Thirty-eight years is not a long life, but still it is long enough to do
great things. Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy was born in the year Eighteen
Hundred Nine, at Hamburg, and died at Leipzig in the year Eighteen
Hundred Forty-seven. His career was a triumphal march. The road to
success with him was no zigzag journey--from the first he went straight
to the front. Whether as a baby he crowed in key, and cried to a
one-two-three melody, as his old nurse used to aver, is a little
doubtful, possibly. But all agree that he was the most precocious
musical genius that ever lived, excepting Mozart; and Goethe, who knew
them both, declared that Mendelssohn's music bore the same relationship
to Mozart's as the talk of a grown-up cultured person to the prattle of
a child.
But then Goethe was not a musician, and sixty years had passed from the
time Goethe saw Mozart before he met Mendelssohn. Goethe loved the
brown-curled Jewish boy at sight; and whether on meeting Mozart he ever
recovered from the taint of prejudice that most people feel when a
prodigy is introduced, is a question.
But who can wonder that the old poet's heart went out to the youthful
Mendelssohn as soon as he saw him!
He was a being to fill a poet's dream--such a youth as the Old Masters
used to picture as the Christ when He confounded the wise men. And then
the painters posed this same type of boy as Daniel in the lions' den;
and back in the days of Pericles, the Greeks were fond of showing the
beautiful youth, just approaching adolescence, in the nude, as the god
of Love. When the face has all the soft beauty of a woman, and the
figure, slight, slender, lithe and graceful, carries only a suggestion
of the masculine strength to come--then beauty is at perihelion. The
"Eros" of Phidias was not the helpless, dumpy cherub "Cupid"--he was a
slender-limbed boy of twelve years who showed collar-bone and revealed
every rib.
Beauty and strength of the highest type are never complete--their lure
lies in a certain reserve, and behind all is a suggestion of unfoldment.
Maturity is not the acme of beauty, because in maturity there is nothing
more to hope for--only the uncompleted fills the heart, for from it we
construct the Ideal.
Goethe looked out of his window and seeing Felix Mendelssohn playing
with the children, exclaimed to Zelter, "He is a Greek god in the germ,
and I here solemnly protest against his wearing clothes."
The words sound singularly like the remark of Doctor Schneider, made ten
years later, when Herr Doctor removed the sheet that covered the dead
body of Goethe, and gazing upon the full-rounded limbs, the mighty
chest, the columnar neck and the Jovelike head, exclaimed, "It is the
body of a Greek god!" And the surgeons stood there in silent awe,
forgetful of their task.
Zelter, who introduced Mendelssohn to Goethe, was a fine old character,
nearly as fine a type as Goethe himself. Heine once said, "Musicians
constitute a third sex." And that there have been some unsexed, or at
least unmanly men, who were great musicians, need not be denied. The art
of music borders more closely upon the dim and mystic realms of the
inspirational than any of the other arts. Music refuses to give up its
secrets in a formula and at last eludes the sciolist with his ever-ready
theorem. But still, all musicians are not dreamers. Zelter, for
instance, was a most hard-headed, practical man: a positivist and
mathematician with a turn for economics, and a Gradgrind for facts. He
was a stone-mason, and worked at his trade at odd times all through his
life, just because he felt it was every man's duty to work with his
hands. Imagine Tolstoy playing the piano and composing instead of making
shoes, and you have Zelter.
This curious character was bound to the Mendelssohn family by his love
for Moses Mendelssohn, the grandfather of Felix. Moses Mendel added the
"sohn" in loving recognition of his father, just as "Bartholdy" was
added by the father of Felix in loving token to his wife. It was the
grandfather of Felix who first gave glory to the name. We sometimes
forget that Moses Mendelssohn was one of the greatest thinkers Germany
has produced--the man who summed up in his own head all the philosophy
of the time and gave Spinoza to the world. This was the man to whom the
erratic Zelter was bound in admiration, and when it was suggested that
he teach musical composition to the grandchild of his idol, he accepted
the post with zest.
