Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) seemed to find musical inspiration in nature, and in rural surroundings, quite often. He pointed out to his friend, the conductor Albert Dietrich, the exact spot in the Black Forest where – “on wooded heights among fir-trees,” as Brahms said – the first theme of today’s Trio came to him. The work was composed in 1865 at one of the composer’s favorite retreats, Baden-Baden, in rooms he had taken which, as he noted, “look out on three sides at the dark, wooded mountains, the roads winding up and down them, and the pleasant houses.”

Brahms biographer Karl Geiringer has written, “The spirit of the horn imbues the whole work with a delicate melancholy and an intense feeling for nature. The veils are lifted only in the cheerful hunting scene of the Finale, while a faint trace of melancholy clings even to the humor of the Scherzo.”

The Trio broke new ground, using the horn to replace the ‘cello in the usual combination of piano, violin and ‘cello in such works. While the valve horn (the kind of instrument we hear today) was becoming the standard when Brahms composed this music, he nonetheless insisted a waldhorn should be utilized. That imposed restrictions on him, since the valveless instrument for which he wrote was not as versatile as the ‘modernized’ version of a horn. All the more remarkable then that the completed sonata is the inspired, original, and completely satisfying piece it is.

The work’s première, given in Karlsruhe, Germany, in December 1865, was a great success. Five years later, when a seemingly more sophisticated audience heard it, it was received coldly. Clara Schumann, who was the pianist in that performance, wrote,

“The people did not understand this truly spirited and thoroughly interesting work, in spite of the fact that the first movement, for example, is full of the most ingratiating melodies, and the last movement teems with fresh life. The Adagio, too, is wonderful.”

Two composers of note have followed Brahms in the realm of trios for piano, violin, and horn. The Englishman Lennox Berkeley composed his in 1952; the Transylvanian (Hungarian) György Ligeti (1923-2006) wrote one – subtitled Hommage à Brahms – in 1982.

In his time, Brahms was almost as famous for compositions he didn’t have published as for those he did. He honed his music constantly, never letting it out into the world until he was as satisfied with it as he thought he ever would be. And he saw to it that anything of his he did not want published was destroyed. He was quoted as saying, “It is not hard to compose, but it is wonderfully hard to let the superfluous notes fall under the table.”

Brahms often expressed a longing for family life and for children, but he never married. The Swiss journalist Joseph Viktor Widmann recalled a conversation he had with Brahms about the subject. Quoting Widmann:

“Brahms said, ‘I missed my chance. At the time I wished for it, I could not offer a wife what I should have felt was right. But at the time when I should have liked to marry, my music was either hissed in concert rooms, or at least received with icy coldness. For myself, I could bear that quite well, because I knew its worth, and that someday the tables would be turned. And when, after such failures, I entered my lonely room, I was not unhappy. On the contrary! But if, in such moments, I had to meet the anxious, questioning eyes of a wife with the words “another failure” – I could not have borne that! For a woman may love an artist, whose wife she is, ever so much, and even do what is called believe in her husband – still she cannot have the perfect certainty of victory which is in his heart. And if she had wanted to comfort me…a wife to pity her husband for his non-success…ugh! I cannot bear to think what a hell that would have been, at least to me.’”

Widmann said, “Brahms uttered these words vehemently, in short, broken sentences, looking so defiant that I could think of no reply. ‘It has been for the best,’ added Brahms, suddenly, and the next minute showed his usual expression of quiet content.”

Brahms could display a wicked sense of humor. After he heard a string quartet rehearse one of his compositions, the violist of the group asked Brahms if he liked their tempos. “Yes”, said Brahms. “Especially yours.”

When a lady gushed to him, “How do you write such divine adagios?,” he answered, “My publisher orders them that way.”

…back to program notes.