And he
was able to assimilate vast quantities of his learning, and make it part
of his flesh and bone. At times, no doubt, one is painfully aware of his
erudition, painfully aware that he is applying principles learned from
Beethoven and Bach, manipulating his music out of no inner necessity. At
times, his music does smell of the lamp. And yet, how completely those
juiceless moments are outbalanced by the mass of his living, fragrant,
robust song! With what rareness the pedant in Brahms emerges! Behind
this music there is almost always visible the great, grave, passionate,
resigned creature that was Brahms, the man who sought with all his might
to hold himself firm and erect and unyielding before the hideous
onslaughts of life, the man who lived without hope of fulfilment, loved
without hope of consummation, and yet knew that it was enough
fulfilment, enough consummation to have loved, to have been touched with
a radiant dream; the man who prayed only that his heart might not
wither, and that he might never cease to long and dream and feel the
hurt and solace of beauty and have the power to sing. And in his music
there is almost always the consolation of the great forests, the healing
of the trees and silences, the cooling hands of the earth, the
everlasting yea-saying to love and beauty, the manly resignation, the
leave-taking from dreams and life.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233