We all need mentors. An inspirational teacher, a colleague to facilitate a choice introduction or someone to offer wise counsel. Perhaps we freelance musicians, without achievable goals and the agony of an annual review and sales targets, need them all the more.
In 1853, a young Johannes Brahms found not one, but two. After an impromptu meeting with Robert and Clara Schumann, where he performed some of his fledgling compositions, the then highly influential Robert Schumann wrote an article for the New Journal of Music in Leipzig. This hyperbolic write-up, titled Neue Bahnen (New Paths), helped launch the relatively unknown 20-year-old on to the international music scene.
“One whose mastery … spring[s] fully armed from the head of Jupiter … has arrived, a young blood, at whose cradle graces and heroes kept watch. His name is Johannes Brahms,” wrote Schumann.
The language of the article could be seen as telling, with its kaleidoscopic talk of a “peaceful rainbow”, “butterflies and nightingale voices” perhaps indicating Robert’s manic state of mind. It was a difficult period for him: his position as municipal director of music in Düsseldorf had come apart publicly, ousted by his musicians amid symptoms of deteriorating health.
Brahms’ arrival in the couple’s life appeared to bring fresh spirits and a reprieve from the pain and humiliation of the situation in Düsseldorf, but ultimately Robert’s depression returned, leading in February 1854 to his suicide attempt. Shortly afterwards he was admitted to the psychiatric hospital where he was to spend the final years of his life.
Hurrying back to Düsseldorf, Brahms dedicated himself to the Schumann family for the next two years, looking after the children, taking charge of the family accounts, and visiting Robert numerous times. Clara continued to provide for their seven children through her concert tours, forbidden from visiting Robert by over zealous physicians who feared anything that would agitate their patient. Brahms was to act as the corporeal link between the two.
In 1854, Brahms drew the three figures together musically with his Variations on a Theme by Robert Schumann, based on the same theme that Clara had used for her beautiful set of variations the year before. Robert was delighted by both works and wrote to Brahms that he longed “to hear … your wonderful variations, or to hear my Clara play them”. He entreated Brahms to pursue his symphonic ambitions, writing to the younger man’s closest friend, the violinist Joseph Joachim: “Doesn’t Brahms let drums and trumpets sound yet? He ought always to think of the beginning of Beethoven’s symphonies, and try to do something similar.” Perhaps revealing something of his own fluid compositional process, he added: “The beginning is the chief thing; once one has begun, the end comes to meet one almost spontaneously.”
But Brahms was to witness his friend in increasingly distressing states of deterioration. In the earlier months of his time in the hospital, a more lucid Robert would write to Clara recounting details of former events and travels, as if he were trying desperately to hold on to his memories and his sanity, often ending with the heartbreaking plea: “Do not forget me!” Nearing the end, Brahms visited and was shocked by Robert’s childlike state, with no ability for coherent speech and obsessively writing alphabetised lists of towns from an atlas he had requested – his only reading material.
Robert Schumann died in July 1856. Though a love-triangle is often discussed (Brahms did confess his love for Clara, but the pair’s relationship remained platonic), Robert and Johannes only knew each other for a few short years during most of which Robert was at his lowest ebb. Somehow this makes his early championing of Brahms all the more poignant. Robert’s imprint was indelible in his life and music, though it was Clara who became Brahms’ lifelong friend and colleague.
Clara’s experience as a composer, editor and performer was invaluable to Brahms and he called on her for reassurance and guidance. She used her considerable influence to further promote his music, programming his works alongside Robert’s and those of other great composers in her concerts and providing important professional introductions, practical and musical advice. Though there were occasional tensions, their multilayered relationship endured for decades. When Clara undertook her 14-year endeavour to compile a collection of Robert’s works, there were few decisions on which she didn’t consult Brahms. The two remained united in their desire to keep Robert’s music and memory alive.
Ever Brahms’ musical confidante, Clara was the first pianist to see his Three Intermezzi Op 117, which are among his final works. He described them as “lullabies to my sorrows” – sorrows for the Schumann family perhaps, his feelings for Clara, or indeed, Robert himself. She wrote of them “at last I feel musical life stirring once again in my soul.” Clara and Brahms died just one year apart in 1896 and 1897, respectively.
Hearing Robert Schumann’s youthful masterpiece Kreisleriana – his turbulent dialogues for piano inspired by ETA Hoffmann’s fictional creation the composer Johannes Kreisler – alongside the intimate monologues of an aged Brahms (his Intermezzi), as presented in my new album, it is tempting to consider what Schumann might have expressed musically had he lived to the age of the other composer. But somehow it feels like there is one unifying thread in the lives of these interconnected composers, with Robert’s tragic departure ushering in Brahms’ success.
“There exists a secret bond between kindred spirits in every period,” Robert had written in his article. “You who belong together, close your ranks ever more tightly, that the truth of art may shine more clearly, diffusing joy and blessings.” That they were kindred spirits shows in the reflection they saw of themselves in the eccentric Kapellmeister Kreisler, who was, as Hoffmann wrote in the prologue to his 1813 novel Kreisleriana, “tossed back and forth by his inner visions and dreams as though on an eternally stormy sea.”
Schumann’s composition Kreisleriana was as much about himself and Clara as it was about Hoffmann’s character; while, even before the two men had met, Brahms had often referred to himself as “Johannes Kreisler … Junior”.
Brahms remained ever-considered and reportedly modest in his success – an attribute that Robert had so astutely commented on in that famous article. The Schumanns had given him a platform from which he could blossom and develop his own unique voice. That fortuitous meeting of three musical giants 170 years ago inspired them to provide nurture and solace to one another – just as their sublime music continues to offer us today.
• Benjamin Grosvenor’s new album, Schumann & Brahms, is out now on Decca Classics.
