Clara Schumann knew a thing or two about multitasking. As the mother of eight children by her husband Robert, she was the breadwinner of the family, deriving her income from her career as the pioneer of female concert pianists. She cooked (‘Liszt came from Weimar for the dinner, my first dinner as a housewife …’) and managed the upbringing of her children. Her indomitable spirit saw her through a forbidden courtship and an absence of over two years from Robert while he was in an asylum in Endenich.

‘I, Clara’ sets her story in the wider context of her tours from London to Moscow, where her fame preceded her husband’s, much to his chagrin. She was the soloist in both the Mendelssohn piano concertos as well as her husband’s. She considered Wagner a passing fancy, Liszt and his women indecent; but then came the rare and beautiful Brahms, though she relates his attentions towards her were misunderstood.

Harriet Walter delivers a blessedly undevout reading of Lucy Parham’s narration, her timing impeccable, her manner untheatrical. It’s a shame that her voice is recorded a little too close for comfort, throwing up a few idiosyncracies in her delivery. The dry acoustic is in marked contrast to the setting of St Peter and St Paul’s Church in Albury, Surrey, where the piano pieces, six of them by Clara, were recorded. The Fazioli, an instrument with a strong lower register, is admirably suited to this repertoire, as Lucy Parham’s heartfelt performances make clear. The first movement of the Sonata in G minor, phrased as if by a singer, with a touch of rubato and dextrous fingerwork, makes one yearn for a complete recording. Parham’s Arabesque smiles in the way that we’re told London audiences experienced when Clara Schuman played it to them. This celebration of her life, with the music fitting the narrative so well, is another fine tribute to this remarkable woman in her bicentenary year.