7 July, Barnes, London
St. Paul’s Boys’ School
Concert in honour of George Isserlis’s 95th birthday (presented by Barnes Music Club)
Artists
Ken Aiso, Rachel Isserlis (violins), Annette Isserlis, Isabel Bond (violas), Steven Isserlis, Gabriel Isserlis, Natasha Bond (violoncellos), William Bond (bassoon), Joanna Bergin (narrator), Connie Shih (piano)

Programme to include
Bach – Cello Suite No. 3
Martinů – Cello Sonata No. 2
Anne Dudley – Goldiepegs and the 3 Cellos (words by Steven)
Annette Isserlis – A Birthday Ramble

8 July, Winchester, UK
Winchester Festival
With Connie Shih, piano
Programme
Bach – Cello Suite No. 3 in C major
Debussy – Cello Sonata
Fauré – Cello Sonata No. 2
Janáček – Pohadka
Martinů – Cello Sonata No. 2

13 July, Cheltenham, UK
Cheltenham Festival
With Connie Shih, piano
Programme to include
Fauré – Sonata No. 1 for cello and piano

14 July, Cheltenham, UK
Cheltenham Festival
With Nigel Kennedy, violin, Katharine Gowers, violin, Jennifer Stumm, viola and Connie Shih, piano
Programme to include
Elgar – Piano Quintet

15 July, Cheltenham, UK
Cheltenham Festival
With Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra and Martyn Brabbins, conductor
Programme to include
Elgar – Cello concerto

21 July, London, UK
Wigmore Hall
IMS 40th Anniversary including cello masterclass, pre-concert talk and Schumann quintet with Katharine Gowers, violin, Gabrielle Lester, violin, Jennifer Stumm, viola and Sam Haywood, piano

29 July, Vevey, Switzerland
Verbier Festival
With Joshua Bell, violin, Lawrence Power, viola and Dénes Varjon, piano
Programme to include
Janáček – Pohádka
Smetana – Piano trio in G major, Op. 15
Dvořák – Piano quintet in A major, Op. 81

31 July, Vevey, Switzerland
Verbier Festival
With Joshua Bell, violin, Lawrence Power, viola and Dénes Varjon, piano
Programme to include
Suk – Piano quartet, Op. 1
Martinů – Cello sonata No. 2
Dvořák – Piano quartet in E flat, Op. 87

3 June, Bern, SWITZERLAND
Paul Klee Centre
With Denes Varjon, piano
Programme
Mendelssohn – Variation Concertantes, Op. 17
Bargiel – Adagio, Op. 38
Schumann (arr Isserlis) – Violin Sonata No. 3
Suk – Ballade and Serenade, Op. 3
Brahms – Sonata No. 2 in F, Op. 99

5 June, Heimbach, GERMANY
Heimbach Festival
With Lauma Skride, Viviane Hagner and Rachel Roberts
Programme to include
Dvorák – Piano quartet No. 2 in E flat major, Op. 87

7 June, Heimbach, GERMANY
Heimbach Festival
With With Gunilla Süssmann, Christian Tetzlaff, Katharine Gowers, Lawrence Power and Lars Vogt
Programme to include
Schumann (arr. Isserlis) – Sonata for violin and piano No. 3 in A minor (version for cello and piano)
Franck Piano quintet in F minor Op. 18

12 June, Stockholm, SWEDEN
Festival Omodernt
Voices from Afar
Programme to include
Vasks – Plainscapes
Tavener – Svyati

13 June, Stockholm, SWEDEN
Festival Omodernt
With Anne-Sofie von Otter, mezzo soprano and Bengt Forsberg, piano

14 June, Stockholm, SWEDEN
Masterclass

16 June, London, UK
Wigmore Hall
Steven interviews Marta Casals Istomin for the Wigmore’s Artists in Conversation series

20-30 June, Kronberg, GERMANY
Kronberg Academy
Programme to include
Schubert – String Quintet in C major, D956
Mozart – String quintet No. 4 in G minor, KV 516
Faure – Piano quartet No. 2 in G minor

On 16th April, Steven was invited to take part in an extraordinary concert in honour of the upcoming 90th birthday of the legendary violinist Ivry Gitlis. The concert was held at the Palais des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, and was organised by Leonid and Hagit Kerbel, who founded Musica Mundi. Steven was involved in four works.
Schumann Piano quintet (1st mvt) with Martha Argerich, Ivry Gitlis, Janine Jansen, Amihai Grosz, Chopin Introduction and Polonaise Brilliante with Martha Argerich (put on at very short notice!), Tsintsadze Chonguri and Hummel (arr. Isserlis) Variations on God Save the King with Maxim Vengerov.
But there were many other items as well – the concert lasted over four hours! The whole event was recorded and filmed, so should hopefully be broadcast and televised some time in the future.

