intimated, a love of frolic and games and every species of fun that
the mind of a healthy and spirited boy could devise; and with all,
permeating all, was a lovability that won its way to every heart.
Rarely has such a perfect combination of light-heartedness and
seriousness--capacity for the hardest work and the keenest enjoyment
of life--been seen as that which burst upon the world in the person of
Felix Mendelssohn. The quickness with which he made friends, the
firmness with which he bound those friends to himself, the constancy
and affection which he lavished upon those nearest and dearest to him,
were alike extraordinary.
One day a famous composer, named Carl von Weber, was walking in Berlin
in company with his young friend and pupil, Jules Benedict, when the
pair observed a slightly-built youth of about twelve years of age,
with long, dark curls and bright, dark eyes, advancing towards them.
Suddenly the boy's keen eyes sparkled with the joy of recognition, for
Carl Weber had lately visited his father's house, and he had taken a
great liking to him at first sight; and now, without giving the
composer time to realise the fact that they had met before,
Mendelssohn, with a run and a spring, had thrown his arms about
Weber's neck, and was entreating him to accompany him home. As soon as
the astonished musician could speak he turned to his friend, and with
a comical air, half apologetic and half proud, said, 'This is Felix
Mendelssohn.' The friend held out his hand with a smile. Felix gave
him a quick glance, then seized the hand in both of his own. The
glance and the action that followed it settled the matter--Jules
Benedict and he must be friends henceforth. Weber stood by, laughing
at his young friend's enthusiasm, and Felix turned to him sharply and
once more begged that he and Benedict would favour him with their
company. But Weber shook his head. He had to attend a rehearsal--he
had come to Berlin for that purpose. 'A rehearsal!' exclaimed Felix
disappointedly, and then the next moment his eyes flashed. 'Is it the
new opera?' he asked excitedly. Weber nodded. 'Oh,' said Felix
thoughtfully; then, indicating Mr. Benedict, 'Does _he_ know all about
it?' he inquired. 'To be sure he does,' assented the composer
laughingly--'at least, if he doesn't he ought to, for he has been
bored enough with it already.' Felix passed unnoticed the last part of
Weber's speech. It was enough for him that young Benedict was familiar
with what he himself was dying to know. He therefore seized Benedict
by the arm, exclaiming, 'You will come to my father's house with me,
will you not?' There was no refusing the appeal in those eyes, and the
young man acquiesced willingly. Then Felix dragged Weber down for a
parting embrace, and, taking his new friend by the hand, as if fearful
that he might change his mind, he pulled him away.
The distance to the house was short, but Mendelssohn's impatience
could only be met by his companion's consenting to race him to the
door. On entering he retained Benedict's hand tightly in his grasp,
conducted him at once upstairs, and, bursting into the drawing-room,
where his mother was seated at her knitting, he exclaimed, 'Mamma,
mamma! Here is a gentleman, a pupil of Carl Weber's, who knows all
about the new opera, "Der Freischütz!"'
If Benedict had expected a more formal introduction to Madame
Mendelssohn he had reckoned without a knowledge of Felix's
enthusiasm. But the mother knew and understood, and the young musician
not only received a warm welcome, but found it impossible to take his
leave until he had complied with his new friend's request that he
would seat himself at the piano and play as many airs from the great
opera as he could remember at such short notice, Felix listening,
meanwhile, with rapt enjoyment.
