Robert Schumann

by Martin Geck

  These acts of meanness and malice cannot simply be ignored, for they found an avid audience among the tabloid journalists invoked by Philip Roth and even today continue to be bandied about in the guise of cultural gossip. But such reports can at least be countered by an account of a marriage based on love that was capable of withstanding the extreme pressures that were placed upon it. In order to provide this account, we do not need to place an unduly sentimental interpretation on the vast amount of surviving evidence. It is enough to examine this material in a spirit of impartiality. Even so, the events that we shall be describing remain inescapably and undeniably tragic.

  Until February 1854, when his illness finally erupted with such devastating consequences, Schumann fought an impressive battle against the psychological problems that were a permanent part of his life. Above all, his varied work as an artist helped him to forget even the professional altercations in which he became embroiled. But from February 1854 onward, he found himself suffering increasingly from difficulties speaking and auditory problems. On February 17, Clara noted in her diary that her husband thought that he could hear the voices of angels that soon turned into “demonic voices attended by terrible music” and proclaiming that “he was a sinner whom they planned to cast down into Hell.”5 At the same time, however, Schumann was also able to cast a critical eye over the proofs of his cello concerto and to note down his Geistervariationen (Ghost, or spirit, variations), a simple piano piece based on a theme from the violin concerto but, its simplicity notwithstanding, worth taking seriously as a work. Clara ensured that he had constant medical care and remained at his side day and night. But Schumann, dressed only in a dressing gown and slippers, still managed to slip out of the house at two in the afternoon on February 27. It was raining heavily and was bitterly cold, but there was a carnival atmosphere in the town—it was the day before Shrove Tuesday—and his strange appearance excited no further notice. He ran to the nearby bridge over the Rhine and gave the attendants his handkerchief instead of the toll they demanded. From the middle section of the bridge he threw himself into the river but was rescued by some fishermen, who had observed the scene from the riverbank. They pulled him into a boat, although he again tried to jump back into the ice-cold water. “I dreamt that I drowned in the Rhine,” he had noted in 1829 at the time of a boat trip on the river,6 although on that occasion, of course, he had been writing in the spirit of the sentimental romanticism inspired by the Rhine as a symbol of all that was German.

  “His journey home must have been terrible,” the young musician Ruppert Becker wrote in his diary, “he was transported by eight men, while a crowd of plebs made fun of him in the only way they knew how.”7 On March 4, on the advice of his doctors and also at his own request, Schumann was taken to an institution at Endenich outside Bonn that was run by the psychiatrist Franz Richarz. According to his medical records, the reason for his immurement was “melancholia with delusions.” It was presumably only after Schumann’s death that a note was added in pencil: “Paralysis.”8

  “Melancholia” and “paralysis”—the latter the final stage of syphilis—are the two words that continue to bedevil discussions on the cause of Schumann’s death. But his medical records, including his autopsy report, support the idea of a progressive psychological degeneration without any incidence of syphilis. None of the surviving documents gives a single indication of the symptoms of such an illness. Writers on medical history wanting to give the cause of death as the final stages of syphilis are thrown back above all on Schumann himself as their crown witness—and yet such appeals are ultimately lacking in plausibility. For the painful “wound” that he mentions in the 1831 diary entry from which we have already quoted and which appears in close proximity with the name “Christel” is relatively untypical of the early stages of syphilis. And the feelings of guilt that Schumann expressed at that time may have been of a more general kind.