3 May, London, UK
Queen Elizabeth Hall
With Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment
Robert Levin piano, director
Isabelle Faust violin, director
Programme to include
Haydn – Symphony No.104 (London) (directed by Steven Isserlis)
Beethoven – Triple Concerto

4 May, Bristol, UK
St George’s Bristol
With Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment
Robert Levin piano, director
Isabelle Faust violin, director
Programme
Haydn – Symphony No. 104 in D (London) (directed by Steven Isserlis)
Mozart – Violin Concerto No. 3 in G (directed by Isabelle Faust)
Beethoven – Triple Concerto (directed by Robert Levin)

9 May, New York, NY
92nd Street Y
Lecture recital with Robert Levin – Beethoven’s Complete Works for Cello and Piano

10 May, New York, NY
92nd Street Y
Recital with Robert Levin, fortepiano
Programme
Beethoven – 12 Variations on a Theme from Handel’s “Judas Maccabeus”, WoO, 45
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in F, Op. 5 No. 1
Beethoven – 12 Variations in F on ‘Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’, Op. 66
Beethoven – Horn Sonata Op. 17 (transcribed for cello)
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in A, Op. 69

12 May, New York, NY
92nd Street Y
Recital with Robert Levin, fortepiano
Programme
Beethoven – 7 Variations on ‘Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’ WoO. 46
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in G minor sonata Op. 5 No. 2
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in C, Op. 102 No. 1
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in D, Op. 102 No. 2

13 May, New York, NY
92nd Street Y
Family Concert with Robert Levin and Judy Kuhn (narrator)
The Cello was his Forte: Introducing Beethoven’s Cello Sonatas

19 May, San Fransisco, CA
Herbst Theatre at the War Memorial Performing Arts Center
Recital with Robert Levin, fortepiano
Programme
Beethoven – 12 Variations on a Theme from Handel’s “Judas Maccabeus”, WoO, 45
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in F, Op. 5 No. 1
Beethoven – 12 Variations in F on ‘Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’, Op. 66
Beethoven – Horn Sonata Op. 17 (transcribed for cello)
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in A, Op. 69

20 May, San Francisco, CA
Herbst Theatre at the War Memorial Performing Arts Center
Recital with Robert Levin, fortepiano
Programme
Beethoven – 7 Variations on ‘Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’ WoO. 46
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in G minor sonata Op. 5 No. 2
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in C Op. 102 No. 1
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in D Op. 102 No. 2

1-10 April – IMS Prussia Cove, UK
Masterclasses

12 April, Leipzig, GERMANY
Gewandhaus zu Leipzig
With Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra and Jakub Hrůša, conductor
Programme to include
Shostakovich – Cello Concerto No. 1
Dvorak – Waldesruhe Op. 68, No. 5

13 April, Leipzig, GERMANY
Masterclass at Leipzig music academy

13 April, Leipzig, GERMANY
Gewandhaus zu Leipzig
With Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra and Jakub Hrůša, conductor
Programme to include
Shostakovich – Cello Concerto No. 1
Dvorak – Waldesruhe Op. 68, No. 5

16 April, Brussels, BELGIUM
Concert at Palais des Beaux Arts in honour of Ivry Gitlis

27 April, London, UK
Queen Elizabeth Hall
Complete Beethoven Sonatas and Variations with Robert Levin, piano
Programme
Beethoven – 12 Variations on a Theme from Handel’s “Judas Maccabeus”, WoO, 45
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in F, Op. 5 No. 1
Beethoven – 12 Variations in F on ‘Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen’ from Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’, Op. 66
Beethoven – Horn Sonata Op. 17 (transcribed for cello)
Beethoven – Cello Sonata in A Op. 69