[Illustration: '"_Here is a gentleman who knows all about the
new opera._"']
The acquaintance thus begun awakened a mutual regard in Mendelssohn
and Benedict, for the latter shortly afterwards paid a second visit to
the house. On this occasion he found Felix engaged in writing out some
music, and inquired what it was. 'I am finishing my new quartet for
piano and stringed instruments,' was the reply, gravely spoken, and
without the least self-consciousness. Benedict glanced at the work in
surprise. He did not know Mendelssohn yet. It was the 'First Quartet
in C Minor,' which, later on, was published as 'Opus I.' 'And now,'
said Felix, laying aside his pen, 'I will play to you to convince you
how grateful I am for your kindness in playing to us last time.' He
thereupon sat down and played with precision several of the airs from
'Der Freischütz' which Benedict had played on his previous visit. 'You
see, I have not forgotten the pleasure you gave me,' he said, with a
smile, as he rose from the piano. 'But now,' he added, as a new
thought entered his mind, 'I want you to see the garden, please.' Down
they went, and in a moment Mendelssohn had thrown off the musician's
cloak, and was a boy again. With a bound he leapt over a high hedge,
turned, and cleared it a second time, and then challenged his
companion to a race. Another moment he burst out with a song, as if
the open air had incited him to imitate the birds, and then, pointing
to a favourite tree, he ran to it and climbed it like a squirrel.
These meetings took place in the summer of 1821, a year which brought
much happiness to Felix, for ere it had drawn to a close he had found
a new friend. When the autumn came round, Zelter announced that he was
going to pay a visit of respect to his old friend and master, Goethe,
the aged poet of Weimar, and he was willing to take Felix with him.
Needless to say, Felix and his parents were equally delighted with the
proposal. The boy had so often heard Zelter speak of Goethe, whose
works, moreover, he was always quoting, that he felt he already loved
the master almost as much as Zelter did himself. Goethe's house at
Weimar was regarded as a shrine at which his countless admirers were
wont to pay homage, even though their devotion often met with no
further gratification than was to be derived from gazing at its walls
or peeping into the grounds, which were sacred to the poet's
footsteps. Hence the promise of an introduction to one who was the
object of so much hero-worship stirred the heart of Felix to its
depths, and filled his mind with reverential emotions such as few
events could have had the power to awaken in one so sensible of what
was due to a great and lofty intellect.
It was a bright November day when Zelter and his pupil set forth upon
their journey. Both were looking forward to the meeting, though with
somewhat different feelings. What Mendelssohn's feelings were we have
tried to imagine, but Zelter was nursing within himself a certain
pride and confidence in the prospect of introducing his favourite
pupil to so keen a judge as Goethe, which he would not have revealed
to that pupil for worlds. Felix's spirits, however, were so high on
this occasion that Zelter had enough to do to satisfy all his
questions without allowing his usually taciturn nature to relax under
the sunshine of the boy's enthusiasm.
On arriving at Goethe's home they found the poet walking in his
grounds. The meeting was simple and affectionate. Goethe greeted Felix
with every show of kindness, and sent the boy to bed with an
overflowing heart and a mind resolved upon cherishing the minutest
details of this happy encounter. The next day he was to play to
Goethe, and at an early hour of the morning he was sauntering in the
grounds, awaiting the poet's arrival, and feasting his eyes upon the
scenes which were the accustomed haunts of the author of 'Faust'; and
then, selecting a sunny spot, he sat down to write a long letter home,
full of description of the events of the previous day.
Nothing short of the severest of tests would satisfy Goethe of the
truth of what Zelter had privately conveyed to him regarding his
pupil's talents. Accordingly, sheet after sheet of manuscript music
was selected by the poet from his store and placed upon the
music-desk to be played by Felix at sight. The manner in which he
performed his task, the ease with which he overcame the difficulties
presented by penwork of various styles, and often far from clear,
astonished and delighted the assembled company. But their
manifestations of delight were far more pronounced when Felix, taking
one of the airs which he had just played as a theme for
extemporisation, exhibited in a most charming fashion, and with true
musicianly feeling, the capacities of the subject for varied
treatment. Still Goethe withheld his praise, and, interrupting the
applause, declared that he had a final test to propose which, he
jokingly warned Felix, would infallibly cause him to break down. Thus
speaking, the poet placed on the desk a sheet of manuscript which at
first sight was enough to strike terror and dismay into the stoutest
heart, for it seemed to consist of nothing else than scratches and
splotches of ink, interspersed with smudges. Mendelssohn glanced at
it, and then, bursting into a laugh, exclaimed: 'What writing! How can
it be possible to read such manuscript?' Suddenly he became serious,
and bent to examine the writing more closely, Goethe looked
triumphantly round at the company. 'Now, guess _who_ wrote that!' he
said. Zelter rose from his place beside the pianoforte, and, looking
over Felix's shoulder, cried out: 'Why, it is Beethoven's writing! One
can see that a mile off! He always writes as if he used a broomstick
for a pen, and then wiped his sleeve over the wet ink!'