  Even the entry in the Endenich records for September 12, 1855—“In 1831 I was syphilitic and cured with arsenic”9—does not necessarily get us any further, for quite apart from the fact that treatment with arsenic was by no means usual at that time, we may well be dealing here with the patient’s febrile fantasies. There is only one thing that we can assert with any certainty: throughout his life Schumann suffered from pronounced feelings of guilt, which became worse at Endenich and assumed the signs of a religious mania. Nor is it entirely clear from his records what symptoms his doctors were trying to treat. The fact that the word “paralysis” was added only belatedly means that it was evidently not until the time of his death that his doctors settled on this as a diagnosis. But not even this can tell us very much, since the link between “paralysis” and syphilis had not been established at that time. In his study of Schumann, Peter Ostwald draws a distinction between “mental disorder,” “personality disorder,” and “physical disorders.” He declines to speculate needlessly on the unexplained physical causes of Schumann’s death, but concludes, “Prolonged isolation at Endenich was Schumann’s nemesis. It destroyed what was left of his marriage, made it impossible for him to return to his former status as a writer or musician, and confirmed his deepest dread and suspicions about being mad.”10

  The Endenich clinic was a private institution with some thirty patients who were housed in a pleasant-looking building that had been built as a manor house at the end of the eighteenth century. It now houses the municipal music library and a Schumann museum. Schumann was probably not housed in “a couple of attractive rooms on the ground floor,” as Clara initially thought,11 but almost certainly had only a single room. However, he also had use of a communal room large enough to accommodate a grand piano, which he often used. His wife paid six hundred thalers a year for him to stay in the clinic. Although this bought her husband only a modest level of care, it was still almost as much as he had been earning as director of music in Düsseldorf.

  Would it be macabre to quote at this point from a letter that Schumann wrote to his predecessor in Düsseldorf, Ferdinand Hiller, on December 3, 1849, expressing an interest in the post?

  There’s one more thing: I was recently looking in an old atlas for some information on Düsseldorf, and I came across the following curiosities: three convents and a madhouse. I’m happy to put up with the convents, but I felt uncomfortable reading about the madhouse. I’ll tell you why. A few years ago, you’ll recall that we were living in Maxen. I discovered that the main view from my window was of the Sonnenstein [the asylum at Pirna]. In the end I found this outlook a real problem; indeed, it ruined the whole of my stay in the town. And so I thought that the same might be true of Düsseldorf. But perhaps the entire note is wrong and the asylum is just a hospital of the kind found in any town or city. I really have to be on my guard against melancholy impressions of this kind.12

  The Endenich clinic was run according to the latest medical findings and offered its patients a chance to engage in activities of their own choosing. They were even allowed to undertake long walks in the company of an attendant. Even so, the clinic’s annexes included a section for more disturbed patients, and it seems likely that Schumann was occasionally taken there. An entry in his medical records for April 20, 1854—a time when he was particularly disturbed—reads: “At noon yesterday he promised to stay calm in bed without being restrained, but he failed to keep his word, later he was calm in his jacket. At noon he had some soup, half a portion of meat and wine, stewed fruit, in the evening he ate almost everything placed in front of him but only when forced to do so.”13

  Between April 1854 and the early summer of 1855, Schumann’s symptoms do not appear to have grown any worse. Although he expressed a number of delusional ideas, he continued to lead his life as best he could, reading newspapers and perusing atlases and textbooks on geography. In August 1855, Franz Richarz, who was responsible for his treatment, noted, “At visiting time he pored over the map, muttering to himself and saying with a laugh that he was always traveling on it.” On another occasion, Richarz
’s assistant, Eberhard Peters, recorded that “during the visit” Schumann was “preoccupied with the atlas and when asked what he was doing said that he was sailing in the polar sea.”14

  Schumann also played dominos and after studying an English book on chess expressed his delight “at having solved a number of unsolved games.”15 But over and above these “useful” activities, which he was recommended to pursue in the main as a way of passing his time, he also corrected the proofs of his latest works and at least until April 1855 corresponded “rationally” with his publishers, while demanding to be kept in the picture and asking for music manuscript paper. The last surviving piece in his own hand is a simple chorale setting of Nicolaus Herman’s sixteenth-century hymn “Wenn mein Stündlein vorhanden ist” (When my hour has come) and an untexted fragment that may be a chorale based on Luther’s “Mitten wir im Leben sind von dem Tod umfangen” (In the midst of life we are in death).

