Mendelssohn Perspectives 1409428257, 9781409428251

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Mendelssohn Perspectives

Edited by Nicole Grimes and Angela R. Mace

Mendelssohn PersPectives

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Mendelssohn Perspectives

Edited by nicole GriMes and AnGelA r. MAce

© nicole Grimes and Angela r. Mace 2012 All rights reserved. no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. nicole Grimes and Angela r. Mace have asserted their right under the copyright, designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identiied as the editors of this work. Bach musicological font by © Yo tomita Published by Ashgate Publishing limited Wey court east Union road Farnham surrey, GU9 7Pt england

Ashgate Publishing company suite 420 101 cherry street Burlington vt 05401-4405 UsA

www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Mendelssohn perspectives. 1. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Felix, 1809–1847 – criticism and interpretation. i. Grimes, nicole. ii. Mace, Angela. 780.9'2--dc23 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mendelssohn perspectives / edited by nicole Grimes and Angela Mace. p. cm. includes bibliographical references and index. isBn 978-1-4094-2825-1 (hardcover) – isBn 978-1-4094-2826-8 (ebook) 1. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Felix, 1809–1847 – criticism and interpretation. i. Grimes, nicole. ii. Mace, Angela. Ml410.M5M59 2012 780.92–dc23 2011037817

isBn 9781409428251 (hbk) isBn 9781409428268 (ebk) V

Printed and bound in Great Britain by the MPG Books Group, UK.

contents

List of Figures, Plates and Illustrations List of Tables List of Musical Examples List of Abbreviations Notes on Contributors Acknowledgements introduction Nicole Grimes and Angela R. Mace

ix xi xiii xv xvii xxi 1

PARt I: MeNDeLssohN’s JewIshNess 1

2

3

4

never Perfectly Beautiful: Physiognomy, Jewishness, and Mendelssohn Portraiture Marian Wilson Kimber Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’: reconsidering the impact of Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’ Sinéad Dempsey-Garratt ‘Wordless Judaism, like the songs of Mendelssohn’? hanslick, Mendelssohn and cultural Politics in late nineteenth-century vienna Nicole Grimes Mendelssohn’s conversion to Judaism: An english Perspective Colin Eatock

9

31

49

63

PARt II: BetweeN tRADItIoN AND INNovAtIoN 5

norm and deformation in Mendelssohn’s sonata Forms Paul Wingield and Julian Horton

83

vi

Mendelssohn Perspectives

6

Mendelssohn and Berlioz: Selective Afinities John Michael Cooper

7

Between tradition and innovation: Mendelssohn as Music director and his Performances of Bach in leipzig Anselm Hartinger

113

145

PARt III: MeNDeLssohN AND the stAGe 8

9

converting the Pagans: Mendelssohn, Greek tragedy, and the christian ethos Jason Geary

163

the Phantom of Mendelssohn’s opera: Fictional Accounts and Posthumous Propaganda Monika Hennemann

177

PARt Iv: styLe AND CoMPosItIoNAL PRoCess 10

11

12

Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte and the limits of Musical expression R. Larry Todd

197

improvisation, elaboration, composition: the Mendelssohns and the classical cadenza Angela R. Mace

223

cyclic Form and Musical Memory in Mendelssohn’s string Quartet in E-lat Major, Op. 12 Benedict Taylor

249

PARt v: CoNteMPoRARy vIews AND PosthuMous PeRsPeCtIves 13

A Friendship in letters: the correspondence of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy and carl Klingemann Regina Back

269

Contents

vii

14

Mendelssohn as Portrayed in the Goethe–Zelter correspondence Lorraine Byrne Bodley

283

15

Business is War: Mendelssohn and his italian Publishers Pietro Zappalà

303

16

Beyond the salon: Mendelssohn’s French Audience Cécile Reynaud

317

Bibliography Index of Mendelssohn’s Works General Index

331 357 361

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list of Figures, Plates and illustrations

1.1 1.2

1.3 1.4a

1.4b

1.5a

1.5b

1.6

1.7 6.1

6.2

6.3

cast of Mendelssohn’s head. reproduced with permission of the William ramsay henderson trust. Frontispiece portrait of Mendelssohn by h. Mücke (owned by Paul v. M. Benecke esq.), from Mendelssohn and His Friends in Kensington, ed. rosamund Brunel Gotch (london: oxford University Press, 1934). By permission of oxford University Press. composers’ heads, in samuel Wells, New Physiognomy (new York: samuel r. Wells, 1873), 528. “Poetic–Artistic” Physiognomy from nelson sizer and henry shipton drayton, Heads and Faces and How to Study Them: A Manual of Phrenology and Physiognomy for the People (new York: Fowler & Wells, 1885), 25. Mendelssohn portrait by Wilhelm hensel, MA BA 368, staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv. Mendelssohn in Anna Alice chapin, Masters of Music: Their Lives and Works (new York: dodd, Mead, and co., 1901), between 301 and 302. engraving after Magnus, frontispiece to W. A. lampadius, Life of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, ed. and trans. William leonhard Gage (Boston: o. ditson, 1865). Aubrey Beardsley, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1896), black ink and graphite on white wove paper; actual 16.3 × 10.3 cm, harvard University Art Museum, Fogg Art Museum, bequest of Grenville l. Winthrop, 1943.630; photo: imaging department © President and Fellows of harvard college. engraving of Mendelssohn, frontispiece for stephen s. stratton, Mendelssohn (london: J. M. dent; new York: e. P. dutton, 1901). excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from spring 1831 (Bodleian library, oxford, Ms. M. deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 5r). By permission of the Bodleian library. excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from June 1831 (Bodleian library, oxford, Ms. M. deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 17r). By permission of the Bodleian library. excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from June 1831 (Bodleian library, oxford, Ms. M. deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 19r). By permission of the Bodleian library.

10

15 16

17

18

25

26

28 29

118

119

120

x

9.1

9.2

9.3

9.4

9.5

11.1

12.1 14.1

14.2

Mendelssohn Perspectives

‘Frohsinn’ from Talassio, leopold hirschberg, ‘Zwei unbekannte Werke Mendelssohns? Aufgefunden von dr. leopold hirschberg’, in Jede Woche Musik: Illustrierte Wochenschrift des Berliner Tageblatts 28 (11 July 1925), 1. ‘Gesang hinter der scene’ from Talassio, leopold hirschberg, ‘Zwei unbekannte Werke Mendelssohns? Aufgefunden von dr. leopold hirschberg’, in Jede Woche Musik: Illustrierte Wochenschrift des Berliner Tageblatts 28 (11 July 1925), 1. title page of Dichterliebe (Heinrich Heine): Singspiel in 3 Akten von Julius Brammer und Alfred Grünwald, Musik von Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, ed. emil stern (leipzig: Karczag, 1919). ‘Wer im lenz kein schätzle hat’, duet from Dichterliebe, bars 1–12 (Dichterliebe (Heinrich Heine): Singspiel in 3 Akten von Julius Brammer und Alfred Grünwald, Musik von Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, ed. emil stern (leipzig: Karczag, 1919), 3). ‘langsamer Walzer’ from Dichterliebe, bars 1–36 (Dichterliebe (Heinrich Heine): Singspiel in 3 Akten von Julius Brammer und Alfred Grünwald, Musik von Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, ed. emil stern (leipzig: Karczag, 1919), 5). construction of d-B MA Ms. 33, pp. 1–8. staatsbibliotek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteiling mit Mendelssohn-Archiv. Thematic parallelism of exposition and development in the irst movement of string Quartet op. 12. ‘Wonne der Wehmut’ 1. Fassung hess 142.3 the Autograph (1810) by Beethoven, which Mendelssohn sight-read for Goethe. By permission of the Goethe-schiller Archive, Weimar. Mendelssohn performs with the Weimar court musicians for Goethe and Zelter in the Juno room (sketch from the Goetheschiller Archive, Weimar).

187

188

189

190

192

234 252

292

293

Plates 11.1

11.2

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza to Beethoven’s Piano concerto in c major, op. 15. MA Ms. 33, p. 4. (reproduced by permission of the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv). Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza to Beethoven’s Piano concerto in c major, op. 15. MA Ms. 33, p. 5. (reproduced by permission of the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv).

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list of tables

2.1 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 10.1 10.2 10.3 10.4 10.5 11.1 11.2 11.3 16.1

Precursors of and responses to Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’ list of sonata-form movements/works written by Mendelssohn (1825–47) some existing and some additional categories of ‘sonata deformation’ categories of ‘deformation’ deployed in the Piano Quartet no. 3 in B minor, op. 3, and the octet, op. 20 summary of the exposition and recapitulation of Piano Quartet no. 3 in B minor, op. 3, Finale summary of the structure of the octet, op. 20, Finale ‘deformation’ category totals for Mendelssohn’s works (1825–47) summary of the structure of Piano trio no. 2 in c minor, op. 66, Finale interpretations of Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte, after Marc André souchay (1842) Mendelssohn, Lied (Allegro molto) in F-sharp minor (1836) Mendelssohn, Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4 Mendelssohn, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 5 (1844) Fanny hensel, ‘es rauscht das rote laub’ (1846) Fanny Mendelssohn’s selected concerto repertoire, 1822–25 Felix Mendelssohn’s selected concerto repertoire, 1818–27 Fanny hensel’s most frequently programmed composers, 1833–47 overview of the programmes of the société des concerts du conservatoire

34 94 99 100 101 102 103 106 204 207 209 211 212 227 228 230 321

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list of Musical examples

5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1a 6.1b 6.2 6.3 6.4a 6.4b 8.1 8.2 10.1 10.2

10.3 10.4 10.5 10.6 11.1 11.2a 11.2b 11.3a 11.3b 11.4a 11.4b 11.5a 11.5b

comparison of Bach, concerto for two harpsichords, BWv 1061/1061a (third movement) and Mendelssohn, Piano sonata Op. 106 (irst movement, start of development) Weber, Piano Concerto No. 1 in C, Op. 11 (irst movement, recapitulation of irst and second themes) Mendelssohn, Piano concerto no. 1 in G minor, op. 25/i (recapitulation of irst and second themes) Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 no. 5, bars 21–26 Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 no. 6, ‘Kommt mit wilden Klapperstöcken’ theme Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, 1830–33 version, bars 312–29 Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 no. 6, bars 241–52 Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, 1830–33 version, bars 484–87 Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, Op. 60 No. 9, bars 18–23 Mendelssohn, Antigone, no. 6, bars 8–16 Mendelssohn, Oedipus in Kolonos, no. 5, bars 115–23 Mendelssohn, Venetianisches Gondellied, Op. 57 No. 5 Mendelssohn, Venetianisches Gondellied, op. 30 no. 6, with added text from Bodleian library, M. deneke Mendelssohn Ms c. 47. Mendelssohn, Lied in F-sharp minor (1836) Mendelssohn, Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4 hensel, ‘es rauscht das rote laub’ (1846) Mendelssohn, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 5 cadential six-four chord structure in Fanny Mendelssohn’s cadenza Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 414–16 Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 1 Beethoven, ‘emperor’ concerto, Mvt. i, bar 371 Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 2 Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 432–40 Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 3 Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 366–8 Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 5

109 110 111 132 132 132 134 136 141 167 173 199

200 209 210 210 211 235 236 236 236 237 238 238 238 239

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11.6 12.1 12.2 12.3 12.4 12.5 15.1

Beethoven, cadenza for concerto in G major, op. 58 new development theme, Mendelssohn, string Quartet, op. 12, irst movement Harmonic reduction of exposition and development in irst movement of the string Quartet, op. 12 Modiication of exposition material in recapitulation of the String Quartet, op. 12 Modiication of exposition material in recapitulation of the String Quartet, op. 12 Transformation of new theme in coda’s E-lat breakthrough, string Quartet, op. 12 Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, Op. 67, No. 3: a) bar 8; b) bar 9

241 251 253 261 262 263 313

Appendices 10.1 10.2

Prelude to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 1, by r. larry todd interlude connecting Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 1 with op. 62. no. 6, by r. larry todd

215 217

list of Abbreviations

A-Wn d-B d-Bdv d-lem d-leu d-Wrgs F-Pn G.B. GB-lbl GB-ob M.A. M.d.M. M.n. nl-Au NZfM PL-Kj

Austria, vienna, Österreichische nationalbibliothek, Musiksammlung Germany, Berlin, staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung Germany, Bad vilbel, Privatbibliothek dr Friedrich schöneich Germany, leipzig, städtische Bibliotheken, Musikbibliothek Germany, leipzig, Universitätsbibliothek, ‘Bibliotheca Albertina’ Germany, Weimar, stiftung Weimarer Klassik, Goethe-schiller-Archiv Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France Green Books (in GB-ob M.d.M.) Great Britain, london, the British library Great Britain, oxford, Bodleian library Mendelssohn Archive (in d-B) Margaret deneke Mendelssohn collection (in GB-ob) Mendelssohn nachlass (in Pl-Kj) netherlands, Amsterdam, Universiteitsbibliotheek Neue Zeitschrift für Musik Poland, Kraków, Biblioteka Jagiellońska

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notes on contributors

Regina Back studied musicology and romance languages and literature at the University of Marburg (Germany) and at the sorbonne in Paris, completing her Maîtrise de Musique at the sorbonne in 1993. she co-edited, with Juliette Appold, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy: Sämtliche Briefe, Bd. 1: 1816 bis Juni 1830 (Bärenreiter, 2008). Lorraine Byrne Bodley is a lecturer in the department of Music, national University of ireland, Maynooth. she holds a Phd in German and music from University college dublin. she is the author of Schubert’s Goethe Settings (Ashgate, 2003) and Goethe and Zelter: Musical Dialogues (Ashgate, 2009), and has edited ive volumes of musicological essays and critical editions of scores. John Michael Cooper is the Margaret root Brown chair in Fine Arts at the Saroim School of Fine Arts at Southwestern University, Texas. Cooper has published widely in Early Music, 19th-Century Music and elsewhere. his latest book, Mendelssohn, Goethe, and the Walpurgis Night: The Heathen Muse in European Culture, 1700–1850, was published by the University of rochester Press in May 2007. sinéad Dempsey-Garratt currently lectures at Bristol University and the University of Manchester, where she was awarded her Phd in 2008. her published articles include ‘hero or has Been? Mendelssohn reception in england and Germany in the 1840s’, in British Postgraduate Musicology 6 (2004), and she has presented her work internationally. Colin eatock was awarded a PhD from the University of Toronto in 2007 for his dissertation, now available as Mendelssohn and Victorian England (Ashgate, 2009). he is the author of Remembering Glenn Gould: Twenty Interviews with People who Knew Him (forthcoming with Penumbra Press). he is also active as a composer and music critic, with reviews appearing in Toronto’s Globe and Mail newspaper and The New York Times, among others. Jason Geary (Phd musicology, Yale University, 2004) is Associate Professor of Musicology at the University of Michigan. Geary has been the recipient of a Fulbright grant as well as a fellowship at the institute for Advanced study. he is completing a book titled German Romantic Music and the Ancient Greek Legacy.

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Nicole Grimes is a Marie Curie Fellow (2011–14) with joint afiliation at the University of california, irvine and University college dublin. she was awarded a PhD at Trinity College Dublin in 2008 for her dissertation on Johannes Brahms. she was a deutscher Akademischer Austausch dienst (dAAd) fellow at the humboldt-Universität zu Berlin (2007–08). she has published several articles and reviews in scholarly journals, and she is co-editor of a forthcoming volume of essays on eduard hanslick. Anselm hartinger studied musicology and history at the University of leipzig, and was awarded a Phd in musicology for his dissertation on romantic Bach reception and performances in leipzig from the Philips-Universität Marburg in 2010. hartinger publishes widely in journals and is co-editor of ‘Zu groß, zu unerreichbar’: Bach im Zeitalter Mendelssohns und Schumanns (Breitkopf & härtel, 2007), with christoph Wolff and Peter Wollny. Monika hennemann has degrees in German and musicology from Florida state University (MM historical musicology) and from Gutenberg-Universität Mainz (Phd Musicology), and is currently a visiting lecturer in musicology at the University of Birmingham, UK. she is programme director of the University of rhode island German summer school (deutsche sommerschule am Atlantik). Julian horton is an Associate Professor of Music at University college dublin. he has published widely on topics in nineteenth-century form and analysis, including his 2004 monograph Bruckner’s Symphonies: Analysis, Reception and Cultural Politics (cambridge University Press), and articles in Music and Letters and Musical Quarterly, among others. Angela R. Mace is a Phd candidate in musicology at duke University (MA musicology, 2008), where she is writing her dissertation on the Mendelssohns. she was a dAAd fellow at the humboldt-Universität zu Berlin (2010–11). she received her BMus in piano performance from vanderbilt University in 2006. she revised and enlarged J. Michael cooper’s Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy: A Research and Information Guide (routledge, 2011). Cécile Reynaud holds a Phd in comparative literature from the Université Paris iii-sorbonne nouvelle. she is curator at the music department of the Bibliothèque nationale, Paris, and research fellow at the cnrs-institut de recherche sur le Patrimoine Musical en France. she is the author of Liszt et le virtuose romantique (honoré champion, 2006) and co-authored, with catherine Massip and d. Kern holoman, L’Orchestre de Paris: De la société des concerts du conservatoire à l’orchestre de Paris, 1828–2008 (́ditions du patrimoine, 2007).

Notes on Contributors

xix

Benedict taylor is a Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow at the University of Oxford, a senior research Fellow of new college and lecturer at Magdalen college. he read music at the University of cambridge, King’s college london and the ruprecht-Karls-Universität heidelberg, subsequently holding fellowships at Princeton University and the humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. his monograph Mendelssohn, Time and Memory: The Romantic Conception of Cyclic Form was published by cambridge University Press in 2011. R. Larry todd is the author of Mendelssohn: A Life in Music (Oxford University Press, 2003). A German translation appeared in 2008 from carus/reclam verlag as Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy: Sein Leben, seine Musik. his new biography, Fanny Hensel: The Other Mendelssohn, appeared from Oxford University Press in 2009. A graduate of Yale University, he studied piano at the Yale school of Music and with the late lilian Kallir. Marian wilson Kimber is Associate Professor of Musicology at the University of iowa, iowa city. she received her Phd from Florida state University. Wilson Kimber has contributed chapters to The Mendelssohn Companion and The Cambridge Companion to Mendelssohn, among others, and is the author of articles in several journals, including 19th-Century Music and The Journal of Musicology. Paul Wingield is a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. He is the editor of Janáček Studies (cambridge composer studies, 1999); the author of Janáček: Glagolitic Mass (cambridge University Press, 1992); and has completed an uninished mass by Janáček, recorded and released by Hyperion Records in 2000. he is currently a member of the Board of editors of the complete critical edition of Martinů’s music. Pietro Zappalà graduated with a Phd in music philology (1992) from the University of Pavia and has been active as a music librarian (1988–94), research fellow (1994–2004) and associate professor (2005–present) at the same institution. Zappalà’s work has appeared in various publications, including MendelssohnStudien and The Mendelssohns: Their Music in History, ed. J. Michael cooper and Julie D. Prandi (Oxford University Press, 2002).