But there came a shade of disappointment to the grim and bearded Zelter
when he failed to find a trace of resemblance between the child and the
child's grandfather. The boy was sprightly, emotional, loving; and could
play the piano from his tenth year better than Zelter himself. When
Goethe teasingly suggested this fact, Zelter replied, "You mean he plays
different, not better." Goethe apologized.
Yet the boy was not a philosopher, and this grieved Zelter, who wanted
him to be the grandson of his grandfather, and a musician besides.
The lad's skill in composition, however, soon turned the old teacher's
fears into joy. Such a pupil he had never had before! And he did not
reason it out that no one else had ever had, either. The child, like
Chopin, read music before he read print, and improvised, merging one
tune with another, bringing harmony out of hopeless chaos. Zelter
followed, fearing success would turn the boy's head--berating, scolding,
chiding, encouraging--and all the time admiring and loving. The pretty
boy was not much frightened by the old man's rough ways, but seized
upon such of the instruction as he needed and filled in the rest with
his own peerless soul.
The parents were astounded at such progress. At first they had wished
merely to round out the boy's education with a proper amount of musical
instruction, and now they reluctantly allowed the old teacher to have
his way--the lad must make his career a musical one. The boy composed a
cantata, which was given in the parlors of his parents' home, with an
orchestra secured for the occasion. Felix stood on a chair and led his
band of musicians with that solemn dignity which was his through life.
Zelter grumbled, ridiculed and criticized--that was the way he showed
his interest. The old musician declared they were making a "Miss Nancy"
of his pupil--saturating him with flattery, and he threatened to resign
his office--most certainly not intending to do so.
It was about this time that Zelter threw out the hint that he was going
down to Weimar to see his friend Goethe--would Felix like to go? Felix
would be delighted, and when the boy's father and mother were
interviewed, they were pleased, too, at the prospect of their boy's
making the acquaintance of the greatest poet of Germany. Felix was duly
cautioned about how he should conduct himself. He promised, of course,
and also agreed to write a letter home every day, recording the exact
language that the author of "Werther" used in his presence.
Goethe and the Carlylian Zelter had been cronies for many years. The
poet delighted in the company of the gruff old stone-mason musician, and
together they laughed at the world over their pipes and mugs. And
sometimes, alas, they hotly argued and raised their voices in
donner-und-blitzen style, as Germans have been known to do. Yet they
were friends, and the honest Zelter's yearly visits were as a godsend to
the old poet, who was often pestered to distraction by visitors who only
voiced the conventional, the inconsequential and absurd. Here was a man
who tried his steel.
Now, Zelter had his theories about teaching harmony--theories too finely
spun for any one but himself to grasp. Possibly he himself did not seize
them very firmly, but only argued them in a vain attempt to clear the
matter up in his own mind. The things we are not quite sure of are those
upon which we insist.
Goethe had pooh-poohed and smitten the table with his "stein" in denial.
And now Zelter, the frank and bold, stealthily and by concocted plot and
plan took his pupil, Felix Mendelssohn, with him on a visit to Weimar.
He wanted to confound his antagonist and to reveal by actual proof the
success that could be achieved where correct methods of instruction were
followed.
Jean Jacques had written a novel showing what right theories, properly
followed up, could do for his hero. Zelter had done better--he exhibited
the youth.
"A girl in boy's clothes, I do believe," said Goethe, with his usual
banter, in the evening when a little company had gathered in the
parlors. Felix sat on his teacher's knee, with his arms around the old
man's neck, girl-like. "Does he play?" continued Goethe, going over and
opening the piano.
"Oh, a little!" answered Zelter indifferently.
The ladies insisted--they always had music when Zelter made them a
visit.
"Come, make some noise and awaken the spirits that have so long lain
slumbering!" ordered the old poet.
