The year 1840 was one of the most important in Schumann's life. In
February he was created Doctor of Philosophy in the University of Jena,
and, still more precious boon to the man's heart, Wieck's objections to
the marriage with Clara had been so far melted away that he consented,
though with reluctance, to their union. The marriage took place quietly
at a little church in Schônfeld, near Leipzig. This year was one of the
most fruitful of Schumann's life. His happiness burst forth in lyric
forms. He wrote the amazing number of one hundred and thirty-eight
songs, among which the more famous are the set entitled "Myrtles," the
cycles of song from Heine, dedicated to Pauline Viardot, Chamisso's
"Woman's Love and Life," and Heine's "Poet Love." Schumann as a
song-writer must be called indeed the musical reflex of Heine, for his
immortal works have the same passionate play of pathos and melancholy,
the sharp-cut epigrammatic form, the grand swell of imagination,
impatient of the limits set by artistic taste, which characterize the
poet themes. Schumann says that nearly all the works composed at this
time were written under Clara's inspiration solely. Blest with the
continual companionship of a woman of genius, as amiable as she was
gifted, who placed herself as a gentle mediator between Schumann's
intellectual life and the outer world, he composed many of his finest
vocal and instrumental compositions during the years immediately
succeeding his marriage; among them the cantata "Paradise and the
Peri," and the "Faust" music. His own connection with public life
was restricted to his position as teacher of piano-forte playing,
composition, and score playing at the Leipzig Conservatory, while the
gifted wife was the interpreter of his beautiful piano-forte works as an
executant. A more perfect fitness and companionship in union could not
have existed, and one is reminded of the married life of the poet pair,
the Brownings. After four years of happy and quiet life, in which mental
activity was inspired by the most delightful of domestic surroundings,
an artistic tour to St. Petersburg was undertaken by Robert and Clara
Schumann. Our composer did not go without reluctance. "Forgive me," he
writes to a friend, "if I forbear telling you of my unwillingness to
leave my quiet home." He seems to have had a melancholy premonition that
his days of untroubled happiness were over. A genial reception awaited
them at the Russian capital. They were frequently invited to the Winter
Palace by the emperor and empress, and the artistic circles of the city
were very enthusiastic over Mme. Schumann's piano-forte playing. Since
the days of John Field, Clementi's great pupil, no one had raised such
a furore among the music-loving Russians. Schumann's music, which it was
his wife's dearest privilege to interpret, found a much warmer welcome
than among his own countrymen at that date. In the Sclavonic nature
there is a deep current of romance and mysticism, which met with
instinctive sympathy the dreamy and fantastic thoughts which ran riot in
Schumann's works.
On returning from the St. Petersburg tour, Schumann gave up the "Neue
Zeitschrift," the journal which he had made such a powerful organ of
musical revolution, and transferred it to Oswald Lorenz. Schumann's
literary work is so deeply intertwined with his artistic life and
mission that it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to separate the two.
He had achieved a great work--he had planted in the German mind the
thought that there was such a thing as progress and growth; that
stagnation was death; and that genius was for ever shaping for itself
new forms and developments. He had taught that no art is an end to
itself, and that, unless it embodies the deep-seated longings and
aspirations of men ever striving toward a loftier ideal, it becomes
barren and fruitless--the mere survival of a truth whose need had
ceased. He was the apostle of the musico-poetical art in Germany, and,
both as author and composer, strove with might and main to educate his
countrymen up to a clear understanding of the ultimate outcome of the
work begun by Beethoven, Schubert, and Weber.
Schumann as a critic was eminently catholic and comprehensive. Deeply
appreciative of the old lights of music, he received with enthusiasm all
the fresh additions contributed by musical genius to the progress of
his age. Eschewing the cold, objective, technical form of criticism,
his method of approaching the work of others was eminently subjective,
casting on them the illumination which one man of genius gives
to another. The cast of his articles was somewhat dramatic and
conversational, and the characters represented as contributing
their opinions to the symposium of discussion were modeled on actual
personages. He himself was personified under the dual form of Florestan
and Eusebius, the "two souls in his breast"--the former, the fiery
iconoclast, impulsive in his judgments and reckless in attacking
prejudices; the latter, the mild, genial, receptive dreamer. Master
Raro, who stood for Wieck, also typified the calm, speculative side of
Schumann's nature. Chiara represented Clara Wieck, and personified the
feminine side of art. So the various personages were all modeled after
associates of Schumann, and, aside from the freshness and fascination
which this method gave his style, it enabled him to approach his
subjects from many sides. The name of the imaginary society was the
Davids-bund, probably from King David and his celebrated harp, or
perhaps in virtue of David's victories over the Philistines of his day.
