Chapter XII: Part 12

He loved all beautiful things, but he loved the sea best of all; it seemed to him to express in its varying moods every feeling which he himself possessed. 'When there is a storm at Chiatamene,' he wrote to Fanny when she was visiting Italy, 'and the grey sea is foaming, think of me.' And now as he approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the sunlit bay, he exclaims: 'To me it is the finest object in Nature! I love it almost more than the sky. I always feel happy when I see before me the wide expanse of waters.' Again, the ancientness of Nature herself conveyed far more to him than any legend of antiquity connected with the works of man; he could not feel in 'crumbling mason work' the interest and fascination that existed for him in the unchanged outlines of the hills, or in the fact that the waves lapped the island which formed the refuge of Brutus, and the lichen-covered rocks bent over them then just as they did now. These were monuments on which no names were scribbled, no inscriptions carved, and to such he clung.

Yet in Rome itself he found a centre of unending interest and fascination. 'All its measureless delights lay as a free gift before him; every day he picked out afresh some great historic object: one day a ramble about the ruins of the ancient city, another day the Borghese Gallery or the Capitol, or else St. Peter's or the Vatican. So each day was one never to be forgotten, and this sort of dallying left each impression firmer and stronger. If Venice seemed like the gravestone of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it a disquieting, mournful impression, the past of Rome struck him as history itself; its monuments ennobled, and made one at the same moment serious and joyful, for there was joy in feeling how human creations may survive a thousand years and yet possess their quickening restoring, influence. Each day some new image of that past imprinted itself on his mind, and then came the twilight, and the day was at an end.'

The tour was not completed until the spring of the following year (1832), and during that interval two sad notes had been struck--the first being the death of Edward Ritz, the young violinist, Felix's closest friend, from whom he admitted that he had taken the model of his delicate, musical handwriting; and the second that of Goethe. In connection with the latter loss Felix felt deeply for Zelter, for he knew how the old man had worshipped and leant upon the master-poet. 'Mark my words,' said Mendelssohn, when he received the sad intelligence, 'it will not be long now before Zelter dies!' The words were but too prophetic, for in less than two months from the day on which they were spoken Zelter had followed the master he loved so well.

Before the latter event happened, however, Mendelssohn had returned to London. His affection for the City had now become a settled part of his nature. Even amidst the sunshine of Naples, with the glittering sea before his eyes, he had longed for London. 'That smoky nest is fated to be now and ever my favourite residence,' he writes; 'my heart swells when I think of it.' Even with the love he felt for those who were awaiting his return to the Berlin home it must have been hard for him to tear himself away from London, where his genius and his attractive personality found recognition at every turn. Consequently it is not surprising that he should have found his way back to his 'smoky nest' before very long--this time accompanied by his father. It was Abraham Mendelssohn's first visit, and it served to bring out more clearly than ever the closeness of the bond which united them. Felix nursed his father through an illness of three weeks' duration with a tenderness and solicitude that called forth a touching tribute from the patient. 'I cannot express,' writes Abraham to Leah, 'what he has been to me, what a treasure of love, patience, endurance, thoughtfulness, and tender care he has lavished on me; and much as I owe him indirectly for a thousand kindnesses and attentions from others, I owe him far more for what he has done for me himself.'

Two years later Mendelssohn was mourning the loss of this parent, whose sudden death had cast a deep gloom over a time when everything seemed to promise happily for the young composer. Only a month before the sad event Felix had joined the home-party at Berlin, and the house had once more assumed the full and complete life of its earlier days. The merriment, the joyous laughter were as hearty and resounding as they had been of yore, and there the father and mother had sat watching the fun--Abraham by this time quite blind, but keenly interested in all that was going on. Now the first definite break in that happy circle had come, shutting out the past for ever!