29 April, London, UK
Queen Elizabeth Hall
Complete Beethoven Sonatas and Variations with Robert Levin, piano
Programme
Beethoven – 7 Variations on `Bei Männern welche Liebe fühlen’ (from The Magic Flute), WoO.46 for cello & piano
Beethoven – Cello Sonata No.2 in G minor, Op.5 No.2
Beethoven – Cello Sonata No.4 in C, Op.102 No.1
Beethoven – Cello Sonata No.5 in D, Op.102 No.2

Steven is going to be on the cover of the December issue of BBC Music Magazine! Plus CD of Kabalevsky concerto No. 2 with Bournemouth SO/Kirill Karabits; Mendelssohn D minor trio with Joshua Bell and Denes Varjon; and Brahms E minor sonata with Stephen Hough – all live performances.

Click here to go to this month’s free BBC Music Magazine iTunes playlist and listen to him playing a movement from Brahms’s Cello Sonata No. 2 with pianist Stephen Hough and the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 5.

This season, however, I am embarking on something a little different.  I have had the idea for some time: a series of interviews with ‘legendary’ (not that I’m sure what that word is supposed to mean) musicians whom I know well. I am a bit nervous about my interviewing skills – I’m sure that I am no Michael Parkinson.  But I do think that I understand something about my three interviewees; I feel close to them, and flatter myself that our friendships are special. I have performed with two of them – and I adore them all.

Ivry Gitlis is perhaps more famous with the general public in France and Japan than he is here in Britain; but among musicians, he is truly a legend. Endless stories are told about him everywhere that musicians congregate.  He has had a more varied career than anyone I know. Sponsored by Hubermann, he studied with Flesch, Enesco and Thibaud. For many years he lived in London (where, some time after the war, he apparently went on a date with my mother! She told me that, anyway, although Ivry has no memory of it – hardly flattering.) Thereafter he moved to Paris, where he acted (not as a violinist, but as a magician, which is thoroughly appropriate) in a Truffaut movie, performed with Marcel Marceau, improvised with Stephane Grapelli, was the favourite violinist of John Lennon (although Ivry did NOT enjoy performing with Yoko Ono on the Rolling Stones’ Rock ‘n’ Roll Circus), spent much time in Africa, was appointed as a Goodwill Ambassador for Unesco – and so on.  He is unique!

Everything rests on his incredible talent for communicating with people. I first met him in Israel, backstage after a concert I’d given with Tabea Zimmermann and Itamar Golan. The moment he walked in, I knew he was going to be part of my life. He fixed me with his electric blue eyes, blew smoke in my direction (I’d have hated anyone else who’d done that! Luckily he has since given up the filthy habit), talked in his silky voice – and I was hooked! Fairly soon afterwards, he gave a recital, with his then regular partner Ana-Maria Vera, at the Wigmore, and I went along. I remember that Nigel Kennedy was there too; he and I don’t share exactly similar tastes in all ways – but we were united in our enthusiasm for that concert. The Kreutzer sonata in particular was amazing – character bursting out of every note.  At the party afterwards, Nigel and I got to feel Ivry’s strength, when, in an affectionate gesture, he put his arms around us – and practically throttled us both!

Since then, Ivry and I have spent time together in various places, and played chamber music, most memorably the Mendelssohn D minor trio with Martha Argerich. Ivry is a law unto himself in every way; both Martha (not exactly a weak character herself!) and I fastened our eyes and ears on him, and followed him every step of the way. It was exciting! He challenges his listeners uncompromisingly, his personality taking possession of the hall. Perhaps it’s not for everyone – but I, and countless others, find it thrilling. Ivry has simply forgotten to grow old. He called recently, and I asked him how he was; ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘the graveyards are full, so I’m still here’.  Recently, I went to meet him at  St Pancras station, where he was waiting for the Eurostar back to Paris. Because he had so much luggage, he’d decided to ask for a wheelchair to take him to the train.  We were sitting and talking, talking, talking (as we always do – usually with a fair measure of quarrels thrown in) when Ivry looked at his watch. ‘Oy – I was supposed to meet the man with the wheelchair five minutes ago’. Off he tore, with me in hot pursuit, trying vainly to explain that the wheelchair-operator might be a little puzzled to have his client arrive at the meeting-point running like a hare on speed.

