“Clara Wieck loves, and is loved in return.  You will soon find that out from her gentle, almost supernatural ways and doings.  For the present don’t ask me the name of the other one.  The happy ones, however, acted, met, talked, and exchanged their vows, without the father’s knowledge.  He has found them out, wants to take violent measures, and forbids any sort of intercourse on pain of death.  Well, it has all happened before, thousands of times.  But the worst of it is that she has gone away.  The latest news came from Dresden.  But we know nothing for certain, though I suspect, indeed I am nearly convinced, that they are at Breslau.  Wieck is sure to call upon you at once, and will invite you to come and hear Clara play.  Now, this is my ardent request, that you should let me know all about Clara as quickly as possible,—­I mean as to the state of mind, the life she leads, in fact any news you can obtain.  All that I have told you is a sacred trust, and don’t mention this letter to either the old man or anybody else.

“If Wieck speaks of me, it will probably not be in very flattering terms.  Don’t let that put you out.  You will learn to know him.  He is a man of honour, but a rattle-brain (Er ist ein Ehrenmann, aber ein Rappelkopf).  I may further remark that it will be an easy thing for you to obtain Clara’s confidence and favour, as I (who am more than partial to the lovers), have often told her that I correspond with you.  She will be happy to see you, and to give you a look.  Give me your hand, unknown one; I believe your disposition to be so noble that it will not disappoint me.  Write soon.  A heart, a life depends upon it—­my own—.  For it is I, myself, for whom I have been pleading.”

Kahlert met Clara, but she was embarrassed and mistrustful of the stranger’s discretion.  The next day Schumann wrote to his sister-in-law Theresa still with a little hope:  “Clara is at Breslau.  My stars are curiously placed.  God grant it may all end happily.”

In April, Clara and her father returned to Leipzig, but the lovers, now reunited in the same town, were further removed than ever.  Clara’s promise compelled her to treat Schumann as a stranger on the casual meetings that happened to the torment rather than the liking of both.  The nagging uncertainty, the simulating of indifference, a stolen glance, or a hasty clasp of the hand, in which one or the other seemed not to express warmth enough, caused a certain impatience which Wieck and his wife were eager enough to turn into mistrust.

Schumann’s compositions no longer frequented Clara’s programmes.  He was driven elsewhere for society, and when the taverns and the boisterous humour of his friends wearied him, he turned again to Frau Voigt.  In March he had written to his sister: 

“I am in a critical position; to extricate myself I must be calm and clear-sighted; it has come to this, either I can never speak to her again, or she must be mine.”