Chapter Text
i. l'oeuf (adagio)
When Robert Schumann finally attains the opportunity of meeting Felix Mendelssohn, he does not realize that it will annihilate and rebuild his entire fate in the years to come, all at the same time.
He is taking a leisurely stroll around a patron's garden— with his most beloved Clara, of course— and without the explicit permission of her father, of course. Yet the two of them couldn't care any less about the authoritative elder Wieck's wrath when he finally catches word of this as it is evident in the way they intertwine their fingers together whilst they are basking in the sight of plump vivid roses and peonies, and each other.
Ah, such young love.
Robert glances over to Clara, enthralled as the very first time that he realized that he was head over heels for her. Up to the present moment, he still can't believe that someone as beautiful and refined as she is would return the undying love of someone as uncouth and coarse as he is— and not only that, she even returns it a hundredfold. He's beyond grateful for that, and he'll make sure that he'll spend the rest of his life being devoted to her.
Butterflies spring forth from Robert's palm.
Clara giggles at their contact on her skin and spares an opening between her and Robert's hand so that the winged creatures could fly freely. "Your little friends are quite lively today, Robert," she remarks as the butterflies flutter admiringly around her, the object of their affection.
He smiles sheepishly. "Pardon my enthusiasm." He adores her laugh that sounds much like dainty tinkling bells. Hence, that results in more butterflies emerging from his hand.
"Come here," his lover beckons him, pulling him towards a nearby stone bench and sitting down together. For a while, all is beautiful and peaceful, with the lazy morning sun creeping on the thick rose bushes, its rays passing through the dew on leaves until they shine like precious stones. No father to forbid his daughter of any further trysts with her beloved, no mother who incessantly pleads to her son to go back home in Zwickau, no duties to the society that would strengthen the throne's power yet weaken the day-laborer's soul.
Robert wishes that he could live in this moment forever.
Alas, he himself knows that he cannot. But at least he has Clara, and she is all that he needs in this world full of misery. Clara lightly traces her finger on Robert's palm, mapping out the lines as one does in intricate passages on a map. "I wish I was a Schmetterlinger too," she murmurs reverently to no one in particular, "I wish butterflies would magically come out of my palm every time I would think of you." As if on cue, a lone butterfly appears on Robert's hand and flies merrily upward.
"Oh, I'm quite certain that you shall regret it," he remarks bitterly. "The butterflies will haunt you for better or for worse, and you don't really want to be labeled by the townspeople as a… a freak."
"Well I don't think that you are a freak," Clara rebuts, con risoluto. She closes Robert's palm and kisses it. "No matter. I have one more wish, and this time it is much more achievable," she declares, her large doe eyes glistening with enthusiasm. "I wish I had a painting of you kept away safely in my room."
"Why on earth would you want such a ghastly thing? And how will you keep it away from Herr Wieck?" The young man asks, clearly flustered and exasperated.
"And why not?" She retorts, laughing. "Am I not allowed to admire a likeness of you when we are apart, even if it is a mere watercolor painting the size of a book so as to keep it from Father's prying eyes?"
"If that is what you really want, I suppose," Robert finally acquiesces begrudgingly. "Do you already have a painter in mind though?" This isn't exactly his first time being painted, yet he would still like to know who the artist is nevertheless, for having a complete stranger meticulously and openly scrutinize him for hours severely unnerves him.
"I most certainly do," Clara affirms, grinning. "Felix Mendelssohn would be the perfect man for such a task."
"Felix Mendelssohn?" he echoes and frowns in contemplation, a bell vigorously ringing at the depths of his brain. "But he's a komponist just like us, is he not?" He has never met Felix before and practically knows nothing about the man, save for the fact that he is a respectable composer, the esteemed director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus, and the man behind a selected few of this generation's music that he actually approves of.
"Well yes, but he is a fine painter too, and his pencil and watercolor artworks are simply marvelous," Clara justifies as she squeezes Robert's hand. "Tell you what. Why don't you come tomorrow evening at our house? There will be a gathering, and Felix will be there as well."
"And Herr Wieck…?" he trails off warily.
Clara sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, Father says to let all the musicians inside and outside of Leipzig come to his party, so he can't possibly reject your presence. And besides, it shall be a good opportunity for you to be comfortable around Felix before he paints you, shall it not?"
"You mean, if he paints me," Robert clarifies.