My second interview victim is an equally strong character – Ms Ida Haendel. My introduction to her set the tone for the unexpected nature of our interaction throughout our friendship. I went to a marvellous recital she gave at the Wigmore (all roads lead to the Wigmore) and was taken backstage to meet her afterwards. I put out my hand. ‘Hello – my name is Steven Isserlis.’ She recoiled and looked at me with extreme doubt. ‘You’re NOT!’ she said accusingly. That took me aback a bit – I was sure that for once I was right.  Anyway, she eventually conceded that I might be the person I claimed to be, and said that she’d been wanting to get together for ages. So we did, and became great friends. (It may seem strange when I refer to these people, who are officially of an older generation than me, as close friends; but they are just that. And I have never for a moment thought of any of them as father or mother figures – more like older brother and sisters.) Ida and I have also played together – the Beethoven Triple, again with Martha Argerich, who loves both Ida and Ivry; it was another unique experience. Ida, as she says herself, IS the violin. It’s hard to keep her away from the instrument! Last summer, she and I were together for several days at a festival in the US. We both played in the final concert (she played Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy – just astonishing). Late that night – at about 1 am – we found ourselves at a fairly full 24-hour diner.  At one point I asked Ida if she’d ever played the Schumann violin concerto. ‘Have I played it?’ she queried indignantly.  She got up, opened the violin case – and the nearby drunken teenagers, rowdy bikers and giggly students were privileged to have their burgers, ketchup and fries accompanied by a near-complete rendition of Schumann’s violin concerto. Perhaps it happens to them all the time – but they did seem a touch surprised…

My third guest is Marta Istomin Casals, a very rare visitor to these shores. I met her in Kronberg, Germany, when I was playing a recital at a cello festival. It’s always terrifying to play in front of all those cellists. By the second encore, though, I was finally relaxed – until it suddenly occurred to me that I was playing Song of the Birds, Casals’ signature tune, to an audience that included his widow!  However, she was lovely afterwards, putting me at my ease. That night, I had a strange dream in which she was giving a rock concert! The next day, I told her, and she seemed pleased; ever since, I have called her Rock Star. Whenever I see her, I try to get my head around one extraordinary fact: the first husband of this youthful, energetic lady was born in 1876, 21 years before Brahms died, 38 years before the First World War broke out, and less than 50 years after the death of Beethoven. It makes nonsense of time.  I suppose that that’s what happens when an 18-year-old marries an 80-year-old.  Whenever I see her, I pummel poor Marta with questions about Casals (my hero, of course) and her own fascinating story; now I’ll get to do it in public!

My other ‘project’ – I hate that word! – at the Wigmore this year is also unusual: a series of three programmes featuring cello and voice. It is so often said that of all musical instruments, the cello is closest to the human voice (though of course it has a far larger range than any human – ha!) I think that the two work wonderfully together, the cello complementing any sort of voice; but there are curiously few works that combine them. I have spent many years collecting such pieces as there are, some with and some without other instruments. A few of my ‘finds’ will be featured in these programmes, alongside more standard masterpieces such as Ravel’s Chansons Madecasses, and Shostakovitch’s powerful Blok songs.

The three concerts will be highly contrasted. There’s a Russian programme with Isabel Bayrakdarian, a French evening with Lucy Crowe, and with Mark Padmore a mixed English/Italian/Schubert programme. (A bit less neat, but I jump at every opportunity to work with Mark!)  Each recital features a contemporary British work, songs that demand a somewhat instrumental approach from the singer, and cello sonatas that treat the cello like a voice. I have been hoping to do this series for years; it’s good to be spoiled enough not merely to get the chance to do it with so many wonderful musicians, but to do it in my favourite hall!

Bleak House, by Charles Dickens

Shame on Dickens (whose sister studied at London’s Royal Academy of Music). One of his most revolting characters, Harold Skimpole, is allowed to play the cello and piano. But still – who can resist this vast, fog-filled tapestry of a novel in which lawyers squirm and grasp, bored aristocrats rot and seedy men implode?

Armadale, by Wilkie Collins

From the moment that the villainess Lydia Gwilt appeared, I found this novel impossible to put down. Lydia sits serenely playing Beethoven piano sonatas while all around her gnash their teeth and try – vainly – to outwit her. Glorious.

