g like--well, I
leave it to you?"

"And I forgot to mention," said Mendelssohn with a gay laugh, "that our
young English visitor is a singer bringing ecstatic recommendations from
Klingemann."

"Ah! a rival!" said David, with a dramatic gesture; "but since we're all
of a trade, perhaps our friend will show he doesn't mind my nonsense by
singing this song to us."

"Yes," said Mendelssohn, with a graceful gesture, "I shall be greatly
pleased if you will."

I could not refuse. Mendelssohn sat down at the piano and I began the
simple song that has helped so many English people to appreciate the
beauties of the German _lied_.

"Can it be? Can it be?
Dost thou wander through the bower,
Wishing I was there with thee?
Lonely, midst the moonlight's splendour,
Dost thou seek for me?
Can it be? Say!
But the secret rapturous feeling
Ne'er in words must be betrayed;
True eyes will tell what love conceals!"

"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