"No. When he paints you," Clara responds firmly as she looks intently at her companion. "So will you come to the gathering, or not?"
Robert sighs in defeat and casts his eyes on his feet, then looks back up again and smiles. "How can I ever say no to that face?"
Clara's gaze softens as she mirrors Robert's smile. She places a hand on her beloved's cheek and kisses him, sending forth butterflies in the wake of his palms.
If Clara herself hadn't invited him to this blasted party, then he admits that he'll only have half the heart of coming to Friedrich's house. He is always eager to interact with people who resonate with his passions and interests, but the thing is, he is already acquainted with everyone in this room, even those guests who reside outside of Leipzig let alone outside of the country. Well, everyone except for this Mendelssohn fellow perhaps, but Clara would be the one to introduce them to each other so he does not see any point in chatting with acquaintances whose ideals he already knows by heart. Hence he resolves to look for his lover instead, determined to get this whole damn matter over with immediately so he can merrily stroll back towards his apartment and comfort himself with his piano's company.
Finally, there is his most beautiful Clara. He spots her at the far end of the room, tending to some ladies and cheerfully conversing with them. And oh, the sublime evergreen dress that she has on compliments quite well her lovely complexion. As Divine Providence would have it, she also sends her gaze Robert's way, and when she catches sight of him she smiles, her eyes brightening up. She then mutters something to the ladies— excusing herself, no doubt, and makes her way towards her paramour.
Together, they weave their way through the sea of people and finally meet near the center of the room.
Clara touches Robert's index finger with her own, prompting butterflies to flutter out of his hand, before intertwining their fingers together. "You look dashing tonight."
"I could say the same thing about you, my love."
She looks down bashfully. "I'm glad that you could come." She raises her gaze again and this time she smiles coyly, tilting her head sideways. "I was starting to think that you are simply too terrified to see Father again."
"I am most certainly not!" Robert protests in good nature. "Although, I have yet to have a word with him, as he still has his hands full with other guests at the moment. Anyway, why don't we meet your friend Felix to make the most out of our time together?"
"Eager, aren't we?" Clara teases. "Alright then. Let's get you acquainted with dear old Felix."
She leads the way, with her hand still holding his, as they make their way together through the crowded room to catch sight of the telltale composer.
Alas, they find him at a corner of the room, speaking in a jovial manner with another guest. Clara raises her free hand and calls out to him. "Felix!"
Upon hearing his name being called, the gentleman turns his head towards Clara and smiles, and Robert swears that he had never seen a smile as bright as Mendelssohn's before. Felix excuses himself to his companion and walks straight up towards them.
"Clara! Delighted to see you again. And spectacular party, I dare say," he politely remarks.
Why is this man such a cheerful ball of energy? The meaning of his name can't possibly be a coincidence to his character too, can it?
"Danke," she gushes, then clears her throat afterwards. "Now gentleman, I believe the both of you already know the reason why I am introducing you to each other."
Robert and Felix chuckle nervously.
"Unfortunately, I cannot stay here for much longer," Clara announces. She shoves Robert in front of Felix, her lover grunting in surprise at her sheer force as she makes her getaway. "If you'll excuse me, I shall just leave the two of you with each other as I am needed elsewhere. Auf Wiedersehen!"
The entire thing happens so fast that all Robert could do is wave a dumbstruck hand at his beloved's already retreating figure as he gapes at her. He can't believe that Clara tricked him like that. So her plan all along is to leave him to his own devices the moment they meet Mendelssohn?
Outplayed, he sighs.
"Spirited, isn't she?" Felix remarks as he strides over beside Robert and looks on at the young lady as well.
There is nothing else that he could manage to do but smile as he looks at his companion. "She definitely is."
The gentleman offers his hand in greeting. "I'm Felix. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy."
Oh my. Felix has double dimples. He tries his best to recover his proper thinking but tremendously fails. "I'm Felix," Robert responds as he takes Mendelssohn's hand, which he notes is admirably soft and warm. He then catches his mistake and shakes his head in horror. "No, you're Felix, and I'm Schumann. Robert Schumann. Pleasure to meet you. And apologies for the blunder."
Felix laughs as he shakes his hand firmly. "It's alright. I can already tell this early on that I like you." Robert blushes at the other's remark and his palm becomes ominously ticklish. All he can think about as of this moment is how adorable Felix's laugh is.
Wait. Did Robert just say that Felix's laugh is adorable?
