GOETHE AND MENDELSSOHN.

M. L. RELLSTAB, a celebrated German novelist and poet, has just published the first two volumes of his autobiography, full of most interesting matter, as he has been connected during his fifty years of literary labour with all the celebrities of the age.* So soon as the other volumes appear, we purpose offering our readers a critical analysis of the whole work, but, in the mean time, cannot refrain from bringing before them one chapter, descriptive of a scene interesting to all readers, of which the author was witness during his residence at Weimar, and which, to our knowledge, has not before been published. From this point, then, M. Rellstab shall speak for himself.

One morning in November, I received an invitation to visit on that afternoon Frau von Goethe, daughter-in-law of the poet, who lived in the attic story. She received me with the words, "You will find acquaintances from Berlin here, whom you will be pleased to meet." I guessed, I asked, but could not hit on the party, when suddenly the door opened, and my stately friend Zelter, then in his prime, walked in. He greeted me in his peculiar fashion: "Well, you're here, too: why, all Berlin is at Weimar! I must be present when my Luther's monument was erected at Wittenberg, and, as I was on the road, I drove straight here." Presently the door opened again gently, and a boy of about twelve entered: it was Felix Mendelssohn, whom I recognised with pleasure. He modestly approached us, and his fine black eye wandered timidly round the company. He probably expected to find Goethe himself among them, but he was still in his room, and the travellers had only just arrived. The lad was at first not noticed, because his extraordinary qualities were not yet known. I was probably the only person, besides Zelter, who was acquainted with them. His shyness soon disappeared, however, and he was presently engaged in romping with the young ladies, for he had the art of becoming a general favourite immediately.

In the evening we assembled in Goethe's rooms to tea, for he had invited a large party of his Weimar musical acquaintances to make them acquainted with the boy's extraordinary talents. Presently Goethe made his appearance: he came from his study, and had a habit—at least I generally noticed it-of waiting till all the guests were assembled ere he showed himself. Till that period his son and daughter-in-law did the duties of host in the most amiable way. A certain solemnity was visible among the guests prior to the entrance of the great poet, and even those who stood on terms of intimacy with him underwent a feeling of veneration. His slow, serious walk, his impressive features, which expressed the strength rather than weakness of old age, the lofty forehead, the white, abundant hair, lastly, the deep voice and slow way of speaking, all united to produce this effect. His "good evening" was addressed to all, but he walked up to Zelter first, and shook his hand cordially. Felix Mendelssohn looked up with sparkling eyes at the snow-white head of the poet. The

*Aus Meinem Leben. Von L. Rellstab. Vols. I. and II. Berlin: J. Guttentag.

latter, however, placed his hands kindly on the boy's head, and said, "Now you shall play us something." Zelter nodded his assent.

The piano was opened, and lights arranged on the desk. Mendelssohn asked Zelter, to whom he displayed a thoroughly childish devotion and confidence, "What shall I play ?",

"Well, what you can," the latter replied, in his peculiarly sharp voice: "whatever is not too difficult for you.'

To me, who knew what the boy could do, and that no task was too difficult for him, this seemed an unjust depreciation of his faculties. It was at length arranged that he should play a fantasia, which he did to the wonder of all. But the young artist knew when to leave off, and thus the effect he produced was all the greater. A silence of surprise ensued when he raised his hands from the keys after a loud finale.

Zelter was the first to intercept the silence in his humorous way, by saying aloud, “Ha, you must have been dreaming of kobolds and dragons-why, that went over stick and stone!" At the same time

there was a perfect indifference in his tone, as if there were nothing remarkable in the matter. Without doubt the teacher intended to prevent in this way the danger of a too brilliant triumph. The playing, however, as it could not well otherwise, aroused the highest admiration of all present, and Goethe, especially, was full of the warmest delight. He encouraged the lad, in whose childish features joy, pride, and confusion were at once depicted, by taking his head between his hands, patting him kindly, and saying, jestingly, " But you will not get off with that. You must play more pieces before we recognise your merits."

"But what shall I play," Felix asked, "Herr Professor ?"—he was wont to address Zelter by this title-" what shall I play now?"

I cannot say that I have properly retained the pieces the young virtuoso now performed, for they were numerous. I will, however, mention the most interesting.

