Schumann, he related, spent his last two years in a mental asylum at Endenich, near Bonn, the culmination of his long illness. All his life he had worked in a ferment of intensity, his highs bringing flurries of inspiration in which he might compose obsessively in one medium for weeks, months or more, turning out masterpiece after masterpiece; as for the lows, these lay beyond agonising and often rendered him unable to write at all. He fell in love with Clara Wieck when she was still in her teens; her father tried to separate them, on the grounds that the unstable Schumann would make a thoroughly disreputable husband for his Clara – a prodigy whom he had raised to be a great pianist, not housewife to a manic-depressive composer whose music was too interesting ever to make much money. The young couple took him to court and won the right to marry, which they duly did, the day before Clara’s 21st birthday. The passing years brought them many children, musical glories, great friendships, but then – Gambrell lowered his voice – calamity.

‘Schumann was quite, quite mad, possibly because he had a malady of, er, unfortunate origin that resulted in this, namely syphilis, or possibly because he had an inherent instability – or, I suspect, both. Whatever the truth, he went stark, raving nuts. People do say, of course, that a tendency towards these dual extremes is very common among our great artists and can fuel their output, which may well be the case here. But if that was what caught up with him in the end, it was tragic. He himself asked to be sent from his home in Düsseldorf to the asylum, because he was afraid he might harm Clara or the little ones. Poor Clara was left with seven children to bring up on her own.’

‘My great-uncle adored Clara,’ Jelly remarked. ‘We always revered her memory.’

‘Of course you would, as your great-uncle Joachim was one of Clara’s inner circle of confidants, together with his close friend Johannes Brahms – who was himself in love with Clara, or so we believe. They were a true triumvirate, a triangle of power over the legacy of the unfortunate Schumann. All three of them went to Endenich when he was dying. Imagine, Miss d’Arányi, they stood by his body together, mourning, after his soul departed. Thereafter they kept together and closed ranks. It is perfectly possible that Clara discussed with Joachim, and with Brahms too, whether to suppress some of Schumann’s more dubious late compositions: those they considered might betray the fact that his mind was no longer entirely coherent.’

‘But surely Onkel Jo wouldn’t have… ?’

‘Well, put yourself in Frau Clara’s shoes. One does not want one’s husband’s memory sullied by a work that doesn’t do him justice.’