The sixtieth birthday of its honorary president was celebrated by a special meeting and musical performance in the club-rooms of the Tonkunstlerverein, and the Gesellschaft had a gold medal cast in the master's honour.

A note to Frau Caroline, written in June from Ischl, headed by a diminutive photograph of himself in walking dress, is suggestive of Brahms' happy mood at this time:

'Here I come, dear mother, and thank you for your dear letter.

'I am delighted that Fritz [Schnack] is making a nice tour which shows that you are both well--let him only make further plans, and travel!... I will be careful that you get a cast of the medal. It will interest Fritz as a connoisseur--he must imagine the gold. I am very well and the summer becomes finer every day. In the autumn or winter I really must look in upon you myself and not merely in a portrait.

'Have you a great deal too much money, or may I send some? I should like Fritz to spend plenty in travelling and he can afterwards entertain you and himself again with his sufferings!...

'Your JOHANNES.'[79]

Years before this date, Frau Caroline had, at the urgent and oft-repeated wish of Johannes, given up her boarding-house in the Anscharplatz, and retired to enjoy the remainder of her life as mistress of her son's quiet home in Pinneberg. Johannes kept his stepmother supplied with the necessary funds, which were regularly transmitted to her through his publisher, Herr Simrock of Berlin; but he was never tired of urging upon her his readiness to meet intermediate demands as they might arise, and particularly of suggesting holiday journeys for Fritz Schnack as a good way of spending extra money. Frau Caroline and her son, who both worshipped Johannes, frequently incurred his displeasure on account of the moderation with which they availed themselves of his generosity.

He never went to Hamburg after his stepmother's retirement without reserving a few hours to visit her at Pinneberg, and there, in the modest little dwelling he had provided, felt himself, as it were, in the old family home. He would sit in a corner of the sofa in the room by the side of the shop filled with clocks whose hands pointed to the right time and whose pendulums swung cheerily to and fro, and chat happily with her and Fritz, hearing little items of domestic news, asking after this and the other acquaintance; then would suddenly relapse into silence and reverie, which were unfailingly respected by the two people to whom he was so dear. By-and-by, after he had arranged his thoughts, he would come out again from his musing to continue the pleasant chit-chat where it had been left.

Brahms always expected his stepmother to be present at his public appearances in Hamburg, and continued to stay with her, when visiting the city, until she went to live at Pinneberg. On an occasion of his coming, after her retirement, to conduct a symphony at one of Bulow's Hamburg concerts, he took a room for her next his own at the Hotel Moser, that they might be as much as possible together during the few days of his stay, and led her on his arm to her seat at rehearsals and concert. Frau Caroline did not, perhaps, entirely fathom the depths and intricacies of her stepson's fourth symphony, but she loved the work, and shared in the joy of it with her whole heart. Fritz, too, came over from Pinneberg, and greeted his stepbrother in the artist's room before the concert began. The master's sister, Elise Grund, died in 1892, and his visit to Hamburg after her death seems to have been the last known by his friends to have been paid by him to his native city. He was at Pinneberg, however, after this date.

Some of Brahms' time at Ischl this summer was given to the editing of the supplementary volume of Frau Schumann's complete edition of her husband's works. One cannot but read in this deeply-interesting book our master's desire to associate his name once more with those of Schumann and his wife, especially as he has taken the, for him, altogether exceptional course of writing and signing the introductory sentences of its first page. It contains, to quote Brahms' words,

'a few things found amongst Robert Schumann's papers which, on account of their value, or of some special interest, ought not to be omitted from this collection.... The theme with which the volume concludes is, in a quite peculiar sense, Schumann's last musical thought. He wrote it on the 7th of February, 1854, and afterwards added five variations which are withheld here. It speaks to us as a kindly greeting spirit [genius] about to depart and we think with reverence and emotion of the glorious man and artist.

'JOHANNES BRAHMS.

ISCHL, _July 1893_.'[80]

Of the composer's original work of the season Billroth writes a few months later to a friend:

'Brahms has, so far as I know, composed a dozen pianoforte pieces during the summer. I do not know the cause of this sudden passion.

I like him least of all in this style, the G minor Rhapsody excepted. He does not sufficiently diversify his form in these little works.... He ought to keep to the great style.'

The pieces in question were published in the autumn in two books--Op.

118 and 119. The other publications of the year, issued without opus number, were the two books of Technical Exercises for Pianoforte.