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Acknowledgements

collected essays inherently represent a collected effort; as editors, it has been a joy and a privilege to work with numerous individuals who have helped bring this project to fruition. our greatest thanks go to the authors published herein. We have appreciated the opportunity to work with each of them, deepening our understanding of each topic, as well as our admiration for each scholar’s contributions to the ield. We thank them for their willingness to shape their contributions toward strengthening the volume as a whole, and we are honoured to bring this volume to press, representing the collected expertise, ideas, suggestions, and patience of these friends and colleagues. At Ashgate Publishing, we thank an impressive team, including commissioning editors, heidi Bishop and laura Macy, Managing director rachel lynch, senior editor Pam Bertram, editorial Administrator Beatrice Beaup, Assistant editor sophie lumley, proofreader Maria Anson and Administrative Assistant in Marketing, nicole norman. Many of these essays and themes emerged from the international conference ‘Mendelssohn in the long nineteenth century’ organized by Jacqueline Waeber at trinity college, dublin, in July 2005. We are indebted to Jacqueline Waeber for initiating this volume and for sharing her expertise. the support of r. larry todd and John Michael cooper has been invaluable for the project, and we thank them for sharing their formidable knowledge of Mendelssohn with us and for their generous contributions towards improving the volume. As alumni of the deutscher Akademischer Austausch dienst (dAAd), we are both grateful for inancial support provided by the DAAD while this project was in progress; our fellowships with the programme facilitated fruitful collaboration and research, especially at the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv. in addition, Angela Mace thanks duke University for its support through the Julian Price endowed Graduate research Fellowship, the dr James W. Plonk Pre-dissertation research travel Award, and the summer research Fellowship. We thank our colleagues at the school of Music, University college dublin; the duke University department of Music; the humboldt-Universität zu Berlin institut für Musik- und Medienwissenschaft; and the Mendelssohn-Gesellschaft and Mendelssohn-remise Berlin. Friederike Freier, Feilimidh nunan, Benedict taylor, Wolfgang Marx, and Jacqueline Waeber were generous with their advice on translations from French and German; and elizabeth terry assisted with the proofreading on several chapters, for which we offer heartfelt thanks.

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We are grateful to our families, a rich network of friends, and to each other for the ongoing support that has sustained us throughout this project. our work on this volume has enriched our lives and it is our hope that the results will enrich the lives of each reader. nicole Grimes, dublin, ireland Angela r. Mace, Berlin, Germany April 2011

introduction nicole Grimes and Angela r. Mace

if the invective of nietzsche and shaw is to be taken as an endorsement of the lasting quality of an artist, then Mendelssohn is exemplary in taking pride of place beside tennyson and Brahms in the canon of great nineteenth-century artists.1 the publication of Mendelssohn Perspectives in 2012 is a timely celebration of this ‘coming of age’ for Mendelssohn research. It appears at a time when the irst complete edition of Mendelssohn’s music, recommenced during the sesquicentenary year of 1997,2 continues apace, while the irst comprehensive catalogue of his music and the irst four of a planned 12 volumes of his complete correspondence are now in print.3 this unimpeded view, built as it is upon the impressive scholarship of the last half century, allows this volume to celebrate multifaceted and engaging perspectives on Mendelssohn studies, free of the onus to rehabilitate his image. When the irst signiicant collection of essays on Mendelssohn appeared in 1974 – Das Problem Mendelssohn – carl dahlhaus scarcely dared to hope for a ‘Mendelssohn renaissance’.4 Although not without its own dificulties, Das Problem Mendelssohn succeeded in carving out the topics that have since become standard fare in Mendelssohn studies: travel, correspondence, Lied ohne Worte style and lyricism, classicism, historicism, tradition and so forth – but not, in any systematic way at least, religion. Mendelssohn’s music was worth arguing about, even ighting over, Dahlhaus boldly claimed.5 1 shaw wrote a considerable amount on the music of Brahms. he famously revised and apologized for his ‘hasty (not to say silly) description of Brahms’s music’ when his criticism was published in book form in 1936. of the earlier invective is a description of the ‘intolerable tedium’ (shaw (1981), 2: 67) of Brahms’s music which he considered to be ‘a prodigiously elaborated compound of incoherent reminiscences’ (shaw 1: 540). he criticized the ‘kid-glove gentility’ and ‘conventional sentimentality’ of Mendelssohn’s music. on nietzsche’s view of Mendelssohn, see Botstein (1991), particularly 7; and of Brahms, see thatcher (1973). 2 Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1997–). 3 Mendelssohn Bartholdy (2008–). 4 ‘von einer Mendelssohn-renaissance zu sprechen, wäre zweifellos eine große Übertreibung (also schlechter stil, wie er Mendelssohn verhaßt gewesen ist).’ dahlhaus (1974), 7. 5 ‘Über den Komponisten Mendelssohn kann man sich streiten, und zwar wissenschaftlich streiten.’ dahlhaus (1974), 9.

Mendelssohn Perspectives

2

in the following decades, as Mendelssohn studies gained momentum, collected-essays volumes began to appear with greater regularity. Mendelssohn and Schumann: Essays on their Music and Its Context appeared in 1984, following an international conference hosted in north carolina by r. larry todd and Jon W. Finson.6 nearly another decade elapsed before the next two english-language volumes appeared in quick succession: Mendelssohn and His World (1991)7 and Mendelssohn Studies (1992),8 both edited by todd. in his preface to Mendelssohn Studies, todd could already celebrate ‘a healthy resurgence of interest’ in the life and music of Mendelssohn.9 German scholarship kept up the pace in the 1990s with volumes edited by rudolf elvers, hans-Günter Klein and christian Martin schmidt, to mention a few representatives of a group of scholars who are still regarded as leaders in international Mendelssohn studies.10 the focus on Berlin-based symposia continued in Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy Kongreß-Bericht Berlin 1994 (ed. christian Martin schmidt, 1997),11 and shifted to leipzig in Dem Stolz und Der Zierde Unserer Stadt: Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy und Leipzig (ed. Wilhelm seidel, 2003).12 Both volumes marked the 150th anniversary of Mendelssohn’s death – the irst volume timed to appear in 1997, and the other the result of a conference organized by Kurt Masur in 1997 to celebrate the composer’s extensive contributions to the musical and cultural life of leipzig. Mendelssohn was clearly taking root irmly in the international academic discourse. Writing in 2001, John Michael cooper recognized that much remained to be done ‘before the general body of knowledge and information concerning [the Mendelssohns] can begin to rival the general quality of scholarship concerning many of their contemporaries’.13 Scholars rose to the challenge, and the irst decade of the twenty-irst century saw an explosion of work on Mendelssohn (including the deinitive biography for the new century by R. Larry Todd, Mendelssohn: A Life in Music, in 2003).14 douglass seaton, in the preface to The Mendelssohn Companion (2001),15 was able to quietly celebrate a full Mendelssohn renaissance, but, like cooper, noted that much important source study and critical evaluation remained to be done. By 2002, cooper and Julie d. Prandi offered something new: a collection of essays devoted not just to Felix but also, in part, to his sister Fanny. they hoped 6

todd and Finson (1984). todd (1991a). 8 todd (1992b). 9 todd (1992a), xi. 10 For a more complete listing of collected-essays volumes, in both German and english, see cooper (2011), 1–6. 11 christian Martin schmidt (1997). 12 seidel (2003). 13 cooper (2001a), 3. 14 todd (2003). 15 seaton (2001a). 7

Introduction

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that their volume, The Mendelssohns: Their Music in History, would contribute to building an ‘ediice’ on the ‘foundations’ of scholarship that had been established in the previous three decades,16 and grappled with some of the newer, more controversial, emphases in Mendelssohn scholarship, including race and gender. in Peter Mercer-taylor’s The Cambridge Companion to Mendelssohn (2004),17 the troubling sociological, cultural, religious, and biographical issues which had been simmering just below the surface of the commentary moved to the foreground: invoking the full century of Mendelssohn’s troubled reception history, from nietzsche’s ‘schöne Zwischenfall’ to dahlhaus’s ‘Problem Mendelssohn’ and beyond, Mercer-taylor asserted that ‘Mendelssohn has proven one of music history’s great wall-dwellers’.18 Mendelssohn scholarship was further bolstered by Mendelssohn in Performance (ed. siegwart reichwald, 2008), which saw christopher hogwood hail a ‘sea-change’ in that Mendelssohn’s output merited a volume dedicated entirely to performance studies.19 in Mendelssohn Essays – the irst collection of essays on Mendelssohn by a single authority – R. Larry Todd looked forward to the bicentenary of Mendelssohn’s birth and was optimistic for the future of Mendelssohn scholarship, pointing out: ‘it now seems clear from a postmodern perspective that his image has been largely rehabilitated, as musicians and scholars have returned to this paradoxically familiar yet unfamiliar european classical composer, and have begun viewing him from new perspectives.’20 Mendelssohn Perspectives, this latest instalment in this tradition of collectedessays volumes, is informed by critical engagement with a wide range of source materials. the volume includes not only traditional musical analysis-based studies, but also embraces lines of inquiry that are crucial to other areas of the humanities, bringing these approaches to bear on historical and interpretive studies of the Mendelssohns. the result is an interdisciplinary approach that intersects with subjects such as biography and culture, issues of historicism, German literature and aesthetics, gender and race, and philosophy and science.

I Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage has interested writers since his own lifetime, and has fuelled controversial scholarly discussion since the 1990s.21 each of the chapters in Part i, ‘Mendelssohn’s Jewishness’, contributes new insights to this conversation by introducing new documentary evidence. Marian Wilson Kimber 16

cooper and Prandi (2002), v. Mercer-taylor (2004). 18 Mercer-taylor (2004), 1. 19 reichwald (2008), vii. 20 todd (2008b), xi. 21 see sposato (1998); Botstein (1998): 210–19; steinberg (1999): 31–44; Botstein (1999): 45–50; sposato (2006); and cooper (2007a). 17

4

Mendelssohn Perspectives

addresses phrenology and physiognomy in the nineteenth century, and explores Mendelssohn’s reception in an age where physiognomic ideals held great currency and had an especially potent inluence on Jewish stereotyping in portraiture. sinéad dempsey-Garratt addresses the misconceptions surrounding Mendelssohn’s posthumous reception by revealing antecedents to the key themes articulated in Wagner’s attack on Jewish composers in his Das Judentum in der Musik. nicole Grimes offers a close reading of eduard hanslick’s critical responses to viennese censorship of Mendelssohn’s secular cantata Die erste Walpurgisnacht and a correlation of hanslick’s condemnation of this censorship with his equally forceful condemnation of Wagner’s 1869 republication of Das Judentum in der Musik. colin eatock contrasts the changing attitudes towards Jews – including social conditions, legal status and the roles they played in public life – in Britain and Germany during Mendelssohn’s lifetime and the victorian period. in england throughout the 1830s and 1840s, Mendelssohn was not viewed in any signiicant sense as a Jew; but after his death, english periodicals increasingly viewed him as Jewish.

II the three chapters in Part ii, ‘Between tradition and innovation’, challenge the received view of Mendelssohn as a conservative mired in dead traditions and offer new ways to understand Mendelssohn’s relationship to the music of the past – he was not a passive receptacle for tradition, but an active catalyst for stylistic development in the nineteenth century. John Michael cooper attacks head on the tendency to view Mendelssohn as a passéistic composer, challenging the notion that hector Berlioz – the epitome of a frontier-pushing, eccentric romantic – was completely at odds with the aesthetic outlook and compositional practice of the highly trained and elegant Mendelssohn. Focussing on two case studies of Mendelssohn’s ‘italian’ symphony and Die erste Walpurgisnacht, the indings of this chapter profoundly challenge and alter the manner in which we frame these two composers in the tradition/innovation dichotomy. Julian horton and Paul Wingield embark on a large-scale exploration of Mendelssohn’s compositional process in sonata form. this formidable study aims to establish grounds for understanding Mendelssohn’s sonata forms that are derived from the empirical evidence of his complete oeuvre and its function within the aesthetics of high classicism, rather than in terms of their proximity to an abstracted normative paradigm such as that found in the sonata theory of James hepokoski and Warren darcy. trading the composer’s desk for the conductor’s podium, Mendelssohn also channelled his rigorous engagement with earlier music into his innovative approaches to performance. As a self-avowed disciple of J. s. Bach, he regularly performed Bach’s works in the organ loft and at the piano, and conducted the oratorios of handel at musical festivals throughout europe and england. Anselm hartinger adeptly shows that Mendelssohn, despite his respect for the original score, was a thoroughly romantic, eminently practical musician, and did not

Introduction

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hesitate to alter these works to render them more easily performable by his available forces and more palatable to his audiences.

III during Mendelssohn’s lifetime, his stage works played a central role in shaping his reputation. since his death, however, they have had a more uneven performance and reception history. Yet throughout his lifetime and well beyond, as the chapters in Part iii show, Mendelssohn and the stage has never ceased to pique the imagination of his audience. Jason Geary and Monika hennemann address two fundamental aspects of Mendelssohn’s stage music: the tangible and the intangible; the factual and the ictitious. Geary explores a pivotal moment in the history of the German stage: Mendelssohn’s role in the revival of Greek tragedy in the Prussian court for an 1841 production of sophocles’ Antigone. drawing from contemporaneous reviews of the work, Geary elucidates how Mendelssohn and his collaborators mediated between past and present, and reconciled audiences to the otherness of Greek tragedy through the use of stylistic references that underscored the play’s dramatic content and resonated with political and religious concerns of the day. drawing together an impressive range of sources, Monika hennemann navigates the enduring fascination with Mendelssohn’s legacy and with his bizarrely empty place in operatic history. she traces the persistent attempts, both of journalists during Mendelssohn’s lifetime and of novelists long after his death, to invent the opera he never wrote.

Iv Part IV, ‘Style and Compositional Process’, delves irst into the relationship between composition and improvisation in Mendelssohn’s and Fanny hensel’s compositions and performances. r. larry todd’s study of the Lieder ohne Worte offers a new way of viewing the separate Lieder ohne Worte not as stand-alone miniatures of a few minutes in length, but as units which could be combined and expanded by improvisation and preluding into a substantially larger form. in an exciting extension of scholarship and improvisational practice, he offers a reconstruction of what Mendelssohn’s improvisation may have sounded like based on contemporary descriptions. Angela r. Mace extends the discussion of porous generic and conceptual borders between composition and improvisation in her study on cadenzas. she explores how Felix and Fanny, as concerto soloists, composers, and improvisers, navigated the aesthetic mineield of the classical cadenza while projecting their unique compositional styles through a stylistic ilter appropriate to the piano concertos of Mozart and Beethoven. Merging the discussion of style and compositional process, Benedict taylor takes a psychoanalytical approach to understanding the remarkable ‘deformation’ in the cyclic form of the irst movement of Mendelssohn’s Quartet in E-lat major, Op.

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12. his hermeneutic analysis draws on Freud’s psychological notion of trauma as a way to understand the deeper psychological undertow below the lyrical surface of the quartet. this, in turn, has larger implications for the composer often seen as avoiding the more turbulent romantic style.

v This volume beneits directly from some of the richest sources of information on Mendelssohn: the letters and correspondence that have recently come to light. the four chapters in Part v, ‘contemporary views and Posthumous Perspectives’, signiicantly enhance our understanding of Mendelssohn’s life from his early musical education and development under the tutelage of Zelter, through his professional relationships and friendships, to his negotiation of commercial and legal contracts with publishers throughout Europe. Regina Back is the irst to explore the correspondence between Mendelssohn and carl Klingemann in unabridged form, drawing on her own recent edition of these letters with Juliette Appold.22 this correspondence, which spans from Mendelssohn’s adolescence until his death, explores Mendelssohn’s discussion of family events, politics, professional changes, and artistic projects, which he shared with Klingemann in this particularly intimate friendship. Lorraine Byrne Bodley redeines a portrait of the young Mendelssohn by Goethe and Zelter, drawing on selected excerpts of their extensive correspondence as recently translated and annotated in her book Goethe and Zelter: Musical Dialogues to compose a richly textured elucidation of this seminal relationship in Mendelssohn’s life.23 cécile reynaud and Pietro Zappalà each provide excellent studies of Mendelssohn’s interactions with his French and italian publishers, and thereby address a lacuna in Mendelssohn research; each can be understood as a counterpart to Peter Ward Jones’s earlier contribution to this subject, ‘Mendelssohn and his english Publishers’.24 Zappalà provides insight into the complicated web of international marketing, copyright, and politics that Mendelssohn had to navigate with great delicacy and tact. reynaud emphasizes the concerts and publications of Mendelssohn’s music in France that demonstrate how Mendelssohn’s involvement with and reception in that country was much more extensive than is often assumed. Mendelssohn’s multi-faceted career – his myriad talents, travels, correspondence, friendships, and artistic collaborations – thus admits a kaleidoscopic array of scholarly approaches to his life and works. each chapter included in Mendelssohn Perspectives draws on this rich and extensive context to contribute to a composite image of Mendelssohn. this image has been blurred, readjusted, and redeined for decades; we hope that these chapters will do their part as Mendelssohn comes into sharper focus for the decades yet to come. 22 23 24

Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (2008–). Byrne Bodley (2008). Ward Jones (1992).

PArt i Mendelssohn’s Jewishness

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chapter 1

never Perfectly Beautiful: Physiognomy, Jewishness, and Mendelssohn Portraiture Marian Wilson Kimber

During his irst trip to London, Felix Mendelssohn visited the phrenological cabinet of Johann Gaspar spurzheim. Writing home, he reported that ‘a group of murderers exhibited alongside a group of musicians’ conirmed his belief in physiognomy, and that ‘the difference between Gluck’s brow and that of a parricide is most striking’. Mendelssohn’s interest in the practice of reading human character through bumps on the head peaked when an attractive young woman requested to have herself phrenologically examined: when the aforementioned english-woman had to let down her long blond hair in order to enable the doctor to feel for the sites, and she looked very pretty in so doing, and then put it back up again in front of the mirror – then i gave three cheers for phrenology, and praised everything exceedingly.1

On his 1832 London visit, the composer was approached by Spurzheim’s devotee, haley holm;2 in a letter to the phrenologist, Mendelssohn regretted that he was too busy to have a cast of his head made to see if, after his Grand Tour, his ‘travelling bumps’ had undergone changes.3 nonetheless two surviving casts of Mendelssohn’s head, now at the University of Edinburgh,4 can allow us a unique sense, unmatched by contemporary portraiture, of what the young composer actually looked like (one is shown in Figure 1.1).5

1 1 May 1829, in Elvers (1986), 62–3. According to R. Larry Todd, the visit was on 8 May. Todd (2003), 209–10. 2 Henry Haley Holm (1806–46), with his father J. D. Holm, inherited Spurzheim’s collection. Cooter (1989), 170–71. 3 21 June 1832, GB-ob, M.d.M., c. 42, fols. 10–11. 4 The William Ramsay Henderson Trust, http://pages.britishlibrary.net/williamramsay hendersontrust, accessed 14 July 2006; Kaufman (1988), 23. 5 See Todd (2003), 628, note 184, for the locations of these death masks and sketches. That they are indeed Mendelssohn’s head is suggested by comparing them with the mask taken on his deathbed (see http://library.princeton.edu/libraries/irestone/rbsc/aids/C0770/ ex41.jpg).

