How Did the Moody Robert Schumann Come to Write the Spritely “Zigeunerleben”?

In May 2013 the community choir to which I belong, the Cherry Creek Chorale, performed a concert with the title “Isn’t It Romantic?” One of the pieces was the rousing song “Zigeunerleben” by Robert Schumann. I got a little tickled with myself when I realized later that not only did I not read a translation of the text in preparation for the concert, having only a vague idea that it was something about gypsies, but I also assumed that the song was by Robert Schubert. (The confusion of Schubert and Schumann is very common; East Germany issued a commemorative stamp in 1956 that had a picture of Schuman against a backdrop of music by Schubert; the stamp had to be re-issued in corrected form.) But during some later work on Johannes Brahms, who was closely associated with the Schumanns, I realized that Robert was a fascinating study unto himself. There’s no way I can do justice to the whole complicated story of this complicated man, so let me attempt to explain how he came to write this song.

First a little background. Schumann showed great musical talent as a child, beginning piano lessons at age seven and working on compositions without any adult supervision. His father encouraged him in these endeavors but died when his son was 16. Schumann’s mother and guardian pressured him to take up law, and he did indeed study it for several years, but his heart was never in it. He said in a letter to his mother during this time that “My whole life has been a struggle between Poetry and Prose, or call it Music and Law.” During most of the time when he was supposed to be devoting himself to law he was instead studying music and immersing himself in the world of composers and writers. He was especially fascinated with the music of Niccolò Paganini. Finally, it seems, Mrs. Schumann gave up on her son’s legal career. Whew! Robert was 20 years old, immensely talented, and had just signed on to study with Friedrich Wieck, a well-known piano teacher, who assured him that he would be a successful concert pianist after a few years’ study with him. And Wieck had a lovely, talented daughter, Clara, who was a little young for him at the time (11) but hey! Who knew what would happen? Life looked good.

But things didn’t work out quite as planned. Schumann had to give up the idea of becoming a concert pianist when he injured his right hand. We’re not sure exactly what happened. The rather mean-spirited Wieck always said that Schumann had been using some type of gizmo that was supposed to strengthen his fingers; Clara said later that this story wasn’t true and that Schumann’s entire hand was affected. In any case, Schumann didn’t go out and commission works solely for the left hand as did Paul Wittgenstein, whose right hand had to be amputated as a result of an injury sustained during World War I, or Leon Fleisher, who re-invented himself after his right hand mysteriously “seized up” in 1964, also by devoting himself to single-handed works. Nobody had thought of such a thing in Schumann’s time, so he turned to composition. His works never attained much popularity during his lifetime and, as noted above, he often gets confused with Franz Schubert. Cold!

But maybe the love of a good woman would give his life a much-needed boost. Well, Schumann actually got engaged in 1834 to a young woman with rich adoptive parents. All seemed well on that front, until Schumann learned that she was illegitimate and would therefore have no dowry. Unwilling to face the idea of becoming a “day-laborer” in order to support the two of them, he broke off the match in 1835. (One might point out that, as far as can be ascertained, Schumann was still being supported by his mother at this point. I’m having kind of a hard time sympathizing with him, to be honest. But I’ll leave this comment within parentheses, to be ignored at will.) And now Clara came to the fore in his affections. She was 15, and Schumann’s mother actually liked her, having said to her at a concert where Clara had performed spectacularly that “you must marry my Robert one day.” By the end of 1835 the young couple had declared their mutual love, but now another obstacle to happiness loomed: Clara’s father. I’m sure there have been entire psychological treatises written about Friedrich Wieck and his absolute determination to control his daughter’s life. It helps a little to understand this whole mess when you know that Friedrich and his wife had divorced when Clara was only five. The couple had had the old “irreconcilable differences,” caused, we’re told, by Friedrich’s “unyielding nature.” The mother, a talented singer, had ended up having an affair with a family friend, divorcing her husband, marrying the friend, and moving to Berlin. Clara stayed with her father and never had much contact again with her mother. ‘So,’ Friedrich must have thought, ‘I couldn’t control my wife, but you’d better believe I’m going to control my daughter!’ He molded her into a pianistic prodigy, but there must have been plenty of talent there to begin with. When Friedrich found out about the love between Clara and Robert, he exploded, forbidding the couple to have any communication at all. This went on for five years. I ran across a rather touching vignette describing Robert sitting on a café for hours near a venue where Clara was performing, hoping that he’d get to see her for a few minutes before or after the concert.

