At nineteen years, Johannes Brahms was a beautiful youth with delicate hands and slender fingers that belied their strength, a clear tenor singing voice, a smooth, beardless face and a slight build. Women swooned over his rich and beautiful head of golden blond hair that flowed down to his shoulders and framed his pale blue eyes, giving him an aura of innocence. Although he was not a tall boy, he stood straight and upright, and looked people in the eye when he talked, giving him an air of authority. Clara Schumann’s hazel eyes shined brightly in direct opposition to the dark circles below them. Her wide mouth radiated an air of sensuality and her high cheekbones gave her confidence and competence Brahms had never seen in a woman before, and yet he was reminded of his mother, a younger version, as he remembered her from his youth. It seemed clear somehow that this woman had borne children, although he could not say why he thought that. Perhaps a fullness of the hips or her supreme confidence. At the same time, because of her directness, she reminded him of the women he had known by the docks of Hamburg.