[Ill.u.s.tration: '_The tutor's carriage met them._']

It was a most delightful tour, enjoyed by all concerned, and long to be treasured by the young musician, to whom Interlaken, Vevey, and Chamounix, with their mountains, lakes, glaciers, torrents, and valleys, their sunrises and sunsets, presented a panorama of endless enchantment. Amidst the constant demands upon the senses there was little time for actual composition, but two songs and the beginning of a pianoforte quartet were inspired by the sight of the Lake of Geneva and its beautiful surroundings. Nor was the journey without the pleasures afforded by meetings with many eminent people in the musical world, such as the composer Spohr at Ca.s.sel, and Schelble, the conductor of the famous Cacilien-Verein concerts, at Frankfort. To the latter Felix exhibited his powers by an extemporisation on Bach's motets, which called forth the musician's astonished praise.

On the return journey a call was made at Weimar, in order that Abraham Mendelssohn might pay his respects to the poet, and personally acknowledge the old man's kindness to Felix. Goethe received them most kindly, and talked much with the father on the subject of the boy's future. Of Felix's playing he never seemed to get tired. There was a charm about the boy's bright presence, and a soothing restfulness in his playing which appealed to the old poet's kindlier nature in a way that few things had the power to do. 'I am Saul, and you are my David,' he said to Felix one day, when his temper had been ruffled by something that had occurred. 'When I am sad and dreary, come to me and cheer me with your music.' How much sunshine had been infused into the old man's declining days by these brief visits Felix himself could never have guessed, but he knew that he loved Goethe, and that his love was returned.

Felix's progress, not only in music, but in his other studies as well, was by leaps and bounds. Knowledge to him seemed a food for which his appet.i.te was insatiable, difficulties to him were but spurs to increased effort, and the effort itself appeared to be inappreciable.

It was impossible to regard any longer as a boy one who possessed knowledge and powers that ent.i.tled him to take rank with performers and composers of the day. Too soon for some of those who loved him had Mendelssohn pa.s.sed from his childhood stage, landing almost at a single bound into that of advanced youth, if not, indeed, into manhood itself. The Swiss tour had in a measure bridged over the interval; for when he returned it was with a taller and robuster frame, more strongly marked features, and a new and indefinable expression that was the result of widened experience, and, last of all, without the beautiful curls which had helped to make the child's face what it had been. With these changes, however, his happy boyish nature remained as strong and as irrepressible as ever. And so we pa.s.s on to the date when the transformation of which we have spoken found a fitting opportunity for recognition by his friends.

It was the night of February 3, 1824, Felix's fifteenth birthday, and the family and guests were gathered around the supper-table. Earlier in the evening there had been a full rehearsal of his first full-grown opera in three acts--'Die beiden Neffen, oder der Onkel aus Boston'

(The Two Nephews, or the Uncle from Boston), which had gone most successfully, and now Zelter held up his hand as a signal that he had something important to say. All eyes were turned to him, and the clatter of tongues ceased in a moment. The old musician's face was lighted up by a most unusual expression. His grumpiness had cleared away, and a look of benevolence beamed from his eyes, in which there was even a suspicion of moisture, as, lifting his gla.s.s on high, he said:

'I have a toast to propose which I make no doubt you will acquiesce in most readily. I raise my gla.s.s to the health and happiness of my _late_ pupil (no one failed to note the emphasis on the word 'late'), 'Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy!'

The toast was honoured with enthusiasm, and then Zelter, rising from his seat, took Felix by the hand and addressed him in these words:

'From this day, dear boy, thou art no longer an apprentice, but an independent member of the brotherhood of musicians. I proclaim you "a.s.sistant" in the names of Mozart, Haydn, and old Father Bach!'

He then embraced Felix with much tenderness, imprinting a hearty kiss on both his cheeks; and, the little ceremony ended, the company toasted the proclamation of independence with great merriment, following it up with the singing of songs by Zelter and others.

Notwithstanding that Mendelssohn had thus received his initiation into the 'brotherhood,' and that Zelter had plainly shown that he had nothing more to teach him, Abraham Mendelssohn still had some lingering doubts as to the advisability of his son's choosing music as a profession. This att.i.tude arose quite as much from Felix's all-round knowledge and attainments as from any particular misgivings regarding the steadfastness of his love for music, or the continued development of his genius in that direction. Abraham clearly perceived that Felix had in him the makings of a man of business; he was methodical, quick, and shrewd, and possessed that infinite capacity for taking pains which is the accompaniment of true genius. These were qualities pre-eminently fitting him for a successful business career, and hence the doubtings as to whether such a rare combination of qualifications ought to be expended in following up a branch of art that might in the end prove fruitless of solid results. The father must be forgiven for entertaining such doubts, unreasonable as they may seem, when regard is paid to the absolute honesty of purpose by which his own life was governed, and the sincerity of his affection for the members of his family.