Robert formally asked Friedrich for Clara’s hand after she’d turned 18 and, of course, was rejected, so the lovers sued in court for the right to marry. The judge granted their request and the marriage took place on September 12, 1840, one day before Clara’s 21^st birthday, when she would have been able to marry Schumann anyway. Researchers seem to agree that the couple did it this way to prove that they had prevailed over Friedrich on their own and not just because of the calendar. Seems a bit pointed, but you can’t really blame them. Wieck was estranged from the couple for several years, refusing to communicate with them in any way, but by 1843 the lure of the grandchildren proved too strong to resist. And I can’t resist quoting this passage from Wikipedia:

Wieck invited Schumann to a reconciliation, writing, “For Clara’s sake and the world’s, we can no longer keep each other at a distance. You too are now a family man – is a longer explanation needed?” The reconciliation was welcomed by Clara, although Robert was less enthusiastic.

Okay. I’m supposed to be writing about how Schumann came to write “Zigeunerleben,” so maybe I’d better get back to that subject. You may remember I mentioned above that the young Schumann was more interested in the work of “composers and writers” than he was in the study of law. He became especially intrigued with setting poetry to music during 1840, often called “The Year of Song,” writing 139 songs total. His outpouring of the genre occurred even though he had previously derided vocal songs as being inferior to pieces written for the piano alone. This tremendous outburst is usually credited to his finally being able to marry Clara, even though that event didn’t happen until September. We have letters he wrote to Clara in the spring and summer in which he describes how much music he’s writing. The realization that the marriage was going to take place after all, Wieck or no Wieck, and then the marriage itself both played a part. And so the music flowed.

“Zigeunerleben” is the last of three songs in the Opus 29, “Drei Gedichte”—“Three Poems,” with lyrics from the “Gypsy Life” poems by Emanuel Geibel. While Geibel isn’t very well known today, he was quite famous at the time. Schumann scored the songs for small groups, with our piece written for a quartet. The rambunctiousness of the piece fits well with a large choir, though, and that’s how it’s usually performed. I haven’t been able to find the actual month of composition, but it wasn’t published until 1841 and so may indeed have been written after the marriage.

Critical theories abound as to why Schumann found the gypsies so attractive:

Some commentators argue that Schumann identified himself with the gypsy, a person perpetually on the move, anguished, fugitive and exiled: Schumann being the successor of Schubert the doomed Wanderer and precursor to Wagner’s Fliegende Holländer [The Flying Dutchman] seeking redemption. Other commentators link the wandering nature of the gipsy with that passionate side of Schumann’s character that he calls himself Florestan. As opposed to centralized, urban and bureaucratic and militaristic life, the wild, sensuous, fleeting and uncontrollable nature of gypsies (today, we could say ecological return to Mother-Nature) fascinated 19th c. German artists. (“Zigeunerleben” by Robert Schumann)

This article is running way, way over my usual self-imposed limit of around 1,000 words, but I do want to give a little background about the people in the poem, the so-called “gypsies.” Ever wondered where that term comes from? Me neither. But guess what? That nugget of information is contained in the poem:

It is the roaming band of gypsies
With flashing eyes and waving hair,
Weaned on the holy waters of the Nile,
tanned by Spain’s scorching sun.

The gypsies were thought at the time to be from Egypt; thus the Nile reference. Then they supposedly migrated to Spain and throughout Europe. But modern genetic testing has shown that these people, now called the Roma or Romani, actually originated in northern India. Because they have never fit into society, remaining nomads for the most part, they have come in for great persecution. The Nazi regime considered them to be “racially inferior” and treated them pretty much like they treated the Jews. It’s a sign of this stigma that both the terms “jew” and “gyp” refer to cheating. Honestly, I’ve used the term “gyp” or “gip” many times without thinking a thing about it. Sad but true! And the rather unthinking romanticizing shown by Geibel is almost as bad as the slurs. In either case, these people are considered to be solidly in the camp of the “other.”

The rest of Schumann’s life is pretty tragic, with mental illness, a suicide attempt, and death in an insane asylum. He and Clara had 14 years together before his attempt at drowning himself; after that he was confined to the asylum and she was not allowed to see him. He died at 46. In spite of his struggles with depression and delusions, he produced a significant body of work and is now considered to be one of the greatest composers of the Romantic era. “Zigeunerleben” marks one of the few happy times in his life.

Here’s a good performance with rather poor video; it deserves the label “spritely.”

And here are the lyrics with a translation:

And here’s a performance that follows Schumann’s original scoring, using just four voices: