So often in classical music discourse, Western European composers get siloed into two major categories: those who write masterful instrumental music, and those who write excellent vocal music.  Johannes Brahms (1833-1897), despite never penning an opera, is a rare exception to that rule.  With some of his vocal music rivaling the popularity of his symphonies, concertos, and chamber music, the German Romantic composer has left behind a legacy of deeply-moving vocal writing that contributes to his status as one of the greatest composers of the 19th century.

Without a doubt, Brahms’ most famous vocal works are choral – Ein deutsches Requiem (A German Requiem), for example – but he also published over 200 songs for solo voice.  One unique set, Zwei Gesänge (Two Songs), Op. 91, was dedicated to his close friends Amalie and Joseph Joachim.  Brahms mirrored the two musicians’ own instruments by scoring the piece essentially as a duet between Amalie’s voice and Joseph’s viola, with Brahms at the piano providing a supporting accompaniment.

Placed second in the published set, the rapturous “Geistliches Wiegenlied” (Sacred Cradle Song) came first chronologically, penned in 1864 to celebrate the birth of the couple’s son Johannes.  The song opens with the tune of the carol Joseph lieber, Joseph mein in the viola. Once the alto vocal line enters, the two autumnal voices become intertwined in delicate counterpoint.  Echoes of the carol continue to influence later portions of the song, creating a lovely lullaby.

Brahms did not pen the companion song, “Gestillte Sehnsucht” (Stilled Longing), until two decades later, by which point the Joachim marriage had dissolved.  Many see its composition as Brahms’s attempt to help reconcile the couple.  It certainly captures a more melancholy tone than the earlier song. The relationship of the voice and viola lines almost seems more tentative and halting, as if perceived through the lens of the couple’s separation.  Interestingly, the composer reversed the ordering of the pieces upon publication, thereby giving the set a more optimistic emotional trajectory than the real-life couple actually enjoyed.

In the 19th century, Russia was still largely beholden to a western European cultural identity – French in particular – that dated back to the reigns of Peter and Catherine. But by the middle of the 1800s, following several regional revolutions in 1848, a strong nationalist spirit emerged in various countries, including Russia. With this renewed devotion to “native” traditions and means of expression (no more speaking French or building Italianate architecture!) came a parallel push for music that was more truly Russian. A group of loose-knit composers, dubbed “The Five” or “The Mighty Handful,” came to symbolize this new direction.

Among “The Five” were Mily Balakirev, Modest Mussorgsky, Cesar Cui and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, as well as a professional chemist and part-time composer, Alexander Borodin (1833-1887). Borodin viewed himself as a scientist; music was an avocation, but also something he took very seriously. He was born in St. Petersburg as the illegitimate son of a Georgian nobleman, who nevertheless provided young Alexander with a first-rate education. Borodin was already employed as a chemist when his first musical works began to appear, largely inspired by his friendship with Balakirev. This mentor helped bring forth several of Borodin’s largest symphonic scores, including two symphonies, an opera (Prince Igor), the exotic tone poem In the Steppes of Central Asia, and the popular Polovtsian Dances.

Borodin’s “Mighty” colleagues were not as encouraging of his efforts in absolute, traditional instrumental chamber music. For them, this reeked too strongly of European influence. That influence, of course, was very real, and Borodin felt a strong attraction for the genres made so successful by the likes of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. He composed two string quartets. The String Quartet No. 2 has become a staple of the Romantic chamber music literature, both for its inherent lyricism and its diverse formal structure.

The opening movement presents a traditional sonata form. Contrary to many predecessors, however, it opens with a more subdued, sentimental melody first, followed by a more forceful second theme later. The composer was himself a cellist, and it is that instrument which launches the opening theme – a beautiful melody we will welcome multiple times throughout the movement. As at the very beginning, Borodin usually pairs the cello with the soaring violin. Analysts interpret this partnership as symbolic of the love between the composer and his wife. Borodin admitted the quartet was inspired by reflections of marital bliss, and the work took shape during a time of deep personal joy on summer holiday in 1881.

Given the rapturous atmosphere of the opening movement, Borodin’s decision to follow with an energetic Scherzo rather than a conventional Adagio seems entirely logical. Precedents can be found in Beethoven (Ninth Symphony, Piano Sonata Op. 110) and Brahms (Piano Concerto No. 2), but the most important aspect of this movement is what it became after Borodin’s death. Broadway fans will recognize several portions of this quartet that became source material for the musical Kismet. The Scherzo’s second theme lives on as the popular song “Baubles, Bangles, and Beads.” The success of Kismet explains how a relatively obscure Russian chemist-composer who died in 1887 won a posthumous Tony Award in 1954.

The third movement is arguably the emotional core of the entire quartet. Titled “Notturno,” we are reminded of points made in conjunction with yesterday’s noon concert: composers for centuries have been inspired to compose music that evokes, imagines, and celebrates the mystery and hidden passions of the night. Borodin infuses every moment of the main theme with signifiers of longing: a singing cello line marked cantabile ed espressivo, throbbing inner voices, and drooping chromatic sigh figures. When the ethereal violin reply begins on high A, just try not to get chills! The later course of the movement brings in suggestions of sonata form, as the main theme is developed across various keys prior to a radiant reprise. For the climax Borodin presents the melody in tight canon, an intimate conversation supported by pizzicato cello as if literally plucking at our heartstrings.

For the rousing Finale, Borodin reveals the extent of his compositional training. While showcasing contrapuntal technique, this movement is no mere academic exercise. It opens with two contrasting statements between high and low strings, very much in the manner of Beethoven’s famous Difficult Decision (“Muss es sein”) motif from the Op. 135 string quartet. From hesitant beginnings, we build quickly – instrument by instrument – to a vigorous Vivace for all four players. These cryptic questions and answers continue to recur; even more, they provide the starting point for most of the faster episodes played across the Finale. It’s too much to call this a perfect string quartet. At the same time, it is very hard to see where Borodin could have done anything better.

Emily Masincup and Jason Stell, © 2025