Billroth's expression of feeling about the Pianoforte Pieces will probably be endorsed by many even of the most faithful admirer's of Brahms' art, whilst all will certainly agree as to his one exception.

Beautiful as many of the intermezzi, fantasias, etc., are, it is to be doubted whether Brahms' short compositions for the pianoforte will ever gain such universal and unreserved affection as has long since been accorded to those of Schumann and Chopin. The manner in which the thoughts are expressed sometimes seems out of proportion to the moderate length of their development, the height of the structure to be, as it were, too great in comparison with the superficial area allotted to it.

In several instances at all events, however, this impression is due to the unusualness of the pieces, and passes away as they become really familiar. It is as yet too soon to form any definite opinion as to the place they may ultimately take.

True appreciation of Brahms' small as of his great works is sometimes slow in coming, even to those who love his music with deepest affection.

When, however, from time to time, the spirit dwelling within his inspirations reveals itself unsought as in a sudden flash, the whole heart is apt to go out with complete acceptance to the reception of its beauty and truth. Only in one instance (Op. 117, No. 1) has the master given any clue as to the sources which may have stirred his fancy during the composition of his thirty short pieces for the pianoforte from Op.

76 onwards, and where he has been reticent it would ill beseem others to stamp any particular piece with a definite suggestion. It may, however, be surmised that many of the little compositions are expressions derived from his passion for nature. The mountain storm swept up by the wind and bursting with a sudden crash, the approaching and retreating roll of its thunder, with the ceaseless pattering of rain on the leaves; the gay flitting of butterflies; the lazy hum of the insect world on a hot summer day; the long sweep of gray waves breaking into foam on the shore--all may be found in them. The music of the spheres, also, too ethereal for the perception of ordinary mortals, has been caught by our master's ear, and, woven into gossamer sound-textures, has been conveyed by him to the appreciation of organizations less delicate than his own.

Some of the pieces have certainly grown up around the fancies of a legend or a poem. In these we may hear the weird footsteps of the spirit world, the dread strike of the bell of fate, the catastrophe of human lives. In no case, however, except in the one mentioned, are the several works to be taken as having been associated with this or that in the mind of the composer. The same one may mean different things to different people, and Brahms has carefully guarded against the possibility of being suspected of programme-music by giving to the Fantasias, Rhapsodies, Ballades, Intermezzi, the vaguest of all possible titles.[81] The book Op. 117 has become really popular, and is sold in the United Kingdom alone in its thousands. One of the first persons--perhaps the first--to hear books Op. 116 and 117 was Frau Schumann's pupil, Fraulein Ilona Eibenschutz (now Mrs. Carl Derenberg), to whom Brahms played them on their completion, inviting her especially to hear them.

Asking Brahms to be present in October at a festival meeting of the Imperial and Royal Society of Physicians, Billroth says:

'I should like to see you for once in evening dress [_schon decorirt_]. If, however, you object to this, you will find a place among the younger doctors in the (not high) gallery in walking costume.'

It was one of the last semi-public functions in which the famous surgeon took part. His health had for some time been declining, and he died on February 6, regretted by all ranks of Vienna citizens. The funeral procession was witnessed by crowds of people, especially of the poorer classes.

'We do not wear such open hearts,' writes Brahms afterwards to Widmann, 'nor show such pure and warm affection as they do here (I mean the people, the gallery).... In the whole innumerable concourse no inquisitive or indifferent face was to be seen, but upon each countenance the most touching sympathy and love. This did me much good when passing through the streets and at the cemetery.'[82]

Brahms could not trust himself to remain too close a spectator of the last scene. Whilst the relatives and friends of the departed surgeon remained standing round the open grave, he quietly strolled to a side-walk and paced up and down, talking with an acquaintance of other matters.

The thought of death had, indeed, a power over the master which probably held him in its clutch at times throughout his life. He could not bring himself to face the enemy with resolute front, especially during his later years, when the iron hand laid claim to one of his friends, but would speak of the matter as little as might be, and no doubt kept it as much as possible at bay in his thoughts. 'I do not mean to drink any more coffee,' he said one day to his landlady in Carlsgasse. 'Why, Herr Doctor, you enjoy your coffee so much!' exclaimed Frau Truxa, who had gained an insight into his character, and felt sure that something lay behind this announcement. 'I have taken coffee for a long time,'

returned Brahms. 'I am going to leave it off, and drink something else.'

A few days later Frau Truxa heard by chance of the death of a lady living in Marseilles who had for years kept the master supplied with Mocha. Nothing more was said, but an arrangement was made, without Brahms' knowledge, by which the same supply was to be despatched at the same interval by her daughter. Coming as it were from the same hand, Brahms continued to drink the coffee, but without further comment.

