"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 attitude.
"You!" laughed Schumann; "You quarrel, you dear old scraper of unmentionable strings!"
"Ah, ha! my boy," chuckled David, "you can't write for them."