Mendelssohn has often been named “Felix
the Happy,” and he truly deserved the title.
Blest with a most cheerful disposition, with the power
to make friends of every one he met, and wherever he
went, the son of a rich banker, surrounded with everything
that wealth could give, it was indeed no wonder that
Felix Mendelssohn was happy. He did not have
to struggle with poverty and privation as most of the
other great musicians were forced to do. Their
music was often the expression of struggle and sorrow.
He had none of these things to bear; he was carefree
and happy, and his music reflects the joyous contentment
of his life.
The Mendelssohn family originally
lived in Hamburg. Their house faced one of the
fine squares of the city, with a handsome church on
the opposite side. The building is still there
and well preserved, although the principal story is
used as public dining rooms. A large tablet has
been placed above the doorway, with a likeness of the
composer encircled by a wreath of laurel. Here
little Felix was born, February 3, 1809. There
were other children, Fanny a year or two older, then
after Felix came Rebekka and little Paul. When
French soldiers occupied the town in 1811, life became
very unpleasant for the German residents, and whoever
could, sought refuge in other cities and towns.
Among those who successfully made their escape was
the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy family, the second
name belonged to the family and was used to distinguish
their own from other branches of the Mendelssohn family.
With his wife and children, Abraham Mendelssohn fled
to Berlin, and made his home for some years with the
grandmother, who had a house on the Neue Promenade,
a fine broad street, with houses only on one side,
the opposite side descended in a grassy slope to the
canal, which flowed lazily by.
It was a happy life the children led,
amid ideal surroundings. Felix very early showed
a great fondness for music, and everything was done
to foster his budding talent. With his sister
Fanny, to whom he was devotedly attached, he began
to have short music lessons from his mother when he
was only four years old. Their progress was so
satisfactory, that after a while, professional musicians
were engaged to teach them piano, violin and composition,
as a regular part of their education. Besides
these, they must study Greek, Latin, drawing and school
subjects. With so much study to be done each day,
it was necessary to begin work at five o’clock
in the morning. But in spite of hard work all
were happy, and as for Felix nothing could dampen the
flow of his high spirits; he enjoyed equally work and
play, giving the same earnest attention to each.
Both he and Fanny were beginning to compose, and Felix’s
attempts at improvising upon some comical incident
in their play time would call forth peals of laughter
from the inseparable children.
Soon more ambitious attempts at composition
were made, the aim being to write little operas.
But unless they could be performed, it was useless
to try and make operas. This was a serious difficulty;
but Felix was deeply in earnest in whatever he undertook,
and decided he must have an orchestra to try out his
operatic efforts. It looked like an impossibility,
but love and money can accomplish wonders. A small
orchestra was duly selected from among the members
of the Court band. The lad Felix was to conduct
these sedate musicians, which he did modestly but
without embarrassment, standing on a footstool before
his men, waving the baton like a little general.
Before the first performance was quite ready, Felix
felt there must be some one present who could really
judge of the merits of his little piece. Who would
do so better than his old professor of thorough bass
and composition, Carl Zelter, the director of the
Berlin Singakademie. Zelter agreed to accept
this delicate office, and a large number of friends
were invited for the occasion.
This was only the beginning of a series
of weekly musical evenings at the Mendelssohn home.
Felix, with his dark curls, his shining eyes, and
charming manners, was the life of anything he undertook.
He often conducted his little pieces, but did not
monopolize the time. Sometimes all four children
took part, Fanny at the piano, Rebekka singing, Paul
playing the ’cello and Felix at the desk.
Old Zelter was generally present, and though averse
to praising pupils, would often say a few words of
encouragement at the close.
Felix was at this time but little
more than twelve years old. He had within the
last year composed fifty or sixty pieces, including
a trio for piano and strings, containing three movements,
several sonatas for the piano, some songs and a musical
comedy in three scenes, for piano and voices.
All these were written with the greatest care and
precision, and with the date of each neatly added.
