A Day with Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.

by George Sampson.

During the year 1840 I visited Leipzig with letters of introduction from Herr Klingemann of the Hanoverian Legation in London. I was a singer, young, enthusiastic, and eager--as some singers unfortunately are not--to be a musician as well. Klingemann had many friends among the famous German composers, because of his personal charm, and because his simple verses had provided them with excellent material for the sweet little songs the Germans love so well. I need scarcely say that the man I most desired to meet in Leipzig was Mendelssohn; and so, armed with Klingemann's letter, I eagerly went to his residence--a quiet, well-appointed house near the Promenade. I was admitted without delay, and shown into the composer's room. It was plainly a musician's work-room, yet it had a note of elegance that surprised me. Musicians are not a tidy race; but here there was none of the admired disorder that one instinctively a.s.sociates with an artist's sanctum. There was no litter. The well-used pianoforte could be approached without circuitous negotiation of a rampart of books and papers, and the chairs were free from enc.u.mbrances. On a table stood some large sketch-books, one open at a page containing an excellent landscape drawing; and other spirited sketches hung framed upon the walls. The abundant music paper was perhaps the most strangely tidy feature of the room, for the exquisitely neat notation that covered it suggested the work of a careful copyist rather than the original hand of a composer. I could not refrain from looking at one piece. It was a very short and very simple Adagio cantabile in the Key of F for a solo pianoforte. It appealed at once to me as a singer, for its quiet, unaffected melody seemed made to be sung rather than to be played. The "cantabile" of its heading was superfluous--it was a Song without Words, evidently one of a new set, for I knew it was none of the old. But the sound of a footstep startled me and I guiltily replaced the sheet. The door opened, and I was warmly greeted in excellent English by the man who entered. I had no need to be told that it was Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy himself.

Nature is strangely freakish in her choice of instruments for n.o.ble purposes. Sometimes the delicate spirit of creative genius is housed in a veritable tenement of clay, so that what is within seems ever at war with what is without. At times the antagonism is more dreadful still, and the artist-soul is sent to dwell in the body of a beast, coa.r.s.e in speech and habit, ignorant and dull in mind, vile and unclean in thought. But sometimes Nature is generous, and makes the body itself an expression of the informing spirit. Mendelssohn was one of these almost rare instances. In him, artist and man were like a beautiful picture appropriately framed. He was then thirty-one. In figure he was slim and rather below the middle height, and he moved with the easy grace of an accomplished dancer. Ma.s.ses of long dark hair crowned his finely chiselled face; but what I noticed first and last was the pair of l.u.s.trous, dark brown eyes that glowed and dilated with every deep emotion. He had the quiet, a.s.sured manner of a master; yet I was not so instantly conscious of that, as of an air of reverence and benignity, which, combined with the somewhat Oriental tendency of feature and colour, made his whole personality suggest that of a young poet-prophet of Israel.

"So," he said, his English gaining piquancy from his slight lisp, "you come from England--from dear England. I love your country greatly. It has fog, and it is dark, too, for the sun forgets to shine at times; but it is beautiful--like a picture, and when it smiles, what land is sweeter?"

"You have many admirers in England, sir," I replied; "perhaps I may rather say you have many friends there."

"Yes," he said, with a bright smile, "call them friends, for I am a friend to all England. Even in the glowing sun of Italy I have thought with pleasure of your dear, smoky London, which seems to wrap itself round one like a friendly cloak. It was England that gave me my first recognition as a serious musician, when Berlin was merely inclined to think that I was an interesting young prodigy with musical gifts that were very amusing in a young person of means."

"You have seen much of England, have you not, sir?" I asked.

"A great deal," he replied, "and of Scotland and Wales, too. I have heard the Highland pipers in Edinburgh, and I have stood in Queen Mary's tragic palace of Holyrood. Yes, and I have been among the beautiful hills that the great Sir Walter has described so wonderfully."

"And," I added, "music-lovers do not need to be told that you have also penetrated

'The silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.'"

"Ah!" he said, smiling, "you like my Overture, then?"

I hastened to a.s.sure him that I admired it greatly; and he continued, with glowing eyes: "What a wonder is the Fingal's Cave--that vast cathedral of the seas, with its dark, lapping waters within, and the brightness of the gleaming waves outside!"

Almost instinctively he sat down at the piano, and began to play, as if his feelings must express themselves in tones rather than words. His playing was most remarkable for its orchestral quality. Unsuspected power lay in those delicate hands, for at will they seemed able to draw from the piano a full orchestral volume, and to suggest, if desired, the peculiar tones of solo instruments.

This Overture of his is made of the sounds of the sea. There is first a theme that suggests the monotonous wash of the waters and the crying of sea-birds within the vast s.p.a.ces of the cavern. Then follows a n.o.ble rising pa.s.sage, as if the spirit of the place were ascending from the depths of the sea and pervading with his presence the immensity of his ocean fane. This, in its turn, is succeeded by a movement that seems to carry us into the brightness outside, though still the plaint of crying birds pursues us in haunting monotony. It is a wonderful piece, this Hebrides Overture, with all the magic and the mystery of the Islands about it.

"That is but one of my Scottish impressions," said Mendelssohn; "I have many more, and I am trying to weave them into a Scottish Symphony to match the Italian."

"You believe in a programme then?" I asked.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Painting by N. M. Price._ SPRING SONG (Lied Ohne Worte) "To think of it is to be happy with the innocence of pure joy."]

