Its complex, swelling phrases presently drew together and rose up in one great major chord. No one spoke. I felt as if some mighty spirit had been evoked and that its unseen presence overshadowed us.
"What was it?" I presently whispered to Bennett; but he shook his head and said, "Wait; he will tell you."
At length I turned to Mendelssohn and said, "Is that part of the new work of yours you mentioned just now?"
"Of mine!" he exclaimed; "of mine! I could never write such music. No, no! That was Bach, John Sebastian Bach—part of his St. Matthew Passion. I was playing not so much the actual notes of any chorus, but rather the effect of certain passages as I could feel them in my mind."
"So that was by Bach!" I said in wonder.
"Yes," said Mendelssohn; "and people know so little of him. They either think of him as the composer of mathematical exercises in music, or else they confuse him with others of his family. He was Cantor of the St. Thomas School here in Leipzig, the perfect type of a true servant of our glorious art. He wrote incessantly, but the greatest of his works lay forgotten after his death; and it was I, I, who disinterred this marvellous music-drama of the Passion, and gave it in Berlin ten years ago—its first performance since Bach's death almost a century before. But there," he added, with an apologetic smile, "I talk too much! Let us speak of something else."
"Yes," said David, "you will talk of Bach for ever if no one stops you. Not that I mind. I am a disciple, too."
"And I, too," added Bennett. "I mean to emulate Mendelssohn. He was the first to give the 'Passion' in Germany, I will be the first to give it in England."
"Then I'll be recording angel," said David, "and register your vow. You'll show him up, if he breaks his word, won't you?" he added, turning to me.
"Now this will really change the subject," said Mendelssohn, producing a sheet of manuscript. "Here is a little song I wrote last year to some old verses. Perhaps our new friend will let us hear it."