This is yet another setting from Kapper’s Die Gesänge der Serben where the title is ‘Wüsst ich, Antlitz, wer dich einst wird küssen!’. A young girl considers her possible romantic future by conversing with her own face as if this part of her anatomy had an independent life if its own—simply because it would be the sole recipient of a man’s kisses, whether that man were disgustingly old or deliciously young. She goes on to sing one of the most ageist songs in the Lieder repertoire. Brahms knew what it was to love much younger women (he was far too fond of the young and beautiful Julie Schumann for Clara’s liking) and he must have chuckled at setting this text at the advanced age of fifty—particularly because age difference seems to be one of his enduring preoccupations. The music, in a curious mixture of 3/4 and common time, seems skittish and ill-at-ease: this is a song for a young lady who wheedles and schemes to get what she wants. If she is to be forced to kiss an old man she has a definite plan: like some Germanic Pulcinella she will go into the mountains to gather herbs—in this case wormwood (the German word Wermut is closer to the French vermouth) to make a tincture to put on her face. This will surely put off her would-be ancient suitor who would find kissing her an altogether bitter experience. This plan of action is outlined in the minor key. The change to B major, a delicious softening, betokens a different fantasy—being kissed by a younger man. The strangely disorientated rhythm disappears in favour of a smooth Animato grazioso in 2/4 which is fleet of foot and suddenly charming. The awkward and pouting girl now veritably prances in glee. Staccati in the piano part betoken the joyful picking of roses and legato quavers facilitate her countryside gambol. With newly prepared rosewater her face will be deliciously fragrant for her young suitor, and all is well in the world. The last two lines of the song revert to the 3/4 + 4/4 for the ecstatic peroration and we can almost see and hear her stamping and jumping for sheer joy.

Siegfried Kapper was born in Prague to a Jewish family and became a successful doctor; but he spent his life in travel and in the service of the Slavic languages, mainly translating them into German. Kapper’s period living in Vienna was clouded by his political support for the revolution of 1852. He also translated Serbian into Czech and some of these texts were set to music by Dvorák for his Op 6 songs. Brahms took all his Kapper texts from Gesänge der Serben (1852) published, significantly, by the Leipzig firm of Brockhaus rather than in Austria.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2011

Friedrich Halm (the word means ‘straw’) was the pseudonym of Eligius von Münch-Bellinghausen, a key figure in the literary and theatrical life of mid-nineteenth-century Austria, an aristocrat who rose to powerful positions in the administration of that city’s libraries and theatres, and a playwright with many productions to his credit who was reckoned among the greats of his time. Brahms almost certainly knew Halm as an important figure in Vienna, and his possession of the twelve volumes of the writer’s complete works indicates he was a fan (this poem is to be found in Volume 7, p. 46). Today Halm is a name nobody knows: in Sams’s words he ‘stands on the margin of literature’—a verdict prophesied by Elisabet von Herzogenberg who effectively caused a Brahms song to a Halm poem (Schneegestöber) to be destroyed on the grounds that the text was unworthy of the composer.

Halm was celebrated for his large dramatic structures, but Brahms seems to have been most charmed by the poet’s shorter, mellifluous lyrics. This is a fine example of a text that allows Brahms to create one of his relatively rare songs of almost cloudless enchantment. The fluttering wings that symbolize ‘Gedanken’—the thoughts surrounding the beloved—are perfectly rendered by the happy invention of a piano figuration: a succession of oscillating sixths descending in semiquavers in the right hand are echoed in the left in mirror image. The meshing of this undulating movement between both staves—ponderous or elegant according to the skill of the pianist—underpins a breezy vocal line, one of the composer’s most unselfconscious tunes. The glory of this song is that the composer allows for a moment of tender ‘Sehnsucht’ in this music at ‘Hier litt’ es sie nicht mehr’ (and at ‘Der allerschönste Ort’ in the second verse, a repeat of the first) where the carefree nature of the music is momentarily undermined with a shadow of pain—no more than that, but enough to render the song as a whole something far more subtle than one might first expect. For the third verse the music takes a slightly different turn—the scorched wings of the poem’s closing line, and a ritardando that extends for nine bars, create a mood of wistful resignation. The postlude reworks the music of the opening, but leaping optimism now seems chastened, and once again we realize that the entire song has been written from the standpoint of the outsider rather than from that of the happy, fulfilled lover. But not even this typically Brahmsian twist can turn this song into something tragic and sad; the lover’s smile is what lingers in this music, modified with a sigh, but a smile nevertheless.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2010