Zelter advanced to the piano and played a stiff, formal little tune of
his own.
He arose and motioned to Felix.
"Play that!" said the teacher.
The child sat down, and with an impatient little gesture and half-smile
at the audience, played the piece exactly as Zelter had played it, with
a certain drawling style that was all Zelter's own. It was so funny that
the listeners burst into shouts of laughter. But the boy instantly
restored order by striking the bass a strong stroke with both hands,
running the scale, and weaving that simple little air into the most
curious variations.
For ten minutes he played, bringing in Zelter's little tune again and
again, and then Zelter in a voice of pretended wrath cried, "Cease that
tin-pan drumming and play something worth while."
Goethe arose, stroked the boy's pretty brown curls, kissed him on the
forehead and said: "Yes, play something worth while. I know you two
rogues--you have been practising on that piece for a year or more, and
now you pretend to be improvising--I'll see whether you can play!"
And going to a portfolio he took out a manuscript piece of music written
out in the fine, delicate hand of Mozart, and placed it on the
music-rack of the piano. Felix played the piece as if it were his own;
and then laying it aside, went back and played it through from memory.
Then piece after piece was brought out for him to play, and Zelter
leaned back and by his manner said, "Oh, it is nothing!"
And certainly it was nothing to the boy--he played with such ease that
his talent was quite unknown to himself. He had not yet discovered that
every one could not produce music just as they could talk.
Goethe's admiration for the boy was unbounded. The two weeks of
Mendelssohn's prescribed visit had expired and Goethe begged for an
extension of two weeks more. Every evening there was the little
impromptu concert. After that Felix paid various visits to Weimar.
Goethe's house was his home, and the affection between the old poet and
the young musician was very gentle and very firm. "All souls are of one
age," says Swedenborg. Goethe was seventy-three and Mendelssohn thirteen
when they first met, but very soon they were as equals--boys together.
Goethe was a learner to the day of his passing: he wanted to know. In
the presence of those who had followed certain themes further than he
had, he was as an eager, curious child. When Goethe was seventy-eight
and Mendelssohn eighteen, they spent another month together; and a
regular program of instruction was laid out. Each morning at precisely
nine, they met for the poet's "music lesson," as Goethe called it, and
the boy would play from some certain composer, showing the man's
peculiar style, and the features that differentiated him from others.
Goethe himself has recorded in his correspondence that it was Felix
Mendelssohn who taught him of Hengstenberg and Spontini, introduced him
to Hegel's "Æsthetics," and revealed to him for the first time the
wonders of Beethoven.
Can you not close your eyes and see them--the mighty giant of fourscore,
with his whitened locks, and the slight, slender, handsome boy?
The old man is seated in his armchair near the window that opens on the
garden. The youth is at the piano and plays from time to time to
illustrate his thought, then turns and talks, and the old man nods in
recognition. The boy sings and the old man chords in with a deep, mellow
bass which the years have not subdued.
When there are others present these two may romp, joke and talk
much--masking their hearts by frivolity--but together they sit in
silence, or speak only in lowered voices as all true lovers always do.
Their conversation is sparse and to the point; each is mindful of the
dignity and worth that the other possesses: each recognizes the respect
that is due to the mind that knows and the heart that feels. "All souls
are of one age."
* * * * *
With one exception, Felix Mendelssohn was unlike all the great composers
who lived before him--he was born in affluence; during his life all the
money he could use was his. No struggle for recognition marked his
growth. He never knew the pang of being misunderstood by the public he
sought to serve. Whether these things were to his lasting disadvantage,
as many aver, will forever remain a question of opinion.
Felix Mendelssohn was the culminating flower of a long line of exquisite
culture. He was an orchid that does not reproduce itself. With him died
the race. All that beauty of soul, vivacity, candor and sparkling
gaiety, with the nerved-up capacity for work, were but the flaring up of
life ere it goes out in the night of death. Such men never found either
a race or a school. They are the comets that dash across the plane of
our vision, obeying no orbit, leaving behind only a memory of blinding
light.
