âIâm not surprised. But we mustnât judge her harshly,â he added, to Robertâs parents. âHer torment had become unbearable. The infection had spread to her vulva. The itch she had experienced periodically over the rest of her body became intensified when it reached the delicate tissues of the genitalia. To see her try to alleviate itâ¦â The doctor shook his head. âHer efforts were as tragic and unsightly as the disease. And there was nothing to be done. I tried everything, as you know. There was nothing to be done.â
âTry this!â screamed Robert as he threw the crumpled blossoms from the toadflax at the doctor and ran toward the stairs to escape from existence in the room where his sister had left her suffering to him.
Leipzig
JANUARY 22, 1826
An angel-child floats down from on high ,
Sits at the keys, and the songs sweep by .
Robert Schumann
Friedrich Wieck celebrated the first anniversary of his divorce from Claraâs mother by having a new Stein piano delivered for his daughter.
He could not believe she was his. It was not the possession of her, to which he was entitled by law, but the possession of her , precisely her being possessed by what he could not have given her himself. She was a genius at playing the piano. And he, while he might be a genius at teaching the piano, was not at playing it. And genius was not something to be taught, only nurtured. Therefore, she did not come to her genius through him. Therefore, he could not believe she was his.
But she was his. She was his by law, and she was his by love. It was even his love for her that had allowed him to let her, his firstborn after the death of little Adelheid, go off to Plauen with her faithless mother and her lover, Bargiel, for the summer of âtwenty-four. She was female, and she could neither speak nor hear (words only; he was convinced she could hear music), and he let her mother keep her for the few months until her fifth birthday. Then he sent for her. He didnât care whether she could talk to him or hear him talk to her. He wanted her for the music he knew was in her.
Her mother had no choice in the matter and did not try to keep her. By Saxon law, thank the good Lord, Clara was his property, to do with as he wished. And what he wished was to nurture her genius.
Marianne had begged him to allow her to deliver Clara personally. But he couldnât bear the sight of her, his beautiful wife, who had betrayed him with his own good friend and colleague. And he couldnât bear the idea that she might come back into this house where she had allowed herself to be courted by the man who had become her husband in place of him. So he had sent his maid to Altenburg, halfway between Leipzig and Plauen and thus a compromise in itself, to fetch Clara and bring her to him.
âHello, Clara,â he said when Fräulein Strobel appeared with his daughter. Her eyes, which had always seemed unnaturally large, perhaps in compensation for the apparent uselessness of her mouth, now appeared positively monstrous, perfect black eggs set in the pearl of her face.
She looked at him blankly.
Fräulein Strobel shook her head sadly.
He didnât care she could not speak. Or even that she could not hearâlanguage, that is. In fact, he thought she might be all the better a pupil if she couldnât talk back to him or ask questions of him and if he didnât have to talk to her but merely demonstrate and play and thus guide her only by touch and the sound of the piano. Music and words were inimical.
He did not believe that instruction should begin before the pupilâs sixth birthday. Never mind that Mozart had become celebrated overnight when he played publicly in Vienna at that very age in 1762. So he planned to wait a year before sitting Clara down at the piano.
He lasted a month.
On October 27, 1824, five years, one month, two weeks after her birth, he conducted her first
âTry this!â screamed Robert as he threw the crumpled blossoms from the toadflax at the doctor and ran toward the stairs to escape from existence in the room where his sister had left her suffering to him.
Leipzig
JANUARY 22, 1826
An angel-child floats down from on high ,
Sits at the keys, and the songs sweep by .
Robert Schumann
Friedrich Wieck celebrated the first anniversary of his divorce from Claraâs mother by having a new Stein piano delivered for his daughter.
He could not believe she was his. It was not the possession of her, to which he was entitled by law, but the possession of her , precisely her being possessed by what he could not have given her himself. She was a genius at playing the piano. And he, while he might be a genius at teaching the piano, was not at playing it. And genius was not something to be taught, only nurtured. Therefore, she did not come to her genius through him. Therefore, he could not believe she was his.
But she was his. She was his by law, and she was his by love. It was even his love for her that had allowed him to let her, his firstborn after the death of little Adelheid, go off to Plauen with her faithless mother and her lover, Bargiel, for the summer of âtwenty-four. She was female, and she could neither speak nor hear (words only; he was convinced she could hear music), and he let her mother keep her for the few months until her fifth birthday. Then he sent for her. He didnât care whether she could talk to him or hear him talk to her. He wanted her for the music he knew was in her.
Her mother had no choice in the matter and did not try to keep her. By Saxon law, thank the good Lord, Clara was his property, to do with as he wished. And what he wished was to nurture her genius.
Marianne had begged him to allow her to deliver Clara personally. But he couldnât bear the sight of her, his beautiful wife, who had betrayed him with his own good friend and colleague. And he couldnât bear the idea that she might come back into this house where she had allowed herself to be courted by the man who had become her husband in place of him. So he had sent his maid to Altenburg, halfway between Leipzig and Plauen and thus a compromise in itself, to fetch Clara and bring her to him.
âHello, Clara,â he said when Fräulein Strobel appeared with his daughter. Her eyes, which had always seemed unnaturally large, perhaps in compensation for the apparent uselessness of her mouth, now appeared positively monstrous, perfect black eggs set in the pearl of her face.
She looked at him blankly.
Fräulein Strobel shook her head sadly.
He didnât care she could not speak. Or even that she could not hearâlanguage, that is. In fact, he thought she might be all the better a pupil if she couldnât talk back to him or ask questions of him and if he didnât have to talk to her but merely demonstrate and play and thus guide her only by touch and the sound of the piano. Music and words were inimical.
He did not believe that instruction should begin before the pupilâs sixth birthday. Never mind that Mozart had become celebrated overnight when he played publicly in Vienna at that very age in 1762. So he planned to wait a year before sitting Clara down at the piano.
He lasted a month.
On October 27, 1824, five years, one month, two weeks after her birth, he conducted her first
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