The Warden, by Anthony Trollope

Trollope had a genius for creating characters we all recognise as friends. The eponymous warden, Septimus Harding, is one such – a man with a tender conscience who is placed in an impossible position. He retains his sanity chiefly by playing the cello – fair enough.

A Study in Scarlet – A Conan Doyle

In addition to his other accomplishments, Sherlock Holmes plays the violin well, even though his preferred method is to throw the instrument over his knee, lie back in an armchair and improvise exasperatingly. – no way to treat a violin. But how much poorer the world would be without him! Maybe in a future life I’ll guess the solution to one of his cases before the end of the book; but I doubt it.

The Lost Stradivarius, by J Meade Falkner

A genuinely creepy tale involving the ghost of a violin-playing aristocrat and a cursed violin. Reading this story, I knew instantly that the author (better known for ‘Moonfleet’) was a trained musician – unlike the others above. His deep understanding of the subject makes the book all the more gripping.

It is really pathetic to go around the whole time moaning about being tired – so naturally I do it all the time. It is true that I have been ridiculously busy for the past few months – entirely my fault; but the month of December looks comparatively open, and I shall have time to sit and contemplate my lack of future before my 50^th birthday falls (hard) on the 19^th.

Well, the month doesn’t exactly start in a relaxed fashion: I have a recital at the Wigmore Hall on the 4^th, with Thomas Ades.  I am excited about it, of course; it’s always great to play and spend time with Tom, who has enough brain-cells to fill a Mensa Christmas party. Also, I love the Wigmore Hall unreservedly, considering it to be my musical home; but just for that reason, it is terrifying to play there – I don’t want to let anyone down! Actually, I am feeling particularly neurotic about the hall at the moment: last time I rehearsed there, I spilt a cup of cappuccino onto the beautiful couch backstage in the Gerald Moore  Room. I haven’t seen the director John Gilhooly since, and I’m worried that he’s going to withhold my fee for this recital.

But then, after a couple of concerts in wonderful Spain, I am free until the end of December. Holiday, of course, means practising repertoire for the next few months – but still, it’s different from rushing around doing concerts. I’ll be writing a bit too, and meeting with the composer Anne Dudley (with whose music to the Stephen Fry/Hugh Laurie Jeeves and Wooster series  I fell in love ages ago). She and I have a fun new project together: I write musical stories for children (invariably co-starring a cello, needless to say) and she sets them to music, eventually to be published by Universal Edition in Vienna (Schoenberg’s publisher!). I’ve already performed the first tale, Little Red Violin, a couple of times, and at the beginning of the year, we’re supposed to premiere the second one, ‘Goldiepegs and the Three Cellos’ at my children’s series in New York. Waiting to be composed is a third story, ‘Cindercella’. Groan – well, I like bad jokes.

Since my afore-mentioned semi-centenary is looming, I need leisure to decide whether to be deeply depressed about it, or pleased that I’ve made it thus far. One aspect that is tipping the balance in the latter direction is the birthday concert at the Wigmore Hall (of course) a few days early, on the 16^th. This came about after John Gilhooly wrote to me asking whether I’d like to have a concert there for this milestone (and mill-stone). I replied charmingly that I’d rather die than ruin my birthday by feeling nervous all day and having to play in the evening; but I did admit that if I could persuade my friends Andras Schiff and Radu Lupu to play the Schubert Fantasia in F minor – a piece to which I am addicted – I’d love to make it happen. John was keen on the idea, and challenged me to arrange it. It so happened that I was having lunch with Andras a few days later, so I asked hesitantly where he was going to be on December 19^th 2008. He saw through me immediately: ‘You want a concert for your 50^th birthday?’ I allowed that that was my cunning plan. ‘Let’s do it!’ he said generously. I filled him in on the one detail I had in mind, and he agreed enthusiastically. Next task was to approach Radu. I don’t see him as often as I see Andras, and I was a little more nervous about this conversation. On the other hand, I know how fond they are of each other; in fact, every time I see Radu, he insists that I do my imitation of Andras (which I have to admit, without false modesty, is quite good – even Andras agrees). So I called Radu, and put it to him, fully expecting him to tell me to go away and stop bothering him. But to my surprise and delight, he agreed readily. I felt quite the Jewish matchmaker, since the two of them have never played together before. From there, the programme started to take shape: I raked in the two singers with whom I’ve worked most closely, Felicity Lott and Mark Padmore, and my partner in musical crime for over 20 years, Joshua Bell, together with my new(er) friend Jeremy Denk.. It all involved a fair amount of work; but after some diplomatic shuttling that would have impressed a Middle East peace broker, all was arranged. So I’m looking forward to that event hugely; it’ll take my mind off the grim fact that I entering my sixth decade. Yuk – how did this happen??