Death had, however, till now been kind to our master, sparing him the agony of many severe partings. We have seen his deep grief at the loss of the parents who had loved him with the entire devotion of their simple, affectionate hearts. By the nature of things, his sense of bereavement on the deaths of brother and sister had been less enduring in its sting. His friend Pohl, librarian of the Gesellschaft, died in 1887, but with this exception the old circle of chums remained as it had been. Joachim, Stockhausen, Grimm, Dietrich, Kirchner, Hanslick, Faber, Billroth, Goldmark, Epstein, Gansbacher, all had continued with him, whilst in Frau Schumann's presence he was at the age of sixty-one still young, with youthful feelings of veneration in his heart. The death of Billroth dealt him a severe blow. Who shall say that even at this time he had not a presentiment that before very long he was to follow?

If this were so, but little change showed itself in his outward habits.

The pedestrian excursions near Vienna took place every second or third Sunday as before, and if Brahms, growing every year heavier, found the ascent of the surrounding heights more fatiguing than in past years, he did not openly allude to the fact, but would invite his companions to pause for a few moments to look at the country, whilst they, at once acceding to his wish, always carefully avoided perceiving that he was short of breath. Hugo Conrat frequently made one of the party of walkers at this period, and the master was often a guest at his house, where it is to be feared that Frau Conrat, in no way behind the rest of his friends, sadly spoiled him. He had become in these years a complete autocrat in the circles in which he moved. His comfort was studied, his desires were anticipated, his witticisms appreciated, his tempers accepted, and his utterances recognised as final. Brahms enjoyed his position, and, it must be confessed, did not hesitate to avail himself of his privileges. On one occasion of a dinner-party, being asked to escort one of the principal lady guests to the dining-room, he turned sharply round and offered his arm to the young governess. On another--a party at the Conrats' country house--finding on his arrival that the cloth had been laid in the dining-room, and not in the veranda, he went up to the hostess, saying: 'But it is still fine weather. I always dine out of doors in October.' The lady sent word to the kitchen that the dinner was to be put back for twenty minutes, and, begging her visitors to walk in the garden meanwhile, gave orders for the alteration of her arrangements. 'But what did Brahms say when he found he was causing such trouble?' someone asked Fraulein Conrat afterwards. 'Then he was good again,' she replied. Such incidents could be multiplied from the experiences of many of Brahms' friends. They serve chiefly to prove that the master's mind lost its pliancy as he grew older, and that he became incapable of adapting himself to circumstances outside his ordinary routine. His friends accepted his whims as a part of himself, and, knowing his sensitiveness to contradiction, did not contradict him. They were aware that the sterling nature had not really changed, and did not trouble themselves to criticise the outer crust of irritability and roughness that sometimes concealed it from the appreciation of less indulgent observers.

[Illustration: SILHOUETTE BY DR. BoHLER.

_Photograph by R. Lechner (Wilh. Muller), Vienna._]

'All that you tell me is very nice,' said Brahms one day to Herr Conrat's two gifted young daughters, who, paying the master a visit in his rooms, had been encouraged by him to talk about the progress of their studies. 'You must know these things, which are very important; but I will show you something to be learnt of still greater consequence;' and he fetched from a drawer an old, worn, folded table-cloth. 'Look here,' said he, showing the two girls some exquisite darning, 'my old mother did this. When you can do such work you may be prouder of it than of all your other studies.'

After the completion of the Clarinet Quintet and Trio in 1892, Brahms allowed his mind the refreshment of change of work. The only original compositions belonging to the following year are the two books of 'Clavierstucke,' Op. 118 and 119, the appearance of which we have already chronicled. He was, however, engaged with his collection of German Folk-songs, arranged with pianoforte accompaniment, six volumes for one voice, and the seventh for leader and small chorus.

The publication of this valuable work in 1894, almost at the end of the life of the great musician who compiled it, adds yet another and most striking illustration to those on which we have commented, of the general continuity of the lines on which Brahms' career was shaped. As he began, so he ended. The boy of fifteen who arranged folk-songs for practice by his village society, the youth of twenty who used them in his first published works, the mature master who returned to them again and again for inspiration and delight, all live in the veteran of sixty-one, who, as he busies himself in preparing the unique collection, every page of which bears mark of his insight, skill, and sympathetic tact, seems to be looking back over the years of the past with longing to leave behind him a final sign of his love for his great nation and all belonging to it. 'It is the only one of my works from which I part with a feeling of tenderness,' he said on its completion for the press.

