When life gave him syphilis, he made lemonade. Or something like that.

In 1854, after a twenty-year latency, Robert Schumann began to lose his grip on sanity. He complained of a persistent “A” note ringing in his ears, hallucinated that he was being hounded by devils, and hurled himself into the Rhine. He would spend his final years in an asylum, to which he committed himself at the age of 44.

Even in the best of times, Schumann often struggled with what we now call manic-depression or bipolar disorder. His two extremes are reflected in the assumed literary doppelgangers, Florestan (the impetuous) and Eusebius (the introspective), also frequently referenced in his piano music. Evidently, there could be an undercurrent of intensity about him, even when he was at his dreamiest.

Both before and after Schumann’s icy plunge from the bridge, he was at work on his final composition, the “Ghost Variations,” believing the theme to have been dictated to him by the spirit of Mendelssohn or Schubert. In reality, Schumann had used the theme several times before, including, only a few months earlier, in his Violin Concerto.

Clara, his wife, wouldn’t allow the piece to be published. No doubt it held for her extremely personal, likely unpleasant associations. Still, family friend Johannes Brahms, whom Schumann had mentored and championed, would quote it in his own composition, “Variations on a Theme by Robert Schumann.”

Brahms dedicated his tribute to Clara, who, awkwardly, also happened to be his secret (?) crush. When Schumann went into the asylum, she was pregnant with her seventh child and left to care for the family herself. She was discouraged from visiting her husband until the very end, for fear of triggering a relapse. In the meantime, Brahms was her only link, as he could enter and leave the sanatorium freely.

The “Ghost Variations” may not be Schumann’s healthiest music, but what do you expect? It is undeniably intimate and achieves a kind of fragile beauty. You won’t encounter it very often.

It’s also bittersweet. Kind of like a glass of lemonade.

Happy birthday, Robert Schumann.