There was one man who might be trusted to give an impartial opinion on this pressing question. Cherubini, the eminent composer and musical judge, was living in Paris, and to Cherubini it was decided to apply forthwith for advice. Accordingly, Felix and his father journeyed to Paris with this object, the former being fully as anxious as his father to have the opportunity of making the acquaintance of so famous a musician, as well as of receiving at his hands the support and encouragement which would put an end, once and for all, to his father's doubts. Cherubini was hardly ever known to praise, but perhaps for this very reason his opinion was eagerly sought by young performers and composers. Of those who went to him for advice, however, by far the greater number were sent away with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. This dismal fate was not reserved for Felix, for no sooner had the great man listened to his playing of one of his own compositions than he recognised Mendelssohn's power and genius, and, turning to the father, he said with a smile; 'Sir, the boy is rich; he will do well.' After some further tests Cherubini expressed himself as perfectly satisfied with regard to Felix's future, and when father and son returned to Berlin it was with the settled conviction on the part of the former that thenceforward the boy's life must be devoted to music.

And now a great change came into the daily life of the family. The house in the Neue Promenade was exchanged for a statelier and more commodious mansion, No. 3, Leipziger Stra.s.se, situated on the outskirts of the city near the Potsdam Gate. The grounds of the new house adjoined the old deer-park of Frederick the Great, and in themselves were almost large enough to be styled a park. Stretches of green turf, shaded by fine forest-trees, winding walks amidst sweet-scented flowering shrubs, and arbours nestling in retired corners, inviting retreats for study and meditation, comprised an ideal spot for one who loved the surroundings of Nature. Nor was the house itself behindhand in offering special attractions for the purposes of study and recreation, in addition to the more solid requirements of comfort and accommodation. The rooms were s.p.a.cious and elegant, and comprised one large apartment perfectly adapted for musical or theatrical entertainments. But, just as there are not a few of us who, in choosing a residence, are drawn towards the garden before proceeding to investigate the dwelling itself, so Felix's delight was first of all expressed with regard to the beautiful surroundings of the new home. And there was one feature of the garden which opened up to his mind splendid possibilities in connection with his beloved pursuit. This was a garden-house, containing a central hall capable of accommodating several hundred people, and furnished with windows and gla.s.s doors opening and looking upon the lawns and trees. The garden-house was as essentially a part of the garden as any large summer-house could be, and yet comprised sufficient rooms to fit it for occupation as a separate dwelling if such were necessary.

No sooner had the family established itself in the new home than the musical and artistic gatherings were resumed on an even larger scale than heretofore. The Sunday concerts were held in the 'Gartenhaus,'

which, on most of the other evenings of the week, was the resort of friends, both old and young, who came to listen to the music, or to play or act, or in other ways amuse themselves. So famous did these gatherings become, and so completely were the mansion and its surroundings identified with the family which occupied it, and dispensed its open-handed hospitality, that it was impossible to mention the Leipziger Stra.s.se without connecting it with information respecting the Mendelssohns. The two things, indeed, were inseparable in everybody's mind. Thither, amongst others, came Ferdinand Hiller, the eminent performer, who had visited Beethoven while the latter lay on his death-bed, and whose friendship with Felix had begun at Frankfort a short time before. Moscheles, who had worked under Beethoven, also became a regular visitor at the house, and one of Felix's closest friends. Moscheles had already acquired fame as a player, and during his stay in Berlin he was induced, though not without reluctance, to give some lessons to Mendelssohn. 'He has no need of lessons,' he remarked, with reference to Felix's ability. 'If he wishes to take a hint from me as to anything new to him, he can easily do so.' Felix, however, frankly acknowledged afterwards how much he owed to these lessons at the hands of him whose graceful, elegant touch could not be excelled. Speaking of Moscheles' playing on one occasion, Mendelssohn said that 'the runs dropped from his fingers like magic.'

We must now speak of two works which were composed very soon after Zelter's declaration of his pupil's independence. The first of these was an Octet for stringed instruments, designed as a birthday present for Edward Ritz, the young violinist, for whom Mendelssohn entertained a deep affection, and whose premature death caused him much sorrow.