Last year’s Haydn celebrations, for instance, were generally used as an excuse for performers and audiences to enjoy their favourite works for the umpteenth time. (Nothing wrong with that.) Mendelssohn’s bicentenary, on the other hand, provided a chance for a genuine reassessment of his achievements.

2010 is Schumann’s year, the bicentenary of his birth. Of course, Schumann’s reputation as a great composer is assured, but it is surprising, even shocking, how infrequently many of his works are heard in concert halls. Concertgoers will probably have encountered his piano concerto, the song-cycle Dichterliebe, the piano quintet and several of his early masterpieces for piano, but how often do we hear his late piano music or songs, the piano trios or the opera Genoveva – let alone the really unknown works, such as the Choral Ballads or the Requiem? Roughly a third of his output is standard concert fare, a third is heard occasionally, and a third is unknown.

Popular – or deeply unpopular to some of us – wisdom has it that Schumann’s music empties concert halls. His later music, particularly, has its detractors; critics and writers complain more condescendingly about Schumann than any other great composer. Why is that? And why is it that those who love him would be prepared to lay down our lives – well, to take up our pens – to help his cause?

Part of the reason for both extremes lie in Schumann’s life story. He was forced to study law, and it was not until his early 20s that he devoted himself to music, beginning his studies with a notoriously strict piano teacher, Friedrich Wieck. Attempting to speed up his progress, Schumann invented a finger-strengthening device that instead caused a partial paralysis of his hand. His piano-playing dreams shattered, he turned to music journalism. Schumann’s writing, like his music, reflects his deeply romantic nature; many of his articles describe the reactions of two imaginary characters of his own invention, representing different aspects of his character, whom he dubbed Florestan (impulsive and spontaneous) and Eusebius (inward and thoughtful). His first review, of a now rarely performed set of variations by the young Chopin, gives a flavour of his style: “Eusebius dropped by one evening, not long ago. He entered quietly, his pale features brightened by that enigmatic smile with which he likes to excite curiosity. Florestan and I were seated at the piano … With the words, ‘Hats off gentlemen, a genius!’ Eusebius spread out before us a piece of music.”

Meanwhile, Schumann fell in love with his teacher’s brilliant and successful daughter Clara – and she with him. Wieck forbade the match. Schumann turned from commenting on the music of others to creating his own, pouring his passion into a series of piano pieces full of joy, torment and fantasy. The music, as well as reintroducing Florestan and Eusebius, contained secret messages for Clara which now sound like private messages for us, the listeners – as Thomas Beecham put it: “Subtle and secret phrases that each one of us feels to have been devised for his own particular understanding.” Schumann would insert brief allusions to works they both loved, creating magical moments in which time seemed suspended. He was perhaps the ultimate romantic, confessional composer; as he told Clara, everything he experienced in life went directly into his music. But he was also a great classicist, steeped in knowledge of music of the past. It was a unique combination.

Eventually, in 1840, Robert and Clara were married. The marriage was hardly the idyll for which the young lovers had been hoping. Tensions surfaced increasingly as the years went by, but initially Clara was Schumann’s muse and musical voice, using her fame as a performer to propagate her husband’s works. They had several children, and Schumann’s career developed acceptably. He was never an international superstar, like his friend and mentor, Mendelssohn, but that was hardly surprising. Mendelssohn was a great pianist, a fine conductor, and a social charmer. Schumann could no longer play the piano, was a hopeless conductor, and would sit in silence at social gatherings, lost in his own thoughts and dreams. Furthermore, much of his music explored his own deeply private world: rather than tailoring his works to the successful performers or public tastes of his day, he allows us to eavesdrop on his inner life.

