[Illustration]

 [Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price. _ FIRST WALPURGIS NIGHT. "Through the night-gloom lead and follow In and out each rocky hollow. "]

A DAY WITH FELIXMENDELSSOHNBARTHOLDY

BY GEORGE SAMPSON

HODDER & STOUGHTON

 _In the same Series. _ _Beethoven. _ _Schubert. _

A DAY WITH MENDELSSOHN. 

During the year 1840 I visited Leipzig with letters of introduction fromHerr Klingemann of the Hanoverian Legation in London. I was a singer, young, enthusiastic, and eager--as some singers unfortunately arenot--to be a musician as well. Klingemann had many friends among thefamous German composers, because of his personal charm, and because hissimple verses had provided them with excellent material for the sweetlittle songs the Germans love so well. I need scarcely say that the manI most desired to meet in Leipzig was Mendelssohn; and so, armedwith Klingemann's letter, I eagerly went to his residence--a quiet, well-appointed house near the Promenade. I was admitted without delay, and shown into the composer's room. It was plainly a musician'swork-room, yet it had a note of elegance that surprised me. Musiciansare not a tidy race; but here there was none of the admired disorderthat one instinctively associates with an artist's sanctum. There was nolitter. The well-used pianoforte could be approached without circuitousnegotiation of a rampart of books and papers, and the chairs were freefrom encumbrances. On a table stood some large sketch-books, one openat a page containing an excellent landscape drawing; and other spiritedsketches hung framed upon the walls. The abundant music paper was perhapsthe most strangely tidy feature of the room, for the exquisitely neatnotation that covered it suggested the work of a careful copyist ratherthan the original hand of a composer. I could not refrain from lookingat one piece. It was a very short and very simple Adagio cantabile inthe Key of F for a solo pianoforte. It appealed at once to me as asinger, for its quiet, unaffected melody seemed made to be sung ratherthan to be played. The "cantabile" of its heading was superfluous--itwas a Song without Words, evidently one of a new set, for I knew it wasnone of the old. But the sound of a footstep startled me and I guiltilyreplaced the sheet. The door opened, and I was warmly greeted inexcellent English by the man who entered. I had no need to be told thatit was Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy himself. 

Nature is strangely freakish in her choice of instruments for noblepurposes. Sometimes the delicate spirit of creative genius is housed ina veritable tenement of clay, so that what is within seems ever at warwith what is without. At times the antagonism is more dreadful still, and the artist-soul is sent to dwell in the body of a beast, coarsein speech and habit, ignorant and dull in mind, vile and unclean inthought. But sometimes Nature is generous, and makes the body itself anexpression of the informing spirit. Mendelssohn was one of these almostrare instances. In him, artist and man were like a beautiful pictureappropriately framed. He was then thirty-one. In figure he was slim andrather below the middle height, and he moved with the easy grace ofan accomplished dancer. Masses of long dark hair crowned his finelychiselled face; but what I noticed first and last was the pair oflustrous, dark brown eyes that glowed and dilated with every deepemotion. He had the quiet, assured manner of a master; yet I was not soinstantly conscious of that, as of an air of reverence and benignity, which, combined with the somewhat Oriental tendency of feature andcolour, made his whole personality suggest that of a young poet-prophetof Israel. 

"So, " he said, his English gaining piquancy from his slight lisp, "youcome from England--from dear England. I love your country greatly. Ithas fog, and it is dark, too, for the sun forgets to shine at times;but it is beautiful--like a picture, and when it smiles, what land issweeter?"

"You have many admirers in England, sir, " I replied; "perhaps I mayrather say you have many friends there. "

"Yes, " he said, with a bright smile, "call them friends, for I am afriend to all England. Even in the glowing sun of Italy I have thoughtwith pleasure of your dear, smoky London, which seems to wrap itselfround one like a friendly cloak. It was England that gave me my firstrecognition as a serious musician, when Berlin was merely inclined tothink that I was an interesting young prodigy with musical gifts thatwere very amusing in a young person of means. "

"You have seen much of England, have you not, sir?" I asked. 

"A great deal, " he replied, "and of Scotland and Wales, too. I haveheard the Highland pipers in Edinburgh, and I have stood in Queen Mary'stragic palace of Holyrood. Yes, and I have been among the beautifulhills that the great Sir Walter has described so wonderfully. "

"And, " I added, "music-lovers do not need to be told that you have alsopenetrated

 'The silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. '"

"Ah!" he said, smiling, "you like my Overture, then?"

