thus relieved from the special difficulties pertaining to them, and which, particularly with the clarinet, at times render it likely to produce a “quack” [Footnote:  Anglice, “a goose,”] even in the hands of skilful players.  I remember an occasion when all the musicians began to breathe at ease on my taking this piece at the true moderate pace:  then the humorous sforzato of the basses and bassoons at once produced an intelligible effect; the short crescendi became clear, the delicate pianissimo close was effective, and the gentle gravity of the returning principal movement was properly felt.  Now, the late Capellmeister Reissiger, of Dresden, once conducted this symphony there, and I happened to be present at the performance together with Mendelssohn; we talked about the dilemma just described, and its proper solution; concerning which I told Mendelssohn that I believed I had convinced Reissiger, who had promised that he would take the tempo slower than usual.  Mendelssohn perfectly agreed with me.  We listened.  The third movement began and I was terrified on hearing precisely the old Landler tempo; but before I could give vent to my annoyance Mendelssohn smiled, and pleasantly nodded his head, as if to say “now it’s all right!  Bravo!” So my terror changed to astonishment.  Reissiger, for reasons which I shall discuss presently, may not have been so very much to blame for persisting in the old tempo; but Mendelssohn’s indifference, with regard to this queer artistic contretemps, raised doubts in my mind whether he saw any distinction and difference in the case at all.  I fancied myself standing before an abyss of superficiality, a veritable void.  Soon after this had happened with Reissiger, the very same thing took place with the same movement of the Eighth Symphony at Leipzig.  The conductor, in the latter case, was a well-known successor of Mendelssohn at the Gewandhaus concerts. [Footnote:  Ferdinand Hiller.] He also had agreed with my views as to the Tempo di Menuetto, and had invited me to attend a concert at which he promised to take it at the proper moderate pace.  He did not keep his word and offered a queer excuse:  he laughed, and confessed that he had been disturbed with all manner of administrative business, and had only remembered his promise after the piece had begun; naturally he could not then alter the tempo, etc.  The explanation was sufficiently annoying.  Still I could, at least, flatter myself that I had found somebody to share my views as to the difference between one tempo and another.  I doubt, however, whether the conductor could be fairly reproached with a want of forethought and consideration; unconsciously, perhaps, he may have had a very good reason for his “forgetfulness.”  It would have been very indiscreet to risk a change of tempo which had not been rehearsed.  For the orchestra, accustomed to play the piece in a quick tempo, would have been disturbed by the sudden imposition of a more moderate pace; which, as a matter of course, demands a totally different style of playing.