Probably composed between April 1883 and the summer of 1884, published in December 1884. The song’s autograph is lost.
A major (original key), 3/8 Schnell und heimlich

Friedrich Halm (the word means ‘straw’) was the pseudonym of Eligius von Münch-Bellinghausen: a key figure in the literary and theatrical life of mid-nineteenth-century Austria, an aristocrat playwright with many productions to his credit, and yet, as Natasha Loges points out, an enigma among Brahms’s poets, at once respected and disliked, well known yet reclusive. Brahms possessed the twelve volumes of the writer’s complete works, but today nobody knows the name: in Eric Sams’s words he ‘stands on the margin of literature’.

Halm was once celebrated for his large dramatic structures, but Brahms seems to have been most charmed by the poet’s shorter, mellifluous lyrics. The fluttering wings that symbolize ‘Gedanken’—the poet’s thoughts surrounding the beloved—are perfectly rendered by the happy invention of a piano figuration: a succession of oscillating sixths descending in semiquavers in the right hand that are echoed in the left in mirror image. The meshing of this undulating movement between both staves underpins a breezy vocal line, one of the composer’s most unselfconscious tunes. There is a moment of tender Sehnsucht at ‘Hier litt’ es sie nicht mehr’ (and at ‘Der allerschönste Ort’ in the second verse, a repeat of the first), where the carefree nature of the music is momentarily undermined by a shadow of pain. For the third verse the music takes a slightly different turn; the scorched wings of the poem’s closing line, and a ritardando that extends for nine bars, create a mood of wistful resignation. The postlude reworks the opening, but leaping optimism now seems chastened: the entire song has been written from the standpoint of the composer-outsider rather than from that of the happy, fulfilled lover. But not even this typically Brahmsian twist can turn the song into something tragic and sad; the lover’s smile is what lingers in this music, modified with a sigh, but a smile nevertheless.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2020

There are two versions of this song, the second of which is Brahm’s own revision of the first published setting. In the first version the conflict between 3/8 in the vocal line and 2/4 in the accompaniment sets in at bar 41, but in the composer’s second thoughts (as recorded here) it is a feature of the whole song with the exception of the five-bar introduction. The poem is part of the Lieder der Liebe sequence to be found in the first volume of Halm’s Werke (1877, p. 236), and the composer uses only the first of the poet’s three eight-line strophes. This he divides up into four two-line units where the musical shape is AABA. The last two lines of the poem are repeated to make a coda, in fact the A passage is somewhat modified with a ritardando over five bars and a cadential phrase of new material to bring the song to a rousing close. The mood is an unusual one: the song is in the major key and yet the words are spoken (and sung) in a mood of distraction and panic, and minor-key twinges of harmony somehow suggest unhappiness suppressed and hidden from view. The singer is pulled one way and another and the tension generated by the vocal line and accompaniment in different time-signatures is an indication of this stress. The poem clearly had some personal significance for Brahms in that it reflected his own emotions at some time or another. Eric Sams suggests a link with the composer’s relationship with Clara Schumann in an earlier period in his life. It is by no means certain when the song was composed.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2010

The poem of this popular and often-sung song is found in Volume 9 (p. 105) of Halm’s Werke; the lyric, one of two sung by the character Margot, it is part of the dramatic poem Wildfeuer, sketched in 1860. The F major tonality matches Sonntag Op 47 No 1 in the same key and is another example of an art song with many of the characteristics of a folksong, a strictly strophic evocation of an imaginary and idealized rustic Germany—or Switzerland—in days of yore. The four-bar Vorspiel has a hint of a yodel, and more than a hint of thigh-slapping bonhomie. The portrait of the young lady singing this lyric encompasses a hint of boastful pride as well as a remarkable level of tolerance in regard to the hunter’s many other girlfriends. It is a Ländler that might perhaps have been sung (and danced) by the miller-maid in Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin. This was a beloved work of Brahms and the mention of green in the poem’s second line—the favourite colour of the Schubert heroine—must have rung bells in the composer’s mind. In the Italian rispetti of Heyse’s Italienisches Liederbuch it is often a lady, very much in control of a situation, who delivers the coup de foudre (whereby her hapless male victim is effectively skewered) in the poem’s final line. And so it is here. She has expressed her admiration for the hunter’s physical attributes, but now we also learn how she manages to remain so unconcerned about his other girlfriends: he will get nowhere with her unless he marries her—and we are somehow led to believe by the music (and the ebullient postlude) that she is holding all the cards and that her dangling of a carrot in front of this donkey-in-green will triumphantly succeed. Indeed, the music almost seems to whoop with delight.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2010