I hastened to assure him that I admired it greatly; and he continued, with glowing eyes: "What a wonder is the Fingal's Cave--that vastcathedral of the seas, with its dark, lapping waters within, and thebrightness of the gleaming waves outside!"

Almost instinctively he sat down at the piano, and began to play, asif his feelings must express themselves in tones rather than words. Hisplaying was most remarkable for its orchestral quality. Unsuspectedpower lay in those delicate hands, for at will they seemed able to drawfrom the piano a full orchestral volume, and to suggest, if desired, thepeculiar tones of solo instruments. 

This Overture of his is made of the sounds of the sea. There is first atheme that suggests the monotonous wash of the waters and the crying ofsea-birds within the vast spaces of the cavern. Then follows a noblerising passage, as if the spirit of the place were ascending from thedepths of the sea and pervading with his presence the immensity of hisocean fane. This, in its turn, is succeeded by a movement that seems tocarry us into the brightness outside, though still the plaint of cryingbirds pursues us in haunting monotony. It is a wonderful piece, thisHebrides Overture, with all the magic and the mystery of the Islandsabout it. 

"That is but one of my Scottish impressions, " said Mendelssohn; "I havemany more, and I am trying to weave them into a Scottish Symphony tomatch the Italian. "

"You believe in a programme then?" I asked. 

 [Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price. _ SPRING SONG (Lied Ohne Worte) "To think of it is to be happy with the innocence of pure joy. "]

"Oh, yes!" he answered; "moreover I believe that most composers have aprogramme implicit in their minds, even though they may not recogniseit. But always one must keep within the limits of the principleinscribed by Beethoven at the head of his Pastoral Symphony, 'More anexpression of the feelings than a painting. ' Music cannot paint. It ison a different plane of time. A painting must leap to the eye, but amusical piece unfolds itself slowly. If music tries to paint it losesits greatest glory--the power of infinite, immeasurable suggestion. Beethoven, quite allowably, and in a purely humorous fashion, used afew touches of realism; but his Pastoral Symphony is not a painting, it is not even descriptive; it is a musical outpouring of emotion, andenshrines within its notes all the sweet peaceful brightness of an earlysummer day. To think of it, " he added, rising in his enthusiasm, "is tobe happy with the innocence of pure joy. "

I was relieved of the necessity of replying by a diversion without thedoor. Two male voices were heard declaiming in a sort ofmock-melodramatic duet, "Are you at home, are you at home? May we enter, may we enter?"

"Come in, you noisy fellows, " exclaimed Mendelssohn gaily; and two menentered. The elder, who was of Mendelssohn's age, carried a violin case, and saluted the composer with a flourish of the music held in his otherhand. "Hail you second Beethoven!" he exclaimed. Suddenly he observedmy presence and hushed his demonstrations, giving me a courteous, andhumorously penitent salutation. Mendelssohn introduced us. 

"This, " he said to me "is Mr. Ferdinand David, the great violinist andleader of our orchestra; and this, " indicating the younger visitor, "isa countryman of yours, Mr. Sterndale Bennett. We think a great deal ofMr. Bennett in Leipzig. "

"Ah, ha!" said David to me; "you've come to the right house in Leipzigif you're an Englishman. Mendelssohn dotes on you all, doesn't he, Bennett?"

"Yes, " said Bennett, "and we dote on him. I left all the young ladies inEngland singing 'Ist es wahr. '"

"Ist es wahr? ist es wahr?" carolled David, in lady-like falsetto, withcomic exaggeration of anguish sentiment. 

Bennett put his hands to his ears with an expression of anguish, saying, "Spare us, David; you play like an angel, but you sing like--well, Ileave it to you?"

"And I forgot to mention, " said Mendelssohn with a gay laugh, "that ouryoung English visitor is a singer bringing ecstatic recommendations fromKlingemann. "

"Ah! a rival!" said David, with a dramatic gesture; "but since we're allof a trade, perhaps our friend will show he doesn't mind my nonsense bysinging this song to us. "

"Yes, " said Mendelssohn, with a graceful gesture, "I shall be greatlypleased if you will. "

I could not refuse. Mendelssohn sat down at the piano and I began thesimple song that has helped so many English people to appreciate thebeauties of the German _lied_. 

