Shortly after Johannes Brahms met the Schumanns in 1853, Robert Schumann published an article announcing a composer to watch:   

Many a new significant talent has appeared on the scene; a new force in music seemed imminent, as witnessed by many aspiring artists of recent times, even though their work is known to a rather narrow circle only. I felt that in following the progress of these select ones with the keenest of interest, that one day there must suddenly emerge the one who would be chosen to express the most exalted spirit of the times in an ideal manner, one who would not bring us mastery in gradual stages but who, like Minerva, would spring fully armed from the head of Jove. And he has arrived—a youth at whose cradle the graces and heroes of old stood guard. His name is Johannes Brahms.  

Flattered, Brahms was also concerned. “The public praise that you have deigned to bestow upon me will have so greatly increased the expectations of the musical world regarding my work that I do not know how I shall manage to do even approximate justice to it,” he wrote to Schumann. “You will readily understand that I am straining every nerve to bring as little disgrace as possible on your name.” 

Brahms struggled with perceived pressure his entire career—especially when writing symphonies. Brahms avoided them for years, composing several proto-symphonic works before finally producing his First Symphony at the ripe old age of 43. It was worth the wait. As the critic Eduard Hanslick proclaimed, “What symphony of the last thirty or forty years is even remotely comparable with those of Brahms?” Indeed, the work invites hyperbolic statements. Following the heaven-storming first movement is an incredibly lush, romantic Andante. An Allegretto serves as a palate-cleanser before the tripartite finale takes the symphony to its grand conclusion.