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Figure 1.1

Cast of Mendelssohn’s head. Reproduced with permission of the William Ramsay Henderson Trust.

The appearance of Mendelssohn himself, only one of many who attended exhibitions of casts of the famous and the infamous, became important to nineteenth-century music lovers. his death mask was still of interest as late as 1894, when it appeared in the book Portraits in Plaster.6 Biographical accounts that emerged after the composer’s death often included a physical description of him, concentrating on his face; the most extensive of these appeared in George Grove’s 1880 article, accompanied by a list of portraits and busts with commentary on their degrees of accuracy.7 Many early recollections of the composer include at least a frontispiece of him. The title of the 1881 English translation of Sebastian Hensel’s The Mendelssohn Family indicated that it featured portraits by the composer’s brother-in-law, Wilhelm hensel, pictures which were often reproduced in reviews of the book.8 our approach to a Mendelssohn portrait in the age of photography is merely to assess its accuracy; in contrast, nineteenth-century viewers drew on 6 7 8

Hutton (1894), 69. Grove (1951), 364–5. Sebastian Hensel (1881). Eight portraits appear in W. L. Gage (1882), 577–88.

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physiognomy and phrenology to reveal the meanings of the composer’s physical features. Examination of portraits of Mendelssohn dating between the years 1821 and c1940 reveals a tension between the composer’s Jewish origins and his place as one of the leading musicians of his time. Modiications over the course of the century to such visual representations, which initially depicted Mendelssohn as upper class, sensitive and artistic, made the composer’s physiognomy less than ideal, paralleling his declining reputation.9 the meanings constructed around the composer’s physical attributes were therefore a strong factor in conirming his detractors’ belief in his undeniably Jewish identity. It was widely held throughout the nineteenth century that a person’s physical characteristics could reveal his or her personality and that aspiring physiognomists could be trained to ‘read faces’ by examining characteristic traits. The belief in physiognomy became extremely popular in the period immediately preceding Mendelssohn’s birth through the publication of Johann Caspar Lavater’s Physiognomische Fragmente (1775–78), which, with its portraits of famous igures, circulated in numerous editions.10 Lavater (1741–1801) believed that physiognomy was related to human behavior and morality, and he asserted that: ‘The morally better, the more beautiful; the morally worse, the uglier’.11 Well after it had ceased to be a popular fad, physiognomy continued to be a pervasive inluence in European thought. Phrenology, often confused with physiognomy, was a set of pseudo-scientiic tenets irst espoused by Franz Joseph Gall (1758–1828), who found that the shape of the skull relected the strengths of the brain’s various sections, which were the source of distinguishing human abilities.12 spurzheim, initially a devotee of Gall, was partially responsible for the spread of phrenology to england.13 Phrenologists, like the one who examined Mendelssohn’s head, were widespread in the nineteenth century; there were some 20,000 practicing phrenologists in America alone.14 Phrenological publications, with their chart of the 37 ‘organs’ of the brain, sometimes reproduced on porcelain heads, were commercially available until the early twentieth century.15 By the 1910s, popular books on reading character abandoned examining cranial ‘bumps’ but held true to the basic tenets of phrenology, hailing its use in ‘employment management’.16

Wilson Kimber (2003) and Cooper (2004). For Lavater’s impact, see Tytler (1982), 35–119. 11 Lavater (1775–78/1968–69), vol. 1, 63, trans. in Shookman (1993), 17: ‘Je moralisch-besser, desto schöner. Je moralisch-schlimmer; desto häßlischer’. 12 See Gall (1835) and Young (1970), 8–53. 13 Kassler (1979), vol. 2, 962–7. 14 Colbert (1997), 21. 15 Phrenology head, Sizer and Drayton (1885), 195. This illustration can be found on p. 203 of the edition available at www.archive.org. 16 Balkin (1919), 209. 9

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12

Physiognomy and phrenology, mutually inluential, shared the understanding that physical characteristics had speciic meanings. However unscientiic such beliefs now seem, they were widely relected in period anthropology, descriptions of characters in novels and art works. Lavater inluenced guides to drawing for a century, and sculptors shaped busts in accordance with phrenological beliefs.17 Victorian artists formulated facial ‘types’, pursuing the correct models so that their paintings would conform to ‘physiognomical orthodoxy’;18 an 1852 Art Journal suggested that ‘every painter should be a phrenologist’.19 thus, contemporary portraits, and speciically those of Mendelssohn, were frequently created to conform to physiognomic ideals, resulting in images that may or may not have resembled their subject. Members of the Mendelssohn family’s circle, including Goethe and Alexander von Humboldt, came under the inluence of Lavater, even if temporarily.20 in his proile of Mendelssohn’s grandfather, Jewish philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, Lavater determined features that suggested an inevitable conversion to Christianity, a controversial claim rebutted by its recipient.21 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s play Nathan der Weise, inspired by Moses Mendelssohn, in some sense refutes Lavater’s ideas, as Nathan points out that moral individuals come in all physical forms.22 Whether Moses’s grandson actually read Lavater’s Fragmente is not known; however John Graham writes that ‘it is dificult to imagine how a literate person of the time could have failed to have some general knowledge of the man and his theories’.23 Although Felix joked about physiognomy, his second cast suggests that he maintained some interest in its indings. Perhaps the composer, who had a deep interest in the visual arts and engaged in drawing throughout his life, was attracted to physiognomy’s artistic ramiications.

Physiognomy, Phrenology and the Face of Felix Mendelssohn Physiognomic ideals permeate nineteenth-century descriptions of Mendelssohn’s appearance. Grove’s comment about the ‘depth of solid goodness there was in his attractiveness’ treats Mendelssohn’s outward appearance as relecting his inner personality.24 Descriptions of the composer’s hair, forehead, eyes, nose, and lips appeared with frequency, and comparison of these reports with the corresponding 17

Woodrow (2005), 71–2. Cowling (1989), 87, 106. 19 See Cowling (1989), 104. 20 Shookman (1993), 5. 21 Altmann (1973), 201–63. See Lavater’s silhouette of Moses Mendelssohn in Hartley (2001), 39. 22 Shookman (1993), 14–16. 23 Graham (1979), 86. 24 Grove (1951), 366. 18

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traits described in the physiognomic literature can demonstrate what each feature ‘meant’ in contemporary parlance.25 Of great emphasis in treatments of the composer is his forehead. Queen Victoria’s statement that Mendelssohn had ‘a ine intellectual forehead’26 relects the Victorian belief that the forehead, covering the brain, would be prominent in a great man – indeed, the expressions ‘high-brow’ and ‘low-brow’ stem from this notion.27 thus, Mendelssohn’s was a ‘grandly-modeled’, or ‘high, beautifully domed forehead’;28 Lampadius found it ‘beitted the head which teemed with such a burden of thought and feeling’.29 Mendelssohn’s receding hairline meant that he did have such a brow; however, his renowned intellectual and musical abilities would have made it dificult for him to have otherwise in contemporary portrayals. (other musicians, including Beethoven and Liszt, were also hailed as having ‘noble brows’.)30 Bayard Taylor’s description of Mendelssohn’s ‘great breadth at the temples’31 relected phrenological beliefs that the ‘organ’ affecting musical ability, ‘tune’, sat immediately above the eyes at the sides of the head; a large such protrusion would mean that an individual possessed ‘extraordinary musical taste and talent’.32 The expressiveness of Mendelssohn’s features that Grove found generally lacking in his portraits was one of the characteristics physiognomists thought typical of individuals with extraordinary abilities. Charles Bell found that the capacity for expression, this indication of a mind susceptible of great, or of tender emotions, has a great share in human beauty … how different the tame regularity of a merely placid countenance, from what strikes the spectator when he beholds the indications of a great mind in the susceptibility of emotion and energy, which marks the brow, and animates the eye of the hero.33

Paolo Mantegazza, in Physiognomy and Expression (1890), wrote that ‘a very sensitive, very intelligent and very cultivated man will give to his expression a delicacy of contours and richness of tints and light and shade’,34 just the reaction of Mendelssohn’s early biographers. Grove described Mendelssohn’s face as ‘unusually Although the ear was sometimes linked to musical ability – see Ellis (1900), 143–4 – Mendelssohn’s ears were not typically discussed. 26 Unpublished journal, Royal Archives, Windsor, quoted in Brown (2003), 6. 27 Cowling (1989), 78. 28 Polko (1869/1987), 64; Wasielewski (1897), 60: ‘Die hohe, schöngewölbte Stirn’, trans. in Brown (2003), 8. 29 Lampadius (1865/1978), 162. 30 Barnard (1870), 141; Davison (2005), 142. 31 Bayard Taylor (1865/1978), 249. 32 Fowler and Fowler (1857), 118. Spurzheim considered the foreheads of various composers in Spurzheim (1825), 286. 33 Bell (1806), 102. 34 Mantegazza (1890), 170, quoted in Cowling (1989), 125. 25

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mobile, and ever varying in expression, full of brightness and animation’.35 Wilhelm Joseph von Wasielewski recalled that the composer’s facial expressions ‘often changed suddenly. The dark eye blazed like lightning. It would just as quickly assume a friendly, benevolent and cheerful expression as a sharply penetrating one or serious and thoughtful one.’36 Such assessments were similar to Lavater’s view of musicians’ faces, which he found luctuating and mobile due to their receptivity to emotions and their corresponding ability to communicate them.37 Physiognomic interpretations were in part a function of a subject’s social class, and portrayals of Mendelssohn are clearly inluenced by his upper-class status. An 1855 article in Household Words noted that persons’ physiognomies reveal ‘their social condition and their histories, stamped on them as legibly as arms are painted on a carriage panel’.38 Upper-class status reportedly resulted in reinement of the features. Gustavus cohen, in The Modern Self-Instructor (1885), found that the high quality of an individual was evident in the ‘texture of the hair and skin, the delicacy of the ibres, the brilliancy of the eye and, in fact, the superior make of every part’.39 The high level of cultivation in a person’s features corresponded to the mental responses of which he was capable. For example, in John Ruskin’s description a true gentleman demonstrates that ineness of structure in the body, which renders it capable of the most delicate sensation; and of structure in the mind which renders it capable of the most delicate sympathies – one may say simply, ‘ineness of nature.’40

Upper-class features were frequently described as ‘delicate’; the word was almost ubiquitous in descriptions of Mendelssohn. Likewise writers stress the ‘reinement’ of the composer’s features; such reinement, delicate features and upper-class status are exempliied in Heinrich Mücke’s 1835 drawing (Figure 1.2). While there is nothing speciic about this portrait that would indicate musical talent, other authors associate ‘ine’ rather than ‘coarse’ features with artistic ability. Henry Balkin advised that seeing an orchestra allowed for ‘the study of texture or quality’, supplying a picture of a representative violinist.41 thus a sensitive musician like Mendelssohn would inevitably have ine, rather than coarse, lower-class features. Grove (1951), 363. Wasielewski (1897), 60: ‘der öfters plötzlich wechselnde Gesichtsausdruck. Das dunkle Auge zeigte ein blitzendes Feuer. Es konnte ebenso schnell einen freundlich wohlwollenden und heitern, wie einen scharf durchdringenden oder auch ernst sinnenden Ausdruck annehmen’, trans. in Brown (2003), 8. 37 Mraz (1996), 167. 38 ‘Passing Faces’, Household Words 2 (14 April 1855): 263, quoted in Cowling (1989), 122. 39 Cohen (1885), 61, quoted in Cowling (1898), 178. 40 Ruskin (c1890), 3: 333. 41 Balkin (1919), 170, 231. 35 36

Never Perfectly Beautiful

Figure 1.2

15

Frontispiece portrait of Mendelssohn by H. Mücke (owned by Paul V. M. Benecke Esq.), from Mendelssohn and His Friends in Kensington, ed. Rosamund Brunel Gotch (London: Oxford University Press, 1934). By permission of Oxford University Press.

Phrenological writing typically divided human physiognomies into three ‘temperaments’: ‘vital’, ‘motive’, and ‘mental’. The individual who was dominated by his brain and nervous system was said to have a ‘mental’ temperament as revealed in ‘a slight frame; a head relatively large, an oval or a pyriform face; a high, pale forehead; delicate and inely chiselled features; bright and expressive eyes’.42 Mendelssohn’s physiognomy clearly indicated a ‘mental temperament’. Hensel’s drawings in Die Familie Mendelssohn and the engraving of Mendelssohn’s deathbed portrait in the 1864 English edition of his Briefe particularly emphasized the pyriform features of his face.43 samuel 42 Wells (1873), 106–7. Illustration available on p. 107 in 1871 edition digitized at www.archive.org. This description lasted throughout the century; see Fosbroke (1914), 77. 43 Frontispiece to Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1864).

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Figure 1.3

Composers’ heads in Wells, New Physiognomy, 528.

Wells’s New Physiognomy (1866) identiied Mendelssohn as having an ‘even and well-developed moral brain’ inclined to the ‘spiritual and sentimental’, and provided a portrait of him amidst other composers (Figure 1.3);44 as late as 1919, Balkin named Mendelssohn in a list of famous ‘mentals’.45 While Wells’s portrait of the composer looks more like an imagined physiognomic ideal than any speciic portrait, other paintings, such as Hensel’s proile of his brother-inlaw, compare favourably with the physical ideals for creative, artistic individuals in phrenology treatises (Figures 1.4a and 1.4b).46

Physiognomy and Jewishness Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage initially igured more prominently in mid-century descriptions of his physiognomy than in his portraiture, which became increasingly ‘Jewish looking’ later in the century to relect contemporary constructions of race. Just as physiognomists believed that personal characteristics could be identiied 44 45 46

Wells (1873), 531 and 528. Balkin (1919), 49. Sizer and Drayton (1885), 25.

Never Perfectly Beautiful

Figure 1.4a

17

‘Poetic–Artistic’ physiognomy from Sizer and Drayton, Heads and Faces and How to Study Them, 25.

through individuals’ physical makeup, nineteenth-century anthropologists held that speciic, measurable racial characteristics added up to a particular physical type. Race had, of course, long igured in physiognomic assessments. spurzheim assumed that because members of races shared a physiognomy, they would, with some exceptions, have similar traits and abilities.47 Anthropological studies of a race’s features read surprisingly like physiognomic descriptions of the phrenologists’ ‘temperaments’, detailing body size, hair and eye colour, and shape of face, forehead, nose, lips, and chin. Publications of both groups abound in pictures of heads, as anthropologists believed that size and shape of the skull was by far the most important racial characteristic. Anthropologists’ descriptions of Jewish features were typically similar to those of the phrenologists’ ‘mental temperament’.48 Phrenologists, in turn, acknowledged the inluence of the mental temperament in Jews, but sometimes found them more likely to have a ‘vital constitution’ and, inluenced by common stereotypes, a tendency toward highly developed organs of ‘acquisitiveness’: ‘His irst and strongest impulse is to worship and propagate his faith; the second, to 47 48

Spurzheim (1826), 44. Gilman (1996), 33–59.

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Figure 1.4b

Mendelssohn portrait by Wilhelm Hensel, MA BA 368, staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv.

trade.’49 however, anthropologists and physiognomists agreed that Jews were a certain type, ‘easily identiiable because they had retained typically Jewish racial features unchanged over the centuries’.50 When subsequent research did not bear out scientists’ notion that there was a speciically Jewish skull, some writers, such as Ripley, nonetheless fell back on recognizable stereotypes: What Jew or christian, till he became an anthropologist, ever stopped to consider the shape of his head …? Who has not, on the other hand, early acquired a distinct concept of a Jewish face and of a distinctly Jewish type? could such a patent fact escape observation for a moment?51

Period treatments of Mendelssohn demonstrate that, despite his childhood conversion to christianity and his assimilation into european society, he was ultimately unable to escape his Jewish physiognomy. Many writers emphasize 49 50 51

Jacques (1881), 187. Efron (1994), 102–3. Ripley (1899), 398–9.

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the composer’s Jewish appearance: Eduard Devrient notes immediately that Mendelssohn’s features were ‘of the Oriental type’, and Grove writes ‘His look was dark and very Jewish’.52 Richard Storrs Willis’s exaggerated description reveals the composer’s heritage: ‘His head appeared to have been set upon the wrong shoulders, – it seemed, in a certain sense, to contradict his body. not that the head was disproportionately large; but its striking nobility was a standing reproof to the pedestal on which it rested’.53 in spite of the emphasis on the nobility of Mendelssohn’s head, Willis’s description relects contemporary notions about Jews being physically small and ‘endowed with a relatively much broader head’.54 Indeed, although Wells’s drawing of Mendelssohn is constructed to conform to a physiognomic ideal – high forehead, reined nose and mouth – his description of Mendelssohn as destined for intellectual rather than lower-class manual labor reads much like stereotypical descriptions of Jewish character: This face simply looks the musician. One would scarcely expect anything else from such a head and face. Had he been put at the plow tail, or a blacksmith’s shop, or into a shipyard, or set to build bridges and railroads, what sort of a hand would he have made at such employment? When he took up music he found his right sphere.55

such a description is similar to much anthropological literature about Jews during the nineteenth century, such as Robert Knox’s anti-Semitic stereotypes in The Races of Men (1850): ‘But where are the Jewish farmers, Jewish mechanics, labourers? can he not till the earth, or settle anywhere? Why does he dislike handicraft labor?’56 Similarly, Ripley asserts that: ‘The Jew betrays an inherent dislike for violent manual or outdoor labour, as for physical exercise or exertion in any form. He prefers to live by brain, not brawn’.57 Mendelssohn’s ‘unspeakably expressive eyes’ recounted by Lampadius were often the center of descriptions of the composer. Many commentators used metaphors involving light in their descriptions, Grove commenting on how Mendelssohn’s eyes ‘when animated … gave an extraordinary brightness and ire to his face’ and taylor rhapsodizing that they were ‘shining, not with a surface light, but with a pure, serene, planetary lame’.58 nonetheless, such eyes could be considered to be Jewish, resulting in anti-semitic interpretations of their meaning. Wells stated that ‘the light-eyed races have attained a higher degree of civilization than the 52 53 54

187. 55 56 57 58

Grove (1951), 363. Richard Storrs Willis, quoted in Nichols (1997), 192. Ripley (1899), 389–9. This idea is also found in phrenology; see Jacques (1881), Wells (1873), 531. Knox (1969), 131. Ripley (1899), 373. Lampadius (1978), 162; Grove (1951), 364; Bayard Taylor (1978), 249.