A child of the people by birth, Brahms remained, with all his literary and artistic culture, a child of the people by sympathy. He loved, and ever had loved, the simple peasant folk of the country places where he dwelt, as part of the great life of nature which was his delight. His partiality for them had in it something which resembled his feeling for children. He was pleased with their navete, valued their confidence, and perhaps, idealist as he was, gave them credit for a genuineness and simplicity not always theirs. In their songs, it was this same naturalness that attracted him, and whether in his original settings of national texts, or in his arrangements of the people's melodies, nearly always, as we have seen, left the words as he found them in their spontaneous directness of expression. Writing to Professor Bachtold, to whom he sent a copy of his collection, he says:

'... I think you will find some things new to you, for if you have been interested in the music of our folk-songs, Erk and now Bohme will have been your guides? These have hitherto led the (very Philistine) tone, and my collection stands in direct opposition to them. I could and should like to gossip more if I knew that you were interested and especially if we were sitting together comfortably....'[83]

Brahms at one time contemplated changing his rather confined quarters at Ischl, but a feeling of loyalty to the good folks in whose house he had spent several summers, and who regarded themselves as having a prescriptive right to their lodger, asserted its sway over his kind heart. He returned to them as each succeeding spring came round, and the little signs that heralded his approach--the opening of shutters, the cleaning of windows, and other preparations visible from outside--were eagerly looked forward to by the country people near as the first tokens of the approaching season.

Frau Gruber's little house, of which Brahms occupied the first-floor, was built on a mountain slope, and a short flight of steps at the side led to a small garden furnished with a grass plot, a garden bench, and a summer-house. Visitors had to mount the steps, cross the garden, find a second entrance-door at the back of the house, go in, and knock at the door of the composer's sitting-room. Sometimes he would cross the room, open the door, and peep cautiously out; but more often than not he called out, 'Come in!' and the visitor stepped at once into his presence. He laid strict injunctions on his landlady, however, that the door of his rooms was to be kept locked and the key in her possession whenever he was out, and that on no account was she to allow anyone even to peep into the room containing his papers and piano. If he once found out that she had disregarded this rule, once would be enough for him; that very day he would pack up and leave her, never to return. It was a most necessary precaution to take, for numerous visitors of either sex who were unknown to him found their way to the house, and would gladly have sought consolation for their disappointment at not seeing him by inspecting some of his belongings.

One or other of his friends frequently called for him about half-past eleven, and soon afterwards he would start out and gradually make his way to the Hotel Kaiserin Elisabeth. Between two and three o'clock he usually made his appearance on the promenade by the side of the river.

Stopping at Walter's coffee-house, he would seat himself at a table under the trees outside, where a cup of black coffee and the daily papers were at once brought to him. Here he generally remained for at least an hour, and sometimes it was much longer, to be joined by one friend and another till his party numbered a dozen or more. Walter's became, indeed, at this hour of the day, a rendezvous not only for Brahms' personal friends, but for many musical visitors to Ischl who did not know him, but who heard that they could easily get a sight of him there. He was very particular in acknowledging the greetings of his numerous acquaintance as they passed along the promenade, and, owing to his anxiety to be courteous and his near-sightedness combined, he sometimes made a mistake and bowed to people whom he did not know.

'Oh, if you had only been with us this afternoon!' a friend and fellow-lodger said to the author one day in the summer of 1894. 'Paula and I were walking on the promenade, and we met Brahms, who greeted us so kindly. He waved his hand, and looked round, saying, "Good-day!

good-day!" Of course I returned his greeting. I wonder if it could have been because he was pleased with my little Paula? He takes so much notice of children.' Frau F. was far too much gratified by the incident to accept the author's opinion that it was a case of mistaken identity, as Brahms was not in the habit of consciously bowing to strangers.

Herr Oberschulrath Wendt, of Carlsruhe, when staying at Ischl, was daily to be seen in the master's company, and the two men, both of striking appearance, presented a singular contrast as they paced side by side along the promenade. Wendt, tall, thin, and pale, was delicate-looking, and walked with a slight stoop. Brahms, rather short, very stout, with a good deal of colour, probably acquired by exposure to the weather, that seemed the more pronounced from its contrast with his white hair and beard, went along with head well thrown back, the very personification of vigour. On leaving Walter's he generally betook himself to a friend's house, most frequently that of Johann Strauss. To his intimacy there the world is indebted for some of the best of his late photographs--those of Krziwanek, of Vienna and Ischl--which were taken one afternoon in the summer of 1895 as he was sitting at ease with his friends.

