"Say rather, 'Bravi,'" said David, "for the song was as sweet as the singer."
"Yes," said Bennett; "the simple repetition of the closing words of each verse is like a sigh of regret."
"And the whole thing," added David, "has the genuine simplicity of the true 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 sturdily 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 over-*looked 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."