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dark races’,59 and the emphasis on light in the composer’s eyes seems to be an attempt to counteract physiognomic interpretations of Jewish darkness. Wells, drawing on Lavater, found ‘small, black sparkling eyes … seldom destitute of cunning, penetration, and artiicial stimulation … they denote cool relection, taste, elegance, accuracy, and an inclination rather to avarice than generosity’.60 Although not speciically referring to Jews, Wells’s description relects anti-Semitic stereotypes of Jewish wealth and craftiness. Devrient recalled Mendelssohn’s ‘large, expressive dark eyes, with drooping lids, and a peculiar veiled glance through the lashes; this, however, sometimes lashed distrust or anger, sometimes happy dreaming and expectancy’;61 his description is noticeably similar to Ripley’s description of characteristically Jewish eyes: The lids are rather full, the eyes large, dark and brilliant. A general impression of heaviness is apt to be given. in favorable cases this imparts a dreamy, melancholy or thoughtful expression to the countenance; in others it degenerates into a blinking drowsy type; or again, with eyes half closed, it may suggest suppressed cunning.62

Eyes such as these are rarely depicted in portraits made during Mendelssohn’s lifetime, though in James Warren Childe’s often-reprinted painting of 1830, the composer’s eyelids do droop suggestively, and the full-length pose presents him elegantly attired, clearly a wealthy young man.63

Mendelssohn’s ‘Jewish’ Nose and other Anti-semitic stereotypes Whatever features Mendelssohn’s face might have possessed that indicated his superiority of class, intellect, and musical ability could, according to physiognomic ideals, be overridden by the shape of his nose. the nose was believed to be an essential element in human character; or, as George Jabet wrote in Notes on Noses (1884), ‘The Mind forms the Nose’.64 Numerous contemporary examples in physiognomy, art, and anthropological literature support the idea, described by Mary cowling, that ‘the equation of power, and its related social superiority with a large nose seemed inescapable’.65 however, size alone did not determine the role the nose played in character; shape and ‘nostrility’ functioned as well. The most desirable noses were Roman or aquiline, believed to belong to ‘persons of superior intellect and high 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

Wells (1873), 238. ibid., 33. Devrient (1869/1972), 65–6. Translation of Devrient (1869), 70. Ripley (1899), 396. See F. H. Schramm’s 1841 drawing in Marek (1972), 260. Jabet (1859), 4. Cowling (1989), 149.

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moral sentiment’.66 Charles Le Brun wrote that ‘illustrious men … were all gifted with a nose at least a little aquiline’, and an 1868 Anthropological Review asserted that ‘an aquiline nose … generally accompanies soaring qualities’.67 such descriptions stand in sharp contrast to those of the stereotypical Jewish nose, the most commonly cited Jewish facial feature.68 Ripley wrote that ‘this trait, next to the prevalent dark hair and eyes and the swarthy skin, is the most distinctive among the chosen people’.69 The so-called ‘Jewish’ nose, frequently depicted in physiognomy treatises, was so much part of the popular conception of Jews’ faces that anthropologists were at pains to concede that such noses were characteristic of other ethnic groups as well, and that all Jewish noses were not alike. Later in the century Jewish anthropologists attempted to qualify the stereotype of ‘the large, protruding, hooked nose of the Jew’70 in some manner. Joseph Jacobs noted that such a nose was not evident in composite photographs made by Francis Galton of Jewish schoolboys. It was the ‘accentuation and lexibility of the nostrils’ that produced the ‘Jewish expression’, and he provided comparative drawings.71 Nonetheless, the stereotype of the Jewish or ‘hawk’ nose, implying a rapacious or cheating character, prevailed and was common in caricatures of Jews of all ages, classes, and genders.72 Jabet, like countless others, associated this nose with mercenary instincts, writing that it ‘indicates considerable shrewdness in worldly matters; a deep insight into character and facility of turning that insight to proitable account’.73 It was ‘a good money-getting Nose, a good commercial nose’, but one that would not ‘elevate’ the Jew ‘to any exalted pitch of intellectuality’.74 such descriptions sometimes appear without speciic references to Jews. Lavater wrote (in a passage sometimes quoted by later writers): noses which are much turned downward … are never truly good, truly cheerful or noble, or great. their thoughts and inclinations always tend to earth. they are close, cold, heartless, incommunicative; often maliciously sarcastic, illhumored.75 ‘Notes on Noses’, Illustrated London News (28 May 1842): 36, quoted ibid., 148. Le Brun (1827), 4, quoted in Cowling (1989), 79; Anthropological Review (1868): 138, quoted in Cowling (1989), 149. 68 Jewish nose from George Jabet (1859), 11. This illustration is available on p. 11 of the 1864 edition digitized at www.archive.org. 69 Ripley (1899), 391. 70 Fishberg (1911), 78–9. 71 Joseph Jacobs (1891), xxxi–xxxii. Jewish nostrility (in Figure 1) from Joseph Jacob, Studies in Jewish Statistics (London: D. Nutt, 1891), Appendix, xxxii. This illustration is available on p. xxxii of the 1891 edition of this book, digitized at www.archive.org. 72 Wechsler (1993), 111–12. 73 Jabet (1859), 11. 74 ibid., 89. 75 Lavater, quoted in Wells (1873), 36. 66

67

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Over a century later, the idea remained; in 1914 Gerald Fosbroke could write that such a nose suggested ‘shrewdness … caution and suspicion. When found upon the face of the man of business it will indicate the self-seeker, the hard driver of bargains’.76 Other than his dark colouring, Mendelssohn’s nose was the external feature serving as the best evidence of his Jewish origins. several writers emphasize the hook in the composer’s nose, Elise Polko calling it ‘somewhat bent’. Wasielewski calls it ‘moderately curved’, writing that it ‘betrayed his oriental ancestry’.77 not surprisingly, Mendelssohn’s nose is the feature that most varies from picture to picture. Although his facial masks suggest that the composer did, in fact, have a somewhat prominent nose with a slight hook in its upper portion and, at least in the death mask, a protruding tip, many portraits of him made during his lifetime downplay this particular feature, as if deliberately giving the composer the physiognomy of an upper-class Christian, a kind of visual assimilation. Mücke’s portrait, the painting in proile by Hensel, an 1833 pencil drawing by Eduard Bendemann, and a drawing by Wilhelm Schadow all have noses that are more aquiline than ‘hooked’.78 These portrayals contain the sort of reined features that would be characteristic of an aristocratic Victorian ‘type’ – they suggest a young man of wealth who has the sensitivity and elegance expected of one of his class. Little evidence is seen of Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage; indeed, in Mücke’s, Bendemann’s and Schadow’s drawings light shines on his hair as if to suggest that it is brown rather than black. Bayard Taylor’s description of Mendelssohn is particularly indicative of the tension inherent between his musical success and class status and his Jewishness. taylor struggles to emphasize that Mendelssohn, although Jewish looking, does not have the expected ‘coarseness’ or other undesirable attributes; Mendelssohn’s nostrils are ‘ine’ and his lineage is that of an aristocrat: his nose had the Jewish prominence, without its usual coarseness: i remember, particularly, that the nostrils were as inely cut and lexible as an Arab’s. The lips were thin and rather long, but with an expression of indescribable sweetness in the delicate curves. His face was a long oval in form; and the complexion pale, but not pallid. As I looked upon him, I said to myself, ‘The Prophet David!’ and since then, i have seen in the hebrew families of Jerusalem, many of whom trace their descent from the princely houses of israel, the same nobility of countenance.79

Despite Mendelssohn’s continuing Jewishness, his physiognomy has been transformed by his upper-class status. 76

Fosbroke (1914), 48. Polko (1869/1987), 65; Wasielewski (1897), 61: ‘Die mäßig gebogene Nase … verriet die orientalische Abkunst’, trans. in Brown (2003), 8. 78 The Bendemann drawing is the frontispiece to Max Schneider (1947). Schadow’s portrait is reproduced in Kleßman (1997), 59. 79 Bayard Taylor (1978), 249–50. 77

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Willis attributes certain anti-semitic stereotypes to the composer, including the stereotypical ‘Jewish foot’: ‘In his gait, he was somewhat loose and shambling; he had a linging motion of the limbs and a supple-jointedness, which, coupled with other little peculiarities of carriage, determined him – according to popular German tradition – as of Oriental origin’.80 such a description stands in stark contrast to Lampadius’s assertion that the composer was ‘graceful in his walk and bearing’.81 Sander Gilman has described the ‘Jewish foot’ as a supposedly congenital deformity that affected the Jews’ walk, symbolizing their physical difference and lack of integration in society; the idea of the ‘limping Jew’ was retained in turn-of-thecentury medicine.82 Mendelssohn’s walk, indeed his entire body, is clearly Jewish for Willis, who stresses that it is only his musical genius that redeems the composer from his hereditary condition: But this listlessness of bearing seemed to disappear entirely the moment he sat down to a pianoforte or organ, and came into artistic action. then, like a fullblooded Arabian courser, he showed his points: you had before you a noble creature. All awkwardness disappeared: he was Mendelssohn, and no longer a son of Mendel.83

Lampadius, too, follows his description of Mendelssohn’s physiognomy with discussion of his ‘Christian character’, recounting his deep knowledge of the Bible, his ‘unshaken faith’, and ‘profound spiritual-mindedness’.84 It is as if Lampadius recognizes the strongly Jewish physiognomy in his description and must assure his readers that, in spite of Mendelssohn’s appearance, he was in no way a Jew. While William Makepeace Thackeray described Mendelssohn’s face as ‘the most beautiful face I ever saw, like what I imagine our Saviour’s to have been’,85 the subtext to his description perhaps recognizes that Christ, too, was a Jew. Eduard Devrient’s physical description of the composer in his 1869 Erinnerungen strongly emphasizes his Jewishness. His account of Mendelssohn’s ‘short upper and full under lip, which was slightly protruded and hid his teeth, when with a slight lisp, he pronounced the hissing consonants’ coincides with the common assertion that Jews had a ‘pouting underlip’, suggesting their more ‘corporeal nature’, as ‘higher races’ were believed to have thin lips.86 his further suggestion that Mendelssohn lisped (which seems not to be corroborated by other Willis, quoted in Nichols (1997), 192. Lampadius (1978), 162. 82 Gilman (1991), 39–40, 55. The stereotype had roots in the medieval belief that Jews’ feet had cloven, Satanic hooves. 83 Willis, quoted in Nichols (1997), 192. 84 Lampadius (1978), 163. 85 Quoted in Grove (1927), 3: 418. 86 Devrient (1869), 66; Jacobs (1891), Appendix, xxxiii. On lips, see Cowling (1989), 81–4. 80 81

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sources) may draw on another stereotype in which the Jew, in spite of his education and attempt at assimilation, is still unable to have command over any Western language.87 Whether or not Devrient’s portrayal was accurate, it nonetheless drew on enough Jewish stereotypes to fuel anti-semitic assessments.88

visual transformations: A More ‘Jewish’ Mendelssohn not only did posthumous descriptions of Mendelssohn stress his Jewish physiognomy, sometimes to the point of including common stereotypes, but his portraiture was transformed in the late nineteenth century, showing increasing evidence of anti-semitism as well. Many of the published pictures of Mendelssohn were obviously derived from the portrait painted by eduard Magnus in 1846, which Grove hailed as closest to the composer’s actual appearance. However, in the most reproduced copy of Magnus’s portrait, which appears in the 1907 American edition of Grove’s Dictionary and in many other biographies, Mendelssohn’s visage is signiicantly transformed – the face fatter, the lips more prominent, and the overall effect more feminine (Figures 1.5a and 1.5b).89 The transformations of Magnus’s portrait were so substantial that the volume also contained an engraving based on and closer to the original – apparently the pictures differed enough that the editors did not recognize that they stemmed from the same source.90 An engraving based on Magnus’s portrait that appeared as the frontispiece to the 1865 American edition of Lampadius’s biography suffered a similar fate (Figure 1.5b). The fatter and/or the more effeminate version became a common visual representation of Mendelssohn and was often the one that was transmitted into twentieth-century portraiture.91 By physiognomical standards the changes in these images are signiicant; they make Mendelssohn less of a ‘mental’ type. One might ind that the increase in bulk, which is contrary to the description of Mendelssohn as a small, lithe man, brings him closer to the ‘vital’ type.92 this seems, in one respect, to move him 87

Gilman (1991), 19–20. See the cartoon of an upper-class lisping Jew from Punch [27 October 1883], Gilman (1991), 65. 88 See Cosima Wagner’s comments from 28 January 1869: ‘a conirmation of what Richard wrote about Mendelssohn in his essay’. Cosima Wagner (1976–80), 1: 49. 89 Grove (1907), vol. 3, plate between pages 110 and 111. Mendelssohn portrait (1846) by eduard Magnus (staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv), widely available in printed sources and online. 90 A similar picture appears in Ernst Wolff (1906), 108, where it is attributed to c. Jäger, so it is possible the two paintings did stem from two different sources. 91 See the fat portrait in Haskell Dole (1925), between 348 and 349, and Gordon Ross’s effeminate portrait in Thomas (1940), between 106 and 107. 92 Wagner’s comment that Mendelssohn ‘looked so fat, so unpleasant – an unsavoury fellow’ was probably motivated by something other than accuracy. 3 January 1879, Cosima Wagner (1976–80), vol. 2, 247.11

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Figure 1.5a

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Mendelssohn in Anna Alice Chapin, Masters of Music: Their Lives and Works (New York: Dodd, Mead, and Co., 1901), between 301 and 302.

further from his Jewish heritage, as some anthropologists found the european Jew to be ‘undersized’ and ‘defective … in stature’.93 however this assessment is overshadowed by the stereotype of the commercially successful, fat Jew, widely seen in nineteenth-century caricatures; sander Gilman has documented the common association of Jews with obesity in the nineteenth century.94 For example, Robert Saundby’s 1897 essay on diabetes is permeated by this antisemitic stereotype: A person belonging to the richer classes in town usually eats too much, spends a great part of his life indoor, takes too little bodily exercise, and overtakes his nervous system in the pursuit of knowledge, business, or pleasure … such a description is a perfectly accurate account of the well-to-do Jew, who raises himself easily by his superior mental ability to a comfortable social position, and notoriously avoids all kinds of bodily exercise.95 93 94 95

Ripley (1899), 380. Gilman (2004), 47. Saundby (1897), 197–9, quoted in Gilman (2004), 47–8.

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Figure 1.5b

Engraving after Magnus, frontispiece to W. A. Lampadius, Life of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, ed. and transl. William Leonhard Gage (Boston: O. Ditson, 1865).

The changes to Magnus’s portrait thus make Mendelssohn look more, rather than less, Jewish, and in doing so undermine the delicate, reined physiognomy that reveals he had artistic abilities. As the portrait deteriorates, becoming fatter and less digniied, it becomes more ‘Jewish’, relecting Knox’s 1850 assertion that ‘the Jewish face never can be, and never is, perfectly beautiful’.96 the increasingly effeminate portrayal of Mendelssohn was noted by Grove, who complained that the copies of Magnus’s portrait were ‘distinguished by a hopeless meek solemnity of look, absolutely impossible in the original, and which therefore conveys an entirely wrong idea of the face’.97 Polko, who had actually seen Mendelssohn, was also unsatisied with the portraits she had encountered and acknowledged their feminine features: ‘i have never hitherto seen any portrait … that represents that artistic head as it lives in my memory, there is something effeminate and sentimental in all the Mendelssohn portraits, which were certainly not the attributes of the living head’.98 In spite of the anti-Semitic lavor of some 96 97 98

Knox (1969), 134. Grove (1951), 364. Polko (1869/1987), 64.

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of the early descriptions of Mendelssohn’s physiognomy, there is little in them to suggest that the composer had any feminine physical features; indeed, Grove recounted that there was a ‘great deal of manliness packed into his little body’.99 Nonetheless, Mendelssohn’s ‘mental’ temperament would have been viewed as somewhat of a liability by the late nineteenth century due to the increasing emphasis on masculine values of toughness, aggressiveness, and athleticism;100 phrenologists sometimes complained of the current overabundance, ‘excessive and morbid development’ of mental temperament. Hints of this attitude already appear in Wells’s writing, which utilized Taylor’s description of Mendelssohn’s supposed resemblance to Edgar Allan Poe, whom the phrenologist described ‘as sensitive as a girl’.101 the effeminate visual portrayals parallel common descriptions of Mendelssohn as feminine later in the nineteenth century. W. s. B. Mathews wrote in 1898 that Mendelssohn’s works are ‘more feminine than masculine’,102 and the following year R. Farquharson Sharp suggested, ‘in his music this sweetness may sometimes verge on effeminacy’.103 elbert hubbard, too, found that ‘Mendelssohn was distinctly feminine’.104 such descriptions were anti-semitic at their core, as the notion of the feminized Jew was widespread in the era’s scientiic and psychological literature, even in the writings of Jewish scientists. In 1869, the ethnologist Adolf Jellinek wrote: ‘Jews belong, as one of those tribes that are both more feminine and have come to represent the feminine among other peoples’.105 Physician heinrich singer agreed, writing in 1904 that ‘the Jew most approaches the body type of the female’.106 viennese author otto Weininger, whose best-selling Sex and Character (1903) summarized many of the century’s prevailing ideas, described ‘female’ and ‘Jewish’ as states of being which existed on a scale with ‘male’ and ‘Christian’ on the opposite end.107 Aubrey Beardsley’s 1896 caricature depicts Mendelssohn as effeminate, with delicate bows on his shoes and heart-shaped lips (Figure 1.6). Much about the caricature is also Jewish; the prominent nostrils suggest Jacob’s Jewish ‘nostrility’.108 (that the nostrils are clearly visible also suggests that Mendelssohn Grove (1951), 366. A person with a mental temperament was considered nervous and subject to breakdowns; overuse of the mental temperament was cited as the reason prodigies die young. See Balkin (1919), 159; Sizer and Drayton (1885), 31–2; and Fosbroke (1914), 14. On Mendelssohn’s ‘nervous temperament’, see Wilson Kimber (2003), 347–9. 101 Wells (1873), 527. 102 Mathews (1898/1971), 74. 103 Sharp (1913), 155. 104 Hubbard (1905), 201. 105 Jellinek (1869), 43. 106 Singer (1904), 9, quoted in Gilman (1993), 43. 107 Weininger (1906/1975). 108 The Savoy, 8 (December 1896): 63. 99

100

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Figure 1.6

Aubrey Beardsley, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1896), black ink and graphite on white wove paper, actual 16.3 × 10.3 cm. harvard University Art Museum, Fogg Art Museum, bequest of Grenville L. Winthrop, 1943.630; photo: Imaging Department © President and Fellows of Harvard College.

is a member of the ‘lower’ races.) The composer’s dangling curls resemble the payot hanging from the sideburns of orthodox Jews, reminiscent of John Beddoe’s inding Jews ‘particularly effeminate’ because ‘the young men wear a lock of long hair on each side of the face’.109 thus the changes in Mendelssohn portraiture parallel his declining reputation; the plump, effeminate features in 109

Beddoe (1861): 229.

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Figure 1.7

29

Engraving of Mendelssohn, frontispiece for Stephen S. Stratton, Mendelssohn (London: J. M. Dent; New York: E. P. Dutton, 1901).

these portraits suggest an individual who does not have the physiognomy of a great man or a great artist. The frontispiece to Stephen S. Stratton’s 1901 biography best epitomizes the conlicts in Mendelssohn portraiture, compensating for the composer’s Jewish characteristics by utterly transforming many of his features (Figure 1.7).110 Mendelssohn retains the genius’s domed forehead, and many features mark his Jewishness: dark hair and eyebrows; shining, dark eyes; and prominent hooked nose. However, instead of the delicate features of the ‘mental’ temperament, the composer’s face is rugged and appears more mature than his mere 38 years. It 110 Stratton (1901). This portrait may have been partly based on the medallion by Hermann Knaur; some features have been modiied. It may also have been inluenced by Ernst Wilhelm Rietschel’s bust based on the death mask.