The extraordinary fullness which characterised Mendelssohn's life--'he lived years whilst others would have lived only weeks,' was the true remark of one who knew him well--reminds us of the impracticability of giving anything like a complete description of even its chief incidents. The stage at which our story has arrived does not, it is true, show him at the pinnacle of his fame as a composer, but if we entertained any doubts as to his greatness or his popularity at this time, we have only to imagine ourselves present at the scene which was being enacted on a certain afternoon in May, 1836, in the music-hall at Düsseldorf to be assured on both of these points. The long, low-pitched room is filled with an excited and enthusiastic audience applauding with all their might and main, for the first performance of Mendelssohn's oratorio 'St. Paul' has just come to an end. Amidst the roars of applause the ladies of the chorus have risen from their seats, and, advancing to the spot where Mendelssohn stands bowing his acknowledgments to the audience and orchestra, they shower garlands upon him, and then to complete the display they place a crown of flowers upon the score itself.

Some time before this event the town of Düsseldorf had claimed his services as director of music, and a little later Leipzig had followed suit--the latter event marking the beginning of a connection fraught with results of the highest importance to the musical world, and of much happiness to Mendelssohn himself. It was at this period that he composed many of those charming part-songs, intended for performance in the open air, that have since become such recognised favourites; of these we need only recall 'The Hunter's Farewell' and 'The Lark' as examples. But the time is marked for us in even clearer notes than these, for to this era belong several of his 'Songs without Words'--those melodies which have grown into our hearts never, we may well believe, to be uprooted. Mendelssohn not only invented the title 'Lieder ohne Worte,' but also the style of composition itself. Sir Julius Benedict remarks that 'at this period mechanical dexterity, musical claptraps, skips from one part of the piano to another, endless shakes and arpeggios, were the order of the day.' Mendelssohn, however, would never sacrifice to the prevailing taste; his desire was to 'restore dignity and rank to the instrument,' and he accordingly wrote what Sir Julius aptly describes as these 'exquisite little musical poems.'

The year of which we are speaking was productive of the deepest happiness to Mendelssohn, for it was that of his engagement to Cécile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a French Protestant clergyman, whose acquaintance he had formed whilst on a visit to Frankfort. In the following spring they were married, and thus began for both a new life replete with happiness. In Cécile Felix found one who, out of her loving, gentle nature, could give him the sympathy and support that he needed, whilst she in turn received from her husband the fullest return that a grateful and sensitive heart, obedient to the promptings of a love that never wavered in its steadfastness and devotion, could bestow. No home life could have been happier, none more simple in its give and take of affection, than that of Mendelssohn and his wife; nothing transpired to destroy or even to obscure for a moment the halo of romance which surrounded it from the beginning, and which rendered it from first to last a marriage of love.

A picture of Mendelssohn at this period of his life shows us a short, slightly-built figure, with the dark, Jewish type of face, high forehead surmounted by thick, black, wavy hair, and dark brown eyes full of fire and animation, which we have already described as marking his appearance as a boy. The mouth was delicate and sensitive, the corners frequently curved into a smile. The change of expression in the eyes when playing, or stirred by any deep emotion, was most striking; 'they would dilate and become nearly twice their ordinary size, the brown pupil changing to a vivid black.' His lithe, muscular frame showed expression in all its movements corresponding with the actions of the mind; when he thoroughly agreed with a speaker he nodded so vigorously as to bring the black curls down over his face; his laughter was ringing and hearty, and merriment found added expression in the doubling up of his body and the shaking of his hand. His hands were small, with sensitive, tapering fingers, and when playing the fingers acted as if endowed with separate life and intelligence. There was no effeminacy connected with his lovable nature; he was quick to resent meanness or deceit, or wrong-doing of any kind. His anger was exceedingly sharp, and his manner of expressing contempt an astonishing revelation to those who had failed to grasp his character as a whole.