Mendelssohn could decipher the manuscript only by degrees, having to
search the sheet to find the successive notes; but when he reached the
end he exclaimed, 'Now I will play it to you,' and this time he played
it through without a mistake. Upon this Goethe let him off, and
rewarded him with some kind words of praise. Thenceforth, until the
visit came to an end, Felix was called upon to play to the poet every
day, and the two became fast friends. The old man treated the boy as
if he were a son, laughed and joked with him, and was never so happy
as when he was near. It was altogether a delightful visit, and Goethe
would only part with Felix on the understanding that they should meet
again very soon.
The following summer brought a new happiness to Felix, for it had been
decided that the entire family should make a tour through Switzerland.
In those days a journey of such length was an undertaking of much
consequence, more especially when, as in this case, the family were
accompanied by the children's tutor and the doctor, in addition to
several servants. It was an essential part of the father's scheme of
education that his children's minds should be widened by travel, and
more particularly that they should make personal acquaintance with the
classic ground of history--advantages which wealth enabled him to
place at their command. It was with light spirits that the party set
out on their journey, Felix keenly alive to every fresh scene or
incident as it presented itself, and there were few of either that
failed to leave their stamp upon his impressionable mind. To his
insatiable curiosity must be attributed the adventure which befell him
on the very first day of their travel. They had to change carriages at
Potsdam, and when the horses had traversed three German miles of road
from that town Felix was suddenly missed, and a brief colloquy
elicited the melancholy fact that the boy had been left behind at
Potsdam. The tutor thereupon turned back in one of the carriages,
whilst the rest proceeded to the next stopping-place. In the course of
an hour he returned with the truant seated by his side, dusty and
footsore, but otherwise as fresh as when he had started. He had, it
appeared, strayed from the party at Potsdam, and returned to the
starting-place in time to see the carriages disappearing in the
distance enveloped in a cloud of dust. He began to run, but seeing
that he could not overtake them, he abated his speed, and determined
to perform the journey to Brandenburg on foot. A little peasant-girl
joined him. They broke stout walking-sticks from the trees at the
road-side, and together marched on cheerfully, conversing as they
went, until the tutor's carriage met them about a mile from the next
halting-place.
[Illustration: '_The tutor's carriage met them._']
It was a most delightful tour, enjoyed by all concerned, and long to
be treasured by the young musician, to whom Interlaken, Vevey, and
Chamounix, with their mountains, lakes, glaciers, torrents, and
valleys, their sunrises and sunsets, presented a panorama of endless
enchantment. Amidst the constant demands upon the senses there was
little time for actual composition, but two songs and the beginning of
a pianoforte quartet were inspired by the sight of the Lake of Geneva
and its beautiful surroundings. Nor was the journey without the
pleasures afforded by meetings with many eminent people in the musical
world, such as the composer Spohr at Cassel, and Schelble, the
conductor of the famous Cäcilien-Verein concerts, at Frankfort. To the
latter Felix exhibited his powers by an extemporisation on Bach's
motets, which called forth the musician's astonished praise.