30

Mendelssohn Perspectives

is as if, in order to accurately present Mendelssohn’s Jewish physiognomy, the artist must also exaggerate the features that prevent him from looking feminine. By physiognomical standards, this Mendelssohn would not lack in ‘mental’ temperament, but would probably be classiied as ‘vital’;111 the portrait is closer to visual representations of Beethoven or Wagner than to those of the composers included with Mendelssohn in Wells’s New Physiognomy. Another approach to Mendelssohn portraiture is to further lengthen and reine his visage and provide him with straight hair, resulting in a portrayal that almost resembles chopin, such as in Cuthbert Hadden’s The Master Musicians (1909) and on the jacket of John Erskine’s Song Without Words (1941).112 the implication here is that Mendelssohn is primarily a composer of sentimental piano miniatures for the domestic sphere. In both extremes, the Wagnerian and the Chopinesque, the composer no longer resembles the portraits of him his contemporaries believed to be the most accurate. His face is modiied to conform to physiognomies of composers of higher canonic stature, as his own face does not sufice to indicate his musical abilities. By the inal decades of the nineteenth century when scientists attempted to validate anti-Semitic stereotypes by inding Jews, like women, lower on the evolutionary scale, descriptions and portraiture had irmly established Mendelssohn’s Jewishness. While anti-Semitic assessments of Mendelssohn’s compositional abilities are often traced to Wagner’s Das Judentum in der Musik, even the writings of those who revered him reveal them struggling, to various degrees, with Jewish stereotypes. in spite of his professional success and christian identity, Mendelssohn was unable to escape the meanings surrounding his still Jewish physiognomy. In describing German prejudice, Moses Hess stressed that Jewish features were unchanging: ‘the Germans hate less the religion of the Jews than their race, less their peculiar beliefs, than their peculiar noses … Jewish noses cannot be reformed, nor black, curly, Jewish hair be turned through baptism or combing into smooth hair … The Jewish type is indestructible’.113 Physiognomy and phrenology linked physical nature to artistic ability; G. h. J. dutton wrote in Music and Phrenology: ‘for music to be effective, the composer or performer must possess the necessary qualiications of mind and body’.114 The transformation of Mendelssohn’s portraiture documents his declining image from an upper-class artistic genius to an overfed, effeminate Jew, lacking moral superiority and true reinement of mind. Although Mendelssohn’s music may have permeated european concert halls, his face told another story; according to physiognomy, his Jewish features hindered him from having achieved true greatness as a composer. 111 The later date of this engraving (Stratton’s biography irst appeared in 1901) also suggests that it is related to contemporary changes in masculine ideals. Wilson Kimber (2003), 335–44. 112 Hadden (1909), plate between 152 and 153; Erskine (1941). 113 Hess (1899), Brief IV, trans. in Rose (1990), 323. 114 G. H. J. Dutton (1892), 2. Emphasis added.

chapter 2

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’: reconsidering the impact of Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’ sinéad dempsey-Garratt

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy – the precocious and privileged composer of works steeped in the aura of Bach and Mozart – enjoyed universal, international adulation during his lifetime, but his reputation came crashing down in 1850 after richard Wagner’s anti-semitic diatribe. or so goes the commonly believed narrative. Yet contemporary critics such as A. B. Marx, robert schumann, Franz Brendel and eduard hanslick regularly questioned the originality of Mendelssohn’s works and the enthusiasm underpinning their creation. his alleged musical shortcomings were variously attributed to his youth, the perceived rigidity of the musical education he received from Zelter, or to an over-cerebral approach to composition. however, there is scant direct reference made to his Jewish heritage as the reason behind his perceived compositional failings. it is only in the period following the composer’s death in 1847 that anti-semitic rhetoric and argumentation becomes apparent.1 At this juncture, critics started to focus on Mendelssohn’s Jewish background and its inherent distance from German culture as the reason for his artistic limitations, some going so far as to claim that several of his works exhibited similarities to ‘synagogue music’. this chapter challenges the usual narrative of Mendelssohn reception history and assesses the extent to which anti-Jewishness featured in and affected the reception of Mendelssohn’s music in the ive years immediately following his death in 1847. the key issue here is how music critics of the time employed anti-Jewish ideas: did they merely invoke comparisons between Mendelssohn’s music and that of the synagogue, draw on rhetoric that may be interpreted as anti-Jewish, or engage wholesale with contemporary anti-Jewish ideology? the primary focus is on richard Wagner and his polemic ‘das Judentum in der Musik’, published in 1850 under the pseudonym ‘K. Freigedank’.2 examining the responses to this polemic helps to determine the extent and impact of antisemitism on Mendelssohn’s reception; studying the precursors to Wagner’s article 1

For an understanding of anti-semitism in this period similar to my own usage of the term, see robertson (1999), 156. For a different perspective, see Fischer (2000), 35. 2 Freigedank [Wagner] (1850), 101–7, 109–12; Wagner (1869). For a comparative analysis of how Wagner’s essay impacted Mendelssohn’s reception in 1850 and 1869, see dempsey-Garratt (2008).

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questions its supposed position as the sole source of anti-semitic critiques of the composer. indeed, a closer look at the documents immediately preceding Wagner’s essay helps to determine when anti-Jewish rhetoric irst emerged in critiques of Mendelssohn’s music. Jens Malte Fischer’s recent work on Wagner reception and donald Mintz’s preliminary investigation into the impact of anti-semitism on Mendelssohn’s reception following the revolutions of 1848 have already indicated some of the key primary source materials necessary for this undertaking.3 Much modern Mendelssohn scholarship tends to attribute the downturn in Mendelssohn’s reputation following his death directly to Wagner’s polemic. Peter Mercer-Taylor, in his biography of the composer, exempliies this approach: In Wagner’s formulation, it is inally to Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage that we must ascribe the fact that ‘he was not able, even one single time to call forth in us that deep, that heart-searching effect which we await from art’ … thus began a tradition of anti-semitic criticism in Germany that culminated, under the nazis, in Mendelssohn’s total erasure from the history of his country’s music.4

similarly, r. larry todd attributes the demise of Mendelssohn’s reputation to ‘two seemingly irremediable blows, irst from Richard Wagner’s anti-Semitic critique at mid-century, then from the reaction against the victorian age near the turn to the twentieth century’.5

‘Judaism in Music’ and Its Precursors Let us irst revisit Wagner’s essay to consider what his polemic actually says about Mendelssohn. in Wagner’s formulation, the musical world was dominated by Jews, but the unsavoury Jewish nature made their inluence a destructive one. In Wagner’s view, the creative artist instinctively seeks stimulus from the music of his own society, thus the unintelligible ‘gurgling, yodelling and cackling’ [zischender, schrillender, summsender und murksender] typically heard in the synagogue must negatively affect the music of the Jewish composer.6 For Wagner, ‘the rhythms and melismata of the synagogue chant dominate his musical imagination in exactly the same way that instinctive knowledge of the modes and rhythms of our folk songs and dances shaped the creation of our vocal and instrumental music’.7 the Jew’s use of language, he argued, has the greatest bearing on artistic creation. since the early nineteenth century, Germans used the words mauscheln or jüdeln to describe the uniquely Jewish manner of speaking, which is at the heart of Wagner’s 3 4 5 6 7

see Fischer (2000) and Mintz (1992), 126–48. Mercer-taylor (2000), 204. todd (2003), xx. osborne (1973), 32–3. ibid., 32.

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

33

critique. Mauscheldeutsch – or Jargon as it was also known – is a form of German frequently interspersed with elements of hebrew. this was characterized by ‘vowel changes, incorrect case endings, Yiddish vocabulary … and the inability to place the ininitive verb at the end of a main clause or the verb at the end of a subordinate clause’.8 distinctive intonation and hand gestures may be added to this list.9 in Wagner’s view, a strong accent combined with mispronunciations and malapropisms rendered the Jew incomprehensible. Wagner drew a further connection between the ability to express oneself idiomatically, clearly and luently with the requisite amount of fervour through language and the capacity to articulate one’s feelings through art. it follows that the Jewish faculty for creativity is necessarily limited, since a lack of care for felicitous verbal expression is paralleled by eclecticism in art. thus, what emerges from the Jewish composer is an unnatural conglomerate of unrelated musical idioms: ‘Just as this dialect [Jargon] throws words and phrases together with extraordinary inexpressiveness, so does the Jewish musician ling together the various forms and styles of all composers and eras. side by side in utmost chaos we encounter in his music the idiosyncrasies of every form.’10 the end result for Wagner bears the hallmarks of ‘coldness, indifference, triviality and absurdity’.11 Wagner explicitly cites Mendelssohn – the only composer identiied by name in the essay – as epitomizing these degenerate musical tendencies. despite acknowledging Mendelssohn’s talent, Wagner denies him the ability to move the listener to the core of his being as was expected of art. he placed Mendelssohn’s music in stark contrast to that of native German composers whose listeners were instantly moved on hearing one of their creations. For Wagner, the limit of Mendelssohn’s achievement was to skilfully satisfy the desire for entertainment, because attempts to express emotion resulted in the use of an outmoded musical language which was essentially an imitation of the great German masters. Accordingly, the dramatic expression required for oratorio composition led to an over-reliance on the formal details of Bachian models.12 Modern scholarship may thus seem justiied in viewing Wagner’s essay as the primary source of the anti-semitic critique of Mendelssohn which brought about the sudden downturn in his reputation. however, several factors point to the need to reconsider this view. the perceived adverse effect of ‘Judaism in Music’ presupposes that, prior to the appearance of Wagner’s article, Mendelssohn was unequivocally and uniformly portrayed in positive terms. Yet, many of the themes present in the anti-Jewish critiques of the composer after his death were in fact present during his lifetime, albeit without explicitly racial overtones. For 8 9 10 11 12

robertson (1999), 203. Brenner et al. (1997), vol. 2, 204. osborne (1973), 33. ibid., 34. ibid., 34–5.

Mendelssohn Perspectives

34

table 2.1

Precursors of and responses to Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’

date

Journal

Author

title of Article

02.01.1850

Neue Berliner Musikzeitung

eduard Krüger

‘drei Psalmen (2. 43. 22) opus 78’

13.03.1850

Neue Berliner Musikzeitung

eduard Krüger

‘Zur Kritik Mendelssohn’s’

05.02.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

theodor Uhlig

‘der Prophet von Meyerbeer’

26.02.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

theodor Uhlig

‘noch einmal der Prophet von Meyerbeer’

6.07.1850

Rheinische Musik-Zeitung für Kunstfreude und Künstler

ludwig Bischoff

‘Welcher ist der wahre Prophet?’

23.07.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

theodor Uhlig

‘Zeitgemäβe Betrachtungen, vi. Auβerordentliches’

10.08.1850

Rheinische Musik-Zeitung für Kunstfreude und Künstler

ludwig Bischoff

‘tu-hoc intrivisti: tibi omne est exedendum’

03.09.1850 06.09.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

K. Freigedank (richard Wagner)

‘das Judenthum in der Musik’

10. 1850

Die Grenzboten

J[ulian] s[chmidt] ‘Börne, heine und das Judenthum unserer neuen literatur’

01.10.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

eduard Krüger

‘Judentümliches’

15.10.1850

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

eduard Bernsdorf

‘K. Freigedank und das Judentum in der Musik’

26.10.1850

Europa

Unknown

‘Aus leipzig’

21.12.1850

Europa

Unknown

‘deutsches Judenthum und christliche Kritik’

25.01.1851

Illustrierte Zeitung

Johann christian lobe

‘das Judentum in der Musik’

04.07.1851

Neue Zeitschrift für Musik

Franz Brendel

‘das Judenthum in der Musik

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

35

instance, in the 1820s, critics questioned the value of Mendelssohn’s works in the major music journals.13 Modern Mendelssohn scholarship tends to overlook that Wagner’s essay contributed to a pre-existing journalistic debate on the theme of Jewishness in music that began in 1850 (table 2.1).14 Wagner himself acknowledged this state of affairs: ‘there was a reference in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik recently to an ‘artistic taste of the hebrews’, a phrase which of course was immediately attacked and defended. i consider it important to bring some clarity to the subject at the root of this discussion.’15 he claimed that it was not his intention to say anything new in his essay. in fact, by the time Wagner’s article appeared in two successive issues of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik in september 1850, the creative ability of Jewish composers had been a recurring theme in the musical press for several months.16 Mendelssohn had igured prominently in earlier contributions to this debate. Wagner, therefore, did not simply choose to direct his vitriol against Mendelssohn; rather, the existing discourse delineated the parameters and content of Wagner’s essay. this challenges the view that the presence of Mendelssohn and Giacomo Meyerbeer in ‘Judaism in Music’ stems from professional jealousy put forth by both contemporary and modern commentators. For instance, sander Gilman has argued that Wagner was prompted to consider the Jewish facility for creativity as a direct result of his personal conlict with Meyerbeer largely because his operas were more popular in Paris than Wagner’s.17 The irst writer to draw on anti-Jewish rhetoric in discussing Mendelssohn’s music was the hegelian critic eduard Krüger who, during the 1840s, frequently criticized Mendelssohn’s religious works. Most notable is a lengthy review in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik of the oratorio Elijah.18 the negative tone of this article, written only weeks after the composer’s death, is inconsistent with all the other major journals which were commemorating the life of a much-loved composer, musician and German cultural icon. in an 1850 review of Mendelssohn’s Drei Psalmen, op. 78, Krüger criticizes Psalm 22, in which he hears the monotonous 13

see for instance Anon. [A. B. Marx?] (1824): 168–9; A. B. Marx (1824): 444–8; ‘v d. o … r’ (1825): 361–3; Anon. (1827c): 813–15. see dempsey-Garratt (2003) and (2004) for my discussion of these reviews. A selection of excerpts from reviews of Mendelssohn’s works is also presented in Brown (2003), 325–45. 14 see table 2.1 which shows precursors of and responses to Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’. Jurgen thym has already challenged the uniqueness of Wagner’s perspective as expressed in ‘Judaism in Music’ through his identiication of precursors to this article in the form of Uhlig’s anti-semitic critiques of Meyerbeer’s le Prophète. see thym (1983), 21–36 (28). 15 osborne (1973), 24. 16 Fischer (2000), 24. 17 Gilman (1996), 43–4. 18 Krüger (1847).

36

Mendelssohn Perspectives

rhythms as ‘incontrovertibly reminiscent of the naivety of rabbinical recitation’.19 Attributing failings and weaknesses in Mendelssohn’s music to his Jewish heritage was a new theme in his reception at this point; its premise – that since Mendelssohn was born into a Jewish family his music must inevitably bear Jewish hallmarks – disregards the conversion which many Jews saw as a mode of access into German society and which Mendelssohn himself had undergone in 1816. Furthermore, Krüger’s comments anticipate by several months Wagner’s assertion in ‘Judaism in Music’ that the musical horizons of Jewish composers remained tied to the rhythms and melismata of synagogue chant. there is reason to believe, however, that contemporary readers would not have accepted the charge that Mendelssohn’s music bore the marks of his Jewish heritage. on 6 and 13 september 1854, an article by Joseph Gall in the Neue Berliner Musikzeitung aimed to further the state of knowledge of Jewish music. Gall suggested that nineteenth-century critics did not have access to samples of Jewish music on which to base their claims, and cited an example of a psalm typically sung on Yom Kippur that did not bear any resemblance to Mendelssohn’s works. in the absence of substantive knowledge of hebrew or Jewish music, authors like Wagner and Krüger relied on stereotypes, representing it as repetitive (Krüger) or, as Wagner put it, bewildering ‘gurgling, yodelling and cackling’.20 in fact, Gall countered the views of modern critics who claimed Jewish music was ‘hard, barbaric and consisted only of monotonous recitatives’.21 the idea that Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage is evident in his compositions stems from the assumption that the composer was exposed to Jewish tradition, but recent research challenges this view. Jeffrey sposato is persuasive in his argument to the contrary: drawing on letters written by Abraham Mendelssohn to both Felix and his sister Fanny, sposato reveals how Mendelssohn had no more than a ‘supericial’ exposure to Judaism. Indeed he did not receive any religious instruction until his conversion.22 even so, more subtle anti-Jewish bias is present in other articles by Krüger, such as his veiled observations on the text of Elijah, in which he quotes a letter from an imaginary correspondent who deems it ‘crassly Jewish’.23 Krüger also used adjectives associated with femininity to describe the composer, for instance in the review of the Drei Psalmen where he refers to Mendelssohn’s ‘mellow, charming, maiden-like disposition’.24 Another of Krüger’s articles, published in March 1850, portrays Mendelssohn as gentle and virginal – ‘dem sanften 19 Krüger (1850a): ‘eine Phrase hindurchziehende stumpfe rhythmik, die unwiderstehlich an die naivität rabbinischer recitation erinnert’. 20 osborne (1973), 32. 21 Gall (1854): ‘hart, barbarisch gewesen und habe nur in monotonen recitativen bestanden’. 22 sposato (2006), 17. 23 Krüger (1847), 267. 24 Krüger (1850a), 4.

