Chapter Twenty-Nine
Impeccably groomed and wearing a simple but fashionable frock, Clara Schumann offered me a civil “Good day” when I arrived at No. 15 Bilkerstrasse the next morning. At her side-not surprisingly-stood Johannes Brahms, who acknowledged me with a curt nod, as though I were on a mission to deliver bread from the local bakery. “My husband awaits you in the study,” Clara said.
I said, somewhat astonished, ‘You're aware, then, that he sent for me?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Did you suppose I would interfere with his wishes at a time like this?”
“A time like this? I don't understand, Madam Schumann, what that means.”
My tone must have been a bit too officious, for Brahms immediately stepped forward. “Clara…that is, Madam Schumann…is suffering greatly under the stress of the Maestro's illness. At least a little sensitivity on your part would be in order, don't you agree? In fact, Inspector, your valuable time might be better spent if you went directly to the study where Dr. Schumann awaits.”
There was something in the air at that moment, something in the manner of Clara Schumann and young Brahms, that smacked of an arrangement on the brink of being carried out, something now unstoppable.
Without bothering to knock, I opened the study door and entered to find Schumann standing before a fire. He was fully clothed, and a thick woollen cape was thrown over his shoulders. Close by stood a pair of brawny male attendants, each wearing an overcoat, despite the heat in the room. Schumann, his voice gravelly, said to the two men, “Leave us, please.”
One of the men spoke up. “Sir, we have strict orders to-”
“To hell with your orders!” Schumann shouted. “I said leave us, or so help me God-”
The men exchanged quick glances. The taller of the two gave me a pleading look. “We have a carriage due here momentarily, Inspector, and a long journey ahead of us,” he explained.
“Go!” Schumann said, almost screaming.
Judging by the way they shrugged, the two attendants were accustomed to such outbursts. Without another word, they retired from the room, Schumann eyeing them suspiciously. “And close the door behind you,” he commanded. Satisfied that we could not be overheard, he said, “They're like parasites. They cling to me day and night. Imagine, Preiss: I, Robert Schumann, am granted privacy only when I use my toilet, and even then I'm not certain! Have you any idea what it's like to be spied on around the clock? It's those bastard doctors. Even Clara and Johannes have been forced to submit to the collective will of these medical monsters.”
“But Dr. Schumann, perhaps they're only seeking to…I mean, given what occurred.”
“Do not interrupt me, Preiss. Let me finish what I have to say. Someone must listen to me. There's not much time, don't you see? They're taking me away. Today. Any moment now.”
“Away? Where to?”
“They call it a hospital, in a town called Endenich, somewhere near Bonn, run by another one of these medicine men, a Dr. Richarz. Never heard of him. But I can guarantee you, it's not a hospital; it's an asylum for the insane. Please, Preiss, I beg you, stop them. Look at me: I am not insane. You know that, don't you? All I want now is to do my work, to be in my home. Don't let them do this to me. You, of all people, have the power to stop them. If they take me away, I know I will never see Düsseldorf again. I will live in a cage, and die in a cage. Help me, Preiss.”
Tears had formed in Schumann's eyes. His lips quivered. His sallow cheeks became wet with his tears. He reached out to me with his right hand, silently urging me to take it, to be his saviour.
I stood staring at his hand as though it were somehow detached from the person to whom it belonged, and I could not for the life of me reach out and take it. And in that instant, what went through my mind was that, for whatever number of years I lived, I would neither forget my refusal, nor forgive myself. Instead of saying to Schumann what he so desperately wanted to hear, I said, “Are you aware, sir, that Georg Adelmann has been murdered?”
I was expecting a show of astonishment followed perhaps by a passionate declaration of innocence. After all, was this not how a typical suspect would react? I was not prepared, then, for Schumann's unhesitating response.
“Good riddance!” Schumann exulted. “Murdered, eh? Well, a fitting end for a blackmailer and a thief, I say. Some may mourn his death, but not I, not for a second.”
“Adelmann was about to publish a biography of you, Maestro. Surely you have some regret?”
“Lies! That's what he was about to publish. Now he'll publish in hell!” Calming down, Schumann went on: “Anyway, Preiss, don't waste time over Georg Adelmann, because once a man's dead, he's dead, and that's all there is to it. I, on the other hand, am very much alive, and I am being killed steadily and mercilessly. And the pity is, I still have much to give. Believe me, music comes closest to the unknowable, and I, Robert Schumann, have seen the unknowable, heard it, even touched it in my way! So you see, don't you? I am not insane. Promise me you will put a stop to this exile. And this time you must keep your promise, not break it as you did before, I mean about retrieving my Beethoven manuscript.”
What was the point of disputing Schumann's accusation? No excuse I could offer would convince him that I had not been derelict. “I will see what I can do, Maestro,” I said.
The study door opened and Clara Schumann entered. “Robert dear,” she said quietly, “the carriage is here.”
Meekly, almost mechanically, a figure without strength, without hope, Robert Schumann, his hand in hers, allowed his wife to lead him to the open door of the house, where the two attendants waited. He said to Clara, “My pens and manuscript paper…you packed them?”
“Of course, Robert,” she replied. “And your notebooks too, the ones with your most recent sketches.”
“Clara, promise me you'll see to it that the oldest children keep up their music lessons, especially Marie, bless her. And make sure the jar on the writing desk is well-stocked with pfennigs. They must have their rewards, you know! By the way, Clara, when Marie has mastered those finger exercises Carl Czerny sent for the children, I want her to have a whole thaler to spend as she pleases.”
Schumann turned to Brahms. “I mean to compose another symphony, Johannes,” he said, smiling at his protégé. “It will be my fifth. I've already sketched the opening movement. It will be like Beethoven's fifth, only better, more melodious. One of these days, my dear Johannes, you must try your hand at composing a symphony.”
Brahms stepped forward and gave Schumann a brisk embrace. “Perhaps I'll get around to it by the time I'm forty,” he said.
“Forty! My God, Johannes, I'll be serenading Satan by then!” Schumann said, giving Brahms a fond poke on his arm. Then, turning his back on Clara and Brahms, with an attendant at each side, Schumann started out of the house.
Suddenly, he came to a halt and turned about. “I've forgotten something,” he called to Clara.
“Forgotten what, Robert?”
“I must get it,” he said, elbowing away the attendants and moving back into the house with resolute steps. I watched him enter the study, pull open the centre tray of his worktable, and remove an object which I could not recognize until he held it aloft for all to see with an air of triumph.
“My trusted tuning fork!” he said, smiling at it as though the thing was human.
Instantly, Clara Schumann's eyes and mine met, though not a word was said.
A minute later Schumann and his attendants were tucked into the carriage, ready for the six-hour journey to Bonn. Another minute, and they were out of sight.
Chapter Thirty
What would you do without me, Hermann?” Helena Becker was saying in that teasing manner of hers as she ushered me into the sitting room of her small but comfortable apartment. “Your message sounded as though you couldn't wait to see me.” She took a moment to inspect me with a critical eye. “I note that as usual you come empty-handed. Flowers would have been nice.” She'd forgotten about the gift of pearl earrings, but it would have been bad taste on my part to remind her.