Apart from two choral settings, between 1877 and 1883 Brahms set five poems by Siegfried Kapper, a left-wing Czech Jew who travelled the length and breadth of Bosnia, Herzegovina and Dalmatia studying the languages and folk customs of those regions. Although composer and poet never knew each other personally, Kapper succeeded Josef Wenzig (1807–1876) as a kind of literary spokesman and middleman for Brahms’s seemingly unquenchable enthusiasm for Slavic literature. The helpful role that Brahms played in the career of Antonín Dvořák is one of the most praiseworthy of his achievements; in return the Czech composer’s music helped Brahms to attune himself to a kind of earthy lyrical style, a style obliquely related to the melodic gift of Schubert, where folk song and art song became indivisible. As Natasha Loges points out, Brahms may also have been influenced by the Kapper settings of Josef Dessauer (1798–1876), a Bohemian composer who lived in Vienna.

The kind of musical style that Brahms was interested in cultivating, folk song in all but name, and an antidote to Viennese sophistication, needed texts that, albeit sung in German, had an exotic tinge to them—not so foreign as to be English or French, of course, but an ‘otherness’ that was contained within the borders of the Habsburg Empire. Kapper and Brahms belonged to the last generation of enthusiasts (rather than experts) who would not allow concerns about scientifically proven folk-song authenticity to disqualify talented pastiche—it was all cheerfully allowed. The poems of Kapper set by Brahms are supposedly German translations from the original Serbian—some of them were exactly that, of course, but others were doubtless original creations. In this respect, that source of original ‘folk songs’, Johannes Brahms, had met his match.

Vorschneller Schwur is one of Brahms’s many Mädchenlieder and offers considerable interpretative opportunities to a female singer, although the freedom suggested by the song’s marking offers her a considerable temptation to slide into arch overinterpretation. Doubling of voice and piano in the first strophe, and the austerity suggested by that musical texture, betokens determination and firm resolve. There is just enough of a trace of church modality in some of the cadences to imply that these promises have been exacted on religious grounds. And then the second verse turns the tables, with the words ‘Heute schon bereut es’, a simple change from minor to major that effects a transformation from Madonna into minx. This is a peasant girl who is not afraid to announce to the world that the very things that some killjoy has told her to forego make her life ‘wohler’—healthier and happier—in this case wearing flowers, drinking red wine, and kissing and being kissed. Connected with this latter activity the extended melismas on ‘wohler’, traversing heights of the stave, leave us in no doubt that this change of mind covers a multitude of sins, and quite brazenly so.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2019

On 21 April 1877 Brahms wrote to his close friend and publisher Fritz Simrock (1837–1901) about the idea of a collection of Mädchenlieder—he had already written the song Mädchenfluch and he saw this as the beginning of a larger project. In the event, Brahms’s various Mädchenlieder were spread between different opus numbers at different times of the composer’s life. After Fritz Simrock’s death, the firm was taken over by his nephew Hans (1861–1910) who, in 1904, conceived the idea of honouring Brahms’s original intention by gathering the Mädchenlieder into a single volume, clearly meant to be performed as a set. It is unlikely that Brahms himself had any say as to the ordering (there is nothing to this effect in any of the surviving letters). The note attached to the published Simrock collection (including a printed facsimile of a part of Brahms’s 1877 letter) was signed simply in the firm’s name—N Simrock GmbH—but it mentions that Brahms had spoken about this project on other occasions, and that it was now a pleasure to see his wishes fulfilled. Simrock was delighted, even if for sheerly commercial reasons, to offer singers a group of songs that might be in demand—sung perhaps alongside Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben. We shall probably never know whether the composer himself would have approved of exactly how the songs from different opus numbers were put together, but the would-be cycle remains effective in performance, and it is always possible that Brahms himself had given some verbal guidance, transmitted from Franz to Hans Simrock, as to how it should one day be assembled. There are of course a number of ‘maiden songs’ by this composer that are not found in this particular set. The famous Von ewiger Liebe Op 43 No 1, for example, is only narrowly disqualified as a Mädchenlied because it is not narrated by a girl from beginning to end. The songs that follow here all fit that criterion.

