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Read Ebook: A Day with Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy by Sampson George
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Ebook has 167 lines and 8790 words, and 4 pages
"Audiences don't think--at least, not in England," said Bennett.
"Come, come!" interposed Mendelssohn; and turning to me with a smile he said, "Will you allow Mr. Bennett to slander your countrymen like this?"
"But Mr. Bennett doesn't mean it," I replied; "he knows that English audiences love, and are always faithful to, what stirs them deeply."
"Yes; but what does stir them deeply?" he asked; "look at the enormous popularity of senseless sentimental songs."
"On the other hand," I retorted, "look at our old affection for Handel and our new affection for Mr. Mendelssohn himself."
"Thank you," said Mendelssohn, with a smile; "Handel is certainly yours by adoption. You English love the Bible, and Handel knew well how to wed its beautiful words to noble music. He was happy in having at his command the magnificent prose of the Bible and the magnificent verses of Milton. I, too, am fascinated by the noble language of the Scriptures, and I have used it both in the vernacular and in the sounding Latin of the Vulgate. And I am haunted even now by the words of one of the Psalms which seem to call for an appropriate setting. You recall the verses?
"Hear my prayer; O God; and hide not thyself from my petition.
Take heed unto me, and hear me, how I mourn in my prayer and am vexed.
The enemy crieth so, and the ungodly cometh on so fast; for they are minded to do me some mischief, so maliciously are they set against me.
My heart is disquieted within me; and the fear of death is fallen upon me.
Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me; and a horrible dread hath overwhelmed me.
And I said, O that I had wings like a dove; for then would I flee away, and be at rest.
Lo, then would I get me away far off; and remain in the wilderness.
I would make haste to escape; because of the stormy wind and tempest."
"Yes," said David, nodding emphatically; "they are wonderful words; you must certainly set them."
"The Bible is an inexhaustible mine of song and story for musical setting," continued Mendelssohn; "I have one of its stories in my mind now; but only one man, a greater even than Handel, was worthy to touch the supreme tragedy of all."
The last words were murmured as if to himself rather than to us, and he accompanied them abstractedly with tentative, prelusive chords, which gradually grew into the most strangely moving music I have ever heard.
Its complex, swelling phrases presently drew together and rose up in one great major chord. No one spoke. I felt as if some mighty spirit had been evoked and that its unseen presence overshadowed us.
"What was it?" I presently whispered to Bennett; but he shook his head and said, "Wait; he will tell you."
At length I turned to Mendelssohn and said, "Is that part of the new work of yours you mentioned just now?"
"Of mine!" he exclaimed; "of mine! I could never write such music. No, no! That was Bach, John Sebastian Bach--part of his St. Matthew Passion. I was playing not so much the actual notes of any chorus, but rather the effect of certain passages as I could feel them in my mind."
"So that was by Bach!" I said in wonder.
"Yes," said Mendelssohn; "and people know so little of him. They either think of him as the composer of mathematical exercises in music, or else they confuse him with others of his family. He was Cantor of the St. Thomas School here in Leipzig, the perfect type of a true servant of our glorious art. He wrote incessantly, but the greatest of his works lay forgotten after his death; and it was I, I, who disinterred this marvellous music-drama of the Passion, and gave it in Berlin ten years ago--its first performance since Bach's death almost a century before. But there," he added, with an apologetic smile, "I talk too much! Let us speak of something else."
"Yes," said David, "you will talk of Bach for ever if no one stops you. Not that I mind. I am a disciple, too."
"And I, too," added Bennett. "I mean to emulate Mendelssohn. He was the first to give the 'Passion' in Germany, I will be the first to give it in England."
"Then I'll be recording angel," said David, "and register your vow. You'll show him up, if he breaks his word, won't you?" he added, turning to me.
"Now this will really change the subject," said Mendelssohn, producing a sheet of manuscript. "Here is a little song I wrote last year to some old verses. Perhaps our new friend will let us hear it."
In great trepidation I took the sheet. It was headed simply "Volkslied." I saw at once that there would be no difficulty in reading it, for the music was both graceful and simple.
"Shall we try?" asked Mendelssohn, with his quiet, reassuring smile.
"If you are willing to let me," I answered.
"It is decreed by heaven's behest That man from all he loves the best Must sever. That soon or late with breaking heart With all his dear ones he must part For ever.
How oft we cull a budding flower, To see it bloom a transient hour; 'Tis gathered. The bud becomes a lovely rose, Its morning blush at evening goes; 'Tis withered.
And has it pleased our God to lend His cheering smile in child or friend? To-morrow-- To-morrow if reclaimed again The parting hour will prove how vain Is sorrow.
Oft hope beguiles the friends who part; With happy smiles, and heart to heart, 'To meet,' they cry, 'we sever.' It proves good-bye for ever. For ever!"
"Bravo!" cried Bennett.
"Say rather, 'Bravi,'" said David, "for the song was as sweet as the singer."
"Yes," said Bennett; "the simple repetition of the closing words of each verse is like a sigh of regret."
"And the whole thing," added David, "has the genuine simplicity of the true folk-melody."
Further discussion was prevented by a characteristic knock at the door.
The visitor who entered in response to Mendelssohn's call was a sturdily built man of thirty, or thereabouts, with an air of mingled courage, resolution, and good humour. His long straight hair was brushed back from a broad, intellectual brow, and his thoughtful, far-looking eyes intensified the impression he gave of force and original power. He smiled humorously. "All the youth, beauty and intellect of Leipzig in one room. I leave you to apportion the qualities. Making much noise, too! And did I hear the strains of a vocal recital?"
"You did," replied Bennett; "that was my young countryman here, who has just been singing a new song of Mendelssohn's."
"Pardon me," said the new-comer to me; "you see Mendelssohn so fills the stage everywhere, that even David gets overlooked sometimes, don't you, my inspired fiddler?" he added, slapping the violinist on the back.
"Yes I do," said David, "and so do the manners of all of you, for no one introduces our singer;" and turning to me he added, "this is Mr. Robert Schumann who divides the musical firmament of Leipzig with Mendelssohn."
"You forget to add," said Mendelssohn, "that Schumann conquers in literature as well as in music. No one has written better musical critiques."
"Yes, yes," grumbled David; "I wish he wouldn't do so much of it. If he scribbled less he'd compose more. The cobbler should stick to his last, and the musician shouldn't relinquish the music-pen for the goose quill."
"But what of Mendelssohn himself," urged Schumann; "he, in a special sense, is a man of letters; for if there's one thing as good as being with him, it is being away from him, and receiving his delightful epistles."
"Not the same thing," said David, shaking his head.
"And then," said Schumann, waving his hand comprehensively around the room, "observe his works of art."
"Certainly," exclaimed Schumann, "Mendelssohn does all things well."
"That's a handsome admission from a rival," said David.
"A rival!" answered Schumann with spirit. "There can be no talk of rivalry between us. I know my place. Mendelssohn and I differ about things, sometimes; but who could quarrel with him?"
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