He collected his pieces into volumes; and the more
work he did the more neatly he wrote.
The boy Felix had a wonderful gift
for making friends. One day he suddenly caught
sight of Carl Maria von Weber walking along the streets
of Berlin, near his home. He recognized the famous
composer at once, as he had lately visited his parents.
The boy’s dark eyes glowed with pleasure at
the recognition, and tossing back his curls, he sprang
forward and threw his arms about Weber’s neck,
begging him to go home with him. When the astonished
musician recovered himself, he presented the boy to
Jules Benedict, his young friend and pupil who walked
at his side, saying, “This is Felix Mendelssohn.”
For response Felix, with a bright look, seized the
young man’s hand in both his own. Weber
stood by smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm.
Again Felix besought them to come home with him, but
Weber had to attend a rehearsal. “Is it
for the opera?” the boy cried excitedly.
“Yes,” answered the composer.
“Does he know all about it?” asked Felix,
pointing to Benedict.
“Indeed he does,” answered
the composer laughing, “or if he doesn’t
he ought to for he has been bored enough with it already.”
The boy’s eyes flashed.
“Then you, will come
with me to my home, which is quite near, will you
not?” There was no refusing those appealing dark
eyes. Felix again embraced Weber, and then challenged
his new friend, Mr. Benedict, to race him to the door
of his house. On entering he dragged the visitor
upstairs to the drawing-room, exclaiming, “Mama,
Mama, here is a gentleman, a pupil of Carl Weber,
who knows all about the new opera, ‘Der Freischuetz.’”
The young musician received a warm
welcome, and was not able to leave until he had played
on the piano all the airs he could remember from the
wonderful new opera, which Weber had come to Berlin
to superintend. Benedict was so pleased with
his first visit that he came again. This time
he found Felix writing music and asked what it was.
“I am finishing my new quartet for piano and
strings,” was the simple reply. To say
that Benedict was surprised at such an answer from
a boy of twelve hardly expresses what he felt.
It was quite true he did not yet know Felix Mendelssohn.
“And now,” said the boy, laying down his
pen, “I will play to you, to prove how grateful
I am that you played to us last time.”
He then sat down at the piano and played correctly
several melodies from “Der Freischuetz,”
which Benedict had played on his first visit.
After that they went into the garden, and Felix for
the moment, became a rollicking boy, jumping fences
and climbing trees like a squirrel.
Toward the close of this year, 1821,
his teacher Zelter announced he intended going to
Wiemar, to see Goethe, the aged poet of Wiemar, and
was willing to take Felix with him. The poet’s
house at Wiemar was indeed a shrine to the elect,
and the chance of meeting the object of so much hero
worship, filled the impressionable mind of Felix with
reverential awe. Zelter on his part, felt a certain
pride in bringing his favorite pupil to the notice
of the great man, though he would not have permitted
Felix to guess what he felt for anything he possessed.
When they arrived, Goethe was walking
in his garden. He greeted both with kindness
and affection, and it was arranged that Felix should
play for him next day. Zelter had told Goethe
much about his pupil’s unusual talents, but
the poet wished to prove these accounts by his own
tests. Selecting piece after piece of manuscript
music from his collection, he asked the boy to play
them at sight. He was able to do so with ease,
to the astonishment of the friends who had come in
to hear him. They were more delighted when he
took a theme from one of the pieces and improvised
upon it. Withholding his praise, Goethe announced
he had a final test, and placed on the music desk a
sheet which seemed covered with mere scratches and
blotches. The boy laughingly exclaimed, “Who
could ever read such writing as that?” Zelter
rose and came to the piano to look at this curiosity.
“Why, it is Beethoven’s writing; one can
see that a mile off! He always wrote as if he
used a broomstick for a pen, then wiped his sleeve
over the wet ink!”
