Clara Schumann’s (Potentially) Blue Eyes

Feminist Fridays: “Dein blaues Auge” by Johannes Brahms

This post belongs to the series originally called “Frauenbild Fridays.” For the original post, click here.

I’m gearing up to begin a more extensive series, but I’ll do one more single song musing before I dive into our next cycle.

Dein blaues Auge, which translates to “Your blue eyes,” is an iconic art song by Johannes Brahms with poetry by Klaus Groth. I was first made aware of Brahms’ existence with this PSA advocating for arts education in schools:

GUTEN TAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!!

Shoutout to my high school choir director for that one.

Remember how I spent an age and a half reframing every song from Frauenliebe und -leben through a feminist lens? How could you forget?

Well, our guy Robert Schumann composed those pieces for his wife. If you think back to my introduction of Frauenliebe, I mentioned that he was married to a notoriously fabulous pianist, Clara Schumann. Of course, she never went on to have the prolific performing career and compositional recognition she deserved because she needed to pump out babies and be a good wife, as was the expectation for the time. We could’ve heard more of her compositions if she had only been born 200 years later, but she still managed to write some beautiful music.

It’s difficult to overstate Clara’s incredible contribution to classical music. She is regarded to this day as one of the best concert pianists of all time, with a career spanning over 60 years. Robert died 30 years before her, and she continued to raise eight children while performing. Most of her compositional output occurred before she had children, which appeared to be a conscious choice. Bogged down by gender conventions of the time, Clara was unsure of whether it would be appropriate for women to compose music, despite Robert’s encouragement. Clara didn’t receive the musical recognition she deserved until the last couple of decades when a desire to highlight female composers became more mainstream. 

Clara Schumann (1819-1896) at the piano. Hulton Archive/Getty Images.

However, I’m not talking exclusively about Clara today– we’ll get to her songs soon enough. I’m talking about Johannes Brahms’ puppy dog love for his buddy’s wife, specifically, the song Dein blaues Auge.

The validity of the love triangle rumor is admittedly up in the air. Still, it remains common “knowledge” in the classical music community that Clara and Brahms were more than just friends. Despite Brahms’ apparent longing for Clara, their love was never meant to be, even though Robert died in 1856. They remained friends but not lovers. Brahms never married. A romantic type might guess this was because he spent his life pining for Clara, but perhaps he just enjoyed a bachelor’s lifestyle. We will never know.

Clara only writes that she loves Brahms in her correspondence once, whereas Brahms declares his love for Clara dozens of times. If I had to postulate, and you know I love to make wild guesses, she once truly loved the man she married, Robert Schumann. He was a brilliant young student of her father’s. However, he never respected her as an artist and intellectual the way Brahms did. After Robert’s death, she craved a relationship with a like-minded individual over a romantic affair.

I’m not a Schumann or Brahms scholar, and I will never know. I love smutty romance novels, though, so I think I’m on the right track.

Back to Dein blaues Auge. Did Clara Schumann have blue eyes?

After doing a bit of digging, or as conspiracy theorists might say, “my own research,” I can honestly say I’m not sure. In a painting of Clara from childhood, she appears to have bright blue eyes:

Image: Schumannfest.

However, in this painting of Clara in her adulthood, her eyes are more hazel or brown. Agh, the 1800s. I don’t know if Clara would’ve been a selfie gal if she lived today, but at least we’d have a few more photos from which we could deduce her eye color. Regardless, I’m choosing to believe this song is about Clara– either as an obvious nod to her eye color or an attempt to disguise the true recipient of Brahms’ ardor. It doesn’t matter if I’m right or not– isn’t that the beauty of art? There isn’t an answer.

Clara Schumann. (2023, January 23). In Wikipedia. Portrait by Franz von Lenbach, 1838.