 "Can it be? Can it be? Dost thou wander through the bower, Wishing I was there with thee? Lonely, midst the moonlight's splendour, Dost thou seek for me? Can it be? Say! But the secret rapturous feeling Ne'er in words must be betrayed; True eyes will tell what love conceals!"

"Thank you very much, " said Mendelssohn with a smile. 

"Bravo!" exclaimed David; "but our Mendelssohn can do more than makepretty songs. This, " he continued, indicating the music he had brought, "is going to be something great!"

"Do you think so?" asked Mendelssohn quietly, yet with eyes that gleamedintensely. 

"I'm sure of it, " said David emphatically. "There is plenty of music forviolin and orchestra--oceans of it; but there has been hitherto only onereal great big Concerto, "--he spread his arms wide as he spoke. "Nowthere will be two. "

"No, no!" exclaimed Mendelssohn quickly; "if I finish this Concerto itwill be with no impious intention of competing with Beethoven. You see, for one thing, I have begun it quite differently. "

"Yes, " nodded David, and he began to drum on the table in the rhythm ofBeethoven's fateful knocking at the door; "yes, Beethoven was before alla symphonist--his Concerto is a Symphony in D major with violinobbligato. "

"Observe, " murmured Bennett, "the blessing of a musical temperament. Adrunken man thumps monotonously at his door in the depths of night. Toan Englishman it suggests calling the police; to Beethoven it suggests asymphony. "

"Well, David, " said Mendelssohn, "it's to be your Concerto, so I wantyou to discuss it with me in all details. I am the most devoted admirerof your playing, but I have, as well, the sincerest respect for yourmusicianship. "

"Thank you, " said David with a smile of deep pleasure; and turning to mehe added, "I really called to play this over with the master. Shall youmind if I scratch it through?"

I tried to assure him of the abiding pleasure that I, a young stranger, would receive from being honoured by permission to remain. 

"Oh, that's all right, " he said unaffectedly; "we are all in the trade, you know; you sing, I play. "

Mendelssohn sat at the piano and David tuned his instrument. Mendelssohnused no copy. His memory was prodigious. The violin gave out abeautiful melody that soared passionately, yet gracefully, above anaccompaniment, simple at first, but growing gradually more intense andinsistent till a great climax was reached, after which the solo voicesank slowly to a low, whispering murmur, while the piano played above ita succession of sweetly delicate and graceful phrases. The movement wasworked out with the utmost complexity and brilliance, but came suddenlyto an end. The playing of the two masters was beyond description. 

"The cadenza is subject to infinite alteration, " remarked Mendelssohn;and turning to me, he continued, "the movement is unfinished, you see;and even what is written may be greatly changed. I fear I am afastidious corrector. I am rarely satisfied with my first thoughts. "

"Well, I don't think much change is wanted here, " said David. "I'mlonging to have the rest of it. When will it be ready?"

Mendelssohn shook his head with a smile. "Ask me for it in five years, David. "

"What do you think of it, Bennett?" asked the violinist. 

"I was thinking that we are in the garden of Eden, " said Bennett, oracularly. 

"What do you mean?" asked Mendelssohn. 

"This, " explained Bennett: "there seems to me something essentially andexquisitely feminine about this movement, just as in Beethoven'sConcerto there is something essentially and heroically masculine. Inother words, he has made the Adam of Concertos, and you have mated itwith the Eve. Henceforth, " he continued, waving his hands inbenediction, "the tribe of Violin Concertos shall increase and multiplyand become as the stars of heaven in multitude. "

"The more the merrier, " cried David, "at least for fiddlers--I don'tknow what the audiences will think. "

"Audiences don't think--at least, not in England, " said Bennett. 

"Come, come!" interposed Mendelssohn; and turning to me with a smile hesaid, "Will you allow Mr. Bennett to slander your countrymen like this?"