On the return journey a call was made at Weimar, in order that Abraham
Mendelssohn might pay his respects to the poet, and personally
acknowledge the old man's kindness to Felix. Goethe received them most
kindly, and talked much with the father on the subject of the boy's
future. Of Felix's playing he never seemed to get tired. There was a
charm about the boy's bright presence, and a soothing restfulness in
his playing which appealed to the old poet's kindlier nature in a way
that few things had the power to do. 'I am Saul, and you are my
David,' he said to Felix one day, when his temper had been ruffled by
something that had occurred. 'When I am sad and dreary, come to me and
cheer me with your music.' How much sunshine had been infused into the
old man's declining days by these brief visits Felix himself could
never have guessed, but he knew that he loved Goethe, and that his
love was returned.
Felix's progress, not only in music, but in his other studies as well,
was by leaps and bounds. Knowledge to him seemed a food for which his
appetite was insatiable, difficulties to him were but spurs to
increased effort, and the effort itself appeared to be inappreciable.
It was impossible to regard any longer as a boy one who possessed
knowledge and powers that entitled him to take rank with performers
and composers of the day. Too soon for some of those who loved him had
Mendelssohn passed from his childhood stage, landing almost at a
single bound into that of advanced youth, if not, indeed, into manhood
itself. The Swiss tour had in a measure bridged over the interval; for
when he returned it was with a taller and robuster frame, more
strongly marked features, and a new and indefinable expression that
was the result of widened experience, and, last of all, without the
beautiful curls which had helped to make the child's face what it had
been. With these changes, however, his happy boyish nature remained as
strong and as irrepressible as ever. And so we pass on to the date
when the transformation of which we have spoken found a fitting
opportunity for recognition by his friends.
It was the night of February 3, 1824, Felix's fifteenth birthday, and
the family and guests were gathered around the supper-table. Earlier
in the evening there had been a full rehearsal of his first full-grown
opera in three acts--'Die beiden Neffen, oder der Onkel aus Boston'
(The Two Nephews, or the Uncle from Boston), which had gone most
successfully, and now Zelter held up his hand as a signal that he had
something important to say. All eyes were turned to him, and the
clatter of tongues ceased in a moment. The old musician's face was
lighted up by a most unusual expression. His grumpiness had cleared
away, and a look of benevolence beamed from his eyes, in which there
was even a suspicion of moisture, as, lifting his glass on high, he
said:
'I have a toast to propose which I make no doubt you will acquiesce
in most readily. I raise my glass to the health and happiness of my
_late_ pupil (no one failed to note the emphasis on the word 'late'),
'Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy!'
The toast was honoured with enthusiasm, and then Zelter, rising from
his seat, took Felix by the hand and addressed him in these words:
'From this day, dear boy, thou art no longer an apprentice, but an
independent member of the brotherhood of musicians. I proclaim you
"assistant" in the names of Mozart, Haydn, and old Father Bach!'
He then embraced Felix with much tenderness, imprinting a hearty kiss
on both his cheeks; and, the little ceremony ended, the company
toasted the proclamation of independence with great merriment,
following it up with the singing of songs by Zelter and others.
Notwithstanding that Mendelssohn had thus received his initiation into
the 'brotherhood,' and that Zelter had plainly shown that he had
nothing more to teach him, Abraham Mendelssohn still had some
lingering doubts as to the advisability of his son's choosing music as
a profession. This attitude arose quite as much from Felix's all-round
knowledge and attainments as from any particular misgivings regarding
the steadfastness of his love for music, or the continued development
of his genius in that direction. Abraham clearly perceived that Felix
had in him the makings of a man of business; he was methodical, quick,
and shrewd, and possessed that infinite capacity for taking pains
which is the accompaniment of true genius. These were qualities
pre-eminently fitting him for a successful business career, and hence
the doubtings as to whether such a rare combination of qualifications
ought to be expended in following up a branch of art that might in the
end prove fruitless of solid results. The father must be forgiven for
entertaining such doubts, unreasonable as they may seem, when regard
is paid to the absolute honesty of purpose by which his own life was
governed, and the sincerity of his affection for the members of his
family.
