His composition-lessons over, he conducts a part-singing class. Orchestral conducting is abhorrent to him; it is "too defiant and conspicuous a task." He cannot make his meaning clear by word of mouth: and in gesture he is singularly deficient. But in part-singing he is an excellent instructor, because he is seated at the piano and can indicate there the suggestion which he fails to convey viva-voce. Even now, in the wreck of his abilities as a pianist, it is possible to imagine what he might have been: he can produce an extraordinary depth and richness of tone, seeming to obtain some of his effects by unusual and almost illegitimate means. His accentuation is very slight, and he uses both pedals too frequently and too freely. Notwithstanding these peculiarities, however, the same indefinable magic pervades his piano-playing as his compositions.
Nervous, excitable, uneasy, the master draws a breath of relief when the class is dismissed. The pleasant Hebraic face of Mendelssohn nods in at his door in passing. The two musicians are so busily engaged, that often they hardly exchange a word for weeks together. Mendelssohn, the recipient of many a generous and whole-hearted encomium from his devotee Schumann, does not return this fraternal enthusiasm. To his well-balanced mind, the silent moody man and his productions are too wild, too eccentric, too uncanny. He regards them, at times, with a species of grudging admiration: at others, he sides in heart, if not in speech, with the current opinion of the town. "Opposition to all artistic progress has always been a distinctive characteristic of Leipzig musical society," and therefore horror-stricken hands are uplifted at the editor of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, his heretical doctrines, and still more heretical deeds. The good people of the Thomas-School Choral Society, the audience at the Gewandhaus concerts, the subscribers to opposition musical papers, regard Herr Schumann very much as the knight regarded the lady at the close of his own magnificent Waldesgesprach.
"The hour is late, the night is cold, —
Who through the forest rides so bold?
The wood is wide, – thou art alone, —
O lovely maid, be thou my own!"
"Great is the craft and guile of men,
With grief my heart is rent in twain;
Far sounds the bugle to and fro, —
Away! my name thou dost not know!"
"Thy steed and thou so bright array'd,
So wondrous fair, thou lovely maid, —
– I know thee now! God! let me fly!
Thou art the fairy Lorelei!"
"Thou know'st me now – my towers do shine
Deep mirror'd in the dark blue Rhine, —
The wind blows cold, the day is o'er, —
Thou shalt escape me never more!"
In the afternoon, Schumann, back at home, is occupied with creative work. This, perhaps, is the most congenial part of his day: for, as it has been said of him, he sees life musically, and whatever happens to impress him takes the form of music. Steadily, deliberately, of set purpose, and yet with the authentic fire of divine inspiration infusing his smallest effort, he has conquered, one by one, in every field of creative art. His finest pianoforte works were composed during the wretched years of strain and stress whilst he was waiting to marry Clara, held apart from her by her jealous and inexorable father, until (again like the Brownings) the lovers took matters into their own hands and were married in sudden and in secret. Three of his four great symphonies saw the light in one year, 1841, – an achievement truly colossal. Last year, 1843, he was studying and perfecting himself in chamber music. His life, outwardly so uneventful, has been abnormally prolific in brain-work: and that of no fatal fluency or shallow meretriciousness, but conceived upon the highest possible plane. "The more clearly we examine Schumann's ideas," says Liszt, "the more power and life do we discover in them: and the more we study them, the more are we amazed at the wealth and fertility which had before escaped us." And his own theories of art are bound to evolve themselves thus: – for "Only think," he has written, "what circumstances must be combined to produce the beautiful in all its dignity and splendour. We need, – 1st, lofty deep purposes and ideality in a composition; 2nd, enthusiasm in description; 3rd, masterly execution and harmony of action, closely combined; 4th, innate desire for giving and receiving, a momentarily favourable mood (on both sides, that of listener and performer); 5th, the most fortunate conjunction of the relatives of time, as well as of the more especial question of place and other accessories; 6th, sympathy of impression, feelings and ideas – a reflection of artistic pleasure in the eyes of others."
And these definitions apply in all their detail to the outcome of Schumann's happiest year of all, – the year after his union with Clara, – the time when like a bird he burst into infinite ecstasy of melody, and eclipsed himself with the number, variety and bewildering beauty of his vocal compositions. That perfect balance between words and music, that power of identifying himself with the poet whose words he "sets," which pre-eminently differentiates Schumann from all other musicians, was born of "hopes fulfilled and mutual love." There are no songs which can compare with his, in passionate intensity and depth of emotion. It may be that only the skilled and sympathetic musician can interpret them with full effect: but the least expert auditor can be poignantly affected by them. Especially is this the case with his treatments of Heine, – the one poet par excellence in whom he discovers all he can desire of power, of pathos and of passion. "The lyrics Die Lotos-blume (The Lotus-flower) and Du bist wie eine Blume (Thou art like unto a flower) are among the most perfect things found in the realms of song, in their enchanting truth and delicacy of sentiment"; and "not one of all those subtle touches … which make Heine's poetry what it is, has been lost upon Schumann." Ich grolle nicht (I will not chide) is unapproachable in its white-heat of uttermost despair.
I will not chide, although my heart should break,
Though all my hopes have died, lost Love, for thy dear sake —
I will not chide.
Though thou be bright bedeck'd with diamond-shine,
No ray of joy illumines that heart of thine,
I know full well!
I will not chide, although my heart should break, —
I saw it all in dreaming,
I saw the night that thro' thy soul is streaming,
I saw the snake that on thy heart doth feed,
I saw, my love, how sad thou art indeed, —
I will not chide!
Die Beiden Grenadieren (The Two Grenadiers), with Schumann's favourite Marseillaise introduced in such masterly fashion at the end, remains an unrivalled utterance of manly and patriotic grief.
To France were returning two Grenadiers,