Despite his love of hard work no one more thoroughly enjoyed being lazy when there was nothing to do. Sleep was his never-failing resource when overtaxed--the power of compelling sound, refreshing sleep at the moment when it was most needed was one of the most remarkable traits of a temperament distinguished by its astonishing activity. Yet it may be taken perhaps as a part of his orderly nature, which in everything was governed by method. The completeness with which he carried out every detail connected with his work or his amusements excites our wonderment; the sense of neatness pervades the whole--nothing is wanting. He wrote numberless letters, many of them containing descriptions of scenery and incident such as entitle them to rank as literary productions--yet there is not the slightest evidence of haste or carelessness; even the writing itself is artistic in its delicacy and finish. He received countless letters, and he preserved them all by pasting them into scrapbooks kept for the purpose. The same scrupulous care is observable in the writing of his musical manuscripts, and no fewer than forty-four volumes of these works, constructed by his own hands, are preserved in the Imperial Library at Berlin. His talent for drawing was considerable, and his love for the pursuit enabled him to accumulate a large collection of finished works, in every one of which is exhibited the same painstaking care and accuracy with regard to detail. Finally, we must mention his devotion to his family. No more loving father could have been found than Mendelssohn was to his children; he entered into their games and lessons with the same eager desire to add to their enjoyment, or to ease their labours, as he displayed towards the greater world outside his home.

We must now hasten to record an event which was destined to stamp Mendelssohn's career with undying fame--the completion of his oratorio 'Elijah.' This, his greatest work, owed its inspiration to a short passage in the book he reverenced most of all. One day his friend Hiller found him deep in the Bible. 'Listen,' he said, and then he read in a gentle, agitated voice the passage from the First Book of Kings, beginning with the words, 'And behold, the Lord passed by.' 'Would not that be splendid for an oratorio!' he exclaimed; and from that moment the idea began to grow in his mind. And as it grew he saw it in a clearer, brighter light, until, when the spring of 1846 arrived, the work was all but completed. In a letter to Jenny Lind, the famous singer and his intimate friend, he writes: 'I am jumping about my room for joy! If it only turns out half as good as I fancy it is how pleased I shall be!'

The years intervening between the inception of this great work and its completion had brought no little anxiety and strain connected with his arduous labours, and they had brought one deep sorrow, the loss of his mother, whose death had been as sudden and unexpected as that of the father. Honours had been bestowed upon him by royal hands--the King of Prussia had personally conveyed to him his wishes that he should assume the directorship of music in Berlin, and when Mendelssohn found himself unable to retain the position he had begged him to reconsider his decision; the King of Saxony had made him Capellmeister to his Court; and last, but not least, he had received at the hands of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert such marks of personal regard and esteem as must have served to endear him more than ever to the country which had been foremost in recognising the greatness of his genius.

Those years, too, had witnessed the fruits of his unceasing labours for the advancement of his art in those centres over which his personal influence extended. Leipzig under him had become a musical centre to which young students and composers flocked, in order to obtain his opinion and guidance in respect to their work, or even, in many cases, to place themselves for a time where his methods could be studied and his personality enjoyed at the same time. Amongst others came William Sterndale Bennett, filled with enthusiasm, to profit by his advice, and to find in the master a kind and generous friend. Nor should we omit to mention, amongst the numerous offshoots of his labours, the foundation of the Conservatorium of Music at Leipzig, a scheme entirely due to his initiative, and which under his fostering care developed into one of the first academies of the day. Lastly, amidst the whirl of work he found time to carry out a project which he had for long cherished--the erection, at the threshold of the Thomas School at Leipzig, of a monument to the memory of Sebastian Bach.

On the morning of Wednesday, August 26, 1846, the Town Hall of Birmingham presented a scene of unusual animation. A huge crowd was entering its doors and taking possession of the phalanx of chairs occupying the floor of the building. In the gallery every seat had been taken an hour earlier, and very soon every eye was directed towards the conductor's desk in expectation of Mendelssohn's appearance. Eager anticipation was in the air, for this day was to witness the first performance of 'Elijah' under the baton of the composer, who had thus elected to submit his greatest work to the judgment of an English audience.

'At half-past eleven o'clock,' wrote one who was present on the occasion, 'a deafening shout from the band and chorus announced the approach of the great composer. The reception he met with on stepping into his place from the assembled thousands was absolutely overwhelming, whilst the sun, emerging at that moment, seemed to illumine the vast edifice in honour of the bright and pure being who stood there, the idol of all beholders.' The applause which broke forth at the end of the first part gave a sufficient indication of the impression which the audience had formed of the work, and at the conclusion the enthusiasm was such that the entire assembly rose to their feet, and shouted and waved for several minutes.