Good heavens, he really needs to stop his wayward thoughts right this fucking instant.
Robert clears his throat. "You must certainly be such an admirable artist that Clara thought of you as her first choice in selecting a painter," he compliments as he lets go of Felix's hand before it starts getting weird. "But I am well aware that you are a busy man though, being the director of the Gewandhaus and all. I would understand it perfectly well if you won't be able to paint my portrait, Herr Mendelssohn."
"Nonsense," Felix refutes as he waves his hand omissively. "I already agreed the moment Clara asked. And please, drop the formalities, just call me Felix. A close companion of Clara's is also a close companion of mine."
"Felix then," Robert corrects himself. "We're truly grateful to you for sparing your time." He then changes the direction of their conversation. "That aside, I greatly admire your works as a komponist. I practically know all of your pieces by heart and I dare say, each and every one of them is stellarly written."
"Even my early works?" Felix smiles sheepishly.
"Ja, even your early ones," he chuckles. "You truly are the first contemporary artist, with the manner you envision your melodies."
The black-haired man shakes his head in amusement. "You flatter me with your compliments, Robert, yet I do not really think of myself as a 'groundbreaking' musician. What would dear old Liszt say to that, or the rest of the Neudeutsche Schule for that matter?"
"Damn them all and their utter irreverence to form and tonality, I dare say," Robert huffs with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Felix bursts out laughing, and it leaves a tingling sensation in Robert's palm yet again. "So you're more on the conservative side, I presume? God, I'm really happy that I found a new comrade tonight."
Robert could say the same thing about him. He can finally introduce a new powerful character into his Davidsbündler. Then, he could place the esteemed composer alongside Clara; Florestan and Eusebius finally have someone new to argue with as well. Now, he is definitely sure that the Philistines of music would be utterly obliterated into oblivion under their vigil.
He is about to respond at Felix's remark, but alas, before the conversation could get a lot more philosophical and a lot more interesting, which Robert always believes is the best part of any discourse, someone else calls out to Felix.
"Why, it's Moscheles," the black-haired man exclaims as he glances at his summoner. "And I thought he said that he couldn't come to Friedrich's party. Please excuse me, Robert. I regret cutting our conversation short, but I'm afraid Ignaz is about to relay his adventures to me for the whole duration of the evening," he says as he smiles apologetically.
Robert is mildly disappointed, yet he still nods graciously. "No matter, I completely understand. I enjoyed chatting with you very much."
"Same, Robert, same." He extends out his hand. "Let us meet again soon and discuss our mutual hatred for the Neudeutsche Schule, shall we?"
The brunette smiles as he takes Felix's hand. "I am already looking forward to it."
Felix mirrors Robert's smile, double dimples adoringly prominent. They shake hands briefly. Afterwards, Felix pats Robert on the shoulder and finally leaves.
Robert is still staring at Felix as the latter makes his way towards Moscheles. They greet each other heartily as Moscheles slaps him hard on the back, which a wincing Felix returns with a lighter pat. Something strange is blossoming in Robert's chest just by looking at Felix alone. It's as if his heart is one of the strings of a piano, which Felix pulls by pressing down on an ivory key, bringing forth a beautiful sound.
Beautiful, yes, but utterly and plainly wrong in tremendously numerous ways.
And as if to add further insult to the injury, three butterflies finally emerge out of Robert's palm.
It can't be, Robert gasps in horror as he looks on at the butterflies' destination, which he hopes in vain are on their way to Clara. But no, their target clearly seems to be the black-haired gentleman, which sends the brunette in a full-blown panic.
Okay, he braces himself, he still doesn't know that I'm a Schmetterlinger, yes? But he worries that Felix would find out that it's him eventually if this keeps up, since a Schmetterlinger's butterflies are distinct after their creator— his butterflies are amber-colored and have silver details on them, to be exact. What would he say when Mendelssohn will finally know about this?
Felix would distance himself from him just like everyone else, surely.
Before Robert could come up with more intrusive thoughts to torment himself with, the host of the party passes by in front of his field of vision.
"Herr Wieck," Robert greets him, his voice coming out as a mere croak.
Friedrich spins around his head towards the direction of the small voice, and upon seeing it is from his former piano student, he reacts as if he has just seen a ghost. "Ah, Robert. I was afraid you would come tonight, and you really did." He looks slightly displeased, yet he still turns to face his guest properly.