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

37

jungfräulichen Felix’.25 these comments may simply be viewed as an attempt to feminize the composer, to impart to him the qualities and status characteristic of what was then regarded as the weaker sex.26 Mendelssohn’s compositions are thus implicitly contrasted with Beethovenian masculinity, and associated with the feminine realm of the aesthetics of sentiment rather than the masculine domain of the spirit. Yet, this feminization may have had a more sinister motivation: behind Krüger’s emphasis on the feminine qualities was the insinuation that these characteristics had a negative impact on Mendelssohn’s music. in the review of the Drei Psalmen Mendelssohn’s feminine attributes are implicitly linked to an impaired creative ability. in Krüger’s estimation, therefore, the sphere of high art is beyond the reach of the feminized composer.27 otto Weininger’s late nineteenthcentury association of the male Jew with femininity demonstrates that ideas such as Krüger’s gradually became a staple of anti-semitic criticism.28 Krüger’s writings clearly illustrate the emergence of anti-Jewish language in Mendelssohn criticism before such discourse was established in the German press and came to its culmination with the publication of Wagner’s notorious ‘Judaism in Music’. this chronology undermines the view that Wagner was the sole driving force behind anti-semitic critiques of the composer. other critics too employed anti-semitic rhetoric in the months prior to the publication of Wagner’s essay. theodor Uhlig, who had been a close friend of Wagner since 1847, had been paving the way for an anti-Jewish diatribe over several weeks in early 1850 through his ever more vitriolic critiques of Giacomo Meyerbeer.29 Finally, in the sixth part of a series of articles titled ‘contemporary observations’ Uhlig let loose, asserting that the music of many Jewish composers contains passages that nonJewish artists would describe as ‘ein Gemauschele’. this term invokes the most potent aspect of the ‘Jewish other’: the poor grasp of the German language. here Uhlig draws a parallel between Jewish verbal and artistic expression, a correlation which later became central to Wagner’s argument in ‘Judaism in Music’: in the music of many Jewish composers there are passages that almost all nonJewish musicians are accustomed to describing – by analogy with the coarse Jewish manner of speech known to all – as ‘Judenmusik’, as ‘Gemauschele’ or the like. these passages occur in this music in places where either the noble or commonplace predominates; their peculiarity derives in part from their metrical 25

Krüger (1850b), 83. Abrams and harvey (1997), 81–120. 27 Krüger (1850a), 4. 28 Gilman (1986), 243–4, and Weininger (1893). see also Wilson Kimber (2003). This is an interesting study of the association of Jewishness and femininity in in de siècle Anglo-American writings on the composer. As such it provides a useful model on which to base my discussion of a similar phenomenon in mid-nineteenth-century German music criticism before the appearance of Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’. 29 see table 2.1 for relevant articles on Meyerbeer. 26

38

Mendelssohn Perspectives shaping and partly from particular melodic idioms, and is sometimes scarcely noticeable, at other times strikingly prominent; thus, for example, it is very mild in Mendelssohn, yet in Meyerbeer extremely pungent, particularly in his Huguenots and no less in his Le prophète.30

As Uhlig himself acknowledges, he was not the irst critic to posit the existence of a uniquely Jewish mode of composition. he cites otto lindner’s description of a particular section of Meyerbeer’s Le prophète as being in the ‘Jewish manner’.31 Moreover, Uhlig argues that in Mendelssohn’s music sections of ‘Gemauschele’ are present, but in a milder form than those found in Meyerbeer.32 Although Uhlig’s comments only amount to a few words, the identiication of certain musical features redolent of mauscheln may be seen as a more blatant use of anti-Jewish rhetoric than previously witnessed in Mendelssohn criticism. Uhlig’s association of passages of Mendelssohn’s music with the unidiomatic Jewish form of German carries another layer of meaning. Mauscheln was generally associated with Jews who were not fully acculturated. these individuals often grew up in traditional families where Yiddish was spoken and were given a typical Jewish education.33 As such their lives were not strongly shaped by German cultural inluences. Mendelssohn did not belong to this category, yet Uhlig drew parallels between idioms in his music and the language of unacculturated Jews. For Uhlig, therefore, conversion coupled with a vast exposure to German culture was not suficient to erase the implicitly negative Jewish stamp. it has been suggested that the anti-Jewish feeling at mid-century in Germany was no more than a minority view which did not have broader currency.34 indeed, 30 Uhlig (1850), 30: ‘in der Musik vieler jüdischen Komponisten gibt es stellen, die fast alle nicht jüdischen Musiker in gewöhnlichen leben und mit Bezugnahme auf die allbekannte gemeine jüdische sprechweise als Judenmusik, als ein Gemauschele oder als ein dergl. bezeichnen. Je nachdem in dieser Musik hier der charakter des edlen, dort der des Gemeinen überwiegt, treten diese stellen, deren eigentümlichkeit teils in der metrischen Gestaltung, teils in einzelnen melodischen tonfällen der musikalischen Phrase liegt, hier nur wenig, dort ganz auffallend hervor, so z. B. bei Mendelssohn sehr geling, bei Meyerbeer dagegen in höchster schärfe, namentlich in seinen hugenotten, nicht minder auch in seinem Propheten.’ 31 ibid. 32 ibid. 33 Brenner et al. (1997), vol. 2, 204. 34 Katz (1980), 210–11: ‘Between the 1848 revolution and the foundation of the reich, the Jewish problem, though still in the process of seeking an ultimate solution, had lost much of its public attention … [during] the 1830s and 1840s, public debates and polemics on the Jewish question were the order of the day, during the 1850s and 1860s they were almost totally absent. the Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums, the representative organ of German Jewry, could state repeatedly and with satisfaction that the previous steady low of anti-Jewish pamphlets had become by 1865 a mere trickle.’

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

39

contemporary criticism shows that anti-Jewish sentiment was by no means uncontested either in relation to the quality of Mendelssohn’s works or his identity as a Jew. Although 1848 witnessed the most virulent anti-Jewish insurrection since the ‘hep-hep’ riots of 1819, the post-revolutionary period has been described as the dawning of a new age for German Jewry.35 Mendelssohn reception in this period mirrors the complex nature of attitudes towards Jews. the greater acceptance of Jews into German society paved the way for the positive reception of their artistic creations in some circles. What Uhlig and Wagner dismissed as a phenomenon worthy of ridicule was seen by others as a genuine contribution to German art. such critics dispensed with the German-good/Jewish-bad dichotomy, and identiied the compositions of Germans with Jewish ancestry as hybrids. As a result, theodor Uhlig’s claims regarding the presence of characteristically Jewish features in Mendelssohn’s music were repudiated in August 1850, shortly after they appeared in print. ludwig Bischoff, editor of the newly founded Rheinische Musik-Zeitung, condemned Uhlig’s line of argument as little more than bigotry, conirmed by his failure to give explicit examples of characteristically Jewish music: People should cite precise passages, in Mendelssohn and many other competent composers of the Jewish confession, which they regard as Judenmusik; general prattle about metrical shaping and melodic idioms tells us nothing. if such characteristic passages are not found in all Jewish composers, the assertion that they derive from Judaism or a Jewish school is void, since such musical turns of phrase are then merely characteristic of the individual … thus, the entire doctrine of a so-called Jewish music is a fantasy derived from prejudice, like many other odious assertions of a similar type. the true friend of art will instead recognize with joy what German men of Jewish religion have achieved in art and literature and every educated person will show aversion to remarks such as ‘ein Gemauschele’ and the like from the sphere of aesthetic criticism.36

35

Brenner et al. (1997), vol. 2, 283. Bischoff (1850), 44: ‘man gebe diejenigen stellen, welche man in Mendelssohn und vielen andern tüchtigen Komponisten jüdischer Konfession für Judenmusik erklärt, genau an, denn mit allgemeinen Geschwätz von metrischer Gestaltung und melodischen tonfällen ist nichts gesagt. Finden sich nun diese charakteristischen stellen nicht bei allen jüdsichen Komponisten, so fällt dadurch allein schon die Behauptung, daß sie auf dem Judaismus, beziehungsweise der Judenschule, beruhten, in ihr nichts zurück, und jene musikalischen Wendungen sind dann nur eigentümlichkeiten von individuen … so ist die ganze lehre von der sogenannten Judenmusik eine Phantasie, welche eben so aus vorurteilen hervorgangen ist, wie viele andere gehässige Behauptungen ähnlicher Art. der wahre Kunstfreud wird stets mit Freuden dasjenige anerkennen, was deutscher Männer jüdischer Konfession in Kunst und literatur geleistet haben, und Außerungen auf dem Gebiete der ästhetischen Kritik, wie ‘Gemauschele u. dgl.’ wird jeder edelgebildete mit Widerwillen von sich weisen.’ 36

Mendelssohn Perspectives

40

The most signiicant aspect of Bischoff’s critique is his contention that being Jewish does not preclude the designation ‘German’, a perspective indicative of the increasing level of acceptance experienced by Jews in Germany in this period.

Responses to wagner in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik Wagner’s infamous polemic was the next article to stir the pot in the discussion of the Jewish contribution to music. donald Mintz and Jens Malte Fischer have respectively identiied three and four responses to Wagner’s article following its 1850 publication.37 in fact, Wagner’s essay elicited seven published responses: three in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, two in Europa and one each in the leipzig Illustrierte Zeitung and Die Grenzboten. some of these texts were broadly supportive of Wagner’s standpoint. Yet their authors – Franz Brendel and eduard Krüger – did not endorse his anti-semitic arguments wholesale, or his critique of Mendelssohn. Krüger approved of Brendel’s decision to publish articles dealing with the Jewish inluence on music, claiming that no Jew had ever created anything new and compelling in art. Indeed, he himself was the irst writer to draw on anti-Jewish rhetoric in his appraisals of Mendelssohn. Yet, in response to Wagner’s essay he argued against dismissing Mendelssohn’s output in its entirety; he found value in works in certain genres, and even countered Wagner’s claim that Mendelssohn’s music was little more than a dazzling display of forms and shapes which merely satisied a craving for entertainment: certainly no earth-shattering artist who created something new and truly inspired, a world-conquering transformation, ever emerged from the Jews. But to reject Mendelssohn’s complete works on this ground would be wrong. his youthful Lieder are consummately beautiful; a part of his Lieder ohne Worte, namely the irst two volumes, are full of charming and deeply felt enthusiasm; his piano sonatas, caprices and concertos are not mere kaleidoscopic conglomerates of notes, but interesting and cheering living forms.38

Krüger’s linking of Mendelssohn with traditional genres of domestic music-making may seem to endorse the feminine nature of his music and thereby exemplify antisemitic rhetoric. Yet, when considered in relation to Wagner’s writings, Krüger’s 37

Fischer (2000); Mintz (1992), 126–48. Krüger (1850c) as presented in Fischer (2000), 215–16: ‘Gewiβ ist kein welt bewegender Künstler, der ein wahrhaft beseelendes neues, eine weltbezwingende Umwandlung erschaffen, jemals aus den Judentum hervorgegangen. Aber deshalb Mendelssohns sämtliche Werke verwerfen ist unrecht. seine Jugendlieder sind vollkommen schön; ein teil seiner lieder ohne Worte, namentlich die zwei ersten hefte, voll lieblicher sinnvoller schwärmerei; seine Klaviersonaten, Kapricen und Konzerte sind nicht kaleidoskopische Figuren, sondern interessante und lebendig heitere Gestalten.’ 38

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

41

review of the Drei Psalmen allows for more in Mendelssohn’s music than the alleged apathy of the Jewish composer consigned to creating cold reproductions of German masters. For Krüger, Mendelssohn could and did succeed in revealing his innermost soul through his art. this was most apparent in the ‘enthusiastic romanticism’ of his concert overtures.39 Brendel’s response to the problematic content of ‘Judaism in Music’ is more complex. his article appeared in July 1851, ten months after Wagner’s polemic was irst published. He inlated the impact of Wagner’s essay, describing the ‘veritable storm’ it allegedly aroused in the musical press, and referred to responses from as far aield as London.40 in reality, by the time Brendel’s article appeared, Wagner’s essay had elicited only a handful of responses from journals published in leipzig. revealingly, Brendel differentiates between the cultured (gebildet) and uncultured or coarse (gemein) Jew, asserting that only the latter is stigmatized in Wagner’s essay, thereby distancing assimilated Jews from the discussion.41 in Brendel’s view, those readers who misunderstood Wagner’s essay had failed to recognize this distinction. to him it was perfectly reasonable for Wagner to deem uncultured Jews unsuited to artistic creation.42 close examination of Wagner’s argument, however, discloses the strained nature of Brendel’s interpretation. Although Wagner did make a distinction between gebildet and gemein Jews, this distinction referred to Jews who had actively pursued acculturation through, for example, christian baptism and those who had not. As such, there was no measure of achievement, acceptance or approval for the cultured Jew in Wagner’s view because he did not believe that Jews could become acculturated at all. on the contrary, their distinguishing Jewish traits would always be evident: ‘Although the peculiarities of Jewish speech and singing are most emphasised in the ordinary Jew who has remained faithful to his race, and the cultured Jew has taken the greatest pains to rid himself of them, yet they cling to him with an impertinent obstinacy.’43 in fact, those Jews who tried to integrate themselves into an unfamiliar culture fared even worse in Wagner’s formulation, appearing cold and callous through rejection of their heritage. of those Jews who chose baptism as a means of entry into German society, he wrote: the cultured Jew has gone to great trouble to rid himself of the obvious distinguishing features of his fellow-believers: in many cases he has even had himself baptised as a christian. But this zeal has not brought the cultured Jew the rewards he has hoped for. it has served merely to isolate him and to render him the most heartless of all men.44 39 40 41 42 43 44

Krüger (1850a), 4. Brendel (1851), 4. ibid. ibid. osborne (1973), 31. ibid., 30.

Mendelssohn Perspectives

42

Ultimately for Wagner, the pursuit of acculturation has no positive bearing on the Jewish capacity for artistic invention: the cultured Jew is an alienated igure separated from his kith and kin, lacking an inner connection with the people among whom he dwells. this separation limits his artistic ability, as the requisite sense of community which unconsciously stimulates artistic inspiration is absent. Music is, for Wagner, the art most affected by this phenomenon: the compositions of cultured Jews can only be ‘mediocre and trivial’.45 Brendel, therefore, attributed to Wagner’s article a contrast between the gemein and gebildet Jew that is not actually present, one that essentially exempts Jews who had undergone a christian baptism. this may have been both an attempt to mollify Wagner’s argument and to distance himself from Wagner’s comments on Mendelssohn. Although he does not mention Mendelssohn by name, Brendel undoubtedly refers to the composer in censuring Wagner’s assertion that the Jewish composer concerns himself only with forms devoid of content.46 Brendel argued that Wagner’s terse comments must be read with reservation, thus softening the harsh appraisal of Mendelssohn.47 this attempt at diplomacy was most likely due to the extent of the controversy Wagner’s essay raised among Mendelssohn’s supporters. indeed, Brendel’s decision to publish the essay brought about a furore at the leipzig conservatory, where his colleagues Joseph Joachim, ignaz Moscheles, Ferdinand david, Moritz hauptmann and Julius rietz penned a letter calling for his dismissal as professor of music history and aesthetics. those who signed the letter had all been closely linked to Mendelssohn during his lifetime. in the additional notes to the republication of ‘Judaism in Music’ in 1869, Wagner himself bore witness to the dificulties Brendel endured following the 1850 essay. Wagner blamed Mendelssohn for this, asserting that his strong connection with Leipzig led to the identiication of that city as the ‘metropolis of Jewish music’, a city that promoted the music of Jewish composers to the exclusion of native German musicians.48 the content of Brendel’s earlier critiques of Mendelssohn supports the notion that he adapted Wagner’s argument as a direct result of the reaction of Mendelssohn’s colleagues and friends to his decision to publish ‘Judaism in Music’. Prior to the appearance of Wagner’s essay, Brendel was far from being an uncritical admirer of Mendelssohn, as noted earlier. his comments on the composer in the 1840s had anticipated the content of Wagner’s essay by several years, albeit without the racial overtones.49 Both writers ultimately conclude that Mendelssohn was a talented imitator who was ill-equipped to contribute to the development of musical art.

45 46 47 48 49

ibid. Brendel (1851), 6: ‘der jüdische Musiker sich nur in Formen ohne inhalt bewegt’. ibid. Wagner (1966), vol. 3, 77–122, 101–2. Brendel (1845).

Mendelssohn’s ‘Untergang’

43

While Krüger and Brendel equated Jewishness with a diminished capacity for creativity, Mendelssohn’s reception by these writers following the publication of Wagner’s essay reveals a slight softening in their appraisals of him, although this – in Brendel’s case – was stimulated by a complex personal agenda. in fact, their responses to Wagner’s essay served to mitigate its impact on Mendelssohn’s subsequent reputation through a reluctance to engage unequivocally with Wagner’s harsh perspective. the use of anti-semitic rhetoric did not automatically lead to wholesale dismissal of Mendelssohn. But, as evidenced in eduard Bernsdorf’s response to Wagner’s essay, neither did rejection of anti-semitic thought result in indiscriminate approval of his works. Bernsdorf’s rejoinder, published in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik in october 1850, outlined a philosophy of art in which the artist’s work can neither be separated from the artist himself nor from the era in which he creates. thus artistic development is continually guided by the age. For Bernsdorf, the universal nature of art means that factors such as the religious beliefs, customs and traditions of its creators are external to art and cannot impede its development.50 like Wagner, Bernsdorf was disappointed by the current state of music, but did not associate this with Jewish iniltration. He shared Wagner’s appraisal of Meyerbeer’s music, but challenged Wagner’s reasoning that Meyerbeer’s artistic weakness resulted from his Jewishness, suggesting instead that it stemmed directly from the artistic climate of the mid-nineteenth century. Bernsdorf similarly contested Wagner’s linking of Mendelssohn’s inadequate creative skills to his Jewish background on the grounds that Wagner had not found suficient evidence to support his claims: he [Wagner] cannot actually deny his [Mendelssohn’s] artistic ability and education [Bildung]; but he cannot ind the effect, that our heroes or art evoked in him, through listening to Mendelssohn’s compositions. We don’t want to argue with him about it; also it doesn’t occur to us to want to eulogize Mendelssohn – but the author has by no means proved to us how this lack of warmth, this cold, confused nature, is connected to his Jewish origin. he speaks about the composers, but not about the Jewish composers and that is the main thing. he hasn’t demonstrated any instances of Jargon in Mendelssohn’s work, he doesn’t reproach him for the synagogue, but only the master Bach on whom he leaned – briely here he occupies himself all of a sudden with purely aestheticizing – he proves only that Mendelssohn was not a universal genius.51 50

Bernsdorf (1850), 167. ibid.: ‘diesem kann er nun in der tat künstlerische Fähigkeit und seine Bildung nicht absprechen; aber die Wirkung, die unsere Kunstheroen auf ihn hervorgebracht haben, hat er beim Anhören seiner (Mendelssohns) Sachen nicht beinden können. Darüber wollen wir mit ihm nicht rechten; es fällt uns auch nicht ein, Mendelssohn eine lobrede halten zu wollen – wie aber dieser Mangel an Wärme, dieses kalte, blendende Wesen mit seinem jüdischen Ursprunge im Zusammenhange stehen soll, das hat uns der verfasser durchaus nicht bewiesen. er spricht über den Komponisten, aber nicht über den jüdischen 51

44

Mendelssohn Perspectives

here, Bernsdorf showed his own dissatisfaction with Mendelssohn by neither wishing to dispute Wagner’s evaluation of the composer’s music nor issuing a panegyric. Bernsdorf therefore suggested that factors other than anti-Jewishness had an impact on Mendelssohn’s reputation at this juncture. Krüger’s critiques of the composer imply similarly: in the review of the Drei Psalmen, Krüger denied Mendelssohn the capacity of genius, just as Wagner would several months later. Krüger’s perspective derives from his view that Mendelssohn’s entire career as a composer of religious music was unsuccessful. For Krüger, ‘to choose an incorrect artistic path does not beit the composer of genius: it is more characteristic of the searching, erring man of talent’.52 While this may appear motivated by antiSemitic rhetoric – and as such offers another signiicant pre-echo of Wagner’s essay – Krüger’s main target was the pietistic brand of Protestantism of the Prussian evangelical church in this decade, of which he considered Mendelssohn’s music an embodiment. thus Krüger saw Mendelssohn’s work as inspired by more than Jewish synagogue music, for it also represented the christian religion to which he had converted in childhood.

Challenging wagner’s Anti-semitism The inal category of responses to Wagner’s essay consists of those by Mendelssohn’s supporters. the most perceptive of these was penned by critic Johann christian lobe, who proposed that the author of the essay and ‘K. Freigedank’ were in fact two different people, the latter a ictitious character intended to parody certain contemporary music critics.53 As lobe saw it, Freigedank’s anti-semitism, together with his jealousy of the position of Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer in the musical world, compelled him to recommend the extermination of all Jews.54 lobe was thus the irst critic to interpret Wagner’s inal sentence as a demand for Jewish annihilation. As such, he initiated an intense debate that continues to this day.55 in lobe’s estimation, however, such thoughts cannot stem from a reasonable human being. therefore, lobe continued, Freigedank does not and cannot really exist. rather, he is the brainchild of a brilliant collector of eclectic ideas about music who seeks to combine them in the most exaggerated form. Komponisten und das wäre die hauptsache gewesen. Bei ihm hat er nichts Jargonierendes nachgewiesen, ihm wirft er die synagoge nicht vor, sondern wurden Meister Bach, an den er sich angelehnt hat – kurz hier verhält er sich mit einem Male rein ästhetisierend – er beweist nur, daβ Mendelssohn kein allseitiges Genie war.’ 52 Krüger (1850a), 3: ‘eine unrichtige Bahn wählen ist aber schon an sich ein Fehlgriff, der in ächten Genius nicht ziemt, oder doch seitender überkonnt, als dem suchenden, irrenden talente’. 53 lobe (1851) as presented in Fischer (2000), 222–7. 54 ibid., 227: ‘alle Jude zu vernichten’. 55 Fischer (2000), 29.