"But Mr. Bennett doesn't mean it, " I replied; "he knows that Englishaudiences love, and are always faithful to, what stirs them deeply. "

"Yes; but what does stir them deeply?" he asked; "look at the enormouspopularity of senseless sentimental songs. "

"On the other hand, " I retorted, "look at our old affection for Handeland our new affection for Mr. Mendelssohn himself. "

"Thank you, " said Mendelssohn, with a smile; "Handel is certainly yoursby adoption. You English love the Bible, and Handel knew well how to wedits beautiful words to noble music. He was happy in having at hiscommand the magnificent prose of the Bible and the magnificent verses ofMilton. I, too, am fascinated by the noble language of the Scriptures, and I have used it both in the vernacular and in the sounding Latin ofthe Vulgate. And I am haunted even now by the words of one of the Psalmswhich seem to call for an appropriate setting. You recall the verses?

 "Hear my prayer; O God; and hide not thyself from my petition. 

 Take heed unto me, and hear me, how I mourn in my prayer and am vexed. 

 The enemy crieth so, and the ungodly cometh on so fast; for they are minded to do me some mischief, so maliciously are they set against me. 

 My heart is disquieted within me; and the fear of death is fallen upon me. 

 Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me; and a horrible dread hath overwhelmed me. 

 And I said, O that I had wings like a dove; for then would I flee away, and be at rest. 

 Lo, then would I get me away far off; and remain in the wilderness. 

 I would make haste to escape; because of the stormy wind and tempest. "

"Yes, " said David, nodding emphatically; "they are wonderful words; youmust certainly set them. "

"The Bible is an inexhaustible mine of song and story for musicalsetting, " continued Mendelssohn; "I have one of its stories in my mindnow; but only one man, a greater even than Handel, was worthy to touchthe supreme tragedy of all. "

The last words were murmured as if to himself rather than to us, and heaccompanied them abstractedly with tentative, prelusive chords, whichgradually grew into the most strangely moving music I have ever heard. 

Its complex, swelling phrases presently drew together and rose up inone great major chord. No one spoke. I felt as if some mighty spirithad been evoked and that its unseen presence overshadowed us. 

"What was it?" I presently whispered to Bennett; but he shook his headand said, "Wait; he will tell you. "

At length I turned to Mendelssohn and said, "Is that part of the newwork of yours you mentioned just now?"

"Of mine!" he exclaimed; "of mine! I could never write such music. No, no! That was Bach, John Sebastian Bach--part of his St. Matthew Passion. I was playing not so much the actual notes of any chorus, but rather theeffect of certain passages as I could feel them in my mind. "

"So that was by Bach!" I said in wonder. 

"Yes, " said Mendelssohn; "and people know so little of him. They eitherthink of him as the composer of mathematical exercises in music, or elsethey confuse him with others of his family. He was Cantor of the St. Thomas School here in Leipzig, the perfect type of a true servant ofour glorious art. He wrote incessantly, but the greatest of his workslay forgotten after his death; and it was I, I, who disinterred thismarvellous music-drama of the Passion, and gave it in Berlin ten yearsago--its first performance since Bach's death almost a century before. But there, " he added, with an apologetic smile, "I talk too much! Let usspeak of something else. "

"Yes, " said David, "you will talk of Bach for ever if no one stops you. Not that I mind. I am a disciple, too. "

"And I, too, " added Bennett. "I mean to emulate Mendelssohn. He was thefirst to give the 'Passion' in Germany, I will be the first to give itin England. "

"Then I'll be recording angel, " said David, "and register your vow. You'll show him up, if he breaks his word, won't you?" he added, turningto me. 

"Now this will really change the subject, " said Mendelssohn, producing asheet of manuscript. "Here is a little song I wrote last year to someold verses. Perhaps our new friend will let us hear it. "

In great trepidation I took the sheet. It was headed simply "Volkslied. "I saw at once that there would be no difficulty in reading it, for themusic was both graceful and simple. 

"Shall we try?" asked Mendelssohn, with his quiet, reassuring smile. 

"If you are willing to let me, " I answered. 

 _Parting. _

 "It is decreed by heaven's behest That man from all he loves the best Must sever. That soon or late with breaking heart With all his dear ones he must part For ever. 

 How oft we cull a budding flower, To see it bloom a transient hour; 'Tis gathered. The bud becomes a lovely rose, Its morning blush at evening goes; 'Tis withered. 

 And has it pleased our God to lend His cheering smile in child or friend? To-morrow-- To-morrow if reclaimed again The parting hour will prove how vain Is sorrow. 

