Robert Schumann had been before the public as essayist, poet, pianist and composer for twenty years. He had given himself without stint to almost every musical enterprise of Germany, and his sympathy was ever on tap for every needy and aspiring genius. You may give your purse--he who takes it takes trash--but to give your life's blood and then hope for a renewal of life's lease, is vain. The public man owes to himself and to his Maker the duty of reserve. The desert and mountain are very necessary to the individual who gives himself to the public. That any man should so bestride the narrow world like a colossus that the multitude must stop to gaze, and thousands feed upon his words, is an abnormal condition. The only thing that can hold the balance true is solitude. Relaxation is the first requirement of strength. Watch the cat, the tiger or the lion asleep. See what complete absence of intensity--what perfect relaxation! It is all a preparation for the spring. Schumann had not sought the mountain, nor abandoned himself to the woods in old shoes, corduroys and a flannel shirt. Now he was paying the penalty of publicity. Virtue had gone out of him; and in the article just quoted, there are signs that he is clutching for something. He hails this new star and proclaims him, because in some way he feels that the ruddy, valiant and youthful Brahms is to consummate his work. Brahms is an extension of himself. It is a part of that longing for immortality--we perpetuate ourselves in our children and look for them to accomplish what we have been unable to do. Johannes Brahms was the spiritual son of Robert Schumann. In less than a year after Brahms and Schumann first met, there were ominous signs and evil portents in the air. "Why do you play so fast, dear Johannes? I beg of you, be moderate!" cried Robert on one occasion. Brahms turned, and his quick glance caught the ashy face and bloodshot eyes of a sick man. His reply was a tear and a hand-grasp. Soon, to Schumann, all music was going at a gallop, and in his ears forever rang the sound of A. He could hear naught else. Tenderness, patience, and even love were of no avail. Indeed, love is not exempt from penalty--the law of compensation never rests. Nature forever strives for a right adjustment. The richness and intensity of Schumann's life were bought with a price. The first year after his marriage he composed one hundred thirty-eight songs. Sonatas, scherzos, symphonies and ballads followed fast, and in it all his gifted wife had gloried. But when, in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-four, Robert had, after sleepless nights, in a fit of frenzy thrown himself into the Rhine, and had been rescued, shattered, unable to recognize even his nearest friends--the loyal and devoted wife saw where she herself had erred.