As an illustration of Schumann's style and method of treating musical
subjects, we can not do better than give his article on Chopin's "Don
Juan Fantasia": "Eusebius entered not long ago. You know his pale face
and the ironical smile with which he awakens expectation. I sat with
Florestan at the piano-forte. Florestan is, as you know, one of
those rare musical minds that foresee, as it were, coming novel or
extraordinary things. But he encountered a surprise today. With the
words 'Off with your hats, gentlemen! a genius,' Eusebius laid down a
piece of music. We were not allowed to see the title-page. I turned over
the music vacantly; the veiled enjoyment of music which one does not
hear has something magical in it. And besides this, it seems that every
composer has something different in the note forms. Beethoven looks
differently from Mozart on paper; the difference resembles that between
Jean Paul's and Goethe's prose. But here it seemed as if eyes, strange,
were glancing up to me--flower eyes, basilisk eyes, peacock's eyes,
maiden's eyes; in many places it looked yet brighter. I thought I
saw Mozart's 'La ci darem la mano' wound through a hundred chords.
_Leporello_ seemed to wink at me, and _Don Juan_ hurried past in his
white mantle. 'Now play it,' said Florestan. Eusebius consented, and we,
in the recess of a window, listened. Eusebius played as though he were
inspired, and led forward countless forms filled with the liveliest,
warmest life; it seemed that the inspiration of the moment gave to his
fingers a power beyond the ordinary measure of their cunning. It is true
that Florestan's whole applause was expressed in nothing but a happy
smile, and the remark that the variations might have been written by
Beethoven or Franz Schubert, had either of these been a piano virtuoso;
but how surprised he was when, turning to the title-page, he read 'La ci
darem la mano, varié pour le piano-forte, par Frederic Chopin, Ouvre 2,'
and with what astonishment we both cried out, 'An Opus 2!' How our faces
glowed as we wondered, exclaiming, 'That is something reasonable once
more! Chopin? I never heard of the name--who can he be? In any case, a
genius. Is not that _Zerlina's_ smile, And _Leporello_, etc' I could not
describe the scene. Heated with wine, Chopin, and our own enthusiasm,
we went to Master Raro, who with a smile, and displaying but little
curiosity for Chopin, said, 'Bring me the Chopin! I know you and your
enthusiasm.' We promised to bring it the next day. Eusebius soon bade us
good-night. I remained a short time with Master Raro. Florestan, who had
been for some time without a habitation, hurried to my house through the
moonlit streets. 'Chopin's variations,' he began, as if in a dream,
'are constantly running through my head; the whole is so dramatic
and Chopin-like; the introduction is so concentrated. Do you remember
_Leporello's_ springs in thirds? That seems to me somewhat unfitted
to the theme; but the theme--why did he write that in A flat? The
variations, the finale, the adagio, these are indeed something; genius
burns through every measure. Naturally, dear Julius, _Don Juan, Zerlina,
Leporello, Massetto_, are the _dramatis persona; Zerlina's_ answer in
the theme has a sufficiently enamored character; the first variation
expresses, a kind of coquettish coveteousness: the Spanish Grandee
flirts amiably with the peasant girl in it. This leads of itself to the
second, which is at once confidential, disputative, and comic, as though
two lovers were chasing each other and laughing more than usual about
it. How all this is changed in the third! It is filled with fairy music
and moonshine; _Masetto_ keeps at a distance, swearing audibly, but
without any effect on _Don Juan_. And now the fourth--what do you
think of it? Eusebius played it altogether correctly. How boldly, how
wantonly, it springs forward to meet the man! though the adagio (it
seems quite natural to me that Chopin repeats the first part) is in
B flat minor, as it should be, for in its commencement it presents a
beautiful moral warning to _Don Juan_. It is at once so mischievous
and beautiful that _Leporello_ listens behind the hedge, laughing and
jesting that oboes and clarionettes enchantingly allure, and that the
B flat major in full bloom correctly designates the first kiss of love.
But all this is nothing compared to the last (have you any more wine,
Julius?). That is the whole of Mozart's finale, popping champagne corks,
ringing glasses, _Leporello's_ voice between, the grasping, torturing
demons, the fleeing _Don Juan_--and then the end, that beautifully
soothes and closes all.' Florestan concluded by saying that he had never
experienced feelings similar to those awakened by the finale. When the
evening sunlight of a beautiful day creeps up toward the highest peaks,
and when the last beam vanishes, there comes a moment when the white
Alpine giants close their eyes. We feel that we have witnessed a
heavenly apparition. 'And now awake to new dreams, Julius, and sleep.'
'Dear Flores-tan,' I answered, 'these confidential feelings, are perhaps
praiseworthy, although somewhat subjective; but as deeply as yourself I
bend before Chopin's spontaneous genius, his lofty aim, his mastership;
and after that we fell asleep.'" This article was the first journalistic
record of Chopin's genius.