In Russia they long did languish,
And as they came to the German frontier,
They hung down their heads with anguish.
'Twas then that they heard the story of woe,
That France was forlorn and forsaken,
Besieged and defeated, and crushed by the foe,
And the Emp'ror, their Emp'ror was taken!
* * * * *
"My cross of honour and crimson band
Lay on my heart right surely;
My musket place within my hand,
And gird my sword securely:
So will I lie there and harken, dumb, —
Like sentry when hosts are camping, —
Till I hear the roar of the cannon come,
And the chargers above are tramping!
"Above me shall ride then my Emp'ror so brave,
While swords are flashing and clashing,
While sabres are fiercely contending, —
In that hour of his need I will rise from the grave,
The cause of my Emp'ror defending!"
And in his song-cycle Frauen-lieben und Leben (Woman's Life and Love) he has evinced "extraordinary depths of penetration into a side of human character which men are generally supposed incapable of understanding – the intensity and endurance of a pure woman's love."… Yet who should know it if he does not?..
Towards evening, various folk drop in by ones and twos, – musical acquaintances, it need hardly be said, for there is no other topic than that of their art which they can discuss with Robert Schumann. The discussion may possibly be on their part only, with a man like this, of whom it is told that one day he went into a friend's house, whistling softly sotto voce, – and, with nothing but a cheery nod, walked to the piano and opened it, – played a few chords, – made a modulation, and returned to the original key, – shut the piano, gave another courteous nod, and – exit, in utter silence! He is, indeed, capable of sitting for hours in the midst of a merry chattering company, completely lost in thought, employed upon the evolution of some musical thought. But when he does speak, his words are all altruistically ardent, full of eager praise and joyful appreciation for the great names of music, whose excellencies he loves to point out. "The great masters, it is to them I go," he avows with the humility of a child, – "to Gluck the simple, to Händel the complicated, and to Bach the most complicated of all." His admiration of "John Sebastian" is boundless. "I always flee to Bach, and he gives me fresh strength and desire for life and work… The profound combinations, the poetry and humour of the new school of music principally emanate from Bach."
Mozart is to him, as to all great artists, a veritable divinity. "Do not put Beethoven," says he, "too soon into the hands of the young: steep and strengthen them in the fresh animation of Mozart… The music of the first act of Figaro I consider the most heavenly that Mozart ever wrote." And with his customary absolute freedom from professional envy, he terms Mendelssohn "the Mozart of the nineteenth century," and will not even sit in the same room with anyone who disparages him. He has upheld with noble enthusiasm the merits of such rising stars as Chopin, Heller, Gade, Sterndale-Bennett, Berlioz, Franz, and Brahms. He has, it may be said, only one bête noir, the blatant and flamboyant Meyerbeer. Regarding Wagner, his opinion is in abeyance. "Wagner is a man of education and spirit … certainly a clever fellow, full of crazy ideas, and audacious to a degree… Yet he cannot write or think of four consecutive lines of beautiful, hardly of good, music." So Schumann has delivered himself at one time; but he is ready to revoke this judgment, and to declare, "I must take back one or two things I said after reading the score of Tannhäuser; it makes quite a different effect on the stage. Much of it impressed me deeply."
When his guests depart, Schumann accompanies them a little way, that he may, according to his invariable custom, spend an hour or so of the evening at Popper's Restaurant. There, should his friend Verhulst be present, he enjoys what is for him a free and animated conversation – otherwise, among the chink of glasses and clank of plates, he remains aloof and meditative.
Evening darkens slowly into the calm spring night, – that Frühlingsnacht which he has set forth in such exquisite music – as he regains his home and rejoins his wife. She is practising softly lest the children awaken, but rises with a smile of joy, and receives her husband as though he had been a year away. Side by side, holding each others' hands, they sit by the window and inhale the sweet April air. A sense of beatitude encompasses them.
"Hast thou done well to-day, Robert?" she enquires.
"Well? Yes – very well: better than I hoped or expected. A soft voice seemed to whisper to me whilst I worked, 'It is not in vain that thou art writing.'… But in such an hour as this, my Clara, I long more deeply to give expression to my holiest thoughts. To apply his powers to sacred music must always be the loftiest aim of an artist. In youth we are all too firmly rooted to earth with its joys and sorrows: but with advancing age, our branches extend higher. And so I hope the time for my efforts in this direction is not far distant."
"It is, then, at present, eluding you – the study of sacred music?"
"It demands a power of treating the chorus – a knowledge of superb ensemble and massive effects to which I have not yet attained." And he heaves a sigh as of one faced with mighty problems. For to this man, "from whom the knowledge of no emotion in the individual heart is withheld, it is a matter of extreme difficulty to give expression to … those feelings which affect the whole of mankind in common."
"For you, who can realize human love so devoutly, there should be no eventual hindrance to the expression of love towards God," says the little dark-eyed woman, pressing his hand with warm devotion.
"You yourself are the concrete expression of love towards God," the composer murmurs, gazing down at her in the twilight – "you and your music together. If I once said I loved you because of your goodness, it is only half true. Everything is so harmoniously combined in your nature, that I cannot think of you apart from your music – and so I love you one with the other." A sudden spasm contracts his face as he speaks – he turns his head wildly to and fro.
"Robert!" she exclaims, "what is the matter? You shuddered – your hand has gone cold and clammy. What ails you?"
"What are those distant wind-instruments?" he asks in awestruck tones. "What are they playing? Don't you hear? Such harmonies are too beautiful for earth…"
Clara strains her ears into the stillness. "There is nothing – nothing audible whatever," she asseverates. "Robert, you are ill – you have overworked your head – "
"I have heard them before … beautiful, beautiful! – Ah! now they are silent!" and he passes his hand over his brow with a bewildered air.