Dein blaues Auge was published in 1873 as the eighth song in Brahms’ 8 Lieder und Gesänge, Op.59, No.8. This publication is not considered a song cycle, unlike Frauenliebe und –leben because there isn’t a compositional or poetic link between all eight of them. Unlike a song cycle, it’s acceptable and common to mix and match which songs are performed or recorded, although they can be programmed in full.

One of the queens of art song. Regine Crespin, Paris, 1972.

I mostly did this translation on my own, but Google helped.

Even in English, the poetry paints such an illustrative portrait of a lover’s eyes, providing the viewer a window into her soul, or at least that’s what he sees. It makes me sad to think of Brahms as yearning for unrequited love, but I am fascinated by Clara’s rebuffing of his advances. She had better things to do than Brahms, I guess. What’s behind Clara’s eyes? Is it Johannes Brahms’ health restored?

I think not. Scholars have analyzed the Brahms/Clara letters to death, but ultimately, there wasn’t anything there. Brahms ardently pined for Clara’s love for decades through letters, and she only said she loved him once. She loved him like she would a son. There’s something about the romanticism of getting lost in someone’s eyes, but I am more interested in the stoicism of not caring. Clara had other things to worry about besides Brahms’ letters, like raising an army of kids, insulting Liszt, and playing the piano in whatever free time was left. I admire her.

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My blue eyes sparkle in the light.

So cold, you’re blinded by them.

You ask me what I want to see?

I see myself, alone.

My glowing eyes burn through you.

The aftermath still hurts:

Yours are as earnest as a child, 

And mine cooler than the lake.

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Feminist Fridays: Gretchen am Spinnrade

What if men cared more about preventing unwanted pregnancies?

Our guy Franz. I see he escaped some facial deformities that often accompanied late-stage syphilis. Photo: Wikipedia, baby!

I know it’s a Sunday, but Feminist Fridays are BACK! We’re digging into one of my favorites today with Schubert’s Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel), a wild ride worthy of aria status, using the famous Goethe text, Faust.

Let’s back up and talk about our guy Franz Schubert (1797-1828). He wrote around 600 vocal works, primarily lieder (art songs) in his short life, in addition to symphonies, sacred music, operas, and piano and chamber work. He famously died officially of typhoid fever in 1828, but many scholars postulate he died of syphilis. I’m not sure why this is so scandalous; many people died of syphilis back in the day. No, seriously. Everybody was dying of syphilis, and it was gnarly. Thank goodness for penicillin, am I right?

Schubert made the most of his short time on earth by becoming one of the most prolific German art song composers of all time. The sheer number of works he composed over a few years is truly astounding, and we can thank him in many ways for ushering in a new era of compositional style. Beethoven reportedly was impressed!

The agony!!! Gretchen at her spinning wheel. Artist: Frank Cadogan Cowper.

Gretchen am Spinnrade is perhaps Schubert’s most iconic piece for soprano. Although it is an art song, the intensity, storyline, and relationship between voice and piano evoke the dramatic sensibility of an operatic aria. He wrote the song at the tender age of 16, further proof of his compositional genius. 

Ugh, one of the best. Enjoy the incredible vocalism of Kiri Te Kanawa.

Google Translate meets my own poetic translation for clarity.

Let’s talk about the story of Faust for a minute. Although the character of Faust has been around since the 1500s, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s play is one of the most consequential and well-known interpretations. In two parts, Goethe tells the story of a medieval man who sells his soul to the devil.

But I don’t really care about Faust– I care about the beautiful young woman, Gretchen (or Margaret, the two names are used interchangeably), whom he seduces and impregnates.

She accidentally kills her mom with a sleeping potion meant to keep her unaware of Faust’s visit, her brother condemns Faust, who kills him with the devil’s help, and Gretchen drowns her baby. Gretchen is then imprisoned for murdering her child, and although Faust attempts to free her with the devil’s help, she refuses. Ultimately, she is pardoned by God as she dies.

Woof. Romanticism, man.

