“The moon shone so beautifully on your face when you lifted your hat and passed your hand across your forehead; I had the sweetest feeling that I ever had; I had found my love again.”

It was in this time of frenzied enthusiasm, of alternate hope and despondency, that Schumann wrote the seventh of his “Davidsbuendlertaenze.”  The birthday came, and with it the letter went to Wieck: 

“It is so simple what I have to say to you—­and yet the right words fail me constantly.  A trembling hand will not let the pen run quietly....  To-day is Clara’s birthday,—­the day when the dearest being in the world, for you as for me, first saw the light of the world.”

He tells how through all the obstacles that had met their way he had deeply loved her and she him.

“Ask her eyes whether I have told the truth.  Eighteen months long have you tested me.  If you have found me worthy, true and manly, then seal this union of souls; it lacks nothing of the highest bliss, except the parental blessing.  An awful moment it is until I learn your decision, awful as the pause between lightning and thunder in the tempest, where man does not know whether it will give destruction or benediction.  Be again a friend to one of your oldest friends, and to the best of children be the best of fathers.”

With this letter he enclosed one to Wieck’s wife:  “In your hands, dear lady, I lay our future happiness, and in your heart—­no stepmotherly heart, I am sure.”

The letter made a sensation in the Wieck home.  Clara’s father spoke no word to her about it.  He and his wife locked themselves up in a room to answer it.  Clara wept alone all the long birthday.  Her father asked her why she was so unhappy, and when she told him the truth, he showed her Schumann’s letter, and said:  “I did not want you to read it, but, since you are so unreasonable, read.”  Clara was too proud, and would not.  Schumann wrote to Becker concerning Wieck’s answer, saying: 

“Wieck’s answer was so confused, and he declined and accepted so vaguely, that now I really don’t know what to do.  Not at all.  He was not able to make any valid objections; but as I said before, one could make nothing of his letter.  I have not spoken to C. yet; her strength is my only hope.”

To Clara he wrote that an interview he had with her father was frightful.  “This iciness, ill-will, such confusion, such contradictions.  He has a new way to wound; he drives his knife to the hilt into my heart.  What next then, my dear Clara, what next?  Your father himself said to me the fearful words:  ‘Nothing shall shake me.’  Fear everything from him, he will compel you by force if he cannot by trickery. Fuerchten Sie Alles!” Wieck consented to permit them to meet publicly and with a third person, but not alone, and to correspond only when Clara was travelling.  His reasons were his ambition for her, her youth.  But Schumann knew better: