Robert Schumann
Composer

Trading Law Books for Piano Keys

I grew up in Zwickau as the youngest of five children, surrounded by the books my father August Schumann sold and published. After some early music lessons at home, I went off to Leipzig in 1828 and then Heidelberg to study law, though my heart was never really in the courtroom. Studying law when all you want to do is play the piano is a bit like trying to eat soup with a fork. By 1830 I finally gave up on legal studies for good and moved back to Leipzig to train as a concert pianist with Friedrich Wieck.

Arguing With Myself in Print

My dream of becoming a touring pianist fell apart in the early 1830s when an injury ruined my right hand, so I poured all my energy into writing music and criticism instead. Up until 1840 I wrote exclusively for the piano, turning out pieces like Papillons and Carnaval while also co-founding a music journal in 1834. In that magazine I often wrote articles under two invented names, Florestan and Eusebius, who represented the fiery and dreamy sides of my personality. It was a very convenient setup, because even when I was sitting alone at my desk, I could still have a lively disagreement with myself.

From Father-in-Law Battles to the Conductor's Podium

Leipzig was home until 1844, and it was where I fought a long legal battle with my former teacher Friedrich Wieck so I could finally marry his daughter Clara in 1840. After teaching briefly at the conservatory that Felix Mendelssohn founded there, Clara and I packed up our growing family and moved to Dresden. In 1850 I took my only permanent conducting job as Municipal Music Director in Düsseldorf, which is also when I finished my Rhenish Symphony. Standing in front of a grumpy orchestra was never quite as comfortable as sitting at my writing desk, and tensions with the musicians eventually forced me to step down in 1853.

Songs, Symphonies, and a Quiet Daydream

Once Clara and I were finally married in 1840, I suddenly couldn't stop writing for the voice, turning out whole cycles like Dichterliebe in a single year. Soon after that I branched out into bigger music, including my Piano Concerto in A minor, the Spring Symphony, and the Piano Quintet in E-flat major. Still, people have always had a special fondness for my early piano collections, especially Kinderszenen from 1838, which is where you will find Träumerei right here on this site. Writing a short piano piece like that is a lot like catching a quiet daydream in a jar before it floats away.

A Broken Hand and Two Famous Personas

People still argue about what actually ruined my right hand in the early 1830s, and whether a mechanical finger-strengthening contraption was to blame. Whatever caused the weakness, losing the use of my fingers felt like a disaster at the time, even if it forced me to become a full-time composer. Whenever my wife Clara and I went on tour together, she was such a famous virtuoso at the keyboard that I sometimes felt like the guy who was just there to carry the luggage. At least I could always retreat into the company of Florestan and Eusebius whenever the real world got a little too loud.

Dark Waters and Quiet Rooms

All through my adult life I struggled with deep depression, terrible anxiety, and strange sounds ringing in my ears that nobody else could hear. By early 1854 those struggles became too heavy to bear, leading to a dark day in February when I threw myself into the Rhine River. Afterward I chose to enter Dr. Franz Richarz's private asylum in Endenich, where I spent the last two and a half years of my life away from my family. Doctors and historians still debate what exactly caused my final illness, though I passed away there in July 1856 at the age of forty-six.

Good Friends and a Devoted Wife

When I wasn't writing my own music, I loved using my journal to champion younger or unfamiliar talents like Frédéric Chopin and Johannes Brahms. Spotting a brilliant new composer before everyone else catches on gives you the same warm satisfaction as introducing two people who end up becoming best friends. After I was gone, my wife Clara Schumann worked tirelessly to edit my scores and play my music all over the world so people wouldn't forget it. Some critics later claimed that everything I wrote in the 1850s was ruined by my illness, though thankfully listeners today know better than to believe that old story.

Music for Quiet Evenings

When you sit down to listen to my music, I don't want you to feel like you are taking a test in a chilly concert hall. Whether I am racing ahead like Florestan or drifting off like Eusebius, I am really just trying to put ordinary human feelings into sound. My hope is that a gentle piece like Träumerei feels like sitting by a warm fire with an old friend who doesn't expect you to say a word. If the melody makes you pause for a few minutes and remember something you loved a long time ago, then my music has done its job.