There was one man who might be trusted to give an impartial opinion on
this pressing question. Cherubini, the eminent composer and musical
judge, was living in Paris, and to Cherubini it was decided to apply
forthwith for advice. Accordingly, Felix and his father journeyed to
Paris with this object, the former being fully as anxious as his
father to have the opportunity of making the acquaintance of so famous
a musician, as well as of receiving at his hands the support and
encouragement which would put an end, once and for all, to his
father's doubts. Cherubini was hardly ever known to praise, but
perhaps for this very reason his opinion was eagerly sought by young
performers and composers. Of those who went to him for advice,
however, by far the greater number were sent away with burning cheeks
and downcast eyes. This dismal fate was not reserved for Felix, for no
sooner had the great man listened to his playing of one of his own
compositions than he recognised Mendelssohn's power and genius, and,
turning to the father, he said with a smile; 'Sir, the boy is rich; he
will do well.' After some further tests Cherubini expressed himself as
perfectly satisfied with regard to Felix's future, and when father and
son returned to Berlin it was with the settled conviction on the part
of the former that thenceforward the boy's life must be devoted to
music.
And now a great change came into the daily life of the family. The
house in the Neue Promenade was exchanged for a statelier and more
commodious mansion, No. 3, Leipziger Strasse, situated on the
outskirts of the city near the Potsdam Gate. The grounds of the new
house adjoined the old deer-park of Frederick the Great, and in
themselves were almost large enough to be styled a park. Stretches of
green turf, shaded by fine forest-trees, winding walks amidst
sweet-scented flowering shrubs, and arbours nestling in retired
corners, inviting retreats for study and meditation, comprised an
ideal spot for one who loved the surroundings of Nature. Nor was the
house itself behindhand in offering special attractions for the
purposes of study and recreation, in addition to the more solid
requirements of comfort and accommodation. The rooms were spacious and
elegant, and comprised one large apartment perfectly adapted for
musical or theatrical entertainments. But, just as there are not a few
of us who, in choosing a residence, are drawn towards the garden
before proceeding to investigate the dwelling itself, so Felix's
delight was first of all expressed with regard to the beautiful
surroundings of the new home. And there was one feature of the garden
which opened up to his mind splendid possibilities in connection with
his beloved pursuit. This was a garden-house, containing a central
hall capable of accommodating several hundred people, and furnished
with windows and glass doors opening and looking upon the lawns and
trees. The garden-house was as essentially a part of the garden as any
large summer-house could be, and yet comprised sufficient rooms to fit
it for occupation as a separate dwelling if such were necessary.
No sooner had the family established itself in the new home than the
musical and artistic gatherings were resumed on an even larger scale
than heretofore. The Sunday concerts were held in the 'Gartenhaus,'
which, on most of the other evenings of the week, was the resort of
friends, both old and young, who came to listen to the music, or to
play or act, or in other ways amuse themselves. So famous did these
gatherings become, and so completely were the mansion and its
surroundings identified with the family which occupied it, and
dispensed its open-handed hospitality, that it was impossible to
mention the Leipziger Strasse without connecting it with information
respecting the Mendelssohns. The two things, indeed, were inseparable
in everybody's mind. Thither, amongst others, came Ferdinand Hiller,
the eminent performer, who had visited Beethoven while the latter lay
on his death-bed, and whose friendship with Felix had begun at
Frankfort a short time before. Moscheles, who had worked under
Beethoven, also became a regular visitor at the house, and one of
Felix's closest friends. Moscheles had already acquired fame as a
player, and during his stay in Berlin he was induced, though not
without reluctance, to give some lessons to Mendelssohn. 'He has no
need of lessons,' he remarked, with reference to Felix's ability. 'If
he wishes to take a hint from me as to anything new to him, he can
easily do so.' Felix, however, frankly acknowledged afterwards how
much he owed to these lessons at the hands of him whose graceful,
elegant touch could not be excelled. Speaking of Moscheles' playing on
one occasion, Mendelssohn said that 'the runs dropped from his fingers
like magic.'