Location: Morris Performing Arts Center (574) 235-9190

Johannes Brahms
Ein Deutsches Requiem, Op. 45

Johannes Brahms was born in Hamburg, Germany in 1833 and died in Vienna, Austria in 1897. Though he began his requiem in 1856, he used some material he had composed two years previously. He did not consider it finished until he composed what is now the fifth movement, in 1868. The first performance of the final, seven-movement work was given in Leipzig the following year. The score of Ein Deutsches Requiem calls for soprano and baritone soloists, chorus, 2 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, contrabassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, organ, harp, and strings.

The word “requiem” comes from the first line of text of the Catholic Mass for the Dead: “Requiem aeternam dona eis domine” (“Grant them eternal rest, Lord”). The liturgy is primarily a plea from Man to God to accept the soul of the departed into Heaven, and it has been set to music many times. When the young Brahms decided to compose a requiem, prompted by the death of his friend and mentor Robert Schumann, he had a different idea: he would address neither the dead nor God, but the living.

Brahms avoided the text of the Catholic mass entirely, instead drawing from the Lutheran Bible words from the Psalms, Peter, James, Isaiah, John, Hebrews, Ecclesiasticus, Apocrypha, and Revelation. (Brahms was not an overtly religious man, but he read the Bible daily and knew just where to go for the words he wanted.)

Ein Deutsches Requiem had a long gestation period, even for Brahms. After Schumann’s death Brahms worked out the text and composed the music for a four-movement cantata, which then lay dormant for four years. The death of his mother returned him to his subject; her passing affected him deeply, especially since she died before he could arrive at her sickbed. He renewed his work, expanding the cantata into a requiem of six movements. After it was performed, however, Brahms was still dissatisfied. Soon after the premiere (and just after visiting his mother’s grave, it is said) he began what became the fifth movement, with soprano solo; the text is clearly a memorial to his mother. The seven-movement Ein Deutsches Requiem became instantly popular, and has remained so to this day.

Musically, the Requiem is of enormous breadth, subtle musicianship, and almost fanatical devotion to the text. The work opens with a somber tone, the highest instruments absent and violas and cellos divided. The chorus’ first words proclaim that this is a work for the living, not the dead: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” The first three notes contain a tiny motive that will appear many times, but most tellingly in the last movement.

The second movement begins as a slow march underlined by ominous timpani strokes. First the chorus whispers “For all flesh is as grass,” then it roars. When “Be patient, therefore, brethren” is reached, the clouds part and the music is drenched in light. The march returns, but this time the text continues with great affirmation, “But the word of the Lord endureth forever.” With the words “And the ransomed of the Lord,” the music becomes ecstatic.

In the third movement the baritone and the chorus speak of the shortness of life and the vanity of Man. After the question “And now, Lord, what is my hope?” the music slowly comes to a stop. The answer wells up from nothingness to fervent intensity: “My hope is in Thee.” The last word of that line becomes the downbeat of a colossal double-fugue (the orchestra has one, the chorus the other), with the words “The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God.” The entire fugue plays over a constant pedal-point on the note D, as if to signify an omnipresent, immutable force.

As befits its text (“How lovely are Thy dwelling places”), the fourth movement is innocent, happy, and flowing with faith. The fifth movement is the “afterthought” Brahms wrote for his mother. It is achingly tender, as Brahms gives us and himself the message “I will see you again, and your heart will rejoice.”

The mysteries to ponder in the sixth movement are accompanied by radical harmonic mysteries in the music. It is only when “The trumpet shall sound” that the music organizes itself, becoming defiant in “O Death, where is thy sting?” In one of the most miraculous transformations in music, a broad and glorious fugue ensues on “Thou art worthy, Lord, to receive glory.” Far from its mysterious opening, the movement ends as tonally-centered as can be.