"Oh, yes!" he answered; "moreover I believe that most composers have a programme implicit in their minds, even though they may not recognise it. But always one must keep within the limits of the principle inscribed by Beethoven at the head of his Pastoral Symphony, 'More an expression of the feelings than a painting.' Music cannot paint. It is on a different plane of time. A painting must leap to the eye, but a musical piece unfolds itself slowly. If music tries to paint it loses its greatest glory--the power of infinite, immeasurable suggestion.

Beethoven, quite allowably, and in a purely humorous fashion, used a few touches of realism; but his Pastoral Symphony is not a painting, it is not even descriptive; it is a musical outpouring of emotion, and enshrines within its notes all the sweet peaceful brightness of an early summer day. To think of it," he added, rising in his enthusiasm, "is to be happy with the innocence of pure joy."

I was relieved of the necessity of replying by a diversion without the door. Two male voices were heard declaiming in a sort of mock-melodramatic duet, "Are you at home, are you at home? May we enter, may we enter?"

"Come in, you noisy fellows," exclaimed Mendelssohn gaily; and two men entered. The elder, who was of Mendelssohn's age, carried a violin case, and saluted the composer with a flourish of the music held in his other hand. "Hail you second Beethoven!" he exclaimed. Suddenly he observed my presence and hushed his demonstrations, giving me a courteous, and humorously penitent salutation. Mendelssohn introduced us.

"This," he said to me "is Mr. Ferdinand David, the great violinist and leader of our orchestra; and this," indicating the younger visitor, "is a countryman of yours, Mr. Sterndale Bennett. We think a great deal of Mr. Bennett in Leipzig."

"Ah, ha!" said David to me; "you've come to the right house in Leipzig if you're an Englishman. Mendelssohn dotes on you all, doesn't he, Bennett?"

"Yes," said Bennett, "and we dote on him. I left all the young ladies in England singing 'Ist es wahr.'"

"Ist es wahr? ist es wahr?" carolled David, in lady-like falsetto, with comic exaggeration of anguish sentiment.

Bennett put his hands to his ears with an expression of anguish, saying, "Spare us, David; you play like an angel, but you sing like--well, I leave it to you?"

"And I forgot to mention," said Mendelssohn with a gay laugh, "that our young English visitor is a singer bringing ecstatic recommendations from Klingemann."

"Ah! a rival!" said David, with a dramatic gesture; "but since we're all of a trade, perhaps our friend will show he doesn't mind my nonsense by singing this song to us."

"Yes," said Mendelssohn, with a graceful gesture, "I shall be greatly pleased if you will."

I could not refuse. Mendelssohn sat down at the piano and I began the simple song that has helped so many English people to appreciate the beauties of the German _lied_.

"Can it be? Can it be?

Dost thou wander through the bower, Wishing I was there with thee?

Lonely, midst the moonlight's splendour, Dost thou seek for me?

Can it be? Say!

But the secret rapturous feeling Ne'er in words must be betrayed; True eyes will tell what love conceals!"

"Thank you very much," said Mendelssohn with a smile.

"Bravo!" exclaimed David; "but our Mendelssohn can do more than make pretty songs. This," he continued, indicating the music he had brought, "is going to be something great!"

"Do you think so?" asked Mendelssohn quietly, yet with eyes that gleamed intensely.

"I'm sure of it," said David emphatically. "There is plenty of music for violin and orchestra--oceans of it; but there has been hitherto only one real great big Concerto,"--he spread his arms wide as he spoke. "Now there will be two."

"No, no!" exclaimed Mendelssohn quickly; "if I finish this Concerto it will be with no impious intention of competing with Beethoven. You see, for one thing, I have begun it quite differently."

"Yes," nodded David, and he began to drum on the table in the rhythm of Beethoven's fateful knocking at the door; "yes, Beethoven was before all a symphonist--his Concerto is a Symphony in D major with violin obbligato."

"Observe," murmured Bennett, "the blessing of a musical temperament. A drunken man thumps monotonously at his door in the depths of night. To an Englishman it suggests calling the police; to Beethoven it suggests a symphony."

"Well, David," said Mendelssohn, "it's to be your Concerto, so I want you to discuss it with me in all details. I am the most devoted admirer of your playing, but I have, as well, the sincerest respect for your musicianship."

"Thank you," said David with a smile of deep pleasure; and turning to me he added, "I really called to play this over with the master. Shall you mind if I scratch it through?"

I tried to a.s.sure him of the abiding pleasure that I, a young stranger, would receive from being honoured by permission to remain.

"Oh, that's all right," he said unaffectedly; "we are all in the trade, you know; you sing, I play."

Mendelssohn sat at the piano and David tuned his instrument. Mendelssohn used no copy. His memory was prodigious. The violin gave out a beautiful melody that soared pa.s.sionately, yet gracefully, above an accompaniment, simple at first, but growing gradually more intense and insistent till a great climax was reached, after which the solo voice sank slowly to a low, whispering murmur, while the piano played above it a succession of sweetly delicate and graceful phrases. The movement was worked out with the utmost complexity and brilliance, but came suddenly to an end. The playing of the two masters was beyond description.

"The cadenza is subject to infinite alteration," remarked Mendelssohn; and turning to me, he continued, "the movement is unfinished, you see; and even what is written may be greatly changed. I fear I am a fastidious corrector. I am rarely satisfied with my first thoughts."

"Well, I don't think much change is wanted here," said David. "I'm longing to have the rest of it. When will it be ready?"

Mendelssohn shook his head with a smile. "Ask me for it in five years, David."

"What do you think of it, Bennett?" asked the violinist.