Goethe was a great admirer of Bach's fugues, which a musician of Berka, a little town about ten miles from Weimar, came to play to him repeatedly. Felix was, therefore, requested to play a fugue of the grand old master. Zelter selected it from the music-book, and the boy played it without any preparation, but with perfect certainty.

Goethe's delight grew with the boy's extraordinary powers. Among other things, he requested him to play a minuet.

"Shall I play you the loveliest in the whole world ?" he asked, with sparkling eyes.

"Well, and which is that?"

He played the minuet from "Don Giovanni."

Goethe stood by the instrument, listening, joy glistening on his features. He wished for the overture of the opera after the minuet; but this the player roundly declined, with the assertion that it could not be played as it was written, and nobody dared make any alteration in it. He, however, offered to play the overture to " Figaro." He commenced it with a lightness of touch-such certainty and clearness as I never heard again. At the same time, he gave the orchestral effects so magnificently, that the effect was extraordinary; and I can honestly state that it afforded me more gratification than ever an orchestral performance did. Goethe grew more and more cheerful and kind, and even played tricks with the talented lad.

“Well, come,” he said, "you have only played me pieces you know, but now we will see whether you can play something you do not know. I will put you on your trial."

He went out. We, especially I, as an old Berlin acquaintance, conversed with Felix Mendelssohn, and asked him to play this and the other. I cannot omit a little roguish trick he played. I asked him about a rondeau by Cramer, one of the best compositions of that master, and which I knew the boy must have learned. "Yes," he cried, quickly; "Herr Berger plays that so beautifully." At my request he began to play it, though only experimentally. At one passage he struck a false note, but passed over it. I asked him, when he stopped, whether he had not made a mistake, it should have been "cis." Yes," he said, with a careless toss of his head, "cis or c; it can be either." But he would not

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allow that he had made a mistake. Several years after we met at a concert in Berlin. We had not come together for a long time; spoke about this and that belonging to the past; and he himself referred to our meeting in Weimar, Do you remember our first evening at Goethe's, when I made the mistake in Cramer's rondeau, and you told me of it, and how I turned it off?" And he laughed heartily at this boyish scheme for concealing a mistake.

Goethe re-entered the room in a few moments, and had a roll of music in his hand. "I have fetched something from my MS. collection. Now we will try you. Do you think you can play this ?"

He laid a page, with clear but small notes, on the desk. It was Mozart's handwriting. Whether Goethe told us so, or it was written en the paper, I forget, and only remember that Felix glowed with delight at the name, and an indescribable feeling came over us all, partly enthusiasm and joy, partly admiration and expectation. Goethe, the aged man, who lays a MS. of Mozart, who had been buried thirty years ago, before a lad so full of promise for the future, to play at sight-in truth such a constellation may be termed a rarity!

The young artist played with the most perfect certainty, not making the slightest mistake, though the MS. was far from easy reading. The task was certainly not difficult, especially for Mendelssohn, as it was only an adagio; still there was a difficulty in doing it as the lad did, for he played it as if he had been practising it for years.

Goethe adhered to his good-humoured tone, while all the rest applauded. "That is nothing," he said; "others could read that too. But I will now give you something over which you will stick, so take care."

With these words he produced another paper, which he laid on the desk. This certainly looked very strange. It was difficult to say were they notes, or only a paper ruled and splashed with ink and blots. Felix Mendelssohn, in his surprise, laughed loudly. "How is that written? Who can read it ?" he said.

But suddenly he became serious, for while Goethe was saying, "Now guess who wrote it ?" Zelter, who had walked up to the piano and looked over the boy's shoulder, exclaimed, "Why, Beethoven wrote that! any one could see it a mile off. He always writes with a broomstick, and passes his sleeve over the notes before they are dry. I have plenty of his MSS.; they are easy to know."

At the mention of this name, as I remarked, Mendelssohn had sud

denly grown serious-even more than serious. A shade of awe was visible on his features. Goethe regarded him with searching eyes, from which delight beamed. The boy kept his eyes immovably fixed on the MS., and a look of glad surprise flew over his features as he traced a brilliant thought amid the chaos of confused, blurred notes.

But all this only lasted a few seconds, for Goethe wished to make a severe trial, and give the performer no time for preparation. "You see," he exclaimed, "I told you that you would stick. Now try it; show us what you can do?"