The character of Mendelssohn was distinctly feminine, and it follows
that his music should be played by men and not by women, otherwise we
get a suggestion of softness and tameness that is apt to pall. Man, like
Deity, creates in his own image.
Sorrow had never pierced the heart of this prosperous and very
respectable person.
He was never guilty of indiscretion or excess, and no demon of
discontent haunted his dreams.
In Mendelssohn's music we get no sense of Titanic power such as we feel
when "Wagner" is being played; no world problems vex us. The delicate,
plaintive, spiritual seductions of Chopin, who swept the keys with an
insinuating gossamer touch, are not there. The brilliant extravaganzas
of Liszt--passages illumined by living lightning--are wholly wanting.
But in it all you feel the deep, measured pulse of a religious
conviction that never halts nor doubts. There are grace, ease, beauty,
sweetness and exquisite harmony everywhere. In the "Saint Paul," as in
his other oratorios, are such arias for the contralto as, "But the Lord
is mindful of His own"; for the bass, "God have mercy upon us," and for
the tenor, "Be thou faithful unto death." These reveal pure and exalted
melody of highest type. It uplifts but does not intoxicate. Spontaneity
is sacrificed to perfection, and the lack of self-assertion allows us to
keep our wits and admire sanely.
Heinrich Heine, the pagan Jew, once taunted Mendelssohn with being a Jew
and yet conducting a "Passion Play." The gibe was a home-thrust and a
cruel one, since Mendelssohn had neither the wit nor the mental
acuteness to avoid the pink of the man who was hated by Jew and
Christian alike. Towards the exiled Heine, Mendelssohn had only a
patronizing pity--"Why should any man offend the people in power?" he
once asked.
Only the exiled can sympathize with the exile--only the downtrodden and
the sore-oppressed understand the outcast. Golgotha never came to
Mendelssohn, and this was at once his blessing and his misfortune.
And the grim fact still remains that world-poets have never been
"respectable," and that the saviors of the world are usually crucified
between thieves.
In life Mendelssohn received every token of approbation that men can pay
to other men. For him wealth waited, kings uncovered, laurel bloomed and
blossomed, and love crowned all. His popularity was greater than that of
any other man of his time. He had no enemies, no detractors, no
rivals--his pathway was literally and poetically strewn with roses. What
more can any man desire? Lasting fame and a name that never dies?
Avaunt! but first know this, that immortality is reserved alone for
those who have been despised and rejected of men.
* * * * *
Saintship is the exclusive possession of those who have either worn out,
or never had, the capacity to sin.
Fortunately for Felix Mendelssohn he never had it--he was ever the
bright, joyous, gracious, beautiful being that all his friends describe,
and every one who met him was his friend thereafter. The character of
"Seraphael" in the novel of "Charles Auchester," by Miss Sheppard,
portrays Mendelssohn in a glowing, seraphic light. The book reveals the
emotional qualities of a woman given over to her idol, and yet the man
is Mendelssohn--he was equal to the best that could be said of him.
The weakness of Miss Sheppard's book lies in the fact that she is so
true to life that we tire of the goodness and beauty, and long for a
rogue to keep us company and break the pall of a sweetness that cloys.
The bitterest thing Mendelssohn ever said of a public performer was to
describe a certain prima donna as acting like an "arrogant cook." All
the good orchestra leaders are supposed to have fine fits of frenzy when
they tear their hair in wrath at the discordant braying of careless
players. But Mendelssohn never lost his temper. When his men played
well, as soon as the piece was done he went among them shaking hands,
congratulating and thanking them. This would have been a great stroke of
policy in the eyes of a groundling, for the action never failed to catch
the audience, and then the applause was uproarious. At such times
Mendelssohn seemed to fail in knowing the applause was for him, and
appeared as one half-dazed or embarrassed, when suddenly remembering
where he was, he would seize the nearest 'cello, violin or oboe, and
drag the astonished man to the front to share the honors and bouquets.
