With characteristic poise, Madam Schumann took charge. “While the heavens are opening and Maestro Liszt is preparing to descend, we will proceed in the meantime with the Beethoven.”
As the musicians took their places to perform the Beethoven Trio, I watched Clara Schumann return to her place at the back of the room. But even there, in a relatively dark corner, she continued to be the centre of my interest. And despite the purity and beauty of the Trio, and Helena Becker's intense contribution to the performance, my attention kept shifting constantly from Clara in the rearmost row of seats to Robert and Johannes in the front row, and back to Clara.
Why, I asked myself, had she chosen to distance herself from her husband and his bashful but appealing protégé? Was it diffidence on her part? Hardly. Clara Schumann was a woman accustomed to occupying the centre of the stage. Despite mothering six children, she was not a subscriber to the popular view of German womanhood, a view that regarded females as domestic creatures whose public activities should be limited to attending church on Sundays.
Was she jealous of her husband's reputation as a composer? While all Europe acknowledged her virtuosity as a pianist, her own accomplishments at writing music had been eclipsed by her husband's, judging by critical accounts I had read. That she was serious in her efforts no one doubted, but being serious was one thing, being inspired quite another. A piano concerto she'd composed was acknowledged by critics as competent, a compliment akin to declaring that, as a chef, the woman knew how to cook a pot roast.
Putting aside for the moment what I took to be her infatuation with this fellow Brahms, was it possible that she saw in him both a formidable competitor with Robert in the area of composition, and a formidable competitor with her as a performing artist? Behind her ostensible pride in promoting the young man from Hamburg, was there a fear that he might turn out to be too successful before long? In the financially uncertain musical world, every commission to compose received by Brahms would be a commission Robert Schumann failed to receive; every engagement to perform as a pianist would be an engagement Clara failed to obtain. With six children to feed and clothe, every thaler counted these days.
There was another possibility: I recalled her question earlier in the evening: Have you come to spy on us? My impromptu answer at the time might have served to persuade a gullible person, but Clara Schumann did not strike me as one who was easily gulled. By choosing to sit as far from Brahms as she could, was she hoping to dispel any suggestion that Johannes Brahms's proximity was vital to her own wellbeing? Ever since the night of Robert Schumann's breakdown at the concert hall, the notion had been rooting itself in my brain that there were blanks in the Schumanns’ marriage. Were these blanks now being filled one way or another by a young and vigorous Brahms? Call it a policeman's instinct for the suspicious; call it cynicism; whatever the reasons, I was sure the relationship between Clara Schumann and Johannes Brahms contained all the ingredients of a secret and passionate love affair, one that was bound to evolve, if indeed it had not already done so.
Applause and cries of “Encore!” were still in the air following the Beethoven piece when suddenly and rather noisily, the wide doors leading from the foyer were thrown open.
All eyes turned to the back of the drawing room.
There at last, poised like a statue, magnificent in silk top hat and long black cape, stood Franz Liszt.
Chapter Ten
Careful not to disturb a single strand of his long, perfectly combed hair, Liszt doffed his silk top hat and handed it to a waiting servant, then waited calmly as the servant slipped the wool serge cape from around his shoulders. His manner was that of a prince accustomed to being attended in this way.
“A thousand pardons for this rude intrusion,” Franz Liszt called out. “I was unavoidably detained. Alas, when it comes to timing, Germany's railways are not as gifted as Germany's musicians.” With a helpless shrug, he added simply, “The evening train from Weimar-” Everyone in the room seemed to understand. There were sympathetic nods and the odd wise chuckle here and there.
Schumann made his way toward his newly-arrived guest, a broad smile on his face. Extending a hand, he said (a little too loudly, I thought), “My dear Franz, Clara and I are honoured to have you under our humble roof!” The two men embraced, heartily slapping one another's backs. Detaching himself, Liszt said, “I am chilled to my very bones, Schumann. A hot cup of tea or better still coffee-”
“But of course,” Schumann said, then called across the room, “Clara, my darling, would you fetch our dear Franz a cup of coffee, a slice of cake. The poor man looks starved.”
“I would be happy to, Robert dear,” Clara replied, giving her effusive husband a look that could have turned him into a pillar of salt had he glanced back at her.
As Schumann led Liszt to a front row seat that had been set aside, I had an opportunity for the first time to study the man at close range and in a setting other than a concert hall stage.
Everything about him-his outgoing charm and extreme handsomeness, his easy sophistication, the smoothness of his voice, his impeccably tailored eveningwear-everything bespoke a man of the world, a man of grace and civility.
At Liszt's insistence, the program resumed without another moment's delay. With Clara Schumann performing the piano part, Robert's Quintet would occupy the second half. In his brief introduction before the players commenced, Schumann, standing close to his wife at the keyboard, one hand laid tenderly on her shoulder, repeated what was already well-known, that he'd written the piece for Clara and dedicated it to her some ten years earlier as a kind of small concerto for the piano, one capable of being performed without all the fuss and bother of a large orchestra and concert hall.
“If the Quintet overflows with love,” said Schumann, his voice growing hoarse, “I make no apology.” At this, I expected Clara to make some equal and loving response, no matter how slight, to reciprocate. Instead, she sat at the piano with head bowed, hands folded in her lap, her expression frozen in what looked like profound embarrassment. She seemed to desire nothing more at the moment than that her husband should shut up.
A quick look across the front of the room to where Brahms was seated revealed an expression on his face that was remarkably similar to Clara's.
I was struck, too, by another odd fact: having introduced Johannes Brahms with such fanfare this evening, surely Schumann would have gone out of his way to introduce the promising young man to the titan who had just taken his seat nearby. Why did he fail to do so? Was it oversight? Was it deliberate? And granted that Brahms appeared a rather shy fellow, wouldn't he nevertheless have taken the trouble to introduce himself to Liszt? One could dine out for months afterward on such an event. Yes, I swear before God, Liszt said he'd heard of me and insisted I look him up next time I visit Weimar…
I had heard the Schumann Quintet played on several occasions in the past, but never with such energy and passion and sparkle as the performance at the Schumann house on this February night.
Once again my attention was drawn throughout, as if by a magnet, to Clara Schumann at the keyboard. Whether displaying her nimble technical skills in solo passages or blending with the other players in more sombre sections of the quintet, it was she who set the tone and the pace. It was she who gave the entire performance its soul.
And it was her name, shouted with admiration, that filled the room the moment the final chord sounded. “Clara!..Clara!..Bravo Clara!..Magnificent Clara!…”