It was over, and Mendelssohn's gratification at his reception was expressed in the letter which he wrote to his brother Paul the same evening: 'No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance, or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians and the public as this.... I almost doubt if I can ever hear one like it again.'

In April of the following year four performances of the 'Elijah' took place at Exeter Hall under his conductorship, the Queen and Prince Albert gracing the second performance with their presence. This was destined to be his last visit to these shores, and when he departed, after fulfilling a round of engagements which tried his strength to its uttermost limits, it was with the haunting shadow of coming illness. Scarcely had he rejoined his family at Frankfort than a messenger brought the sad intelligence that his sister Fanny had died suddenly at Berlin; the news was broken to him all too suddenly, and with a loud shriek he fell to the ground in a swoon.

From that moment his spirits failed him; there was no rebound from the deep depression into which he had fallen--only occasional flickerings of his former self showed that the struggle to assert his will-power over an ever-increasing loss of physical strength was still going on. There were moments, indeed, when it seemed to himself, if not to those who watched him with growing anxiety, that he was regaining his old buoyancy--the old craving for work which nothing seemed to have the power to destroy. But though compositions still came from his pen, though he had not yet given up hope in himself--'You shall have plenty of music from me; I will give you no cause to complain,' he had remarked to an English publisher shortly before this time--it was plain to those nearest to him that the inexorable finger of death was pointing the way to the Valley of Shadows.

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The streets of Leipzig were flooded with sunshine, though November had just entered upon its course, and though the approach of winter was apparent in the crispness of the air. Yet a cloud overhung the town which no degree of atmospheric brightness could dispel--a cloud of sorrow which took its birth from the placards affixed to the street corners, and spread its shadow over street after street, from one knot of inquirers to another, until the brief announcement which those placards conveyed became the common news, the common sorrow, of all. Mendelssohn was dead. On the evening of the previous day (November 4, 1847) the master whose bright, genial spirit had endeared him to so many hearts beyond the confines of his own circle, had passed to his rest. The blow had fallen with terrible swiftness, and we who love his music can only faintly realise how keenly those who knew and loved him, and who had come within the influence of his happy nature, must have felt the sudden break in that continuous flow of harmony which his life presented. Sweet as summer wind across the garden, wafting scents of choicest flowers, his life had passed over like a breath of heaven.

Without doubt his was a beautiful life--one of which, as it has been truly said, 'there is nothing to tell that is not honourable to his memory, and profitable to all men.' We cannot separate--we can have no wish to separate--such a life from the genius which enriched it, because the noble ideals which governed it throughout were embodied and expressed in the creations of that genius, as well as in his private conduct; rather should we be content to accept his life as it stands--in actions, deeds, and works--as a priceless gift, an indivisible whole.

Mendelssohn's funeral was a very imposing one. The first portion of the ceremonies was performed at Leipzig, and was attended by crowds of musicians and students--one of the latter bearing on a cushion the silver crown presented to the composer by his pupils, side by side with the Order 'Pour le Mérite' conferred upon him by the King of Prussia. As the long procession went on its way to the Pauliner Church the band played the 'Song without Words' in E minor, and at the close of the service the final chorus from Bach's 'Passion' was sung by the choir. At night the body was conveyed to Berlin for interment in the family burial-place in the Alte Dreifaltigkeits Kirch-hof. His resting-place, marked by a cross, is beside that of his sister Fanny, whilst on the other side of him rests his boy Felix, who died four years later.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Sir G. Macfarren.

[30] No. 103, but since renumbered 79.