If this was artistry it was of a high order and should be ranked as art.
I once heard Henry Irving make a speech at Harvard University, and shall
never forget the tremor in his voice and the half-embarrassment of his
manner. What could have been more complimentary to college striplings?
And then, as usual, he looked helplessly about for Ellen Terry, and
having located her, held out his hand toward her and led her to the
front to receive the homage.
Tears filled my eyes. Was Irving's action art? Ods-bodkins! I never
thought of it: I was hypnotized and all swallowed up in loving
admiration for Sir Henry and the beautiful Lady Ellen.
Felix Mendelssohn was beloved by his players. First, because he never
wrote parts that only seraphs of light could play. In this he was unlike
Wagner, who could think such music as no brass, no wood nor strings
could perform, and so was ever in torments of doubt and disappointment.
Second, he was always grateful when his players did the best they could.
Third, he was graciously polite, even at rehearsals. The extent of his
inclination to rebuke was shown once when he abruptly rapped for
silence, and when quiet came said to his orchestra: "I am sure that any
one of the gentlemen present could write a symphony. I think, too, that
you can all improve on the music of the past--even that of Beethoven.
But this afternoon we are playing Beethoven's music--will you oblige
me?" And every man awoke to the necessity of putting the sweet, subtile,
strong quality of the master into the work, instead of absent-mindedly
sounding the note, fighting bluebottles, and taking care merely not to
get off the key too much.
At the great Birmingham Festival several hundred ladies in the audience
contrived at a given signal to shower the great conductor with bouquets.
And Mendelssohn, entering into the spirit of the fun, dexterously caught
the blossoms and tossed them to his players, not even forgetting the
triangles and the boys who played the kettledrums.
Bayard Taylor has described the lustrous brown eyes of Mendelssohn, that
seemed to send rays of light into your own: "Such eyes are the
possession of men who have seen heavenly visions. Genius shows itself in
the eye. Those who looked into the eyes of Sir Walter Scott, Robert
Burns or Lord Byron, always came away and told of it as an epoch in
their lives. This was what I thought when I sat vis-a-vis with Felix
Mendelssohn and looked into his eyes. I did not hear his voice, for I
was too intent on gazing into the fathomless depths of those splendid
eyes--eyes that mirrored infinity, eyes that had beheld celestial glory.
Little did I think then that in two years those eyes would close
forever."
* * * * *
In a letter to Hensel, Felix Mendelssohn's sex-quality is finely
revealed, when he says that his friends are advising him to marry, and
he is on the lookout for a wife.
Ye gods! there is something strangely creepy about the thought of a man
going out in cold blood to seek a wife. Only two kinds of men search for
a wife; one is the Turk, and the other is his antithesis, who is advised
to marry for hygienic, prudential or sociologic reasons. John Ruskin was
"advised" to marry and the matter was duly arranged for him. In a week
he awoke to the hideousness of the condition. Six years elapsed before
John Millais and Chief Justice Coleridge collaborated to set him free,
but the cicatrix remained.
The great books are those the authors had to write to get rid of; the
only immortal songs are those sung because the singers could not help
it. The best-loved wife is the woman who married because her lover had
to marry her to get rid of her; the children that are born because they
had to be are the ones that stock the race; and the love that can not
help itself is the only love that uplifts and inspires.
Felix Mendelssohn, the slight, joyous, girlish youth, should have
preserved his Cecilia-like virginity. He should have left marriage to
those who were capable of nothing else; this would not have meant that
he turn ascetic, for the ascetic is a voluptuary in disguise. He should
simply have been married to his work. The wonder is, though, that once
the thought of marriage was forced upon him, he did not marry a Hittite
who delighted in pork-chops and tomato-sauce, ordered Guinness Stout in
public places, and disciplined him as a genius should be disciplined.