Felix had not completed his seventeenth year when the Octet was written. He had already composed a great deal, but he had done nothing so entirely fresh and original as this. Indeed, one might place one's finger on the Octet, and, forgetting everything which he had written before, say with emphasis and truth: 'This is Mendelssohn himself; this is his very own.' No longer an 'apprentice,' swayed or, at least, influenced by the masters who had gone before him, he has here given us the first-fruits of his 'a.s.sistantship' in a work which expresses his own musicianly feelings, and in which we get our first glimpse of his true genius. The whole piece was intended to be played _staccato_ and _pianissimo_. It has a fleeting, spiritual, and fairy-like effect, with 'tremolos and trills pa.s.sing away with the quickness of lightning.' The Scherzo is especially beautiful, and Mendelssohn admitted to his sister f.a.n.n.y that he had taken as his motto for this movement a stanza from Goethe's Walpurgis-night Dream in 'Faust':

'Floating cloud and trailing mist Bright'ning o'er us hover; Airs stir the brake, the rushes shake-- And all their pomp is over.'

We are reminded of this in the last part, where 'the first violin takes a flight with a feather-like lightness, and all has vanished.'

But if the Octet serves to mark a distinct stage in the development of Mendelssohn's genius, what are we to say of the work which followed it? Several things had paved the way for this new composition. To begin with, Felix and f.a.n.n.y made their first acquaintance with Shakespeare in this year through the medium of a German translation, and they fell completely under the spell of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Then the summer proved to be an exceptionally fine one, and led to many hours being spent in the beautiful garden--in fact, there is no doubt that the garden began it. It is not difficult to imagine how the romantic mind of Felix was stirred by reading this delightful fairy play amidst such charming surroundings. To read thus was to picture in music, to give a musical setting to both scene and action, at first indefinite, shadowy, suggestive, but as reading and thinking progressed, growing ever stronger and more clearly defined. Thus, stretched upon the turf, book in hand, the silence broken only by the singing of the birds and the humming of the bees, the music of the Overture to 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' gradually shaped itself in Mendelssohn's mind, until what at the beginning had in itself been little more than a dream, became a tangible creation.

When the Overture had been written down, it was frequently played by Felix and f.a.n.n.y as a duet. In this simple form Moscheles heard it for the first time, and he was struck by the force of its beauty. The work was elaborated and perfected by degrees, until the day arrived when it was performed by the garden-house orchestra before a crowded audience.

So great was the reception accorded to the overture on this occasion that in the February following Felix journeyed to Stettin to conduct the first public performance.

When we listen to this beautiful work, we are constrained to admit that no happier introduction to the play could have been devised; for just as the play itself seems to demand for its environment some lovely garden or woodland glade, so Mendelssohn's music conjures up visions of the fairy scenes of enchantment with which the play abounds. It is a work instinct with musicianly feeling, and its strength is borne out by the soundness and skill displayed in its construction. As a great musical judge[29] has said of it: 'No one piece of music contains so many points of harmony and orchestration that had never been written before, and yet none of them have the air of experiment, but seem all to have been written with certainty of their success.'

But we must not linger over this portion of our story, though we are tempted to do so; for there can be no doubt that these years spent in the Leipziger Stra.s.se house, when the members of the family were all together, each contributing his or her share to the intellectual intercourse that went on beneath its hospitable roof, afford the happiest pictures of Mendelssohn's young life. It was so full and many-sided a life, hard work alternating with gymnastics, dancing, swimming, riding, and, of course, music, each occupation pursued with such zest and heartiness as to convey the impression at the moment of its being the most absorbing of all.

Amidst these pleasures, however, a new project had taken hold of his mind, one which, like many another great undertaking fraught with far-reaching results, owed its inception to the feeling aroused by the indifference and lack of sympathy shown by others towards what he himself believed to be deserving of the highest praise. Two years before, Felix's grandmother had presented him with a ma.n.u.script score of Bach's 'Pa.s.sion according to St. Matthew,' which Zelter had permitted to be copied from the ma.n.u.script in the Singakademie. A more devoted lover of Bach's music than Zelter could not have been found, and the old man had infused some of this love into his pupil; consequently, when the score of the 'Pa.s.sion' was placed in Mendelssohn's hands, he set to work to master it, and with such earnestness had he applied himself to the study that at this point of our story he knew the whole of it by heart.

