps toward that necessity), imbuing the connection between the concertos with a more nuanced significance. Oft-cited evidence has inspired readings of Brahms’s concerto as a response to Robert Schumann’s nervous breakdown or a representation of Brahms’s feelings for Clara Schumann. These concerns, as well as the need to establish his artistic voice and historical position, weighed heavily on Brahms, and the chapter concludes with a consideration of how such issues may be reflected and intermingled in this work.

Chapter 5, focusing on Brahms’s Fourth and final Symphony (completed in 1885), provides an example from the later repertory. A strong historicist element has always been noted in this work, particularly in the final movement, a chaconne whose main theme appears to have been drawn from Bach’s Cantata 150. In this chapter, I suggest that, at a particularly striking moment in the symphony’s finale, Brahms also makes reference to a Wagnerian chorus whose textual themes are closely related to those of the Bach cantata. The Symphony’s finale, with its borrowed material, is shown to serve as generative material for music in previous movements. The chapter also considers what light these allusions may shed on the work’s long-held associations with death and tragedy and on how these associations may relate to Brahms’s underlying historicist concerns, particularly about the future of symphonic music, as well as his relationship to Wagner, who had called that future into question.

I turn now to chapter 1, which begins to explore the notion of allusion as narrative premise in Brahms’s instrumental music. This and succeeding chapters will demonstrate that Brahms’s references to music of other composers can in many cases be understood to hold broader structural implications and bear deeper meaning in Brahms’s work than generally has been realized.

Notes

1. Leo Treitler, Reflections on the Communication of Affect and Idea through Music, in Psychoanalytic Explorations in Music: Second Series, ed. Stuart Feder, Richard L. Karmel, and George H. Pollock (Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1993), 46.

2. Treitler, Reflections, 46.

3. In a letter to Adolf Schubring (Vienna, February 16, 1869, in Johannes Brahms, Briefwechsel, ed. Max Kalbeck [Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1915], 8, 217–218), cited in Christopher Reynolds, Motives for Allusion: Context and Content in Nineteenth-Century Music (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003), 23, 192, n. 1), Brahms states that, in sets of variations, the bass line is the firm foundation on which I build my stories.

4. See Robert Hatten, Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and Interpretation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994) and Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004); Leonard G. Ratner, Romantic Music: Sound and Syntax (New York: Schirmer Books, 1992); Kofi Agawu, Music as Discourse: Semiotic Adventures in Romantic Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009); Lawrence Kramer, Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); and Leo Treitler, Reflections on Musical Meaning and Its Representations (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2011).

5. György Ligeti et al., György Ligeti in Conversation with Péter Várnai, Josef Häusler, Claude Samuel, and Himself (London: Eulenberg Books, 1983), 20–21, quoted in Martin L. Nass, The Composer’s Experience: Variations on Several Themes, in Psychoanalytic Explorations in Music: Second Series, ed. Stuart Feder, Richard L. Karmel, and George H. Pollock (Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1993), 30. Nass, a psychoanalyst, finds this sentiment consistent with those of several other composers he has interviewed.

6. Heather Platt and Peter H. Smith, eds. Expressive Intersections in Brahms: Essays in Analysis and Meaning (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 3–8. Any number of other studies may be cited here, including Dillon Parmer, Brahms the Programmatic? A Critical Assessment (PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1995); on the symphonies alone, Robert Fink, Desire, Repression, and Brahms’s First Symphony, Repercussions 2 (1993): 75–103; Reinhold Brinkmann, Late Idyll: The Second Symphony of Johannes Brahms, trans. Peter Palmer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995); Susan McClary, Narrative Agendas in ‘Absolute’ Music: Identity and Difference in Brahms’s Third Symphony, in Musicology and Difference: Gender and Sexuality in Music Scholarship, ed. Ruth A. Solie (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 326–44; and Marion Gerards, Narrative Programme und Geschlechter-Identität in der 3. Sinfonie von Johannes Brahms: Zum Problem einer genderzentierten Interpretation absoluter Musik, Frankfurter Zeitschrift für Musikwissenschaft 8 (2005): 42–57. Other examples include Kenneth Ross Hull, Allusive Irony in Brahms’s Fourth Symphony, in Brahms Studies 2, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 135–68; David Brodbeck, Brahms, the Third Symphony, and the New German School, in Brahms and His World, ed. Walter Frisch (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 65–80; and Medium and Meaning: New Aspects of the Chamber Music, in The Cambridge Companion to Brahms, ed. Michael Musgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 98–132; Raymond Knapp, Brahms and the Anxiety of Allusion Journal of Musicological Research 18 (1998): 1–30; Raymond Knapp, Utopian Agendas: Variation, Allusion, and Referential Meaning in Brahms’s Symphonies, in Brahms Studies 3, ed. David Brodbeck (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 129–89; Dillon Parmer, Brahms, Song Quotation, and Secret Programs, 19th-Century Music 19, no. 2 (1995): 161–90; Christopher Reynolds, A Choral Symphony by Brahms?, 19th-Century Music 9, no. 1 (1985): 3–25; and Reynolds, Motives for Allusion. See also George Bozarth, Brahms’s First Piano Concerto, op. 15: Genesis and Meaning, in Beiträge zur Geschichte des Konzerts: Festschrift Siegfried Kross zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Reinmar Emans and Matthias Wendt (Bonn: G. Schroeder, 1990), 211–47.

7. Peter Howard Smith, Expressive Forms in Brahms’s Instrumental Music: Structure and Meaning in His Werther Quartet (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), 4.

8. To Joseph Joachim (with whom Brahms was staying the time), Schumann wrote that Brahms should always keep the beginnings of the Beethoven symphonies in mind. He should try to make something similar (January 6, 1854, published in Robert Schumanns Briefe. Neue Folge, 2nd rev. ed., ed. F. Gustav Jansen (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1904), 390, cited and translated in Reynolds, Motives for Allusion, 35).

9. See Reynolds, Motives for Allusion, 23–25. Reynolds views the methods described by Czerny as an explanation for similarities between several of Brahms’s works and their apparent models in Beethoven.

10. James Garratt, Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination: Interpreting Historicism in Nineteenth-Century Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 10–11.

11. Garratt, Palestrina and the German Romantic Imagination, 11.

12. Anthony Newcomb, The Hunt for Reminiscences in Nineteenth-Century Germany, in Music and the Aesthetics of Modernity, ed. Karol Berger and Anthony Newcomb (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 111–35.

13. On this disdain, see for example, Newcomb, The Hunt for Reminiscences, 121, 127.

14. See, for instance, Ivor Keys, Johannes Brahms (Portland, OR: Amadeus Press, 1989), 168; and Mark Evan Bonds, After Beethoven: Imperatives