A beatitude opened Ein Deutsches Requiem, and another closes it.  “Blessed are they that mourn” began a first movement full of doubt; “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord” is the last movement’s affirmation of faith. The long journey from bereavement to consolation proceeds with a force of logic that is overpowering. Brahms had to compose the “extra” movement for his mother, for it gave the work its symmetry. The Requiem forms a great arch with “How lovely are Thy dwelling places” as its central, beatific keystone; the third and fifth movements, for the soloists, balance each other; the biggest movements come second and sixth;  and the last movement returns to the F major that began the first.

Some have suggested that what Brahms composed amounts to a “Protestant” Requiem, but the composer wasn’t thinking that way: he wrote a requiem for a different purpose, not a different church. The title, he said, merely indicates the language spoken: “As regards the title, I confess I should gladly have left out ‘German’ and substituted ‘Human.’”  He sought a universal response to Man’s universal problem, and as a believer he knew that a solution was not attainable on this earth. His goal was consolation—his own, and that of others. “Now I am consoled,” he wrote.  “I have surmounted obstacles that I thought I could never overcome, and I feel like an eagle, soaring ever higher and higher.”

Franz Schubert
Symphony No. 8 in B minor, “Unfinished”

Franz Schubert was born in Liechtenthal, Austria in 1797 and died in Vienna in 1828. He composed the two movements of his “Unfinished” Symphony (and part of a third) in 1822. The work was first performed in Vienna in 1865 under the direction of Johann von Herbeck. The score calls for 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 2 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, timpani, and strings.

So why didn’t he finish it?
Unless some bit of documentation turns up—there’s been none so far—the answer will never be known. Guessing the reason has been a cottage industry in the music world for over a century, and shows no sign of abating.

The explanations for why the “Unfinished” went unfinished range from the grandiloquent to the mundane. Alfred Einstein was sure that Schubert himself recognized the greatness of the first two movements and felt unable to equal them with two more!  Phillip Hale refined the same notion—rather unkindly—when he wrote: “Let us be thankful that Schubert never finished the work. Possibly the lost arms of the Venus di Milo might disappoint if they were found and restored. The few measures of the scherzo that are in the manuscript furnish but slight hope that here at last Schubert would not, as in so many of his works of long breath, maintain a steady decrescendo of interest.”

Many more theories have been offered: that the onset of his ill health forced him to quit the work; that he feared its resemblance to Beethoven’s Second Symphony would be received as plagiarism; or merely that he became distracted by another project.  Any or none may be true.

It’s worth remembering that Schubert began and left uncompleted as many as six different symphonies. This isn’t as odd as it sounds. Schubert had very few commissions in his career; he composed most of his works according to his own whim, with no financial pressure to complete a project. (Mozart, in contrast, almost always wrote to order, and there are very, very few incomplete Mozart scores.)

The symphony existed only as a rumor for decades. Schubert intended the Music Society of Graz to receive the score as a thank-you for having made him an honorary member. He gave it to composer Anselm Hüttenbrenner (who had petitioned the Society on Schubert’s behalf) to deliver, but for some reason he never did. Instead, it stayed in a drawer with other Schubert manuscripts that Hüttenbrenner had collected.

Many years later, conductor Johann Herbeck learned of the existence and whereabouts of the score. He visited Hüttenbrenner on the pretext that he wanted one of the elderly composer’s own works; elated, Hüttenbrenner supplied Herbeck with an overture. Then Herbeck made his play for the real prize. He said, “It is my purpose to bring forward three contemporaries: Schubert, Hüttenbrenner, and Lachner, in one concert before the Viennese public. It would naturally be very appropriate to represent Schubert by a new work.” “Oh, I still have a lot of things by Schubert,” replied Hüttenbrenner, digging out the sheaf of manuscripts. A quick search—and there it was: Symphony in B minor. As calmly as he might, Herbeck said, “This would do. May I copy it at my expense?” Hüttenbrenner replied, “There’s no hurry. Take it with you.” Thirty-seven years after Schubert’s death, the Unfinished was given its premiere.

Thus we have received two of the most sublime orchestral movements in the literature. The circumstances of the Symphony’s conception and abandonment are trivial compared with this work’s ability to touch the heart. What might have been is mere gossip; what we have is a treasure