The more he studied this great work, the more was he impressed by its beauty and the grandeur of its conception. Could it possibly be true, he asked himself, that throughout the length and breadth of Germany so stupendous a work as this remained unheard, unknown? that a creation so deathless in itself could be permitted to sleep without even the hope of an awakening? 'Alas!' replied Zelter, when the question was put to him--'alas! it is nearly a hundred years since old Father Bach died, and though his name lives, as all great names must live, the majority of those who speak of him as a master are ignorant of the works which made him great; they have forgotten, if, indeed, they ever heard, the sound of the master's voice!'

Here, then, in the apathy manifested in regard to Bach's greatest works, Mendelssohn found the stimulus that was needed. If only this state of things could be changed, if only he might be permitted to show the way to an understanding and appreciation of these priceless treasures! Towards this great end something, at least, might be accomplished by the force of example. As we have seen, he knew the 'Pa.s.sion' music by heart, and he now proceeded to enlist others in a study of the work. In a short time he had got together sixteen carefully selected voices, and had arranged for his little choir to meet once a week at his house for practice. It was a small beginning, but his own enthusiasm soon infected the rest, and they all grew deeply earnest in their work--so earnest, indeed, that ere long the yearning had seized them for a public performance. The Singakademie maintained a splendid choir of between three hundred and four hundred voices. If only the director could be induced to allow a trial performance to be given under Mendelssohn's conducting! Much as he personally desired such a consummation of their labours, however, Felix felt convinced that he knew Zelter only too well to indulge any hopes that he would sanction so great an undertaking. Zelter had no faith in the idea that public support would be given to a revival of the 'Pa.s.sion,' and Felix well knew that nothing would shake him in this opinion. But this conclusion was strongly opposed by a prominent member of the Garden-house choir, a young actor-singer named Devrient, who insisted that Zelter ought to be approached on the subject; and as he himself had been a pupil of Zelter, and possessed the gift of eloquence in no small degree, he succeeded in persuading Mendelssohn to accompany him on a visit to the director's house.

Accordingly, the pair set forth early one morning to brave the old giant in his den, Mendelssohn haunted by a dread of the manner in which their proposals would be received, and Devrient, who was to be spokesman, keeping up a bold front, and a.s.suring his friend that they would ultimately succeed.

They found Zelter seated at his instrument, with a sheet of music-paper before him, a long pipe in his mouth, and enveloped in a cloud of tobacco-smoke. In response to his gruff inquiry, what had brought them at so early an hour, Devrient unfolded his plan by degrees, beginning by enlarging upon their admiration for Bach's music, with a gentle reminder to Zelter that this taste had been acquired under his own guidance, and proceeding to dwell upon the progress of their studies and the yearning which they all felt for a public trial of the work, and concluding with an eloquent appeal for a.s.sistance from the Academy itself.

Zelter listened with an outward show of patience that was as extraordinary as it had been unlooked for, but his eyes gleamed through the clouds of smoke with a light that foreboded a speedy outburst of his slumbering fires. Nevertheless, when he began to speak, it was not to condemn the young men for their presumption, but to point out that the difficulties in performing such a work at that time were inconceivably greater than they had supposed. In Bach's time it was different, the Thomas School could supply what was necessary--the double orchestra, double chorus, and so forth; but now such things were insuperable difficulties; nothing could overcome them.

As he spoke he laid aside his pipe, and rising from his chair, paced excitedly to and fro, repeating again and again: 'No, no; it is not to be thought of; it is mad, mad, mad!' To Felix he looked the picture of a s.h.a.ggy old lion stirred up by his keeper. Still Devrient persevered.

He even ventured to say that they had considered those difficulties; that they did not believe them to be insuperable; that they had implicit faith in their own enthusiasm having the power to kindle the like in others; and, finally, that with the Academy's co-operation success must ensue.

Zelter grew more and more irritated as Devrient proceeded, and Felix, observing the growing anger in his eye, plucked his companion by the sleeve, and edged nearer to the door. At length the explosion came.

'That one should have the patience to listen to all this! I can tell you that very different people have had to give up attempting this very thing, and yet you imagine that a couple of young donkeys like yourselves will be able to accomplish it!'

Felix by this time was at the door, feverishly beckoning to Devrient to come away, but his friend refused to budge; he even began afresh.

He pleaded in his most telling tones that, inasmuch as it was Zelter himself who had awakened their love for the master, the honour would be to him quite as much as to themselves if his pupils succeeded in bringing about this grand result, and how well-deserved and fitting a crown this would be to his long career, this honour and testimony to the greatness of Father Bach.