The Op 95 No 6 poem is a fragment—the last two strophes of a four-verse lyric by Paul Heyse entitled In der Bucht. This is printed in the Heyse Gedichte (1872) as part of a sub-section entitled Landschaften mit Staffage (Landscapes with adornments)—in this case referring to a picture of an Italian washergirl, scarcely fifteen and sleepy-eyed at dawn, who relieves the drudgery of her work by singing a song. The verses that follow, though original Heyse, are worthy of his Italienisches Liederbuch translations. Brahms is not interested in the social realism of the picture, or that the girl is exploited and probably unhappy. Instead he takes the poem-within-a-poem on its own terms. Heyse’s washergirl, struggling to keep awake, is clearly unable to go to sleep in the middle of her working day, but Brahms’s postlude here suggests that the singer of this song, having decided against paradise as a viable alternative to earthly love, drops off to sleep again. The theme of someone preferring to remain on earth with the loved one, rather than entering paradise on one’s own, is famously explored in Schubert’s Seligkeit D433. The marking of Behaglich ('contentedly') is self-explanatory. The skill with which a trifle such as this has been assembled is awe-inspiring: the innocent ear perceives a charming tune with a gracious accompaniment, much of it in alternating quavers beneath the hands, but Brahms is powerfully, if unobtrusively, at work with dove-tailing sequences in both voice and piano, one seeming to shadow and answer the other, the art that conceals art. The piano-writing has a marvellous feminine delicacy about it, and the thirds in both hands, treble and bass clef, at ‘O Herzelied, du Ewigkeit!’ clearly represent male–female companionship in an ideal world. ‘If only’ is the theme of this song, sunlit with the good nature of Mediterranean life.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2011

Probably composed between April 1883 and the summer of 1884, published in December 1884. The song’s autograph is lost.
F minor (original key), 4/4 Einfach

Significant couplings of poet and composer in the history of lieder include Schubert and Goethe, Schumann and Heine, and Wolf and Mörike. Of course Brahms also furnished wonderful settings of these three great poets, but it was the little-remembered Georg Daumer, born in Nuremberg and well over thirty years older, who was this composer’s special discovery. Brahms adopted Daumer’s poetry as something of a special cause, willing to praise its qualities to all and sundry. In 1864 he boldly mixed four Daumer songs with five by the celebrated August von Platen to make his Op 32, and in 1871 he gave Daumer his very own opus number, 57, the poet’s name presented on the title page, with a collection of eight settings. There were three further songs before 1886, of which the one on this recording is the penultimate, as well as three vocal quartets with piano accompaniment, and two sets of Liebeslieder Waltzes (Opp 52 and 65) accompanied by piano duet; those poems were drawn from Polydora, a collection of poetry from around the world.

This song is also taken from Polydora and is purportedly of Turkish origin. Daumer’s speciality was Persian mysticism and Islamic thought—and the first of his two collections entitled Hafis had originally aroused Brahms’s enthusiasm. Like his mentor Schumann, Brahms was a multi-culturalist who looked for variety and relief from the moral restrictions imposed on German poetry. Daumer’s rather indeterminate orientalism furnished Brahms with an exoticism acceptable to his listening public, precisely because German men and women were not depicted in conjunction with these unbridled emotions. Of course Daumer’s orientalism owed much to the Goethe of the West-östlicher Divan, to Platen (whom he met as a young man), and to Rückert, unquestioned genius of oriental studies. Like the eastern evocations of all these poets, Daumer’s work contained erotic undercurrents, but it was probably more the tone of abject suffering when it came to love—devotion unrewarded, unjust rejection, worship without hope of reciprocation—that was grist to Brahms’s own emotional mill.

The song is marvellously eloquent and concise; the lover had offered jewellery, the gift of music and his heart, all in vain, and the song captures the hurt and bruised dignity of someone saying, in the most controlled manner, ‘surely, in return, I deserved better than this?’ Suppressed pain and dissatisfaction are indicated by the gently throbbing left-hand syncopations, the thirds and sixths in the right hand taking on an almost Mahlerian Weltschmerz. At ‘zu empfangen einen bessern Lohn’, hocketing quavers of emotion pass over the music like a momentary storm. It is not in the singer’s nature to make a scene; the suffering turns inward—the purest Brahms.

from notes by Graham Johnson © 2020