Brahms knew, and was well known to, all the children of the neighbourhood, and when starting on his country walks would fill his pockets with sweetmeats and little pictures, and amuse himself with the eagerness of the small barefooted folk, who knew his ways and would run after him as he passed, on the look-out for booty. 'Whoever can jump gets a gulden,' he would say; and, displaying beyond reach of the little ones a handful of sweetmeats made in imitation of the Austrian coin, he would increase his speed, and raise his hand higher and higher, drawing after him the flock of running, leaping children, until he allowed one and another to gain a prize.

Two Sonatas for clarinet and pianoforte, the last works of chamber music composed by Brahms, were completed during the summer of 1894, and towards the end of September Muhlfeld arrived at Ischl to try them with the composer. The first private performance took place very soon afterwards, when the two artists played them before the ducal circle of Meiningen at the palace of Berchtesgarten.

A reunion at Frankfurt in November is of pathetic interest. It carries us back to the very early pages of our narrative, and is the last complete one of the kind we shall have to record. For the last time we find Frau Schumann and her husband's and her own two dearest musician-friends assembled and making music together. Brahms arrived at her house on a few days' visit on the 9th of the month; on the 10th Muhlfeld spent the evening there, having come from Meiningen at the composer's especial request, and the new works were played to the illustrious lady, 'the revered Frau Schumann,' as Brahms used to call her to his younger friends, who had now completed her seventy-fifth year. The next day Joachim, prince of violinists at sixty-three as at twenty-one, the age at which he entered these pages, gave a concert with his colleagues of the Quartet, and on the 12th there was a party at Herr and Frau Sommerhoff's, when Brahms and Muhlfeld again played the two Sonatas, and Frau Schumann, Joachim, and Muhlfeld, Mozart's beautiful Clarinet Trio, a favourite work of Brahms. The reunion of old friends was completed by the presence of Stockhausen, who, like Frau Schumann, had been resident in Frankfurt since 1878. On the 13th, the third Frankfurt performance of the Clarinet Sonatas by Brahms and Muhlfeld took place at a large music-party at Frau Schumann's, and another memorable item of the evening's pleasures was the playing by Frau Schumann and Muhlfeld of Schumann's Fantasiestucke for pianoforte and clarinet. Joachim had left to fulfil other engagements before the evening, and Brahms departed on the 14th.

The master's journeys and performances with Muhlfeld gave him extraordinary pleasure, and the publication of the two sonatas, which in the usual course of things would have taken place in the autumn of 1894, was delayed until the summer of 1895, that his possession of the manuscripts might be prolonged. Both works were performed at the Rose concerts, Vienna, by the composer and his friend--No. 2 in E flat on January 8, 1895, when the Clarinet Quintet was also played; and No. 1 in F minor at an extra concert on January 11, the programme of which included the G major String Quintet. Amongst other towns visited by Brahms and Muhlfeld in the month of February were Frankfurt, Rudesheim, and Meiningen, and the master was seen for the last time in public by his Frankfurt friends on the 17th, when he listened to a performance of his D major Symphony, and conducted his Academic Overture at a Museum concert. The two sonatas were performed for the first time after publication at Miss Fanny Davies' concert of June 24 in St. James's Hall, London, by the concert-giver and Muhlfeld, engaged expressly to come to England for the occasion. The manuscripts of both works are in the possession of Muhlfeld, to whom the composer presented them on publication, with an appreciative autograph inscription.

With the publication of the two Clarinet Sonatas, our master's career is all but closed, and closed as we would have it. The more familiar they become, the more firmly will they root themselves, as we believe, in the affection of the lovers of his music. The fresh, bounding imagination of youth is, indeed, not in them, nor would we wish it to be there; but both works are pervaded by a warmth and glow as of sunset radiance, which, reflecting the spirit of the composer as he was when he wrote them, fill the mind of the listener with a sense of the mellow beauty, the rich pathos, the unwavering sincerity of his art. To compare the two sonatas one with the other is unnecessary. We prefer simply to commend them to the study of those of our readers to whom they are not entirely familiar, holding them, as we do, to be amongst the especially lovable examples of the late period of Brahms' art.

[73] _Neue Freie Presse_, June, 1897.

[74] Spengel's 'Johannes Brahms,' p. 8.