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one reading of lobe’s response to Wagner’s essay is that, having recognized the fanatical nature of the sentiments expressed therein, he sought to lessen the negative impact through identifying it as a caricature of the most extreme contemporary views rather than as the climax of an ongoing debate. his description of Freigedank’s arguments, using the French word Raisonnement, mocks the French character of Wagner’s logic as drastic and doctrinaire. But a closer look at lobe’s summary of Freigedank’s article, in combination with his comments on Mendelssohn, discloses an underlying concern for this composer’s posthumous fate. As a resident of leipzig, lobe was cognizant of a steady increase of antisemitic rhetoric in critiques of both Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer. he correctly observed that Freigedank’s continued treatment of Mendelssohn as a Jew negated the possibility of acculturation by undergoing a christian baptism. despite knowing that Mendelssohn was not baptized until 1816,56 and despite being aware of his Jewish ancestry, lobe insisted that Mendelssohn was ‘born, baptised, brought up and died a christian’.57 this may be interpreted as an attempt to extricate Mendelssohn from the debate on Jewishness in music and thereby to safeguard him from a posthumous reputation as a talented imitator who failed to move the human soul through his musical works. lobe saw himself as the guardian of Mendelssohn’s status after his death, as documented in his obituary of the composer, particularly in his discussion of opera, where he defends Mendelssohn against charges (made especially by heine) that he was incapable of writing a work in this genre.58 Yet no contemporary reader would have been persuaded by lobe’s depiction of Mendelssohn as a christian. Also indicative of lobe’s eagerness to extricate Mendelssohn from discussion of music and Jews is his separation of Freigedank’s anti-semitism from his dislike and jealousy of Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer. lobe contended that the success enjoyed by both of these composers was enough to compel less successful individuals to attempt to cast them out of public favour. thus, Mendelssohn’s and Meyerbeer’s inclusion in the article was the result of professional jealousy while their Jewish religion or ancestry was merely coincidental. other pro-Mendelssohn critics took a more straightforward approach in defending him against Wagner’s anti-Semitism. In the irst such response, which appeared in the leipzig journal Europa on 26 october 1850, the anonymous author recognized in Wagner’s essay an attempt to verbally compensate for his own artistic impotence.59 the writer cited examples from Mendelssohn’s output that exhibit passionate characteristics in an effort to counter Wagner’s claim that the Jew is ill-equipped for artistic creation because of a lack of true passion. this critic did not share the view that Jews were automatically denied the capacity for creativity, as argued by Uhlig and Wagner, and intimated to a lesser degree in 56 57 58 59

sposato (2006), 22–3. lobe (1851) as presented in Fischer (2000), 225. lobe (1847). Anon. (1850a): 678–9 (679).

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Krüger’s writings. neither were Jews seen as others who spoke an unintelligible language and whose creations were mere parodies of well-established German composers. on the contrary, for this critic Mendelssohn successfully merged his past and present to create music of genuine German feeling: the Jew, says Freigedank, has no true passion, consequently he is ill-equipped for artistic creation … now here is what motivates Freigedank: his entire iconoclasm is directed against Mendelssohn’s music. he claims that Mendelssohn is only a virtuoso in piquant, dazzling forms … at best he has entitled himself to the language of soft melancholic resignation. he [Freigedank] wants to know nothing of the emotional depth of his religiousness, of his vitality in the oratorios, or of his loftiness in conception and creation of the richest elements of devout feeling, and yet here are the roots of deeper artistic talent. those roots stem from the old testament, thus here Judaism had an artistic calling. Mendelssohn is the Christian transiguration of Old Testament energy, his music blooms in the garden of the Germanic sensibility. In song, he created the most delicate and ine in the garden of Germanic sensibility; yet Freigedank claims Mendelssohn can never move the heart. And all because he descended from Judaism.60

Another unsigned article from Europa reinforces the notion that Mendelssohn’s music possesses a hybrid character, recognizing in it a fusion of the ‘energy and passionate emotionalism of the old testament religion’ and the ‘depth and delicate charm of christian German life’.61 such views which accept Mendelssohn as a part of German musical life and perceive genuine German feeling in his works suggest that he bridged the cultural gap between Jew and German. this challenges the pejorative attitude towards conversion and Jewish entry to european society prevalent at mid-century, and louts Wagner’s dismissal of baptism as being ultimately futile for Jews and contributing to their alienation. the German journalist and literary historian Julian schmidt, co-editor of the journal Die Grenzboten, was the only known non-music critic to respond to

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ibid.: ‘der Jude, sagt Freigedank, hat keine wahre leidenschaft, ist somit zum Kunstschaffen unberufen … hier ist nun des Pudels Kern in Freigedank; seinen ganze Bilderstürmerei geht gegen Mendelssohns Musik. seine Behauptungen lauten: Mendelssohn sei nur ein virtuos in den Formen, nur pikant, geistblendend; höchstens gesteht er ihm die sprache der weichen schwermüthigen resignation zu. von seinem Pathos der religiosität, von seinem schwung im oratorium, von seiner höhe in Auffassung und Gestaltung der reinsten Elements des gläubigen Empindens – will er nichts wissen, und doch sind hier die Würzeln tiefer Kunstbegabung. sind diese Würzeln altbiblisch, so hat hier das Judenthum Beruf zur Kunst. Mendelssohn ist die christliche verklärung der altbiblischen energie in der Musik. im liede schuf er das Zarteste und Feinste in der Blüthenwelt germanischer Gefühle; und Freigedank sagt, Mendelssohn sei nie ‘herzgewinnend’. Und das alles weil er vom Judenthum gestammt!’ 61 Anon. (1850b): 809–13 (809).

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Wagner’s article. he warned against reading too much into criticism of Jews. While he did not condone Wagner’s ‘skewed’ (schief) assertions about Jewish composers, he sensed a disproportionate degree of indignation towards criticism of Jewish people. this, as he saw it, stemmed from oversensitivity to their maligned historical position. in his view, the Jews were portrayed as a privileged people exempt from all aggression which other nations must endure. he argued that accusations similar to Wagner’s were made against the French, italians and Germans, the difference being that nobody looked for offence in them.62 The most signiicant factor to counter the pervasive position that Wagner’s 1850 publication ‘Judaism in Music’ was almost immediately and solely responsible for the downturn in Mendelssohn’s reputation, however, is the small circulation and readership of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, typical of mid-nineteenth-century music journals.63 thus the article provoked little or no immediate impact outside leipzig. in fact, all of the responses to it came from leipzig journals. thus we have seen that a conglomerate of factors challenge the claim that Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’, in its initial 1850 version, stimulated anti-Jewish critiques of Mendelssohn which in turn radically transformed his reputation. instead, it appears that anti-semitism itself had little impact on the composer at this juncture, and that there was another force at work which had a more pervasive impact in the early 1850s. A broader assault on Mendelssohn’s reputation had already been carried out in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik by Brendel, Uhlig and Krüger on the part of the avowedly ‘progressive’ musical party. Before, during and after the appearance of Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’, many more column inches were devoted to the depiction of Mendelssohn as a superseded artist, of no relevance to modern strivings.64 it is this, rather than overt anti-Jewishness, that was the primary factor leading to the erosion of Mendelssohn’s reputation in the 1850s and 1860s.

62 63 64

J. s. [Julian schmidt] (1850), 841–2. Fischer (2000), 30. see dempsey-Garratt (2008), chapters 2, 4 and 5.

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chapter 3

‘Wordless Judaism, like the songs of Mendelssohn’? hanslick, Mendelssohn and cultural Politics in late nineteenth-century vienna nicole Grimes

Introduction Mendelssohn’s ballad Die erste Walpurgisnacht has, in recent years, been understood by a number of commentators as representing the plight of the Jews against the christians. in his 1998 article ‘Mendelssohn and the Jews’, leon Botstein holds that in this work Mendelssohn ‘clearly expresses admiration for the predicament of the Jews and their loyalty to their traditions’. ‘the pagans in that work’, he argues, ‘are only thinly veiled surrogates for Jews’.1 Botstein had already expressed a similar view in his 1991 essay ‘the Aesthetics of Assimilation and Afirmation: Reconstructing the Career of Felix Mendelssohn’: the most remarkable example of Mendelssohn’s residual psychological loyalty to his Jewish heritage was the secular cantata Die erste Walpurgisnacht. … as heinz Klaus Metzger has argued, Mendelssohn transformed Goethe’s druids and pagans into Jews who refuse to convert. … The inal scene of the pagans defending their faith against the christian soldiers while musing on the extent to which christians perverted the meaning of their religious ideas – although taken straight from Goethe – can be understood, in terms of its emotional lure for Mendelssohn, by its obvious analogy to the historical and contemporary plight of Jewry, particularly in the context of the new anti-semitism of the 1830s and 1840s.2

Conversely, in her 2002 essay ‘Kindred Spirits: Mendelssohn and Goethe, Die erste Walpurgisnacht’, Julie Prandi argues that it is ‘distressing to ind Mendelssohn’s literary taste or musical style being explained as illustrating his 1

Botstein (1998), 213. Botstein (1991); hauser (1980); Metzger (1980). Michael P. steinberg claims that a Jewish reference could not but be inferred from Mendelssohn’s appropriation of Goethe’s text. see steinberg (2004), 37. 2

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Jewishness’, arguing rather that this work ‘illustrates [Mendelssohn’s] roots in German intellectual life, especially his kinship with Goethe’.3 she counters Botstein in writing: the Allvater of the ballad is not, as one critic has argued, Mendelssohn’s stand in for the God of the Jews, but rather a sign that truth and nobility of feeling are not the monopoly of any one religion: even pagans can know and honour the deity and the light of reason.4

that such varying interpretations of Mendelssohn’s work and such divergent views on Mendelssohn’s political and religious ideology in his compositions are so openly discussed in recent musicological writings is a relection of a freedom on the part of commentators today that did not exist in the musical press of the late nineteenth century. i argue that Mendelssohn’s Die erste Walpurgisnacht was understood by at least one of his contemporary critics, eduard hanslick, as having Jewish implications; further, being of Jewish descent himself, hanslick was amenable to understanding the work in this context. however, due to hanslick’s public denial of his own heritage, and due to the taboo of the discussion of Jewish matters among the viennese intelligentsia, his acknowledgement of this Jewish element is itself disguised. the present study is not an investigation into Mendelssohn’s alleged autobiographical motivation in setting Goethe’s poem. Rather, it investigates Hanslick’s autobiographical motivation in the writing of his reviews of Mendelssohn’s works, particularly Die erste Walpurgisnacht. the statements cited at the head of this chapter are a taste of the twentiethcentury musical writings concerned with Mendelssohn’s motivation in writing Walpurgisnacht. Jeffrey sposato’s 2006 contribution, ‘Lessons from Paulus: A Reevaluation of Die erste Walpurgisnacht’, surveys much of this literature and comes to the following conclusion: For the twenty-two year old Mendelssohn, the decision to set Die erste Walpurgisnacht had little to do with any desire to champion enlightenment sensibilities or to construct an allegory of the history of the Jews in christendom. Mendelssohn’s motives, rather, found their origin in much less lofty concerns: here was a text which blended well with his current interest in the supernatural and lent itself to numerous musical possibilities.5

central to sposato’s conclusion is evidence regarding a letter from Goethe to Mendelssohn of september 1831 declaring the poem’s symbolic intent. Kistner’s edition of the Walpurgisnacht score included an excerpt from this letter: 3

Prandi (2002), 136. ibid., 141. 5 sposato (2006), 112. i am grateful to Professor sposato for sharing his then unpublished draft of this text. 4

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in a true sense the poem is highly symbolic in intention.6 For in world-history it must continually be repeated that something old, established, proven, reassuring is pressed, shifted, displaced by emerging innovations, and, where not wiped out, none the less penned up in the narrowest space. the medieval era, where hatred still can and may produce countereffects, is here impressively enough represented, and a joyous indestructible enthusiasm blazes up once more in radiance and clarity.7

Discussing this excerpt, Sposato argues, irst, that this letter was only received by Mendelssohn after completing everything but the overture; and second, it is not referred to in any of Mendelssohn’s letters about his setting of the work. indeed, in 1831 (when Mendelssohn was 22) the piece had very little of its current shape, and no overture. however, the programme that Mendelssohn distributed for the premiere of the work in 1833 did not at all shy away from suggesting societal persecutions of alterity (possibly Jewish, possibly not). The programme reads: In the last days of paganism in Germany, the druids’ sacriices were subject to punishment by death at the hands of the christians. nevertheless, at the beginning of springtime the druids and the populace sought to regain the peaks of the mountains so that they could make their sacriices there, and to intimidate and chase off the christians (usually through the latter’s fear of the devil). the legend of the irst Walpurgis Night is supposed to be based on such attempts.8

the presence of the Goethe excerpt in the Kistner edition means that for those referring to this edition of the score Goethe’s declaration and Mendelssohn’s composition are intricately linked. Yet, the editions available when hanslick was writing his Walpurgisnacht reviews were based on the Rietz edition for the so-called Gesamtausgabe and did not include any explanatory note. therefore hanslick may not have been aware of Goethe’s note. in arguing that hanslick understood this work to have Jewish implications, it is not implied that Mendelssohn intended the work

6 John Michael cooper disputes the translation of ‘hochsymbolisch’ as ‘highly symbolic’, arguing that the ‘hoch’ does not refer to the degree of the symbolic content but to the nature of that content. he suggests an alternative translation, ‘elevated symbolism’. cooper (2007a), 224. i am grateful to Professor cooper for allowing me to read unpublished drafts of a number of chapters from this book. 7 this translation is taken from sposato (2006), 109. 8 ‘in den letzten Zeiten des heidenthums in deutschland, wurden von den christen die opfer der druiden bei todesstrafe untersagt. trotz dem suchten die druiden und das Volk zu Anfang des Frühlings die Höhen der Berge zu gewinnen, dort ihre Opfer zu bringen, und die christlichen Krieger (gewöhnlich durch deren Furcht vor dem Teufel) einzuschüchtern und zu verjagen. Auf solche Versuche soll sich die Sage von der ersten Walpurgisnacht gründen.’ Programme in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, shelfmark Deneke 356. i am grateful to John Michael cooper for drawing my attention to this programme.

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in this way, nor indeed that hanslick maintained that Mendelssohn understood it as such. Rather, we are concerned with what we can learn about Hanslick himself from these writings on Die erste Walpurgisnacht. What follows is an interpretation of evidence taken from both hanslick’s critical and autobiographical writings. By critiquing the critic in this manner, the aim is to examine what a piece of music can express or relect of the people who use it. I intend to grasp the meaning behind hanslick’s often perplexing reviews, thereby shedding light on the contemporary reception of Mendelssohn’s music and on the personal ideologies that form the background to hanslick’s virulent attacks on Wagner.

Cultural texts and Cultural Censorships in his 1883 review of the vienna performance of Brahms’s 1869 cantata Rinaldo Op. 50, Hanslick confesses that he has dificulty warming to the whole work: the ‘evil lies irst in Goethe’s poetry, whose deceptive, apparently musical advantages lured the composer into a dangerous enterprise’.9 As is typical of much of hanslick’s critical output, he is more interested in hermeneutic matters, or in the cultural context of the work, than he is in formal elements of the work. the issue in this case is the suitability of a particular programme for musical setting. the same review also compares Rinaldo with Mendelssohn’s Die erste Walpurgisnacht: With Die erste Walpurgisnacht Goethe created a masterpiece in musical relationship: as successful attempts have proven, it is remarkably dramatic. it even permits a completely scenic representation,10 and nevertheless it is extremely simple and clear in its motives and descriptions, that it may not require scenic apparatus at all.11

the comparison of Brahms’s Rinaldo and Mendelssohn’s Walpurgisnacht is not an unlikely one. Brahms had conducted Walpurgisnacht in detmold in 1859, and it is widely acknowledged that this work was inluential on the composition of 9 ‘Für das ganze Werk vermag ich mich offen gestanden, nicht zu erwärmen. Der Grund des Übels liegt zunächst in dem Goetheschen Gedichte, dessen täuschende, auscheinend musikalische Vorzüge den Componisten in ein gefährliches Unternehmen gelockt haben.’ hanslick (1886), 383. 10 hanslick is not speculating here. scenic representations of Die erste Walpurgisnacht were common in the 1860s. see cooper (2007a), 303–4. 11 ‘Mit seiner “Ersten Walpurgisnacht” schuf Goethe eine Meisterstück auch in musikalischer Beziehung: es ist so dramatisch, daß es (wie gelungene Versuche beweisen) sogar eine vollständig scenische Darstellung zulaßt, und doch wieder so einfach in seinen Motiven, so klar in seinen Schilderungen, daß es scenischer Hilfe gar nicht bedarf. Dadurch überragt die “Walpurgisnacht” hoch den “Rinaldo,” dessen Vorgange dem Zuhörer großentheil unverstandlich bleiben.’ Hanslick (1886), 384.

