mbing over some freshly
painted green railings in the Park, and thus irreparably spoiling it.

The dead-man improvisations remind me of the marvellous way in which my
father and godfather would improvise together, playing _a quatre mains_,
or alternately, and pouring forth a never-failing stream of musical
ideas. I have spoken of it before, but it was in a preface, and who
reads a preface? So I may perhaps once more be allowed to describe it. A
subject started, it was caught up as if it were a shuttlecock; now one
of the players would seem to toss it up on high, or to keep it balanced
in mid-octaves with delicate touch. Then the other would take it in
hand, start it on classical lines, and develop it with profound
erudition, until perhaps the two joining together in new and brilliant
forms, would triumphantly carry it off to other spheres of sound. Four
hands there might be, but only one soul, so it seemed, as they would
catch with lightning speed at each other's ideas, each trying to
introduce subjects from the works of the other.

It was exciting to watch how the amicable contest would wax hot,
culminating occasionally in an outburst of merriment, when some
conflicting harmonies met in terrible collision. I see Mendelssohn's air
of triumph when he had succeeded in twisting a subject from a
composition of his own into a Moscheles theme, while the latter was
obliged to second him in the bass. But not for long. "Stop a minute,"
said the next few chords that my father struck. "There I have you, you
have taken the bait." Soon they would be again fraternising in perfect
harmonies, gradually leading up to the brilliant finale that sounded as
if it had been so written, revised and corrected, and were now being
interpreted from the score by two masters.

Besides my godfather there were many of my father's friends who were
kindly disposed towards me. Malibran is one of those I associate with my
earliest days. Perhaps I remember her, perhaps I but fancy I do, for I
was only three or four years old when she died. But I have impressions
of her sitting on the floor and painting pretty pictures for us
children; a certain black silk bag, from the depths of which she
produced paint-box, brushes, and other beautiful and mysterious things,
had an irresistible charm for us, as had also her big dark eyes, and
that wonderful mouth of hers, which she showed us could easily hold an
orange. And then she would sing to us Spanish songs by her