The first, perhaps, to recognize the surpassing ability of that child was the young editor of the “Zeitschrift.”  Robert Schumann.  On her first appearance, he wrote,—­“Others make poetry,—­she is a poem.”  And soon afterward,—­“She early lifted the veil of Isis.  The child looks calmly up,—­the man would, perhaps, be dazzled by the brilliancy.”

From this moment there was an elasticity and purpose about the young composer, the secret of which no one knew, not even himself.  Like one caught in the whorls of some happy dream, who will not pause to ask, “Whither?” he poured out before this child the half-revealed hopes striving within him; an equal spell was woven about her ingenuous and earnest heart, and their souls were joined in that purple morning; in due time they were to be rather clenched, through pain.  It was under this baptismal touch of Love that Schumann wrote his first sonata,—­“Florestan and Eusebius.”  It gained him at once a fame with all from whom fame was graceful.

In the light of this period of his life must be interpreted those wonderful little “pieces” which mystify whilst they fascinate; without it their meaning is as strange as their names.  Often did he say,—­“I can write only where my life is in unison with my works.”  “Listen now to these,” said Florestan, as he opened an album and struck the piano; “these are the voices of a new life.”  The “Alternatives,” with song, “My peace is o’er”; “Evening Thoughts”; “Impromptus,” (whose first theme was written by Clara):  these; seemed like the emotion of some newly winged aspirant released from its chrysalis, resting on its first flower.  But faster than planets through the abysses Love moves on.  Florestan ceased, and there was a long silence; and then he told the unspeakable portion of his story by performing these two:  “Sternenkranz,” “Warum.”  Who has ever scaled the rapture of the former, or fathomed the pathos of the latter?  Every summit implies its precipice; and the star-wreath that crowned Love was snatched at by the Fate which soon burdened two hearts with the terrible questioning, Wherefore?

Thus:  before these two were fully conscious of the love they bore each other, the shrewd eye of old Wieck had caught a glimpse of what was coming to pass.  He had educated this girl to be an artist to bring him fame; alas, it must be confessed that he thought also of certain prospective thalers.  Willing as he was that all Leipsic should admire his daughter, he did not like the enthusiasm of the “Zeitschrift.”  He then began to warn Clara against “this Faust in modern garb, who, when he had gained one finger, would soon have the whole hand, and finally the poor soul into the bargain!” Stupid old schoolmaster, thou shouldst have known that it is Mephistopheles, and not Faust, that women hate!

The old man, finding that his warnings were of no avail, forbade all acquaintance, forbade Robert’s visits to his house.  Then, inaugurating at once Clara’s career as a virtuoso, he took her to Vienna.