"The moment I found out that the respected musicians inside and outside of Leipzig would be going here, I simply cannot resist," Robert declares with a polite smile. He opts not to add that Friedrich's daughter was the one who invited him here to meet the person who would paint his portrait, for he knows that the host would surely react unpleasantly to it if he does.
"Oh please, spare me der Quatsch," Friedrich huffs. "We both know that the real reason why you simply cannot resist going here is because you want to see my precious little Clara."
Robert ducks his head sheepishly. "Uh, well, that too." To his relief, butterflies still come out of his palm when he thinks of her.
If he is happy to see the butterflies, then Friedrich is most certainly not. "You damn Schmetterlingers are really annoying," he mutters out of irritation. "Do put on gloves or something, will you?"
"But that would just trap the butterflies inside of the gloves and not stop them from being created," Robert explains apologetically. "It would be more convenient to not wear them at all."
"Convenient for you, yes, but tragically inconvenient for us normal people," Friedrich retorts as he takes a step forward and places a hand on Robert's shoulder. "Listen. I want you to stay very far away from my daughter, hm? It would do you well to remember that, my boy, as I have also said to you many times before already."
For a moment, the gesture almost comes across as fatherly; his voice and his gaze also turn mellow. Robert glances at the wrinkled hand resting on his shoulder then proceeds to look at its owner. He could see the same piercing eyes that he sees on his beloved Clara. "Please forgive me, Herr Wieck, but I can never do that," he responds with a clear resolve.
Friedrich stiffens his hand before removing it from Robert's shoulder. "How can I forgive you, when you cannot do such a ridiculously simple thing?" He sighs. "You are testing my patience, young man, but I am still a gracious host and I want the both of us to enjoy the rest of the party. Gute nacht." And with that, he leaves, without so much as waiting for Robert's reply.
Robert still bows his head politely nevertheless. He sighs deeply afterwards. Perhaps he has already overstayed his welcome here, and now he needs to leave. And with that, he makes his way to the door as he jostles with the crowd.
Someone is admirably playing an impromptu on the piano— in the key of A-flat major, to be exact, but even this barely registers as he is already preoccupied with getting the hell out of here. When he is already near the door, someone takes him by the wrist, and before he can even turn around to see who it is, his palm already reacts on instinct and sends forth butterflies.
"Clara." His expression is warm as he gazes at his lover.
"You're already leaving?" Clara fails to conceal the disappointment and sadness in her voice.
"I'm afraid so," Robert affirms apologetically. "My social energy is at its limit."
Clara nods in understanding, despite herself. "Alright then. But did you have a nice chat with Felix though?"
"Indeed I did," Robert grins in assurance. "I believe we might have just found the newest member of our Davidsbündler."
Clara gets a little more worked up. "That's grand and all, but there's still so much for you to see—"
"Hush, my love," he cuts her out gently as he places a hand on her soft cheek, "you shan't fuss over such small things. Let's talk in the morning, hm?"
His lover sighs in defeat as she holds on to the warm hand touching her skin, and leans her head towards it. "Alright, then. Talk in the morning we shall."
Clara accompanies him to the door, still holding his hand. They still hold on to each other even as Robert opens the door and takes one step outside, with Clara still inside the house. "Don't play the piano for too long," she advises him. "You need to give it a rest sometimes."
Robert smiles mischievously. "Ach, but I'm afraid I really can't promise you that."
She rolls her eyes in good nature. Robert steps even further away yet they still grasp onto the other's hand with their fingers intertwined, until the very last fingertip, until it is no longer possible to do so. Butterflies escape from his palm and flutter towards Clara.
Well, even though he can no longer stay at the party, at least his butterflies will keep Clara company until they decide it is high time to fly away somewhere else.
"Gute nacht, Robert," Clara calls out to him when he is on the street.
"Gute nacht to you too, Frau Wieck," he responds with a bow.
Clara smiles as she closes the door.
Friedrich finishes his generous serving of Himbeergeist, having just witnessed the whole thing.
Robert strolls down the quiet Leipzig street, and as he does, he's humming a lieder of Schubert's, the one that tells about night and dreams. It's awfully appropriate, considering the pleasant ending of his day. Yet the cool October wind is struggling against him, and he wishes that he has a companion to talk with to distract himself from the cold.
Fortunately, he isn't alone for much longer, because four butterflies join him as they flutter around him eagerly.
What's interesting is that they aren't his.
"Well hello there, my little friends," he exclaims in surprise. "And from who might you be?"
