Little Journeys to the Homes of Great Musicians — Felix Mendelssohn, Part 2

* * * * * 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]