The boy picked out the strange manuscript
bit by bit; when he came to the end he cried, “Now
I will play it through for you,” which he did
without a mistake. Goethe was well pleased and
begged Felix to come every day and play, while he
was in the city. The two became fast friends;
the poet treated him as a son, and at parting begged
he would soon return to Wiemar, that they might again
be together. During the following summer the
whole family made a tour through Switzerland, much
to the delight of Felix, who enjoyed every moment.
There was little time for real work in composition,
but a couple of songs and the beginning of a piano
quartet were inspired by the view of Lake Geneva and
its exquisite surroundings.
When Felix returned to Berlin, he
had grown much, physically as well as mentally.
He was now tall and strong, his curling locks had been
clipped, and he seemed at a single bound to have become
almost a man. His happy, boyish spirits, however,
had not changed in the least. About this time
the family removed from their home on the Neue Promenade,
to a larger and more stately mansion, N Leipsiger
Straße, then situated on the outskirts of the
town, near the Potsdam Gate. As those who know
the modern city realize, this house, now no longer
a private residence, stands in the very heart of traffic
and business. The rooms of the new home were
large and elegant, with a spacious salon suitable
for musicals and large functions. A fine garden
or park belonged to the house, where were lawns shaded
by forest trees, winding paths, flowering shrubs and
arbors in shady nooks, offering quiet retreats.
Best of all there was a garden house, with a central
hall, which would hold several hundred people, having
long windows and glass doors looking out upon the trees
and flowers. Sunday concerts were soon resumed
and given in the garden house, where, on week days
the young people met, with friends and elders, to
play, and act and enjoy the social life of the home.
The mansion and its hospitality became famous, and
every great musician, at one time or another, came
to pay his respects and become acquainted with this
art-loving family.
At a family party in honor of Felix’s
fifteenth birthday, his teacher Zelter saluted him
as no longer an apprentice, but as an “assistant”
and member of the Brotherhood of Art. Very soon
after this the young composer completed two important
works. The first was an Octet for strings.
He was not yet seventeen when the Octet was finished,
which was pronounced the most fresh and original work
he had yet accomplished. It marked a distinct
stage in the gifted youth’s development.
The composition which followed was the beautiful “Midsummer
Night’s Dream” music. He and his sister
Fanny had lately made the acquaintance of Shakespeare
through a German translation, and had been fascinated
by this fairy play. The young people spent much
of their time in the lovely garden that summer, and
amid these delightful surroundings the music was conceived.
The Overture was first to spring into
being. When it was written out, Felix and Fanny
often played it as a duet. In this form the composer-pianist
Moscheles heard it and was impressed by its beauty.
The fascinating Scherzo and dreamy Nocturne followed.
When all were elaborated and perfected, the complete
work was performed by the garden house orchestra for
a crowded audience, who abundantly expressed their
delight. Sir G. Macfarren has said of it:
“No one musical work contains so many points
of harmony and orchestration that are novel yet none
of them have the air of experiment, but all seem to
have been written with a certainty of their success.”
And now a great plan occupied Mendelssohn’s
mind, a project which had been forming for some time;
this was nothing less than to do something to arouse
people to know and appreciate the great works of Johann
Sebastian Bach. Two years before Felix had been
presented with a manuscript score of Bach’s
“Passion according to St. Matthew,” which
Zelter had allowed to be copied from the manuscript
preserved in the Singakademie. The old man was
a devoted lover of Bach’s music, and had taught
his pupil in the same spirit. When Felix found
himself the possessor of this wonderful book, he set
to work to master it, until he knew every bit of it
by heart. As he studied it deeply he was more
and more impressed with its beauty and sublimity.
He could hardly believe that this great work was unknown
throughout Germany, since more than a hundred years
had passed since it had been written. He determined
to do something to arouse people from such apathy.
Talking the matter over with musicians
and friends, he began to interest them in the plan
to study the music of the Passion. Soon he had
secured sixteen good voices, who rehearsed at his home
once a week. His enthusiasm fired them to study
the music seriously, and before very long they were
anxious to give a public performance. There was
a splendid choir of nearly four hundred voices conducted
by Zelter, at the Singakademie; if he would only lend
his chorus to give a trial performance, under Mendelssohn’s
conducting, how splendid that would be! But Felix
knew that Zelter had no faith in the public taking
any interest in Bach, so there was no use asking.
