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Authors: Morley Torgov
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Clara.
Why, I asked myself, had she chosen to distance herself from her husband and his bashful but appealing protégé? Was it diffidence on her part? Hardly. Clara Schumann was a woman accustomed to occupying the centre of the stage. Despite mothering six children, she was not a subscriber to the popular view of German womanhood, a view that regarded females as domestic creatures whose public activities should be limited to attending church on Sundays.
Was she jealous of her husband's reputation as a composer? While all Europe acknowledged her virtuosity as a pianist, her own accomplishments at writing music had been eclipsed by her husband's, judging by critical accounts I had read. That she was serious in her efforts no one doubted, but being serious was one thing, being inspired quite another. A piano concerto she'd composed was acknowledged by critics as competent, a compliment akin to declaring that, as a chef, the woman knew how to cook a pot roast.
Putting aside for the moment what I took to be her infatuation with this fellow Brahms, was it possible that she saw in him both a formidable competitor with Robert in the area of composition, and a formidable competitor with her as a performing artist? Behind her ostensible pride in promoting the young man from Hamburg, was there a fear that he might turn out to be too successful before long? In the financially uncertain musical world, every commission to compose received by Brahms would be a commission Robert Schumann failed to receive; every engagement to perform as a pianist would be an engagement Clara failed to obtain. With six children to feed and clothe, every thaler counted these days.
There was another possibility: I recalled her question earlier in the evening: Have you come to spy on us? My impromptu answer at the time might have served to persuade a gullible person, but Clara Schumann did not strike me as one who was easily gulled. By choosing to sit as far from Brahms as she could, was she hoping to dispel any suggestion that Johannes Brahms's proximity was vital to her own wellbeing? Ever since the night of Robert Schumann's breakdown at the concert hall, the notion had been rooting itself in my brain that there were blanks in the Schumannsâ marriage. Were these blanks now being filled one way or another by a young and vigorous Brahms? Call it a policeman's instinct for the suspicious; call it cynicism; whatever the reasons, I was sure the relationship between Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms contained all the ingredients of a secret and passionate love affair, one that was bound to evolve, if indeed it had not already done so.
Applause and cries of âEncore!â were still in the air following the Beethoven piece when suddenly and rather noisily, the wide doors leading from the foyer were thrown open.
All eyes turned to the back of the drawing room.
There at last, poised like a statue, magnificent in silk top hat and long black cape, stood Franz Liszt.
Chapter Ten
C areful not to disturb a single strand of his long, perfectly combed hair, Liszt doffed his silk top hat and handed it to a waiting servant, then waited calmly as the servant slipped the wool serge cape from around his shoulders. His manner was that of a prince accustomed to being attended in this way.
âA thousand pardons for this rude intrusion,â Franz Liszt called out. âI was unavoidably detained. Alas, when it comes to timing, Germany's railways are not as gifted as Germany's musicians.â With a helpless shrug, he added simply, âThe evening train from Weimarââ Everyone in the room seemed to understand. There were sympathetic nods and the odd wise chuckle here and there.
Schumann made his way toward his newly-arrived guest, a broad smile on his face. Extending a hand, he said (a little too loudly, I thought), âMy dear Franz, Clara and I are honoured to have you under our humble roof!â The two men embraced, heartily slapping
Why, I asked myself, had she chosen to distance herself from her husband and his bashful but appealing protégé? Was it diffidence on her part? Hardly. Clara Schumann was a woman accustomed to occupying the centre of the stage. Despite mothering six children, she was not a subscriber to the popular view of German womanhood, a view that regarded females as domestic creatures whose public activities should be limited to attending church on Sundays.
Was she jealous of her husband's reputation as a composer? While all Europe acknowledged her virtuosity as a pianist, her own accomplishments at writing music had been eclipsed by her husband's, judging by critical accounts I had read. That she was serious in her efforts no one doubted, but being serious was one thing, being inspired quite another. A piano concerto she'd composed was acknowledged by critics as competent, a compliment akin to declaring that, as a chef, the woman knew how to cook a pot roast.
Putting aside for the moment what I took to be her infatuation with this fellow Brahms, was it possible that she saw in him both a formidable competitor with Robert in the area of composition, and a formidable competitor with her as a performing artist? Behind her ostensible pride in promoting the young man from Hamburg, was there a fear that he might turn out to be too successful before long? In the financially uncertain musical world, every commission to compose received by Brahms would be a commission Robert Schumann failed to receive; every engagement to perform as a pianist would be an engagement Clara failed to obtain. With six children to feed and clothe, every thaler counted these days.
There was another possibility: I recalled her question earlier in the evening: Have you come to spy on us? My impromptu answer at the time might have served to persuade a gullible person, but Clara Schumann did not strike me as one who was easily gulled. By choosing to sit as far from Brahms as she could, was she hoping to dispel any suggestion that Johannes Brahms's proximity was vital to her own wellbeing? Ever since the night of Robert Schumann's breakdown at the concert hall, the notion had been rooting itself in my brain that there were blanks in the Schumannsâ marriage. Were these blanks now being filled one way or another by a young and vigorous Brahms? Call it a policeman's instinct for the suspicious; call it cynicism; whatever the reasons, I was sure the relationship between Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms contained all the ingredients of a secret and passionate love affair, one that was bound to evolve, if indeed it had not already done so.
Applause and cries of âEncore!â were still in the air following the Beethoven piece when suddenly and rather noisily, the wide doors leading from the foyer were thrown open.
All eyes turned to the back of the drawing room.
There at last, poised like a statue, magnificent in silk top hat and long black cape, stood Franz Liszt.
Chapter Ten
C areful not to disturb a single strand of his long, perfectly combed hair, Liszt doffed his silk top hat and handed it to a waiting servant, then waited calmly as the servant slipped the wool serge cape from around his shoulders. His manner was that of a prince accustomed to being attended in this way.
âA thousand pardons for this rude intrusion,â Franz Liszt called out. âI was unavoidably detained. Alas, when it comes to timing, Germany's railways are not as gifted as Germany's musicians.â With a helpless shrug, he added simply, âThe evening train from Weimarââ Everyone in the room seemed to understand. There were sympathetic nods and the odd wise chuckle here and there.
Schumann made his way toward his newly-arrived guest, a broad smile on his face. Extending a hand, he said (a little too loudly, I thought), âMy dear Franz, Clara and I are honoured to have you under our humble roof!â The two men embraced, heartily slapping
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