But both his inner and outer lives were to reach a crisis. In 1850, desperate for a regular income, he accepted a post as music director in Düsseldorf – a position for which he was eminently unsuited. By early 1854, he had lost his job, his marriage was deeply problematic and his mental health was failing. Schumann attempted suicide, throwing himself into the Rhine (the inspiration for one of his most joyous works, the Rhenish symphony – cruel irony). Rescued against his will, he was still desperate to escape from the world. A few days later, he had himself committed to the asylum at Endenich, near Bonn. Lingering for two-and-a-half dreadful years, a living ghost, he described himself as “Robert Schumann, honorary member of heaven”. He died there in 1856; Clara’s only visit took place as he lay, changed almost beyond recognition, on his deathbed.

The cause of his madness was probably tertiary syphilis, although his (apparent) manic depression cannot have helped. Clara, bereft and shamed, supported the household by endless concert tours, often leaving her children in the charge of a young man who had fallen passionately in love with her – Johannes Brahms. Poor Brahms, who had met Schumann about four months before his incarceration, still revered the older man, and was one of the few people to visit him in the asylum; the emotional crisis scarred him for life.

Brahms was not the only one to be shattered by Schumann’s condition. The tragedy had a devastating effect upon many of the older composer’s inner circle, many of whom later suffered nervous breakdowns. His children, in effect abandoned by both parents (and pretty horribly treated by Clara), were scattered, and most of them met sad ends.

Even today, there seems to be something of a curse on those who become too closely involved with Schumann. The scholar who edited Robert and Clara’s letters suffered a breakdown and was hospitalised; the author of one of the few good books in English about Schumann, John Daverio, drowned in mysterious circumstances in the Charles river in Boston; and then there is the group of writers who have been rude about Schumann over the years, and have all suffered from a strange form of writers’ cramp that has prevented them from writing another word.

No, that last sentence was just wishful thinking on my part. But Schumann’s late music seems to have emanated a dangerous glow. Perhaps it is not surprising that Clara, the most famous champion of her husband’s works, suppressed or ignored almost all the late works, forever associated in her mind with his illness.

But surely, over the years, the lack of understanding of Schumann’s later thoughts should have been corrected, as it has been with so many other composers (Beethoven included)? But no: instead of following the fascinating labyrinth of Schumann’s musical development, too many commentators have dismissed all but the most popular works. Where Schumann’s late music embarked upon experimental paths – including two major pieces of church music (almost severe in their archaic beauty), a set of piano pieces inspired by the dawn described by Christoph Eschenbach as “Mahler for the piano”, uniquely personal concertos for cello and violin, a fascinating set of almost Wagnerian Choral Ballads based on German legends, and so on – many writers have made no attempt to understand them, but have bleated about loss of inspiration and a sad falling-off of mental powers. This, in turn, has meant that performers and concert promoters have shied away from programming works perceived as unpopular, just because they are unknown.

Schumann has, however, always had his passionate champions. Particularly for other composers, his music represents freedom, an unfettered creativity – stream of consciousness, even – that transcends schools and styles. While the composers of the 19th-century French, Czech and Russian nationalist movements tended to reject Beethoven and to detest Brahms, they still loved Schumann. And in our times, there are many composers – Kurtag, Holloway, Holliger, Rihm to mention but a few – who have paid tribute to him in countless works. Oliver Knussen puts it well: “Schumann is quite merciless – just as you’re getting over having your heart broken by some incredible bit of harmony, he does it to you again in the very next phrase.”

Schumann’s music is curiously alive today. One cannot pigeonhole him (perhaps that’s why critics have difficulties); he is too experimental, too close to the edge of the known soundworld. Harmonically, rhythmically, emotionally he is way ahead of his time – outside of time, in fact, looking simultaneously into the past and the future.

In short, he is a genius, unlike any other, one who can lead us into worlds undreamed of by anyone else. Every time I work on his music (as I am now doing for my upcoming residence at the Cheltenham festival), I marvel afresh, not just at the power of his imagination, but also at the brilliance of his mind. It is so exciting to follow his thought patterns as he moulds formal conventions into new, half-hidden shapes: miracle after miracle.

This bicentenary is the chance for more of us to engage with him (concert promoters, record companies and performers permitting). Far be it from me to be fanatical – but if you catch anyone being condescending about any aspect of Schumann’s music or personality this year, please feel free to gently, but firmly, shoot them. For their own good.