"Thank you very much," said Mendelssohn with a smile.
"Bravo!" exclaimed David; "but our Mendelssohn can do more than make pretty 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 gleamed intensely.
"I'm sure of it," said David emphatically. "There is plenty of music for violin and orchestra—oceans of it; but there has been hitherto only one real great big Concerto,"—he spread his arms wide as he spoke. "Now there will be two."
"No, no!" exclaimed Mendelssohn quickly; "if I finish this Concerto it will 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 of Beethoven's fateful knocking at the door; "yes, Beethoven was before all a symphonist—his Concerto is a Symphony in D major with violin obbligato."
"Observe," murmured Bennett, "the blessing of a musical temperament. A drunken man thumps monotonously at his door in the depths of night. To an Englishman it suggests calling the police; to Beethoven it suggests a symphony."
"Well, David," said Mendelssohn, "it's to be your Concerto, so I want you to discuss it with me in all details. I am the most devoted admirer of your playing, but I have, as well, the sincerest respect for your musicianship."
"Thank you," said David with a smile of deep pleasure; and turning to me he added, "I really called to play this over with the master. Shall you mind 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.