It may readily be imagined with what looks askance the composer of the Kinderscenen is favoured by his academic and hide-bound contemporaries. "Romanticism run mad" – "modernism gone crazy;" – "discordant innovations;" – "new-fangled nonsense" – there are few terms too harsh for Herr Schumann; and sometimes he is contemptuously ignored as beyond all possibility of classification. Already sufficiently outré, in the opinion of all conventional musicians, by his adoption of the cyclical form, rather than the orthodox classical, for his abstract pianoforte music – "the whole becoming organic by means of the intimate connection between the various parts;" – already sufficiently outlandish, in the estimation of the average conservative critic, by what is condemned as his grotesquerie and bizarrerie of treatment: Schumann is not careful to answer his opponents, or to defend himself from any charges of lèse-majesté against the imperial art which he serves. That wide and genial tolerance which he extends towards all new composers, he does not demand or even expect for himself. Nevertheless, as he allows, "I used to be quite indifferent to the amount of notice I received, but a wife and children put a different complexion upon everything. It becomes imperative to think of the future." And he is aware that his own personal idiosyncrasies are the strongest obstacle in his way; for he is unable to push or praise himself in the least, and the lordly egotism by dint of which other composers win, or command, a hearing, has been entirely omitted from the making of this dumb genius. He knows no professional jealousy, he never speaks ill of a soul; – but then, one might say that he hardly ever spoke at all. He is almost unknown in society, – partly because he really has no interest whatever apart from music, partly owing to his silent manner and retiring disposition. It is on record that one day after Madame Schumann had been playing with tremendous success at one of the smaller German courts, the Serene Highness who was ruler there enquired of her with great affability, "whether her husband were also musical?" And with his fellow-musicians he is so invincibly taciturn that conversation is almost a farce. Even Wagner, whose powers of loquacity are almost illimitable, resents being reduced to the utterance of an absolute monologue. "When I came to see Schumann," he grumbles, "I related to him my Parisian experiences, spoke of the state of music in France, then of that in Germany, spoke of literature and politics, – but he remained as good as dumb for nearly an hour. Now, one cannot go on talking quite alone. An impossible man!"
The fact is, that the "impossible man" dwells apart in a world of his own, a world peopled by the best folk he has ever encountered either in the flesh or the spirit, and a world where the austerest canons and noblest aspirations of his great art are upheld on a very different plane from that of Leipzig. He has the highest possible view of his vocation and what it should entail. "To send light into the depths of the human heart, that is the artistic calling," he has declared… "The artist is to choose for his companions those who can do something beyond playing passably on one or two instruments – those who are whole men and can understand Shakespeare and Jean Paul… People say, 'It pleased,' or 'It did not please,' – as if there were nothing higher than pleasing the public!"… A man with such notions as these, in the first half of the nineteenth century, must of necessity live and move to a great extent in an ideal atmosphere of his own: and Schumann, to do so the more literally, has created his own company in that "spiritual and romantic league," the Davidsbund, which exists only in his imagination, but exercises considerable vigour none the less.
The Davidsbund is a mystical community of kindred souls, each enlisted, with or without his knowledge, under the banner of "a resolve to do battle in the cause of musical progress, against Philistinism in every form." One can only vaguely compare it to the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in England. "Mozart was as much a member of it as Berlioz now is," so declares its founder. Chopin, Julius Knorr, Schuncke, Carl Banck and others, without any form of enrolment, are members of the Davidite fraternity. New names and old are added from time to time, in the friendly columns of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, which is the organ of the league: and especially Schumann himself appears under a number of noms de guerre, representing the manifold facets of his identity. As Florestan, he speaks for "the turbulent and impulsive side of his nature, full of imaginative activity;" as Eusebius, he expresses those gentle, thoughtful, sensitive qualities which sit so lovably upon him. As Meister Raro, calmly logical, he stands between both the above, and, "acting as arbitrator, sums up their opposing criticisms," much as his father-in-law Friedrich Wieck the great professor might do. To light-hearted, humorous, almost frivolous critiques he signs himself Jeanquirit: and last, not least of the "Davidites," he introduces Mendelssohn as Meritis, and embodies varying traits of his beloved Clara as Zilia, Chiarina, and Cecilia… Call it feather-brained, fantastic, ridiculous, if you will, the Davidsbund has a very definite meaning, and fulfils a very noble purpose. For, to use its inventor's own phrase, "In every age there is a secret band of kindred spirits. Ye who are of this fellowship, see that ye weld the circle firmly, that so the truth of Art may shine ever more and more clearly, shedding joy and blessing far and near."
That remarkable power of expressing the personalities of his friends in music, which has been Schumann's from youth, stands him in good stead for the depicting of various "Davidites": he could show the peculiar characteristics of any one of them in a few moments, on the pianoforte, whereas years would not suffice him to give a verbal explanation. This power of portrayal is noticeable in the very construction of his songs, – such as, for instance, The Two Grenadiers, or Freedom, or The Hidalgo, with its essentially Spanish arrogance.
My days I spend in courting,
With songs and hearts a-sporting,
Or weaponed for a fight!
The fragrant darkness daring,
I gaily forth am faring,
To roam the streets by night,
For love or war preparing,
With bearing proud and light…
The moon her light is flinging,
The powers of Love are springing,
And sombre passions burn …
Or wounds or blossoms bringing,
To-morrow I'll return!
While o'er the horizon darkling,
The first faint star is sparkling,
All prudence cold I spurn, —
Or wounds or blossoms bringing,
To-morrow I'll return!
In the course of the morning Schumann, reluctantly leaving a mass of unfinished MSS. upon his desk and pianoforte, betakes himself to his duties at the Conservatorium, where he has been professor for about a year. Conscientious and painstaking in tuition as in all else, he is not naturally a good teacher. He seems to be devoid of the priceless power of imparting verbal instruction, or of imparting the secret of the system whereby a desired effect shall be attained. His habitual and increasing melancholy reserve rises up like a barrier between himself and his pupils: his reticence chills and bewilders them. His own musical education has been an entirely personal matter, and not wrought out upon the accepted scholastic lines. Moreover, intercourse with musical people has always "appealed to Schumann far more, and with greater success, than dry lessons in thorough bass and counterpoint." Hence, whilst he appears almost unable to assist the novice in the beginning, or tadpole stage, he is able to afford invaluable help and stimulating criticism to those young artists with whom he may come in contact, and who adore him for his sympathetic kindness. The violinist Joachim never forgot how, as a boy of thirteen, he played the Kreutzer sonata with his host at the house of Mendelssohn. Lonely and silent all the while, Schumann remained in a corner of the room; but subsequently, while Joachim was sitting near him, he leaned forward and pointed to the stars, shining down into the room through the open window. He patted the lad's knee with gentle, friendly encouragement. "Do you think they know up there" he queried, "that a little boy has been playing down here with Mendelssohn?" – This question was the very essence of Schumann, – romantic, mystical, full of tender dreams.