Felix began playing immediately. It was a simple melody; if clearly written a trifling, I may say no, task, for even a moderate performer. But to follow it through the scrambling labyrinth required a quickness and certainty of eye such as few are able to attain. I glanced with surprise at the leaf, and tried to hum the tune, but many of the notes were perfectly illegible, or had to be sought at the most unexpected corners, as the boy often pointed out with a laugh.

He played it through once in this way, generally correctly, but stopping at times, and correcting several mistakes with a quick "No, so;" then he exclaimed, "Now I will play it to you." And this second time not a note was missing. "This is Beethoven, this passage," he said once, turning to me, as if he had come across something which sharply displayed the master's peculiar style. "That is true Beethoven. I recognised him in it at once."

With this trial-piece Goethe broke off. I need scarcely add, that the young player again reaped the fullest praise, which Goethe veiled in mocking jests, that he had stuck here and there, and had not been quite sure. As for the rest of the evening, I cannot remember what took place. Felix Mendelssohn certainly played several pieces: once he accompanied Frau von Goethe's singing, and it was proposed that a fourhand piece should be played; but none of the company would agree to this, in the certainty that, by the side of the boy's all-conquering talent, nothing was to be gained save humiliation for the pretentious attempt.

At a later date Goethe arranged several more social meetings, to which he invited his Weimar friends, that they might enjoy the lad's wonderful performance. The aged poet prophesied the greatest future for the marvellous boy. He spoke with full warm conviction about it to me, and his true artistic delight at this promising appearance ever broke out at fresh intervals. The boy had decidedly become a favourite of his.

But he was the favourite, as well, of the whole house. The ladies were continually teasing him, and often when he had just been seated at the instrument, and played the most magnificent compositions, he would spring up and chase the girls about the room. Once he teased a maid of honour with a pair of bellows he had found in a corner, and blew the powder out of her hair. But no one could be angry with him.

In the belief that this interesting episode will draw our readers' attention to the book from which we quote it, we shall leave it for the present, speedily, we hope, to return to it.

OUR CORPS' FRIENDS AND FOES;

OR,

HOW RANDOLPH TRAPPED A SUNBEAM, AND I TURNED A MEDIUM.

BY OUIDA.

PART THE FIRST.

I.

OUR CORPS, AND WHO COMPOSED IT.

I AM sorry to record it, our county is a very big fellow on the map, and is very celebrated for corn, cattle, and cheese, as the geography says, whose kindly alliteration helped me to escape the dire wrath of that odious governess of my sister's who first made study hateful to me when I was a little chap in the nursery; our county is picturesque, fruitful, and aristocratic, but it is a weathercock, as twirling and whirling and changing a girouette as the very fierce cock who sits on the top of our village church, looking as tremendous as the Gallic cock looks in alarmists' letters, but in reality only innocently ready for squalls, as perhaps the Gallic cock is too, desperately as we vilify him.

Our county is a weathercock, and changes its manners as a beauty her dresses, careful only of one thing-to be in the fashion. When Uncle Tom was the popular idol, we talked of nothing but niggers; in '54, we were solely Crimean, and ladies, working away at Chersonnese comforters, almost wished the war were in England, that they might have "those darlings" near them, ignorant of the fact that when the darlings were bayoneted, and they pinned against the wall till they told where their jewellery was hidden, the proximity would not have been altogether so pleasurable. In '58, we were pétris with Indian mutiny, and would not hear of any massacre that was not most frightfully and impossibly horrible, or of any vengeance less than the instant impaling of every separate Hindoo; and now, of course, we, who talked the most beautiful Odes to Peace that can be imagined when the Great Exhibition was up, and would have turned our swords into ploughshares if any agricul turists had taken a fancy to use such implements, have veered round the other way, and have fallen down before butts, Long Enfields, and cock'stails, in the worship common just now to all England. We were a little bitten with Garibaldism, and, should the promised February campaign come on, nothing will go down but a man who has fired a shot in the Calabrian battue; but at present we are inoculated with volunteering as strongly as small boys with passion for smoking, or City dandies with that abominable patchouli, a whiff of which would have killed poor Brummel, who counselled us, "No perfumes, only country-washed linen."