 Oft hope beguiles the friends who part; With happy smiles, and heart to heart, 'To meet, ' they cry, 'we sever. ' It proves good-bye for ever. For ever!"

 [Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price. _ PARTING. "It is decreed by heaven's behest That man from all he loves the best Must sever. "]

"Bravo!" cried Bennett. 

"Say rather, 'Bravi, '" said David, "for the song was as sweet as thesinger. "

"Yes, " said Bennett; "the simple repetition of the closing words of eachverse is like a sigh of regret. "

"And the whole thing, " added David, "has the genuine simplicity of thetrue folk-melody. "

Further discussion was prevented by a characteristic knock at the door. 

The visitor who entered in response to Mendelssohn's call was a sturdilybuilt man of thirty, or thereabouts, with an air of mingled courage, resolution, and good humour. His long straight hair was brushed backfrom a broad, intellectual brow, and his thoughtful, far-looking eyesintensified the impression he gave of force and original power. Hesmiled humorously. "All the youth, beauty and intellect of Leipzig inone room. I leave you to apportion the qualities. Making much noise, too! And did I hear the strains of a vocal recital?"

"You did, " replied Bennett; "that was my young countryman here, who hasjust been singing a new song of Mendelssohn's. "

"Pardon me, " said the new-comer to me; "you see Mendelssohn so fills thestage everywhere, that even David gets overlooked sometimes, don'tyou, my inspired fiddler?" he added, slapping the violinist on the back. 

"Yes I do, " said David, "and so do the manners of all of you, for no oneintroduces our singer;" and turning to me he added, "this is Mr. RobertSchumann who divides the musical firmament of Leipzig with Mendelssohn. "

"You forget to add, " said Mendelssohn, "that Schumann conquers inliterature as well as in music. No one has written better musicalcritiques. "

"Yes, yes, " grumbled David; "I wish he wouldn't do so much of it. If hescribbled less he'd compose more. The cobbler should stick to his last, and the musician shouldn't relinquish the music-pen for the goosequill. "

"But what of Mendelssohn himself, " urged Schumann; "he, in a specialsense, is a man of letters; for if there's one thing as good as beingwith him, it is being away from him, and receiving his delightfulepistles. "

"Not the same thing, " said David, shaking his head. 

"And then, " said Schumann, waving his hand comprehensively around theroom, "observe his works of art. "

I was about to express my astonishment at finding that Mendelssohnhimself had produced these admirable pictures; but David suddenlyaddressed me: "By the way, don't let Mendelssohn decoy you into playingbilliards with him; or if you do weakly yield, insist on fifty in thehundred--unless, of course, you have misspent your time, too, in gainingdisreputable proficiency;" and he shook his head at the thought of manydefeats. 

"Certainly, " exclaimed Schumann, "Mendelssohn does all things well. "

"That's a handsome admission from a rival, " said David. 

"A rival!" answered Schumann with spirit. "There can be no talk ofrivalry between us. I know my place. Mendelssohn and I differ aboutthings, sometimes; but who could quarrel with him?"

"I could!" exclaimed David, jumping up, and striking an heroic attitude. 

"You!" laughed Schumann; "You quarrel, you dear old scraper ofunmentionable strings!"

"Ah, ha! my boy, " chuckled David, "you can't write for them. "

"You mean I don't write for them, " said Schumann; "I admit that I don'tprovide much for you to do. I leave that to my betters. "

"Never mind, " said David, giving his shoulder a friendly pat; "at leastyou can write for the piano. I believe in you, and your queer music. "

"That's nice of you, David, " replied Schumann, "but as to Mendelssohnand me, who shall decide which of us is right? He believes in makingmusic as pellucid to the hearers as clear water. Now I like to bafflethem--to leave them something to struggle with. Music is never the worsefor being obscure at first. "

Mendelssohn shook his head and smiled. "You state your case eloquently, Schumann, " he said, "but my feelings revolt against darkness andindefiniteness. "

"Yes, yes, " assented Schumann; "you are the Fairies' Laureate. "

"Hear, hear!" cried David. "Now could anything be finer in its way thanthe Midsummer Night's Dream music? And the wondrous brat wrote it atseventeen!"

Mendelssohn laughingly acknowledged the compliments. 

"That is a beautiful fairy song of yours, " I said, "the one to Heine'sverses about the fairies riding their tiny steeds through the wood. "

"Oh, yes, " said Schumann; "will you sing it to us?"