This song is set before all of the tragedy unfolds. Gretchen has met Faust, and his charms consume her. She sits restlessly at her spinning wheel, heard in the piano accompaniment, as she obsesses over her love for Faust. They haven’t had sex yet, but her longing for him builds in the vocal line as the piano accompaniment imitates her increasing inability to focus on her work. 

Definitely turned some heads while reading this in Iowa.

Like many women before her, having sex with a man was the worst choice Gretchen could have ever made. The implication of this choice was unfairly 100% on her. I finished a fabulous book, Ejaculate Responsibly: A Whole New Way to Think About Abortion, by Gabrielle Blair, while sipping a delicious chai at a coffee shop in Ames, Iowa, last Sunday. It’s a short read but supremely validating and angering all at once. 

Blair was able to clearly articulate a frustration of mine in the conversation surrounding unwanted pregnancy and abortion: 100% of unwanted pregnancies are caused by irresponsible ejaculation, and yet, women bear most or all of the responsibility of preventing unwanted pregnancies.

Through 28 straightforward arguments, Blair attempts to shift the abortion issue away from legislating women’s bodies and toward a focus on equalizing the playing field of responsibility in preventing unwanted pregnancies. Assuming both parties are fertile, women are fertile for approximately 24 hours per month, whereas men can impregnate a woman 24/7, 365 days per year. Despite this, women account for 90% of the birth control market and face stigmas surrounding prioritizing men’s comfort and pleasure over pregnancy prevention. 

In Gounod’s opera, Faust, the devil had a hand in helping Faust seduce Gretchen, which could be a commentary on how tempting it is to sin, or it could be a way of absolving Gretchen of her actions. Regardless, love makes people do stupid things, like getting knocked up and accidentally killing their mom with a sleeping potion. Right?

In my mind, Gretchen resembles Ophelia– a tragic character swept up in the problems of and mistreatment by men, only to die, tortured, and alone. She fits nicely into a literary trope of helpless women who become victims at the hands of the men who were supposed to love them. At least Hamlet also dies– In Goethe’s version of Faust, the hero goes on to have an entire part two without mentioning how he ruined Gretchen’s life and caused her demise. At least she got to go to heaven. Yes?

My hope for a modern Gretchen is that she could fall in love and have sex with a man who understands that preventing unwanted pregnancies falls on both parties. By taking control of her sexuality, our modern Gretchen can restlessly daydream at her spinning wheel without worrying about a life-upending change. It makes for a far less dramatic story– distinctly less darkly romantic but much more empowering.

The devil can still condemn Faust to eternal damnation, though– he’s the worst.

‘Til Death Do Us Part: Frauenliebe und -leben Part 8

Who are we, if not the people we love?

This post belongs to a series formerly known as “Frauenbild Fridays.” Click here to see the original post.

Well, fellow feminists, we’ve come to the end of our first song cycle, Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben. Since this is a piece about a woman’s life and love, we can assume the last song features our protagonist on her deathbed, reflecting on a life well lived with her family and fulfilling career in the rearview mirror.

Wait, we forgot something– a woman’s life in this period wasn’t hers! 

The last piece in Frauenliebe, “Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan,” translates to “now you have caused me my first pain,” and refers to the death of our protagonist’s husband. Of course! It’s not her death that ends her life but rather her husband’s. We should have known.

At first glance, the lyrics remind me of the now defunct Hindu practice of Sati, also known as “widow burning,” where some women would burn themselves alive on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands, either willingly or unwillingly. In Frauenliebe und -leben, our protagonist metaphorically resigns herself to death as her husband’s body lies in front of her. It is a dark and macabre image.

I adopt a critical eye immediately, so I’d like to take a step back and assess two things before I get all cynical. First, Chamisso wrote these poems in the aftermath of the Sturm und Drang era, a precursor to the Romantic period translating to “storm and stress.” Alongside the stereotypical themes of the time, such as nature and romantic love, the romanticization of death and strong, negative emotion also pervaded literature, art, and music.