This opinion was opposed by one of his little choir,
named Devrient, who insisted that Zelter should be
approached on the subject. As he himself had been
a pupil of Zelter, he persuaded Mendelssohn to accompany
him to the director’s house.
Zelter was found seated at his instrument,
enveloped by a cloud of smoke from a long stemmed
pipe. Devrient unfolded the plan of bringing
this great work of Bach to the knowledge of the public.
The old man listened to their plea with growing impatience,
until he became quite excited, rose from his chair
and paced the floor with great strides, exclaiming,
“No, it is not to be thought of-it
is a mad scheme.” To Felix argument then
seemed useless and he beckoned his friend to come
away, but Devrient refused to move, and kept up his
persuasive argument. Finally, as though a miracle
had been wrought, Zelter began to weaken, and at last
gave in, and besides promised all the aid in his power.
How this youth, not yet twenty, undertook
the great task of preparing this masterpiece, and
what he accomplished is little short of the marvelous.
The public performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took
place March 11, 1829, with every ticket sold and more
than a thousand persons turned away. A second
performance was given on March 21, the anniversary
of Bach’s birth, before a packed house.
These performances marked the beginning of a great
Bach revival in Germany and England, and the love
for this music has never been lost, but increases each
year.
And now it seemed best for Felix to
travel and see something of other countries.
He had long wished to visit England, and the present
seemed a favorable time, as his friends there assured
him of a warm welcome. The pleasure he felt on
reaching London was increased by the enthusiastic
greeting he received at the hands of the musical public.
He first appeared at a Philharmonic concert on May
25, when his Symphony in C minor was played.
The next day he wrote to Fanny: “The success
of the concert last night was beyond all I had ever
dreamed. It began with my Symphony. I was
led to the desk and received an immense applause.
The Adagio was encored, but I went on; the Scherzo
was so vigorously applauded that I had to repeat it.
After the Finale there was lots more applause, while
I was thanking the orchestra and shaking hands, till
I left the room.”
A continual round of functions interspersed
with concerts at which he played or conducted, filled
the young composer’s time. The overture
to “Midsummer Night’s Dream” was
played several times and always received with enthusiasm.
On one occasion a friend was so careless as to leave
the manuscript in a hackney coach on his way home and
it was lost. “Never mind, I will write
another,” said Mendelssohn, which he was able
to do, without making a single error.
When the London season closed, Mendelssohn
and his friend Klingemann went up to Scotland, where
he was deeply impressed with the varied beauty of
the scenery. Perhaps the Hebrides enthralled him
most, with their lonely grandeur. His impressions
have been preserved in the Overture to “Fingal’s
Cave,” while from the whole trip he gained inspiration
for the Scottish Symphony.
On his return to London and before
he could set out for Berlin, Felix injured his knee,
which laid him up for several weeks, and prevented
his presence at the home marriage of his sister Fanny,
to William Hensel, the young painter. This was
a keen disappointment to all, but Fanny was not to
be separated from her family, as on Mendelssohn’s
return, he found the young couple had taken up their
residence in the Gartenhaus.
Mendelssohn had been greatly pleased
with his London visit, and though the grand tour he
had planned was really only begun, he felt a strong
desire to return to England. However, other countries
had to be visited first. The following May he
started south, bound for Vienna, Florence and Rome.
His way led through Wiemar and gave opportunity for
a last visit to Goethe. They passed a number of
days in sympathetic companionship. The poet always
wanted music, but did not seem to care for Beethoven’s
compositions, which he said did not touch him at all,
though he felt they were great, astonishing.
After visiting numerous German cities,
Switzerland was reached and its wonderful scenery
stirred Mendelssohn’s poetic soul to the depths.
