"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," assented 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."