Felix opened his eyes wider in astonishment; but there could be no mistake--the crisis had pa.s.sed, and Zelter was visibly weakening; the lion died out of his eyes, the pipe once more found its way to his lips, and after many demurs, many arguments, much pacing up and down, Zelter with a sigh of relief gave in. It was a n.o.ble surrender, for it included a promise of all the help that he could give, and the young enthusiasts quitted the lion's den triumphant.

'You are a regular rascal, an arch-Jesuit!' said Felix to his friend as they descended the stairs.

'Anything you like for the honour of Sebastian Bach!' retorted the other as they stepped out into the keen, wintry air.

How Mendelssohn grappled with this great work; how he threw into it all the energy he possessed; how he mastered its every detail, and gave it life; how, with infinite tact and patience, he made it a living, dramatic masterpiece in the eyes of those who were to perform it; how the rehearsals at the Academy were thronged by professionals and amateurs desirous of realising its true nature and power; how at length the first public performance of the 'Pa.s.sion according to St.

Matthew' since the composer's death took place at the Singakademie, with Mendelssohn conducting, on March 11, 1829, and how every ticket was sold, and fully a thousand disappointed ones were turned away from the doors--all this must be read elsewhere. Suffice it here to say that this performance marked the beginning of a great revival--the awakening throughout Germany and England of a love and appreciation of Bach which has never since faded or diminished.

It was in connection with this work that Mendelssohn made the first and only allusion to his Jewish descent. 'To think,' he remarked to Devrient, with a look of triumph in his eyes as they were walking together to the final rehearsal--'to think that it should have been reserved for an actor and a Jew to restore this great Christian work to the people!'

The excitement attending the performance, with its repet.i.tion on March 21, the anniversary of Bach's birth, had not subsided ere Mendelssohn was engaged in taking leave of his dear ones prior to embarking at Hamburg on his first visit to England. Several circ.u.mstances had combined to render the present a favourable moment for undertaking the journey. The Moscheleses, and another friend named Klingemann, who had been a constant visitor at the Berlin house until called away to occupy a London post, had a.s.sured him of a warm welcome; it was his father's wish, shared by Zelter also, that he should travel, and he for his own part was desirous of showing that he could support himself by music. Abraham Mendelssohn had, indeed, designed this visit as the first portion of a lengthened tour which would enable Felix to see more of various countries, and a.s.sist him in choosing that which offered the best opportunities for his life-work.

The London musical season was at its height when he arrived, but his first letters home were chiefly occupied with descriptions of the city itself, and how it had affected him. 'It is fearful! it is maddening!'

he writes to f.a.n.n.y three days after he had settled into his Great Portland Street lodgings.[30] 'London is the grandest and most complicated monster on the face of the earth.... Things roll and carry me along as in a vortex. Not in the last six months at Berlin have I seen so many contrasts and such variety as in these three days....

Could you see me at the exquisite grand-piano which Clementi has sent me for the whole of my stay here, by the cheerful fireside' (the open grate fire was a novelty to one who had come from the land of closed stoves), 'in my own four walls ... and could you see the immense four-post bed in the next room in which I might go to sleep in the most literal sense of the word, the many-coloured curtains and quaint furniture, my breakfast-tea with dry toast still before me, the servant-girl in curl-papers, who has just brought me my newly-hemmed black necktie, and asks what further orders I have ... and could you but see the highly respectable, fog-enveloped street, and hear the pitiable voice with which a beggar down there pours forth his ditty (he will soon be outscreamed by the street-sellers), and could you picture to yourselves that from here to the City is three-quarters of an hour's drive, and that in all the cross streets of which one has glimpses the noise, clamour, and bustle are the same, if not greater, and that after that one has only traversed about a quarter of London, then you might understand how it is that I am half distracted!'

One needs to be something of an artist as well as of a poet to appreciate London at her true worth, and Mendelssohn possessed both qualities in no small degree; hence it is only natural that the artistic and poetical aspects of our city should have appealed most strongly to his sensitive nature. A few days later he writes: 'I think the town and the streets are quite beautiful. Again I was struck with awe when yesterday I drove in an open carriage to the City along a different road and everywhere found the same flow of life ...

everywhere noise and smoke, everywhere the end of the streets lost in fog. Every few moments I pa.s.sed a church, or a market-place, or a green square, or a theatre, or caught a glimpse of the Thames....

Last, not least, to see the masts from the West India Docks stretching their heads over the housetops, and to see a harbour as big as the Hamburg one treated like a mere pond, with sluices, and the ships arranged not singly, but in rows, like regiments--to see all that makes one's heart rejoice at the greatness of the world.'