"I am afraid it requires much lighter singing than I can give it, " Ireplied; "but I will try, if you wish. "

"We shall all be glad if you will, " said Mendelssohn, as he turned oncemore to the key-board. The bright staccato rhythm flashed out from hisfingers so gaily that I was swept into the song without time forhesitation:

 _The Fairy Love. _

 "Through the woods the moon was glancing; There I saw the Fays advancing; On they bounded, gaily singing, Horns resounded, bells were ringing. Tiny steeds with antlers growing On their foreheads brightly glowing, Bore them swift as falcons speeding Fly to strike the game receding. Passing, Queen Titania sweetly Deigned with nods and smiles to greet me. Means this, love will be requited? Or, will hope by death be blighted?"

"You have greatly obliged us, " said Schumann courteously. 

"It reminds me, though I don't know why, " said David, "of thatfairy-like duet about Jack Frost and the dancing flowers. "

"Come along and play it with me, " said Mendelssohn to Bennett; "you'vebeen hiding your talents all day. "

Bennett joined him at the piano, and the two began to romp likeschoolboys. 

The simple duet was woven into a brilliant fantasia, but always in thegay spring-like spirit of the poem. 

 [Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price. _ THE FAIRY LOVE. "Through the woods the moon was glancing There I saw the fays advancing. * * * * * Tiny steeds with antlers growing on their foreheads brightly glowing. "]

 _The Maybells and the Flowers. _

 "Young Maybells ring throughout the vale And sound so sweet and clear, The dance begins, ye flowers all, Come with a merry cheer! The flowers red and white and blue, Merrily flock around, Forget-me-nots of heavenly hue, And violets, too, abound. 

 Young Maybells play a sprightly tune, And all begin to dance, While o'er them smiles the gentle moon, With her soft silvery glance. This Master Frost offended sore; He in the vale appeared: Young Maybells ring the dance no more-- Gone are the flowers seared!

 But Frost has scarcely taken flight, When well-known sounds we hear: The Maybells with renewed delight, Are ringing doubly clear! Now I no more can stay at home, The Maybells call me so: The flowers to the dance all roam, Then why should I not go?"

"Really, " said David; "it's quite infectious"; and jumping up he beganto pirouette, exclaiming, "Then why should I not go!"

"David, this is unseemly, " exclaimed Schumann, with mock severity. "There's another pretty fairy-like piece of yours, Mendelssohn, theCapriccio in E minor. "

"Yes, " said Bennett, beginning to touch its opening fanfare of tinytrumpet-notes; "someone told me a pretty story of this piece, to theeffect that a young lady gave you some flowers, and you undertook, gallantly, to write the music the Fairies played on the littletrumpet-like blooms. "

"Yes, " said Mendelssohn, with a smile, "it was in Wales, and I wrote thepiece for Miss Taylor. "

"By-the-by, " said Schumann, "David's antics remind me that Mendelssohncan make Witches and other queer creatures, dance, as well as Fairies. "

"Villain, " exclaimed David, and he began to recite dramatically theinvocation from the "First Walpurgis Night, " while Mendelssohn playedthe flashing accompaniment. 

 "Come with flappers, Fire and clappers; Hop with hopsticks, Brooms and mopsticks; Through the night-gloom lead and follow In and out each rocky hollow. Owls and ravens Howl with us and scare the cravens. "

"Ah, " said Mendelssohn, "I don't think the old poet would really havecared for my setting, though he admired my playing, and was always mostfriendly to me. "

"Yes, " said Schumann, warmly; "Goethe liked you because you weresuccessful, and prosperous. Now Beethoven was poor: therefore Beethovenmust first be loftily patronised and then contemptuously snubbed. I cannever forgive Goethe for that. And as for poor Schubert, well, Goetheignored him, and actually thought he had misinterpreted the Erl-king! Itwould be comic if it were not painful. "

"Poor Schubert!" said Mendelssohn with a sigh; "he met always Fortune'sfrown, never her smile. "

"Don't you think, " said Bennett, "that his genius was the better for hispoverty--that he learned in suffering what he taught in song?"

"No, I do not!" replied Mendelssohn warmly. "That is a vile doctrineinvented by a callous world to excuse its cruelty. "

"I believe there's something in it, though, " said Bennett. 