Yet, though his passionate love of nature was so impressed
by the great mountains, forests and waterfalls, it
was the sea which he loved best of all. As he
approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the
sun lighted bay, he exclaimed: “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 water.”
Rome, of course, was a center of fascination.
Every day he picked out some special object of interest
to visit, which made that particular day one never
to be forgotten. The tour lasted until the spring
of 1832, before Mendelssohn returned to his home in
Berlin, only to leave it shortly afterwards to return
to London. This great city, in spite of its fogs,
noises and turmoil, appealed to him more than the sunshine
of Naples, the fascination of Florence or the beauty
of Rome.
The comment on Mendelssohn that “he
lived years where others only lived weeks,”
gives a faint idea of the fulness with which his time
was occupied. It is only possible to touch on
his activities in composition, for he was always at
work. In May 1836 when he was twenty-seven, he
conducted in Duesseldorf the first performance of his
oratorio of “St. Paul.” At this period
he wrote many of those charming piano pieces which
he called “Songs without Words.” This
same year brought deepest happiness to Mendelssohn,
in his engagement to Cecile Jean-Renaud, the beautiful
daughter of a French Protestant clergyman. The
following spring they were married, a true marriage
of love and stedfast devotion.
The greatest work of Mendelssohn’s
career was his oratorio of “Elijah” which
had long grown in his mind, until it was on the eve
of completion in the spring of 1846. In a letter
to the famous singer Jenny Lind, an intimate friend,
he writes: “I am jumping about my room
for joy. If my work turns out half as good as
I fancy it is, how pleased I shall be.”
During these years in which he conceived
the “Elijah,” his fame had spread widely.
Honors had been bestowed on him by many royalties.
The King of Saxony had made him Capellmeister of his
Court, and Queen Victoria had shown him many proofs
of personal regard, which endeared him more than ever
to the country which had first signally recognized
his genius.
It was Leipsic perhaps which felt
the power of his genius most conclusively. The
since famous Leipsic Conservatory was founded by him,
and he was unceasing in his labors to advance art in
every direction. He also found time to carry
out a long cherished plan to erect, at the threshold
of the Thomas School, Leipsic, a monument to the memory
of Sebastian Bach.
Let us take one more glimpse of our
beloved composer. It was the morning of August
26, 1846. The Town Hall of Birmingham, England,
was filled with an expectant throng, for today the
composer of the “Elijah” was to conduct
his greatest work, for the first time before an English
audience. When Mendelssohn stepped upon the platform,
he was greeted by a deafening shout; the reception
was overwhelming, and at the close the entire audience
sprang to its feet in a frenzy of admiration.
He wrote to his brother Paul that evening: “No
work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance,
or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians
and public.” During April the following
year, four performances of the “Elijah”
took place in Exeter Hall, the composer conducting,
the Queen and Prince Albert being present on the second
occasion. This visit to England which was to be
his last, had used his strength to the limit of endurance,
and there was a shadow of a coming breakdown.
Soon after he rejoined his family in Frankfort, his
sister Fanny suddenly passed away in Berlin.
The news was broken to him too quickly, and with a
shriek he fell unconscious to the floor.
From this shock he never seemed to
rally, though at intervals for a while, he still composed.
His death occurred November 4, 1847. It can be
said of him that his was a beautiful life, in which
“there was nothing to tell that was not honorable
to his memory and profitable to all men.”
Mendelssohn’s funeral was imposing.
The first portion was solemnized at Leipsic, attended
by crowds of musicians and students, one of the latter
bearing on a cushion a silver crown presented by his
pupils of the Conservatory. Beside the crown
rested the Order “Pour lé Mérite,”
conferred on him by the King of Prussia. The band,
during the long procession, played the E minor “Song
without Words,” and at the close of the service
the choir sang the final chorus from Bach’s “Passion.”
The same night the body was taken to Berlin and placed
in the family plot in the old Dreifaltigkeit
Kirch-hof, beside that of his devoted sister Fanny.