He notes their pitch black color, with rich blue patches here and there. They're beautiful. He quickly concludes that they are from the party, since he is still not that far away from the Wieck household, and since the surrounding houses have already quieted down. Perhaps they escaped from one of the open windows.
For all he knows, Clara is not a Schmetterlinger. So who the hell is deranged enough to take a liking to him? (Not that Clara is deranged or anything though.)
He ponders over this question even as he has already arrived at his apartment, secretly wishing that it is Felix.
Robert has just seen a performance of Felix at the Gewandhaus and now he is slated to write an interview about it in the journal that he runs, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik. He strides towards his desk and mulls over what approach he should take in his writing.
Felix had been spectacular. No other conductor could recreate the sweet, sweet sound that he could coax out of the orchestra, and his military precision as well as his attention to detail are something to be envious of. Under his baton, the richest harmonies could be heard.
And the man himself. Damn it, it's also about the man himself. Robert can't tear away his eyes from him as the conductor bobs his head to the rhythm, with his curly hair bouncing along. He also grips the baton masterfully. The whole thing is a fever dream, yet it had also been a nightmare for Robert to contain his butterflies during the whole performance.
Speaking of the little devils, a copious amount of them emerge out of his palms. They circle around him relentlessly, persistently… a physical manifestation of how he is also circled around relentlessly, persistently, by his own delusional thoughts.
"Stop it," he hisses at them as he waves his hands in front of him vigorously, in a futile attempt to keep the amber-colored creatures away from him. They retaliate by calling out more of their comrades to come out of his hand.
He groans in frustration over his hopeless predicament. He decides to open the windows so that some of the butterflies would fly away before they threaten to fill the entire room with their presence, and proceeds back to writing— or planning, to be exact.
Or plainly just daydreaming, to be exact.
He needs to thoroughly think about the things that he is about to write, lest the public will see through him. But he also does not desire it to sound too detached and formal— he wants it to be enthusiastic and sincere enough, but not revealing enough to show his true emotions for his fellow composer.
So he decides to write his critique about his reaction to Felix's performance, with his reaction to how it all started:
The first impression that I have of Felix Mendelssohn is of an unforgettable man.
If anything, the butterflies that flutter out of his palm after he writes that down are proof to just how unforgettable he really is.
To my respected friend F. Mendelssohn,
It pleases me to tell you that I most certainly enjoyed your performance last night at the Gewandhaus. The manner that you conducted the orchestra was simply breathtaking, and your interpretation of the pieces are well-thought out.
But that is not the main subject of this letter. I loathe myself for imposing, but Clara already demands for the portrait to be done immediately. You know how she is. Can I be so bold as to ask when you will be free?
I look forward to seeing you soon, and again, I am sending my deepest apologies. I fear Clara will endlessly pester me (and you) if we don't take action soon.
Respectfully,
Robert Schumann
Robert immediately gets a response on the afternoon of the next day.
To my highly-valued contemporary, R. Schumann:
I am immensely delighted that you approve of my performance. Your review about it in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik was most flattering. But I'm afraid that I am not worthy enough of such high praise, as I am just a humble musician striving to practice his craft.
As for the matter of the portrait, I completely understand, you most certainly do not have to apologize. Yes, Frau Clara could indeed be quite intense sometimes, and I would cower under her gaze too.
If that is the case, then I warmly invite you into the Mendelssohn Bartholdy household on the fifteenth of Oktober, that is, if you have time to spare during that day.
I look forward to seeing you soon as well, and I hope that we will get to see each other more often from now on.
Sincerely,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy
The fifteenth of Oktober. That's two days from now. Robert presumes that he does not have any business to attend to on the afternoon of that day, so he is relieved. He is also not certain whether he ought to be pleased or anxious that Felix reads his publication.
He lightly touches the illustration scribbled at the bottom left corner of the letter. It's a little Felix, with the same bright eyes and curly hair and all. He has a feeling that Mendelssohn regularly does this in his correspondences. The drawing enthusiastically waves at him, as if reiterating what Felix is saying in the letter: I hope that we will get to see each other more often from now on.
There are three things that Robert Schumann is certain of— one, he loves Clara Wieck; two, he realizes that he does not love her enough; because three, he is absolutely, hopelessly, irrevocably smitten for Felix Mendelssohn.
He mournfully groans at the butterflies continuously sprouting from his palms.