Fate was kind, however, and the lady of his choice was nearly as
esthetic in face and form, as gentle and spirituelle as himself. She
never humiliated him by cackle, nor led him a merry chase after
society's baubles. Her only wish was to please him and to do her wifely
duty. They pooled their weaknesses, and it need not be stated that this,
the only love in the life of Mendelssohn, made not the slightest impress
on his art, save to subdue it. The passing years brought domestic
responsibilities, and the every-day trials of life chafed his soul,
until the wasted body, grown tired before its time, refused to go on,
and death set the spirit free.
* * * * *
Mendelssohn made five visits to England, where his success was even
greater than it was at home. He learned to express himself well in
English, but always spoke with the precision and care that marks the
educated foreigner. So the result was that he spoke really better
"English" than the English. The ease with which the Hebrew learns a
language has often been noted and commented upon. Mendelssohn preferred
German, but was not at a loss to carry on a conversation in French,
Italian or English.
His nature was especially cosmopolitan, and like the true aristocrat
that he was, he was also a democrat, and at home in any society.
When he was invited by the Queen to call upon her at Buckingham Palace,
he went alone, in his afternoon dress, and sent in his card as every
gentleman does when he calls upon a lady. Her Majesty greeted him at the
door of her sitting-room, and dismissed the servants. They met as
equals. In compliment to her guest Victoria spoke only in German. The
Queen, seeing the music-rack was not in order, apologized, womanlike,
for the appearance of the room and began to dust things in the usual
housewifely fashion.
Mendelssohn, with that fine grace which never forsook him, assisted her
in putting things to rights, and when the piano was opened, he proceeded
to carry out two pet parrots, laughingly explaining that if they were to
have music, it was well to insure against competition.
He sat down at the piano and played, without being asked, and sang a
little song in English in graceful but unobtrusive compliment to the
hostess. Then the Queen sang in German, he playing the accompaniment.
And in his letter to his sister Fanny, telling her of all this, in his
easy, gossipy, brotherly way, Felix adds that the Queen has a charming
soprano voice, that only needs a little cultivation and practise to make
her fit to take the leading part in "Elijah."
This was no joke to Felix--he only regretted that Queen Victoria's
official position was such that she could not spare enough time for
music.
Albert did not appear upon the scene until Mendelssohn had extended his
call to an hour, and was just ready to leave. The Prince Consort was too
perfect a gentleman to ever obtrude when his wife was entertaining
callers, but now he apologized for not knowing the Meister had honored
them--which we hope was a white lie. But, anyway, Felix consented to
remain and play a few bars of the oratorio they had heard him conduct
the night before. Then Albert sang a little, and Victoria insisted on
making a cup of tea for the guest before they parted. When he went away,
Albert and Victoria both walked with him down the hall, and as he bade
them good-by, Victoria spoke the kindly "Auf wiedersehen."
In the story of her life, Victoria has in spirit corroborated this
account of her meeting with Mendelssohn. She refers to him as her dear
friend and the friend of her husband, and pays incidentally a gentle
tribute to his memory.
The universal quality of Mendelssohn's knowledge, his fine forbearance
and diplomatic skill in leading a conversation into safe and peaceful
waters, were very marked. He was recognized by the King of Saxony as a
king of art, and so was received into the household as an equal; and
surely no man ever had a more kingly countenance. His body, however,
seemed to lag behind, and was no match for his sublime spirit. But when
fired by his position as Conductor, or when at the piano, the slender
body was nerved to a point where it seemed all suppleness and sinewy
strength.
In his "Songs Without Words," the spirit of the Master is best shown.
There the grace, the gentleness and the sublimity of his soul are best
mirrored. And if at twilight you should hear his "On the Wings of Song,"
played by one who understands, perhaps you will feel his spirit near,
and divine the purity, kindliness and excellence of Felix
Mendelssohn-Bartholdy.
[Illustration: FRANZ LISZT]