cuted and his anger vanished in the rapture of being
made a doctor of philosophy in flattering terms. As he confesses:

"Of course the first I did was to send a copy to the north for my
betrothed; who is exactly like a child and will dance at being engaged
to a doctor."

In May he went to Berlin and visited Clara's mother for a fortnight;
here he had two weeks' bliss listening to Mendelssohn's singing to
Clara's accompaniment some of the manifold songs that were suddenly
beginning to bubble up from Schumann's heart. It was to his happiness
that he credited this lyric outburst, for he had hitherto written only
instrumental music.

"While I was composing them I was quite lost in thoughts of you. If I
were not engaged to such a girl, I could not write such music."

Songs came with a rush from his soul, and he exclaims:

"I have been composing so much that it really seems quite uncanny at
times. I cannot help it, and should like to sing myself to death like a
nightingale."

He begged Clara to come to him and drag him away from his music. Yet
all he wished was to be "where I can have a piano and be near you."

On July 4, 1840, he made her a present of a grand piano as a surprise,
taking her out for a long walk until the piano could be placed in her
rooms and hers taken to his.

It will not be possible to tell here in detail the story of the process
of law, or its many postponements or disappointments. Long ago they had
set their hearts upon marrying on Easter Day, 1840; they had determined
not to permit their father to drive them past this date. But they went
meekly enough under the yoke of the law and passed many a month until
it seemed to the litigants that the condition of waiting for a decision
was to be their permanent manner of life. But suddenly, as Litzmann
says, "there stood Happiness, long besought, on the stoop, and knocked
with tender fingers on the door."

On the 7th of July, 1840, Clara was told the good news that the father
had withdrawn the evidence upon which he based his opposition. The case
was not ended, but the lovers immediately began to hunt for a place to
live. On the sixteenth of July they found a little, but cosy, lodging
on the Insel Strasse. Grief had not yet finally done with them,
however, for Clara must write in her journal:

"I have not for my wedding what the simplest girl in town has, a
trousseau."

On the 1st of August the case reached a stage where the father had but
ten days