  Schumann developed an interest in his family’s welfare only after his wedding anniversary on September 12, 1854, but from then on he insisted on being given regular news on the subject, and when Clara wrote, he replied by return:

  Beloved Clara,

  What tidings of joy you have again brought to me when informing me that in June Heaven sent you a splendid boy and that to your surprise and mine dear Marie and Elsie played to you from the Bilder aus Osten (Pictures from the East) [op. 66] on your birthday, also that Brahms, to whom you were going to give my friendly greetings and best regards, has moved to Düsseldorf for good—that’s excellent news! I’m sure you can guess what my favorite name is: the Unforgettable [Mendelssohn]! I was delighted to hear that my collected writings have appeared in their entirety, likewise the Cello Concerto, the Violin Fantasy that Joachim played so magnificently, and the Fughettas. Could you send me one or other of them, as you kindly offered to do? [. . .]

  8 o’clock in the evening. Just got back from Bonn, where, as always, I saw the Beethoven statue and was enchanted by it. While I was standing in front of it, someone started to play the organ in the Minster Church. I’m now much stronger and look much younger than in Düsseldorf. There’s something I’d like you to do for me: would you mind writing to Dr. Peters and asking him to give me as much money as I want, which you’ll then reimburse? Poor people often ask me for money, and I feel sorry for them. Otherwise my life isn’t as turbulent as it used to be. How different it once was! But do give me news about the lives of our relatives and friends in Cologne, Leipzig, Dresden, and Berlin, about Woldemar, Dr. Härtel, you know them all. I’d now like to remind you of something, of the happy times we spent together, of our visit to Switzerland, Heidelberg, Lausanne, Vevey, Chamouny [i.e., Chamonix], then of our visit to The Hague, where you achieved the most amazing things. [. . .] Do you still have the small double portrait (by Rietschel in Dresden) [see p. 202]. You’d make me very happy if you were able to send it to me. I’d also like to ask you to let me know the dates of the children’s birthdays, they were in the little blue book. I now intend to write to Marie and Elise, who sent me such a nice letter. Farewell, dearest Clara. Don’t forget me, write soon. Your Robert.16

  Clara did as she was asked, encouraging Schumann to send her a further list of questions, all of which attest to his mental alertness: “Thank you for letting me have a note of the years in which our dear children were born. Which godparents are you planning to choose, dear Clara, and in which church will he [Felix] be baptized?”17 As he had promised, he wrote to his eldest daughters:

  Dearest Marie and Elise,

  How pleased I was to receive your letters and to know that you’re working so hard, and that you played the pieces from my Pictures from the East for Mama on her birthday. I was very surprised by this. Do you remember how happy we were a year ago in Benrath, do you remember Vienna, where you once got lost, Marie, and also Prague and how you both sang in the steam train? Or have you forgotten? Have you written any more poems, Marie? Who’s your teacher now? I’ve nothing but praise for the fact that you’re playing such delightful and difficult pieces as Beethoven’s A-flat Major Sonata, Mendelssohn-Bartholdy’s Songs Without Words, the Haydn sonata, my Gathering of the Grapes [from the Album for young people], and Cramer’s studies. Every good wish to Bertha. Love and kisses to you both as well as to Julie, Ludwig, Ferdinand, and Eugenie. Your papa Robert.18

  It is heartrending to read lines such as these in which Schumann expresses his desire to see his wife and family again after he himself had insisted on being locked up in the clinic, so afraid was he that he might turn violent and harm Clara. Scarcely less moving, of course, is Clara’s own situation. Her husband’s doctors had issued strict instructions that she was not to be allowed to visit him at Endenich as they claimed that such visits would leave him more agitated than ever. She heeded their advice in the expectation that his condition would soon improve and instead sent relatives, friends, and pupils to the clinic with presents and useful items, hoping that they would return with as favorable news as possible.