This is what comes up when you Google Sturm und Drang. Rock ‘n’ Roll, baby!! I’m moody now! Angst!! Turmoil!!! | Abraham van Beijeren, River Landscape

It makes sense that folks of the 1800s were obsessed with death and dying. 1840 was a time in which death was much more normalized than it is in our culture equipped with modern medicine. In the 1800s, the global average of childhood deaths was a whopping 43.3%. Nearly half of all kids died before they even reached adulthood! Of course, it wasn’t smooth sailing once the surviving children reached adulthood– the average lifespan in the 1800s hovered between 30-40 years of age. Next time I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, I’ll just remember that if I had lived two hundred years ago, I’d probably be dead by now!

The second factor I’d like to assess is a little squishier: love. When someone close to us dies, a tiny part of us also dies because we are part of each other. Through seven songs, we discovered our protagonist’s intense love for her partner and expanded upon her experience to center herself rather than her husband.

Grandma and me at my high school graduation. I look awful, but I think she looks cute, so we’ll roll with it. I will not be taking questions about my sunglasses. Northfield, Minnesota, 2011.

My grandma died nearly seven years ago, leaving behind a little gap in my heart. A grandparent is often the first acute death young people experience, and it was difficult to cope when my grandma died. I’m fortunate that those closest to me have lived long lives thus far, so I haven’t experienced the pain of losing a parent, sibling, best friend, or significant other. However, I can still imagine our Frauenbild doesn’t know how to go on without her closest confidant– it was hard enough for me to reckon with my grandmother’s death.

In short, I think Frauenbild’s grief is warranted, even if her outlook is antiquated and colored by the views of men at the time. 

Let’s allow the lyrics to speak for themselves for a moment.

Translation from, surprise, Google Translate.

I do not know what Jessye Norman is doing with her rolled “r” here, and frankly, I don’t care.

The poetry in this piece evokes the acute pain of loss. Even in the translation, we can feel the burden of grief our protagonist is grappling with. The broken iteration of Seit ich ihn gesehen as a postlude is quintessentially Schumann and makes me cry, I won’t deny it. The piece is a beautiful end to the cycle, but not to this woman’s story.

Although her husband is dead, I want to hear an epilogue where she continues to grow alongside her grandchildren. I want to read her memoir recounting her travels with friends. I want our protagonist to volunteer at a hospital or mentor young colleagues in her field. I want her to go on living.

The beauty of existing as a 21st-century American woman is finally becoming the main character in our own stories. For so long, we lived in service to God and husband. We existed only to produce more people, which is a powerful job but limiting when we see all the options available for men.

I savor my worth as a human not being tied to whether or not I’m beautiful, married, or a mother. My value doesn’t lie in producing sons who can go on to do something great; I can be something great myself. Women have only experienced this power in the mainstream sense for a generation. I won’t take it for granted and I won’t let anyone take it away from me.

The death of our Frauenbild’s husband may have been the end of her story, but it’s not the end of our modern twist. After my grandpa died in 1999, my grandma went on to retire as the English department chair at Le Sueur High School, travel around Europe with her friends, and remain an integral part of my childhood. I’m sure she missed my grandpa deeply, but I only remember her as a sharp-witted, independent woman who lived and loved joyously. Although the grief of losing a loved one leaves a hole that no one can fill, our protagonist’s life will continue because it is her own, just like my grandma’s.

Thank goodness– I can’t imagine being a sidekick in my own story.

One of the last times my grandma was healthy enough to hear me sing live. Concordia College, 2014.

Now you’ve caused the first pain

But it hits me.

You sleep, you soft, merciful man,

The sleep of death.

The abandoned one looks ahead,

The world moves on.

I have loved and lived, 

I go without you.

I find joy in those around me,

The grief dulls every day,

Where there was lost happiness

New life grows.