Her husband, too, had reason to plead exhaustion. That morning he'd begun in a state of high expectation a new suite of piano pieces to which he'd given the title Papillons. Clara could hear him happily humming one of the sprightly opening themes as he came into the kitchen for the midday meal. So excited was he then that he passed up a plate of food set for him, contenting himself with nothing more than a quick cup of coffee and a freshly baked bun before closeting himself again in his study.
But by mid-afternoon, Clara could hear groans and curses, the latter growing louder and more vehement, emanating from her husband's workplace. The piece was not going well, that much was clear to her. What she did not know at the time was that the “A” sound had begun to re-appear, flowing in, receding, flowing in again, receding again, incessant, like waves along a shoreline, distracting Schumann to the point where he could no longer focus on the melody at hand.
Perhaps a cup of tea would help, she thought, but when she tapped gently on the study door, a tray laden with tea and another bun in hand, there was no response. She opened the door to discover he'd gone.
He did not return until after the children were asleep. His clothes reeked of cigar smoke. His breath reeked of ale. He'd had nothing to eat for hours but refused the supper that had been kept warm for him. The day, which had begun full of the brightness of creation, was coming to an end full of shadows. As Clara put it, her husband did not so much undress as abandon his clothes on their bedroom floor, after which he collapsed into the bed. She heard him mumble something about his mind and body being sapped of their strength as never before, but this was nothing new to her ears. Whenever he smoked and drank too much, it was always the same complaint.
“And then,” she continued, “after I had slipped beneath the bedcovers…by now I was aching for some rest…I hadn't bothered to say goodnight because I believed him to be fast asleep…suddenly he came to life and was all over me. When Robert is aroused, there is no resisting him, so despite my extreme fatigue-”
“Madam Schumann,” I said, beginning to feel uncomfortable in the extreme, “there's no need to go on. I'm a policeman, not a priest, and this is not the sort of confession-”
“Oh no no, Inspector,” she said, her voice loud and overriding mine, “you cannot back away now. It's too late. You said you needed details…specific details-”
“Really, I've heard more than enough-”
“But we've barely scratched the surface,” she protested, “and I'm sure you will find the rest of what I have to tell you not only enlightening but entertaining. I mean, let's be frank: a little prurience is to a detective what honey is to a bee. Is that not so, Inspector?”
I shifted to the edge of my chair. “I don't find your sarcasm entertaining,” I said, “and I prefer to leave the balance of this interview for another time. Now, if you will excuse me-”
“Wait!” She had moved forward, standing so close to me now that I was unable to leave my chair. Then, in a more moderate tone, she said, “Please, there is something I want to show you…something you must see with your own eyes.”
I sat back and watched her throw open the bottom drawer of her husband's desk and remove a thick book, its black leather cover bearing in gold letters “Day Book, 1854.”
Handing me the book she said, “Here, look for yourself. Go on, open it.”
“But it's Maestro Schumann's private diary-”
“Since when would that stop a policeman? I thought you have your precious duty to perform. Let me help you, Preiss.”
She snatched the book from my hands, flipped through its pages, her fingers turning them furiously, and settled on the first page of the current month.
“Before you set your eyes on this, let me fill in the scene a bit more. Where was I? Ah yes…Robert is all over me, and the endeavour is proving to be entirely unsatisfactory for both of us. And I feel as though my life's blood is draining out of me, but he will not stop. I say to him, ‘Robert, this is the seventh time this month and again-nothing-is happening.’ He looks at me, frowning, and begins to protest. ‘It is not the seventh, Clara,’ he says. ‘Oh, but it is,’ I tell him. ‘Don't pretend to be surprised,’ I say to him when he gives me a look of disbelief.
“‘How can you possibly be so sure?’ he wants to know. And then, despite the partial fog he's in, it dawns on him: almost screaming, he says ‘Clara, you've been snooping in my Day Book…my personal diary!’ He jerks himself free of me, and next thing he's standing in his rumpled nightshirt at the foot of the bed. Still screaming, and stamping his foot like a child, he accuses me of violating his privacy. I point out that after ten years of marriage and as many pregnancies, his private thoughts are as much my property as his.
“I admit to him…for the first time, mind you, Inspector…that I now know what all those ‘Fs’ stand for in the margins of his Day Book. He plays dumb, says he doesn't know what on earth I'm referring to-”
“What are you referring to, Madam Schumann?” I asked, though I put the question half-heartedly. Truth is, I wanted at that moment nothing more than that she should call a halt to this narrative. But that was not be.
She thrust the Day Book back at me and pointed to the margin of the page that lay open before me.
“I have no stomach for this-”
“Look!” She jabbed at the margin with her index finger. “Don't turn away, Preiss. You see what looks like an F, although it could also pass for a sixteenth note.”
I nodded.
“And what's written in tiny print beneath it?”
“Unfinished.”
“Yes. Unfinished. I said ‘Robert, what does it mean?’ He said it was to remind himself to write an unfinished symphony. Franz Schubert, he said, had written an unfinished symphony, which achieved enormous popularity and he-Robert-proposed therefore to do the same. This was my husband's idea of a joke, you see.”
She turned several more pages and pointed to a similar marginal F, under which “one minute” appeared in similar tiny print.
“Robert insisted it was a reminder that he should get around to composing a Minute Waltz similar to Chopin's, again because the public loved it, and it could be very lucrative. That, too, was Robert's idea of a joke.”
Several pages further on, two more Fs showed up. Beneath one Schumann had penned “Disappointment” in such small script that my nose almost touched the margin as I struggled to decipher what he'd written there. Two more Fs were brought to my attention, one of which had a thick black frame around it, like a miniature death notice.
“Robert began then to offer excuses: it was the onslaught of winter, a season he hates. It was the imminent visit of my father, a person he despises. It was the prospect of another tour, an aspect of our lives he abhors because he finds travel too much to deal with. And then, without warning, he let out a frightening wail. It was this ‘A’ sound again, he cried. I told him I thought it was preposterous, that he was allowing this hallucination of his to get the better of him, that it was ruining not only his life but mine as well. And the moment I started to mention his doctors’ advice, he flew into an uncontrollable rage.
“Once again, he insisted that he was the victim of a criminal conspiracy…that he was being driven mad. The only way I could placate him was to agree-much against my better judgment-to send for you, Inspector Preiss.”