  On May 21, 1854, she wrote to her friend Henriette Reichmann: “No woman can have loved and possessed a man like him and have called him her own without being destroyed by his loss. No one knows what a wonderful man he is! What a disposition, what a mind!” She was heavily pregnant at this time: “What I feel when I think about this is something I can’t describe! His child, and yet not to have him here with me, perhaps not even in his thoughts!”19

  With the birth of Felix on June 11, 1854, she had seven children to look after. Apart from a wet nurse, there were also two female servants. And Julie, the third-eldest child, had gone to stay with Clara’s mother, Marianne Bargiel, in Berlin, while her two eldest daughters, whom Brahms had previously taken under his wing, were sent to boarding school in Cologne. Even so, it required tremendous strength to deal with each day as it came, not least because she increasingly had to stand up for her husband in her dealings with society at large and attempt to refute the stories that were circulating in the newspapers.

  In this respect, admonitions from female friends abroad to bear her cross with equanimity were of little practical help: “I’m trying to perform my duties, trying to bear my misfortune as best I can, but not through praying and reading sacred texts, only through activity and working for others! Only here do I find the strength and courage to go on!”20 In order to raise the money that she needed to pay for her husband’s medical bills at the clinic and to support her family, she undertook an extended tour of northern and central Germany at the end of 1854. The following year she gave concerts in the Netherlands, Berlin, Danzig (modern Gdańsk), Elberfeld, Leipzig, and elsewhere. And in early 1856 she even traveled as far afield as Austro-Hungary and then for several months to England.

  Throughout her husband’s illness Clara collected flowers and pressed them into the pages of an enchanting volume to which she gave the title Blumenbuch für Robert/in der Krankheit vom März 1854 bis July 1856/angelegt von seiner Clara. Den Kindern aufbewahrt (Flower book for Robert during his illness from March 1854 to July 1856 designed by his Clara. Preserved for their children). Published in a bibliophile edition by Gerd Nauhaus and Ingrid Bodsch in 2006, it is the fulfillment of an idea that occurred to Clara during her first concert tour, according to which she would “devote a flower” to her husband from every town or city where she stayed.21 The first was a rose, which Clara pressed into the book in Leipzig on October 25, 1854; the last little nosegay was added in Richmond on June 15, 1856, and comprised a dwarf rose, thyme, and forget-me-not, three plants that Marie and Elise picked on their father’s birthday and sent to Clara in England. The last four of the total of fifty-four pressed flowers date from the final days of Schumann’s life and are headed: “Ludwig for Papa on 26 July 1856,” “Picked in Endenich on 28 July 1856—flowers of sorrow,” “Picked in Endenich on 28 July 1856. In deepest sorrow!” and “Leaves from my Robert’s grave.—From the wreath that Johannes carried and placed on the coffin.—From the wreath from Concordia.—From Johannes’s
wreath.”22

  It must be admitted that between 1857 and 1859 Clara also made a book of pressed flowers for Brahms, albeit one that was less ambitious in scope. We may perhaps regard it as a sequel to the diary that she kept for Schumann; it certainly says much for the profound affection that they felt for each other at this time. Brahms supported Clara from the time of Schumann’s breakdown, continuing to make entries in the housekeeping book and helping her in everyday matters. Much later, when he was fifty-three, he explained that “I think she’d have gone mad if she’d not had me—the only man among all those women—to talk her out of all that nonsense.”23 Although Brahms was referring only to the way in which he protected Clara from unwelcome advice, his comment throws light on the situation in general.

  At the same time, Brahms was hopelessly in love with Clara and even lived in the same house following her move to the Poststraße in Düsseldorf in the middle of 1855. They attended a performance of Beethoven’s Missa solemnis in Cologne and in July 1855 stayed together on the Rhine while undertaking a joint concert tour. But Clara traveled with a female companion, so any suggestion of a relationship that went beyond an intense friendship between kindred souls or a love that was suppressed is bound to remain mere speculation. Clara had not exactly been cosseted by life, and one can understand why she might warm to the love of a man fourteen years her junior and feel helpless during the times when he was absent. Nor should we forget that she held his genius in almost as high a regard as that of her husband, whom she now sorely missed as an artist.