When they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had already begun the programme of the day with Mendelssohn's "Italian" Symphony. The house was crowded to excess; numbers of people were standing, apparently willing to endure a whole afternoon's fatigue, rather than miss hearing the Orpheus of Andalusia,--the "Endymion out of Spain," as one of our latest and best poets has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant interest was shown in the orchestral performance,--the "Italian" Symphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and this is probably the reason why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For, be it understood by the critical elect, that the heart-whole appreciation of the million is by no means so "vulgar" as it is frequently considered,--it is the impulsive response of those who, not being bound hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or prejudice, express what they instinctively FEEL to be true.
You cannot force these "vulgar," by any amount of "societies," to adopt Browning as a household god,--but they will appropriate Shakespeare, and glory in him, too, without any one's compulsion. If authors, painters, and musicians would probe more earnestly than they do to the core of this INSTINCTIVE HIGHER ASPIRATION OF PEOPLES, it would be all the better for their future fame. For each human unit in a nation has its great, as well as base passions,--and it is the clear duty of all the votaries of art to appeal to and support the noblest side of nature only--moreover, to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic eloquence of meaning that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble and exalted.
"It is not in the least Italian"--said Heliobas, alluding to the Symphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation surged through the hall like the noise that might be made by thousands of swarming bees,--"There is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of Italian light about it. The dreamy warmth of the South,--the radiant color that lies all day and all night on the lakes and mountains of Dante's land,--the fragrance of flowers-- the snatches of peasants' and fishermen's songs--the tunefulness of nightingales in the moonlight,--the tinkle of passing mandolins,--all these things should be hinted at in an 'Italian' Symphony--and all these are lacking. Mendelssohn tried to do what was not in him,--I do not believe the half-phlegmatic, half- philosophical nature of a German could ever understand the impetuously passionate soul of Italy."
As he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were almost black, glanced round at him inquiringly,--a faint blush flitted over her cheeks, and she seemed about to speak, but, as though restrained by timidity, she looked away again and said nothing. Heliobas smiled.