MENDELSSOHN'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS

OPERAS, ETC.:
Die beiden Neffen. 1822.
The Wedding of Camacho, Op. 10. 1825.
The First Walpurgis Night, Op. 60. 1831-32.
Son and Stranger (Heimkehr), Op. 89. 1829.
Antigone, Op. 55. 1841.
Midsummer Night's Dream, Op. 61. 1843.
Athalie, Op. 74. 1843-45.
Oedipus in Colonos, Op. 93. 1845.
Loreley (unfinished), Op. 98. 1847.
ORATORIOS, ETC.:
St. Paul, Op. 36. 1836.
Hymn of Praise (Lobgesang), Op. 52. 1840.
Elijah, Op. 70. 1846.
Lauda Sion, Op. 73. 1846.
Christus (unfinished), Op. 97. 1847.
PSALMS, with orchestral accompaniment:
Ps. 115, Not unto us, Op. 31. 1830
Ps. 42, As the Hart pants, Op. 42. 1837.
Ps. 95, O come, let us sing, Op. 46. 1839.
Ps. 114, When Israel out of Egypt came, Op. 51. 1839.
Ps. 13, Lord, how long? Op. 96. 1840-43.
Ps. 98, Sing to the Lord, Op. 91. 1843.
Hear my Prayer. 1844.
Hymns of Praise (Festgesang). 1840.
Festgesang: To the Sons of Art, Op. 68. 1846.
Te Deum in A. 1846.
Jubilate, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis, Op. 69. 1847.
3 Motets for female voices and organ, Op. 39. 1830.
3 Psalms, unaccompanied, Op. 78 (Pss. 2, 43, and 22), 1844.
6 short Anthems for 8-part chorus, Op. 79.
18 Part-songs for male voices.
28 Part-songs for mixed voices.
4 SYMPHONIES:
C minor, Op. 11. 1824.
D minor, The Reformation, Op. 107. 1830.
A, The Italian, Op. 90. 1833.
A minor, The Scotch, Op. 56. 1842.
7 OVERTURES:
Midsummer Night's Dream, in E, Op. 21. 1826.
Military Band (Harmonie-musik) in C, Op. 24. 1824.
Fingal's Cave, or Hebrides, in B minor, Op. 26. 1830
Meerestille, in D, Op. 27. 1828.
Melusine, in F, Op. 32. 1833.
Ruy Blas, in C minor, Op. 95. 1839.
The Trumpet, in C, Op. 101. 1825.
2 MARCHES FOR ORCHESTRA:
Funeral March, in A minor, Op. 103. 1836.
Cornelius, in D, Op. 108. 1841.
Octet in E-flat, Op. 20. 1825.
2 QUINTETS FOR STRINGS:
Op. 18, in A. 1831.
Op. 87, in B-flat. 1845.
6 QUARTETS FOR STRINGS:
Op. 12, in E-flat. 1829.
Op. 13, in A. 1827.
Op. 44, Nos. 1, 2, and 3, in D, E minor, and E-flat 1837-38.
Op. 80, in F minor. 1847.
Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64. 1844.
2 PIANOFORTE CONCERTOS:
Op. 25, in G minor. 1832.
Op. 40, in D minor. 1837.
Sextet for pianoforte and strings, in D, Op. 110. 1824.
3 QUARTETS FOR PIANOFORTE AND STRINGS:
Op. 1, in C minor. 1822.
Op. 2, in F minor. 1823.
Op. 3, in B minor. 1824-25.
2 TRIOS FOR PIANOFORTE AND STRINGS:
Op. 49, in D minor, 1839.
Op. 66, in C minor, 1845.
Sonata for pianoforte and violin, in F minor, Op. 4. 1823.
2 SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE AND VIOLONCELLO:
Op. 45, in B-flat. 1838.
Op. 58, in D. 1843.
3 SONATAS FOR PIANOFORTE SOLO:
Op. 6, in E. 1826.
Op. 105, in G minor. 1820-21.
Op. 106, in B-flat. 1827.
8 BOOKS OF SONGS WITHOUT WORDS (Lieder ohne Worte), (each
book containing 6 pieces):
Op. 19b. Pub. 1832.
Op. 30. " 1835.
Op. 38. " 1837.
Op. 53. " 1841.
Op. 62. " 1844.
Op. 67. " 1845.
Op. 85. " 1850.
Op. 102. " 1868.
3 Fantasias for pianoforte (Andante and Allegro, Capriccio, and
Rivulet), Op, 16. 1829.
17 Variations Sérieuses, Op. 54. 1841.
3 Preludes and Fugues for organ, Op. 37. 1837.
6 Sonatas for organ, Op. 65. 1844-45.
Soprano Aria, Infelice, Op. 94. 1834.
76 Songs.

THE END

WELLS GARDNER, DARTON AND CO., LTD., LONDON

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