A Day with Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy Part 2

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

The visitor who entered in response to Mendelssohn's call was a st.u.r.dily built man of thirty, or thereabouts, with an air of mingled courage, resolution, and good humour. His long straight hair was brushed back from a broad, intellectual brow, and his thoughtful, far-looking eyes intensified the impression he gave of force and original power. He smiled humorously. "All the youth, beauty and intellect of Leipzig in one 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 has just been singing a new song of Mendelssohn's."

"Pardon me," said the new-comer to me; "you see Mendelssohn so fills the stage everywhere, that even David gets overlooked sometimes, don't you, 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 one introduces our singer;" and turning to me he added, "this is Mr. Robert Schumann who divides the musical firmament of Leipzig with Mendelssohn."

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

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

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

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

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

I was about to express my astonishment at finding that Mendelssohn himself had produced these admirable pictures; but David suddenly addressed me: "By the way, don't let Mendelssohn decoy you into playing billiards with him; or if you do weakly yield, insist on fifty in the hundred--unless, of course, you have misspent your time, too, in gaining disreputable proficiency;" and he shook his head at the thought of many defeats.

"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 of rivalry between us. I know my place. Mendelssohn and I differ about things, sometimes; but who could quarrel with him?"

"I could!" exclaimed David, jumping up, and striking an heroic att.i.tude.

"You!" laughed Schumann; "You quarrel, you dear old sc.r.a.per of unmentionable 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't provide much for you to do. I leave that to my betters."

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

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

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

"Yes, yes," a.s.sented Schumann; "you are the Fairies' Laureate."

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

Mendelssohn laughingly acknowledged the compliments.

"That is a beautiful fairy song of yours," I said, "the one to Heine's verses 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," I replied; "but I will try, if you wish."

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

_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.

Pa.s.sing, Queen t.i.tania 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 that fairy-like duet about Jack Frost and the dancing flowers."

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

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

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

[Ill.u.s.tration: _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 began to 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, the Capriccio in E minor."

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

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