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more fire and confidence this time. If not a fullblown virtuoso, he was still a superb pianist in those days. He played his work as composers do when they are able performers: from the inside, from a penetrating understanding of every gesture and its meaning to the form and expressive shape. The Beethovenian first movement gave way to tender, introspective variations on a folk song—classical in technique, Romantic in inspiration, unique in sound. As the music unfolded the youth bent intensely over the keyboard, sometimes unconsciously humming along with the melody.4 An electrifying scherzo broke out, with a songful trio for contrast. Then a finale headlong and scherzo-like, with startling shifts of accent that must have appealed to Schumann—he had done things like that with rhythm. If in principle the finale too much resembled the third movement in rhythm and texture, the material was too breathtaking to leave room for complaint.

The Schumanns heard a work that from beginning to end combined youthful extravagance of invention with a precocious sense of form and continuity. And they saw a boyish-looking artist who already possessed the capacity to shape a long piece with the most rigorous logic, yet with the freedom of an improvisation. It is a skill training can refine but in the end is a gift, a supremely rare one. (Did Schumann understand that he never quite possessed the gift himself?) The Schumanns also saw that the sonata strained the limits of the piano and ten fingers. This music yearned for an orchestra.

The sonata pounded to a close with double handfuls of staccato chords. Then came the paralyzing moment of waiting for a response. Schumann only said they would like to hear more, anything he wanted to show them. So Brahms went on, playing piece after piece, the repertoire that had dazzled musicians in the last weeks—the F# Minor Sonata, the E Minor Scherzo, other works of which nothing survives. Would the music persuade these two? Apparently Robert and Clara said little, just listened.

It was well past noon when Brahms had displayed all the wares he cared to. Schumann rose, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “You and I understand each other.” What did he mean by that? Brahms wondered.5 Still uncertain over the impression he had made, the visitor was ushered to the door with an invitation to lunch next day.

Marie Schumann came home from school to find her parents at the table talking rapturously about nothing but Brahms. Clara wrote first impressions in her journal:

Here again is one who comes as if sent from God! He played us sonatas and scherzos of his own, all of them rich in fantasy, depth of feeling and mastery of form. Robert could see no reason to suggest any changes. It is truly moving to behold him at the piano, his interesting young face transfigured by the music, his fine hands which easily overcome the greatest difficulties (his things are very difficult), and above all his marvelous works.… A great future lies before him, for when he comes to the point of writing for orchestra, then he will have found the true medium for his imagination.6

Schumann’s diary note that night is laconic, but no less significant: “Visit from Brahms (a genius).”

NEXT DAY BRAHMS DITHERED, too nervous to set off for his lunch invitation. When he failed to turn up, Robert dispatched Clara to track him down. She walked through Düsseldorf peering into one cheap inn after another until she found the youth and towed him back to the house with her.7 That day Brahms began to realize the impression he had made. It seemed unbelievable, but Schumann the great and still neglected creator, and his wife the legendary pianist, admired him and offered their friendship. Brahms wrote Joachim:

What shall I write you about Schumann; shall I break out into encomiums of his genius and character, or shall I lament that people still sin grievously in misjudging and so little honoring a good man and divine artist? And I myself, how long did I sin likewise?8

The Schumanns persuaded Brahms—his incredulity still made him shy—to stay on in