In the course of the morning Schumann, reluctantly leaving a mass of unfinished MSS. upon his desk and pianoforte, betakes himself to his duties at the Conservatorium, where he has been professor for about a year. Conscientious and painstaking in tuition as in all else, he is not naturally a good teacher. He seems to be devoid of the priceless power of imparting verbal instruction, or of imparting the secret of the system whereby a desired effect shall be attained. His habitual and increasing melancholy reserve rises up like a barrier between himself and his pupils: his reticence chills and bewilders them. His own musical education has been an entirely personal matter, and not wrought out upon the accepted scholastic lines. Moreover, intercourse with musical people has always "appealed to Schumann far more, and with greater success, than dry lessons in thorough bass and counterpoint." Hence, whilst he appears almost unable to assist the novice in the beginning, or tadpole stage, he is able to afford invaluable help and stimulating criticism to those young artists with whom he may come in contact, and who adore him for his sympathetic kindness. The violinist Joachim never forgot how, as a boy of thirteen, he played the Kreutzer sonata with his host at the house of Mendelssohn. Lonely and silent all the while, Schumann remained in a corner of the room; but subsequently, while Joachim was sitting near him, he leaned forward and pointed to the stars, shining down into the room through the open window. He patted the lad's knee with gentle, friendly encouragement. "Do you think they know up there" he queried, "that a little boy has been playing down here with Mendelssohn?"—This question was the very essence of Schumann,—romantic, mystical, full of tender dreams.
His composition-lessons over, he conducts a part-singing class. Orchestral conducting is abhorrent to him; it is "too defiant and conspicuous a task." He cannot make his meaning clear by word of mouth: and in gesture he is singularly deficient. But in part-singing he is an excellent instructor, because he is seated at the piano and can indicate there the suggestion which he fails to convey viva-voce. Even now, in the wreck of his abilities as a pianist, it is possible to imagine what he might have been: he can produce an extraordinary depth and richness of tone, seeming to obtain some of his effects by unusual and almost illegitimate means. His accentuation is very slight, and he uses both pedals too frequently and too freely. Notwithstanding these peculiarities, however, the same indefinable magic pervades his piano-playing as his compositions.
I WILL NOT CHIDE.
I will not chide, although my heart should break,
Though all my hopes have died, lost Love, for thy dear sake—
I will not chide.
(Ich grolle nicht).
Nervous, excitable, uneasy, the master draws a breath of relief when the class is dismissed. The pleasant Hebraic face of Mendelssohn nods in at his door in passing. The two musicians are so busily engaged, that often they hardly exchange a word for weeks together. Mendelssohn, the recipient of many a generous and whole-hearted encomium from his devotee Schumann, does not return this fraternal enthusiasm. To his well-balanced mind, the silent moody man and his productions are too wild, too eccentric, too uncanny. He regards them, at times, with a species of grudging admiration: at others, he sides in heart, if not in speech, with the current opinion of the town. "Opposition to all artistic progress has always been a distinctive characteristic of Leipzig musical society," and therefore horror-stricken hands are uplifted at the editor of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, his heretical doctrines, and still more heretical deeds. The good people of the Thomas-School Choral Society, the audience at the Gewandhaus concerts, the subscribers to opposition musical papers, regard Herr Schumann very much as the knight regarded the lady at the close of his own magnificent Waldesgesprach.
"The hour is late, the night is cold,—
Who through the forest rides so bold?
The wood is wide,—thou art alone,—
O lovely maid, be thou my own!"
"Great is the craft and guile of men,
With grief my heart is rent in twain;
Far sounds the bugle to and fro,—
Away! my name thou dost not know!"