Piano Quartet No. 2 in A, Op. 26

I will come right out and say what I believe: we are fortunate that Brahms lived and wrote chamber music, period. Now, I do not insist that everyone agree in placing Brahms’ chamber compositions on so high a pedestal. Still, I do feel that something in these works brings a renewing energy, a sense of one’s self projected into the sonic world, complete with joy and sorrow, contentment and nostalgia, vigor and passion. Moreover, Brahms brings out the best of the particular ensemble for which he is writing—to wit, the sonatas for violin and piano, or the late works involving clarinet. He manages to infuse the grandeur of his symphonies into the intimacy and transparency of the chamber texture. Added to this are features that Brahms, in general, made his own: the principle of developing variation (whereby initial themes are parsed into component parts which then shape later themes), harmonic deftness, folksong inspiration, and the propulsive appeal of cross rhythms.
Many of these features are present in the opening paragraph of the Piano Quartet no. 2 in A major, op. 26. Brahms worked on the piece, as well as the companion quartet in G minor, op. 25, throughout the late 1850s. In 1862 he settled into an idyllic flat in his native Hamburg and work proceeded apace. Brahms enjoyed the quiet setting, the gardens, and regular Friday musical soirees—all of which focused his mind on chamber music. The A-major quartet, however, was not finished until Brahms finally undertook a visit in September to Vienna, the intellectual and cultural capital of Europe. There he absorbed the spirit of the earlier Viennese classical style (Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert) even deeper, both in terms of large-scale form and in melodic style.
Kinship of key and instrumental texture assures that some resemblance to Schubert’s famous “Trout” Quintet will be heard, as in the closing theme of the first movement. But the opening theme, especially when heard at its first climactic arrival in fortissimo piano chords, is pure Brahms. Idiomatic, too, is the rhythmic development involving various two-against-three beat patterns. During the development of this sonata structure, Brahms spends a great deal of time in C minor—a key that lies some distance away from the home key (A major). But by virtue of a passing move from C minor through C major to A minor, he manages to prepare a seamless transition directly back into the thematic reprise. The arrival back “home” is a moment both touching and reassuring (the way we wish all homecomings would be), yet it is so understated and simple as to be easily overlooked. It is a detail that, in my experience, only gets more satisfying the more times one experiences it.
In the second movement I think we can hear occasional moments of uncertainty that show Brahms still learning. It is a dicey business to critique an acknowledged master from the sidelines, and I do so with obvious trepidation. Then again, Brahms never seems to have engaged in self-important boasting. Quite the contrary, he famously destroyed all his early compositions. Thus, upon hearing his first extant published works (for instance, the early piano sonatas), one might get the false impression that he emerged Athena-like from the head of Zeus, fully matured as a composer. But even a piece like this A-major piano quartet bears evidence of his learning process. The lyricism and harmonic richness of the second movement’s opening theme could never have been sustained for an entire movement. Brahms settles on a diversion into a completely unrelated idea, invoking the fantasia style through piano glissandi and mysterious noodling gestures in the strings, before reprising the main idea. The transitions are hardly inspired, and the movement’s central barn-storming episode has more bluster than genuine dramatic interest. Moreover—and this point is unavoidably technical—at the final reprise of the main theme, Brahms creates a kind of echoing effect by presenting melodic notes a split second earlier in the piano than in the strings. These anticipations rob the strings of their expressive power to project the theme’s essential dissonances, since the piano seems to “jump the gun” and provide the note of resolution before it is wanted. The passage lasts only a few moments and is not the kind of flaw that can mar a major work of such surpassing quality. My point is that even the greatest masters had to cut their teeth somewhere; Brahms tried to consign his past to the flames, but “the truth must out,” as it were. The following movement, a Scherzo, already shows Brahms in better control of his dramatic unfolding. He derives a great deal of material both in the Scherzo and the Trio from the opening motive and seems intent on imposing features of sonata form onto this dance-based section.
Like several of his other compositions from this time, particularly the companion piano quartet in G Minor, op. 25, Brahms introduces Hungarian folk elements into the dance-like finale. Both in rhythm and frequent syncopated accent patterns, echoes of the gypsy dance band are evident. The opening texture—strings playing the melody above a thumping bass line—adds to the rustic impression. Indeed, the folk resonances provide most of the movement’s intensity and charm. Several interior episodes provide contrast to the main theme’s forward impulse, thereby delaying but never overcoming the inevitable outcome: a furious coda. Brahms senses that such an up-tempo finale runs the risk of not living up to its final measures, unless the composer can manage to raise the dramatic interest yet one notch higher in the final bars. Sheer exuberance carries all before it, and we come away not only humming the finale theme but nurturing a renewed appreciation for the expressive power inherent in the classical (yes, classical, even in Brahms) sonata form.

(c) Jason Stell