The magnificence of a ball at Devonshire House reminds him of the 'Arabian Nights.' The Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel were present, and he describes the beauty of the girls dancing, the lights, the music, the flowers, etc. 'To move among these beautiful pictures and lovely living forms, and to wander about in all that flow of life and universal excitement, perfectly quiet and unknown, and unnoticed and unseen, to notice and to see--it was one of the most charming nights I remember.' Again, of a fete held at the Marquis of Lansdowne's, he says: 'That such magnificence could really exist in our time I had not believed. These are not parties--they are festivals and celebrations.'

In the mind of Mendelssohn, therefore, London struck a sympathetic chord, and the pleasure which he felt on entering the city was heightened by the warmth of the welcome which he received at the hands of the musical public. His first appearance was at the Argyll Rooms, in Regent Street, at a concert of the Philharmonic Society on May 25, when his 'Symphony in C minor' was performed. He gives a full description of the rehearsal and performance in his letter to f.a.n.n.y:

'When I entered the Argyll Rooms for the rehearsal of my Symphony, and found the whole orchestra a.s.sembled, and about two hundred listeners, chiefly ladies, strangers to me, and when, first, Mozart's "Symphony in E flat major" was rehea.r.s.ed, after which my own was to follow, I felt not exactly afraid, but nervous and excited. During the Mozart pieces I took a little walk in Regent Street, and looked at the people; when I returned, everything was ready and waiting for me. I mounted the orchestra, and pulled out my white stick which I have had made on purpose (the maker took me for an alderman, and would insist on decorating it with a crown). The first violin, Francois Cramer, showed me how the orchestra was placed--the furthest row had to get up so that I could see them--and introduced me to them all, and we bowed to each other; some, perhaps, laughed a little that this small fellow with the stick should now take the place of their regular powdered and bewigged conductor. Then it began. For the first time it went very well and powerfully, and pleased the people much, even at rehearsal.

After each movement the whole audience and the whole orchestra applauded (the musicians showing their approval by striking their instruments with their bows and stamping their feet). After the finale they made a great noise, and as I had to make them repeat it, because it was badly played, they set up the same noise once more; the directors came to me in the orchestra, and I had to go down and make a great many bows. Cramer was overjoyed, and loaded me with praise and compliments. I walked about in the orchestra, and had to shake at least two hundred different hands. It was one of the happiest moments within my recollection, for one half hour had transformed all those strangers into friends and acquaintances. But the success at the concert last night was beyond what I could ever have dreamed. It began with the Symphony; old Francois Cramer led me to the piano like a young lady, and I was received with immense applause. The Adagio was encored; I preferred to bow my thanks and go on, for fear of tiring the audience, but the Scherzo was so vigorously encored that I felt obliged to repeat it, and after the finale they continued applauding, while I was thanking the orchestra and shaking hands, and until I had left the room.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: '_The success was beyond what I could have dreamed._']

On another occasion, when he was to perform at a concert, he describes how he went to the room early in order to try the piano, which was a new one. He found the instrument locked, and dispatched a messenger for the key. In the meantime he seated himself at another piano of ancient aspect, and beginning to extemporise soon became lost in reverie. The empty room, the 'old grey instrument which the fingers of several generations may have played,' and the silence affected him so deeply that he forgot the pa.s.sing time, until he was reminded of the approach of the concert hour by the people coming in to take their seats. When, having first put himself into _grande toilette_--very long, white trousers, brown silk waistcoat, black necktie, and blue dress coat--he mounted the orchestra he felt nervous; a panic seized him, for the hall was crowded, ladies even sitting in the orchestra who could not get places in the room. 'But as the gay bonnets gave me a nice reception, and applauded when I came ... and as I found the instrument very excellent and of a light touch, I lost all my timidity, became quite comfortable, and was highly amused to see the bonnets agitated at every little cadenza, which to me and many critics brought to mind the simile of the wind and the tulip-bed.'

A dinner-party followed the concert, and then he went to visit some friends living out of town with whom he was to spend the night.

Finding no carriage to convey him, he set out to walk through the fields in the cool of the evening. Can we not picture him crossing the still meadows by a lonely path, meeting no one, the air redolent of spring flowers, musical ideas floating through his mind--ideas which there was n.o.body to hear, which n.o.body, perhaps, was ever destined to hear, as he sang them aloud in the fading light, 'the whole sky grey, with a purple streak on the horizon, and the thick cloud of smoke behind him.'