"There is some truth in it, but not much, " answered Mendelssohn, hiseyes flashing as he spoke. "It is true that the artist learns bysuffering, because the artist is more sensitive and feels more deeplythan others. But enough of suffering comes to all of us, even the mostfortunate, without the sordid, gratuitous misery engendered by poverty. "

"I agree with Mendelssohn, " said Schumann. "To say that poverty is theproper stimulus of genius is to talk pernicious nonsense. Poverty slays, it does not nourish; poverty narrows the vision, it does not ennoble;poverty lowers the moral standard and makes a man sordid. You can't getgood art out of that. "

 [Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price. _ THE MAYBELLS AND THE FLOWERS. "Now I no more can stay at home. The Maybells call me so. The flowers to the dance all roam, Then, why should I not go?"]

"Perhaps I have been more fortunate than most artists, " saidMendelssohn softly. "When I think of all that my dear father and motherdid for us, I can scarcely restrain tears of gratitude. Almost morevaluable than their careful encouragement was their noble, seriouscommon-sense. My mother, whom Heaven long preserve to me, was not thewoman to let me, or any of us, live in a fool's paradise, and my deardead father was too good a man of business to set me walking in a blindalley. Ah!" he continued, with glistening eyes, "the great musical timeswe had in the dear old Berlin house!"

"Yes, " said David; "Your house was on the Leipzig Road. You see, eventhen, the finger of fate pointed the way to this place. "

"Indeed, " said Schumann, with a sigh, "You certainly had extraordinaryopportunities. Not that I've been badly used, though. "

"Your father was genuinely proud of you, " said David. "I remember hisepigram: 'Once I was the son of my father; now I am the father of myson. '"

Mendelssohn nodded with a smile, and, turning to me, said inexplanation, "You must know that my father's father was a famousphilosopher. "

"Well!" said Schumann, rising, "I must be going. "

Bennett and David also prepared to leave, and I rose with them. 

"Wait a moment, " said Mendelssohn; and going to the door he calledsoftly, "Cecile, are you there?"

He went out for a moment, and returned with a beautiful and charminggirl, who greeted the three visitors warmly. 

Mendelssohn then presented me, saying, gently and almost proudly, "Thisis my wife. "

I bowed deeply. 

"You are from England?" said the lady, with the sweetest of smiles; "Ideclare I am quite jealous of your country, my husband loves it somuch. "

"We are very proud of his affection, " I replied. 

She turned to Schumann and said softly, "And how is Clara?"

"Oh, she is well;" he replied with a glad smile. 

"And the father?" she added. 

"We have been much worried, " he said gravely; "but we shall marry thisyear in spite of all he may do. "

"She is worth all your struggles, " said Mendelssohn warmly; "she is acharming lady, and an excellent musician. You will be very happy. "

"Thanks, thanks, " replied Schumann, with evident pleasure. 

Mendelssohn turned to me and shook my hand warmly. "I have been glad tomeet you, and to hear you; for you sing like a musician. I shall not saygood-bye. You will call again, I hope, before you leave Leipzig. Perhapswe may meet, too, in England. I am now writing something that I hope myEnglish friends will like. "

"What is it, sir?" I asked. 

"It is an oratorio on the subject of Elijah, " he replied. 

"It is bound to be good, " said Schumann enthusiastically. "Posteritywill call you the man who never failed. "

"Ah!" said Mendelssohn almost sadly, "you are all good and kind, but youpraise me too much. Perhaps posterity will remember me for my littlepieces rather than for my greater efforts. Perhaps it will remember mebest, not as the master, but as the servant; for in my way I have triedvery hard to glorify the great men who went before me--Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert--Bach most of all. Even if every note of my writingshould perish, perhaps future generations will think kindly of me, remembering that it was I, the Jew by birth, who gave back toChristianity that imperishable setting of its tragedy and glory. "

With these words in my ears I passed out into the pleasant streets ofMendelssohn's chosen city. 

 _Printed by The Bushey Colour Press (André & Sleigh, Ltd. ). _ _Bushey, Herts. _

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Contemporary spellings have been retained even when inconsistent. In asmall number of cases, missing punctuation has been silently added. 

The following additional changes have been made:

 Lied ohne Wörte Lied ohne _Worte_

 grateful and simple 	 _graceful_ and simple