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Rinaldo.12 the relationship between these two works certainly invites further comparison in that, as Hanslick notes, the poem ‘Rinaldo’ appears after ‘Die erste Walpurgisnacht’ in Goethe’s collected works. Furthermore, both poems belong to a group of works in which Goethe juxtaposes pagan and christian rites. Assuming hanslick to have interpreted the pagans in Walpurgisnacht as ‘thinly veiled Jews’ – to borrow a phrase from Botstein – let us consider the distinction he draws between the two works. Rinaldo’s christian comrades win out at the end of this cantata, with the ‘evil’ of Goethe’s poetry standing in the way of hanslick warming to the work. On the other hand, the Christians lee at the sight of the wild pagan (read Jewish) ritual in Die erste Walpurgisnacht which hanslick considers to be a ‘masterpiece in musical relationship’. Moreover, hanslick acknowledged that Brahms had been faithful to Goethe’s text and that the music was consistent with Brahms’s musical ideals, clearly indicating that it was to Goethe’s text, and not Brahms’s music, that hanslick objected.13 hanslick’s 1900 review of a performance of Mendelssohn’s Walpurgisnacht is again concerned with Goethe’s texts. in this instance, he takes issue with textual alterations to Goethe’s poem that were put in place for this particular Viennese performance, and outlined in the concert programme: ‘With Goethe, as is well known, the heathen guards sing “come! With prongs and pitchforks/ and with ire and rattling sticks – let us terrify them with their fabled devil/ these foolish-cleric christians/ let us make proper fools of them!”’14 hanslick outlines that the censor for this performance has changed ‘Pfaffen christen’ from Goethe’s original – a term which Julie Prandi understands as a derogatory word coinage for christians dominated by parsons or priests15 – to ‘diese christen’ (these Christians). Further, he outlines the change of words from ‘let us terrify them with their fabled devil’ to ‘let us terrify them with the devil whom they fear’ (my emphasis.) these textual alterations remove words that may be construed 12 For a detailed discussion of the inluence of Mendelssohn’s Die erste Walpurgisnacht on Brahms’s Rinaldo see ingraham (1994), Part i, ‘Brahms and dramatic Music’; Brodbeck (1998); Melhorn (1983). 13 For a more detailed discussion of the public response to Brahms’s Rinaldo, see Ingraham (1994), 106–17. Ingraham writes: ‘Eduard Hanslick reviewed the 1883 performance of Rinaldo in vienna. hanslick, usually a Brahms supporter, criticised Goethe’s text. like other critics, he was confused by the second appearance of Armida but unlike Billroth, he thought Brahms’s musical setting at this point to be “not vivid enough”. He wanted to see “einige Tropfen Tannhäuserblut” in the hero’s character. Hanslick acknowledged, however, that Brahms had been truthful to Goethe’s text and that the music was consistent also with Brahms’s musical ideals’ (106). 14 ‘Allgemein aufgefallen sind die Abänderungen des Goetheschen Gedichtes, welche das Wiener Konzertprogramm aufweist. Bei Goethe singen bekanntlich die heidnischen Wächter: “Kommt mit Zacken und mit Gabeln und mit Glut und Klopperstöcken – Mit dem teufel, den sie fabeln, wollen wir sie selbst erschrecken. diese dumpfen Pfaffenchristen, laßt uns keck sie überlisten!”’ Hanslick (1900), 96. 15 Prandi (2002), 141.

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as undermining the christian faith. one may fear a devil that exists, but one that is fabled does not exist. it seems that for this particular censor, who remains anonymous, Goethe’s text in its original form was insuficiently respectful to the Christian faith. Hanslick addresses the broader issue at stake here: We think this ‘improvement’, dictated by anxiety and arrogance, celebrated through Mendelssohn’s music in all circles of the native poetry of Goethe, must have crept out of the Vormärz in to our day unnoticed. however, it is not so! As a student, i heard Mendelssohn’s Walpurgisnacht sung in Prague and vienna, always with Goethe’s original text. the extraordinarily religious sensitivity of our authorities is thus a small plant blossoming anew.16

hanslick draws an analogy between the Vormärz era and the present time in which he writes. each of these eras saw a worsening of the plight of the Jews. A revival of legal restrictions on Jews took place after 1819, with anti-semitism being given a new lease of life in the 1820s and 1830s. there was little additional legislation on the Jews until the revolutionary months of 1848–49. From then until 1867 a series of laws and constitutional decrees gradually removed all of the remaining restrictions on Jewish life. Emperor Franz Josef’s Constitutional Edict of 1849 granted Jews equality with Christians under law. Finally, with the creation of the dual Monarchy (Austria-hungary) in 1867, the state proclaimed the full political emancipation of the Jews.17 the period from 1867 to the mid-1890s has been recognised by many as the era of liberalism in vienna. in 1895, as carl e. schorske has written, ‘the liberal bastion, vienna itself, was engulfed in a christian social tidal wave’.18 in 1897, despite opposition from Emperor Franz Joseph and the Catholic hierarchy, Karl Lueger was ratiied as the mayor of Vienna. Herewith, as Schorske writes, ‘the christian social demagogues began a decade of rule in vienna which combined all that was anathema to classical liberalism: anti-Semitism, clericalism, and municipal socialism’19 – a point addressed by Margaret notley in her essay ‘Musical culture in Vienna at the Turn of the Twentieth Century’: ‘the fact remains that Lueger was the irst European mayor elected as an open anti-Semite and that his rhetoric

16 ‘Wir dachten, diese von Ängstlichkeit und hochmut diktierte “verbesserung” einer gefeierten, durch Mendelssohns Musik in allen Kreisen heimischen dichtung Goethe’s müsse aus dem Vormärz sich unbeachtet in unsere Tage eingeschlichen haben. Allein dem ist nicht so. ich habe vor dem Jahre 1848 als student Mendelssohns “Walpurgisnacht” in Prag und Wien singen gehört, immer mit dem Goetheschen Originaltext. Das außerordentlich kirchliche Feingefühl unserer Behörden ist also ein neu aufgeblühtes Plänzlein. “So weit gebracht!!” singt der alte druide.’ hanslick (1900), 96. 17 Kieval (1988), 6. see also Wistrich (1989) and Beller (1989). 18 schorske (1981), 6. 19 ibid., 6.

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helped create a climate in which the aggressive expression of prejudice became acceptable’.20 in this political atmosphere, the censorship of Goethe’s poetry (a poet who was a self-proclaimed heathen)21 and Mendelssohn’s music (a composer who was increasingly viewed as Jewish towards the close of the nineteenth century)22 is typical of what notley refers to as the ‘blend of anti-semitism and revitalised catholicism’ central to the cultural politics of luegerian vienna.23 i venture that hanslick may well have been objecting to precisely these cultural politics when he referred to the extraordinarily religious sensitivity of our authorities as a ‘small plant blossoming anew’. indeed, he ends this particular review by allowing the pagans to have the last say, using words that were originally penned by Goethe and which come at the dramatic high-point of Mendelssohn’s ballad; he writes: ‘“So weit gebracht!!” singt der alte druide.’24

Liberal or Autobiographical Motivations? one possible reading of hanslick’s condemnation of the censorship of Goethe’s text is to view it as a result of his liberal tendencies. Along with such critics as Richard Heuberger, Gustav Dömpke and Max Kalbeck, Hanslick is considered to be part of the liberal elite in vienna at the end of the nineteenth century.25 As acknowledged by Notley, ‘much of the criticism in [Vienna] it into a clear ideological framework in which musical tastes lined up with political afiliations, 20

notley (1999). cooper notes that Goethe had a ‘fascination with the concept of heresy and the ideas of individuals historically deemed heretical’. in a letter to Johann caspar lavater he wrote that he was ‘neither anti-christian nor un-christian, but decidedly non-christian’, 29 July 1782 (Beutler (1950–71), 18: 680): ‘[I]ch (binn) [sic] zwar kein Widerkrist, kein Unkrist aber doch ein dezidierter Nichtkrist’. Quoted in Cooper (2007a), 90. On Goethe’s attitudes towards Christianity see Nisbet: 2002. Julie Prandi writes that ‘Goethe’s ballad originated in the 1790s, the decade when the most anti- Christian statements lowed from his pen. Poems from this era include the tragic ballad “die Braut von Korinth”, which, like “die erste Walpurgisnacht”, deals with the clash of pagan and christian world-views, much to the disadvantage of the latter.’ she further writes that ‘although a self-declared “heathen”, Goethe respected Jesus as a teacher and honoured individual christians and their beliefs, even if he was at times critical of christianity’. Prandi (2002), 140 and 142 respectively. 22 indeed, as Jeffrey sposato writes, ‘after Mendelssohn’s death in 1847, the tendency to see him as Jewish intensiied over the course of the century as the anti-Semitic movement accelerated’. in sposato (1998), 191. 23 notley (1993), 116. 24 ‘“it has come to this!!” the old druid sings.’ hanslick (1900), 96. 25 For more on the political backdrop to the musical debates of late-nineteenth-century vienna, see notley (1993), notley (1999) and Grimes (2008), chapter 4. 21

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at least within the context of the newspapers for which the reviewers wrote’.26 And indeed, hanslick wrote for the liberal newspaper the Neue Freie Presse. however, on the basis of a consideration of hanslick’s relationship to Jews and Judaism, i would argue that along with this liberal motivation is an autobiographical one. According to czech police records, hanslick’s mother, Karoline hanslik, was born in 1796 to the German Jewish salesman saloman Abraham Kisch. in order to marry her former piano teacher, the catholic Joseph hanslik, she converted to catholicism in August 1823, marrying Joseph in september of that year.27 Referring to the 1854 publication Vom Musikalisch Schönen, Wagner’s 1869 edition of Das Judenthum in der Musik alleges that hanslick ‘now wrote a booklet on the “Musically-Beautiful”, in which he played into the hands of MusicJewry with extraordinary skill’.28 this comment provoked two responses from Hanslick: one in the Neue Freie Presse in 1869, immediately following Wagner’s publication,29 and the other in his autobiography Aus meinem Leben published a quarter of a century later.30 this second response represents a rare instance of hanslick discussing his religious background in an open forum: Wagner could not suffer any Jews; therefore he considered anyone he did not like to be a Jew. It would be lattering for me to be burnt on the same pile as Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer by Pater Arbuez Wagner; unfortunately i must decline this honour, as my father and all of his forefathers, as far back as one can trace, were arch-catholic peasant sons, from a countryside where Judaism has been known only in the form of wandering peddlers.31

26

notley (1999), 45. see ludvová (1986), 37. 28 ‘Dieser schrieb nun ein Libell über das “Musikalisch-Schöne”, in welchem er für den allgemeinen Zweck des Musikjudenthums mit außerordentlichem Geschick verfuhr’. Wagner (1869), 37. 29 hanslick (1869). 30 hanslick (1894), ii, 10. 31 ‘Wagner mochte keinen Juden leiden; darum hielt er jeden, den er nicht leiden konnte, gern für einen Juden. Es würde mir nur schmeichelhaft sein, auf ein und demselben holzstos mit Mendelssohn und Meyerbeer von Pater Arbuez Wagner verbrannt zu werden; leider muß ich diese Auszeichnung ablehnen, denn mein Vater und seine sämtliche Vorfahren, soweit mann sie verfolgen kann, waren erzkatholisch Bauernsöhne, obendrein aus einer Gegend, welche das Judentum nur in Gestalt des wandernden hausierers gekannt hat. Wagners Einfall, meine Abhandlung Vom Musikalisch-Schönen ein “mit außerordentlichem Geschick für den Zweck des Musikjudentums verfaßtes Libell” zu nennen, ist, milde gesagt, so unglaublich kindisch, daß er vielleicht meine Feinde ärgern konnte, mich selbst gewiß nicht.’ Ibid., 10. This statement was also published in the Deutsche Rundschau (1894), 56. 27

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Hanslick’s self-identiication is less than candid, as he fails to mention the religion of his mother. he could have said that his mother was catholic, but instead he neither afirms nor denies that he is of Jewish descent. This can perhaps be understood as giving a word to the wise; those in late nineteenthcentury Germany and vienna who were not familiar with Jewish traditions would most likely not have questioned hanslick’s patrilineal disavowal of his Jewishness. A person becomes a christian by being baptised, and the catholic church insisted that if a catholic married a non-catholic the children had to be baptised catholics, regardless of whether it was the father or the mother who was the catholic. however, anyone with any knowledge of Judaism would know that it was matrilineal, thereby making the mention of the religion of hanslick’s mother noticeable by its absence.32 i would go so far as to suggest that this can be understood as defying the antisemites. Given the anti-semitic attitudes of the day it seems that hanslick is saying as much as he can get away with. Moreover, he openly voices his admiration for the Jews, regarding it as an ‘honour’ and ‘lattering’ to be considered one of them. A comparable approach was taken by Jorge luis Borges in response to a similar accusation made against him in 1934 in the ultra-nationalistic Argentine magazine Crisol. ‘Many times it has not displeased me to think of myself as Jewish’, writes Borges, going on to say that ‘i am grateful for the stimulus provided by Crisol, but hope is dimming that i will ever be able to discover my link to the table of the Breads and the sea of Bronze; to heine, Gleizer, and the ten Seiroth; to ecclesiastes and chaplin.’33 Moreover, hanslick’s allegiance to the catholicism of his father’s ancestors is entirely at odds with the condemnation of the ‘christian’ censorship of the vienna concert programme that he was to pen six years later. As Jitka ludvová has argued in her 1986 article ‘Zur Biographie eduard hanslicks’, autobiographical inconsistencies are not uncommon in hanslick’s writings.34 it seems that following hanslick’s move to vienna there were many parts of his former life and upbringing that he wished to leave behind, perhaps for reasons of social acceptance or career advancement (such as his level of luency in 32 henry Pleasants observes that hanslick refers only to his father’s side and notes that ‘the concept of half-Jew, or Mischling, had not the signiicance then that it gained subsequently under the nuremberg laws’. see Pleasants in hanslick (1950), xix–xxvi (xxiii, footnote 5). Pleasants is correct with regard to the nuremberg laws; however there was still a certain amount of anti-semitism in the audience for whom hanslick was writing which would have prevented him from expressing himself as explicitly as he might otherwise have done. 33 Borges (1999), 110–11. the essay was originally published as ‘Yo Judio’, Megáfono 12 (April 1934). Manuel Gleizer led Russia in 1908 and subsequently set up the irst publishing house in Villa Crespo, Buenos Aires, publishing authors such as Borges, Mallea, Lugones, Jacobo Fijman and Leopoldo Marechal. Charlie Chaplin was not a Jew, but was often taken to be one as a result of his 1940 ilm The Great Dictator. 34 ludvová (1986).

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the czech language or the spelling of his name, which he changed from the czech hanslik to the more Germanic hanslick). Wagner’s accusation and hanslick’s response provide one of the most telling examples of these inconsistencies.

Behind Questionable Identities hanslick’s paternal defence of his religious heritage takes on a further dimension when considered as an allusion to the suspicion that Wagner had a Jewish father.35 As we know, the mystery of Wagner’s paternity has never been solved. According to Bryan Magee ‘it could have well been either his legal father or [the actor ludwig Geyer]; […] it is possible that even his mother herself did not know which of the two men it was; […] there is no way now that the matter can be solved’.36 it was in 1868 that Wagner discovered a series of letters (now lost or destroyed) which made him doubt his paternity and led to his self-generated fear that he might be of Jewish stock. At this time, nietzsche was a close family friend of the Wagners and was entrusted with seeing the irst three of the four volumes of Wagner’s autobiography through the press. in this trusted and intimate proximity to the family, nietzsche would have been privy to Wagner’s doubts, which he later chose to betray. to this effect he added a footnote to the afterword of Der Fall Wagner (1888) stating that ‘ein Geyer is beinahe schon ein Adler’.37 the suspicion of Wagner’s dubious paternity and religious heritage was referred to and circulated in a number of literary sources. indeed as Magee has argued, ‘many other writers who, like the more mature nietzsche, wanted to punish Wagner for his anti-semitism greeted with glee the idea that he might himself have been half-Jewish, and pounced on it, and promoted it in all seriousness’.38 one such 35 the history of Wagner’s supposed Jewish ancestry has its roots, as leon Botstein points out, not only in nietzsche but also in the writings of ludwig speidel, who wrote a report for the Fremdblatt of the irst production of the Ring at Bayreuth in 1876, and daniel spitzer, the great Jewish viennese satirist who wrote a weekly newspaper column called ‘Wiener Spaziergänge’. Spitzer’s satirical badgering of Wagner reads: ‘It is said that Wagner fears most of all the discovery of his own Jewish ancestry and dislikes when he sees his name shortened to R. Wagner because he fears it could be read as easily to mean “Rabbi Wagner”.’ Spitzer (1879), 3: 351, as cited in Botstein (2009), 156. 36 Magee (2000), 339. 37 The footnote reads: ‘Was Wagner a German at all? There are some reasons for this question. It is dificult to ind any German trait in him. Being a great learner, he learnt to imitate much that was German – that’s all. his own nature contradicts that which has hitherto been felt to be German – not to speak of a German musician. – his father was an actor by the name of Geyer. A Geyer [vulture] is practically an Adler [eagle]. – What has hitherto circulated as “Wagner’s life” is fable convenue, if not worse.’ nietzsche (2000), 638. Whereas ‘Adler’ means eagle in German, it is also a common Jewish surname. i am grateful to david conway for a fruitful discussion on this topic. 38 Magee (2000), 361.

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case is a caricature (without a speciic year) by Theodor Zajacskowski in the satirical journal Der Floh. Zajacskowski’s cartoon depicts Wagner in four stages of Darwinian evolution: from a Jew wearing a yarmulka and holding a schofar, to a conductor wearing the type of hat that Wagner frequently did and holding a Maestro’s baton.39 in this context, the declaration by hanslick that he was not a Jew based on his paternity might be read as drawing attention to Wagner’s uncertain paternity. Moreover, it could well have been understood as such by his contemporaries. In his 1999 article ‘Mendelssohn’s Music and German-Jewish Culture: An intervention’, which was involved in the debate over whether Mendelssohn was Jewish or Protestant, Michael steinberg posits that Mendelssohn’s cultural moment and biographical formation can be understood as ‘a paradigm of a multicultural and uncertain moment in German-Jewish history that was available only to the Biedermeier generation, i.e., the generation of 1815–1848’.40 since hanslick was born in 1825, there can be no doubt that as a youth he was constantly reminded of his mother’s religious background with the frequent anti-semitic outbursts in Prague.41 even if the family considered themselves to be catholic, despite their mother’s Jewish origin, these anti-semitic acts are bound to have had a psychological impact. if the political changes that were going on around hanslick as an adult in vienna were not enough, Wagner’s less than tactful reminder would have driven the point home. indeed, in hanslick’s mind, he and Mendelssohn were so inextricably bound up with Wagner’s anti-semitic outpourings that they might have been united in solidarity against anti-semitism. that his response to Wagner’s 1869 accusation came in the form of a denial negated the need to defend his own Jewish heritage, but did not prevent him from referring to being Jewish as an ‘honour’. this may well be one reason for his defence of Mendelssohn’s work against the works that he considered to question the integrity of Judaism, and writings – or censorships – that he considered to compromise the honour of Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage.

hanslick’s view of Mendelssohn, Brahms and wagner: A Reevaluation Hanslick is certainly not remembered as one of Mendelssohn’s most inluential supporters. With regard to his reception of Mendelssohn’s music in general, he perpetuates a notion that became a commonplace following Mendelssohn’s death, that Mendelssohn’s music is more a product of artful work, than of inspiration, or a product of intellect over feeling, as evidenced in his reviews of the 1840s. hanslick’s See Jens Malte Fischer (2000), 31. steinberg (1991), 32. 41 Frequent violent outbursts and workers’ demonstrations directed against Jews in Prague in 1844 and 1848 would have reinforced the view in the minds of Jewish notables that the czech population was fundamentally anti-semitic. see Kieval (1988), 8. 39 40

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1845 comments on Mendelssohn’s symphony no. 3 describe it as ‘more a product of artful work, than immediate inspiration [. this] ought not to disconcert us with one of Mendelssohn’s works, as this predominance of rationality over inspiration has grown inseparably into the individuality of the composer’.42 In 1848 the ‘ine, exemplary building, full of the most interesting details’ of Mendelssohn’s Rondo Brillant, op. 29, left him ‘somewhat frosty’.43 Yet hanslick holds Mendelssohn in high regard as a composer of spiritual music, admiring both Elias and Paulus. on a number of occasions he refers to Mendelssohn as the spiritual heir of Bach (Bach’s ‘sohn im Geiste’).44 in 1875, however, hanslick’s favour for the leading composer of spiritual music is transferred from Mendelssohn to Brahms, whom he considers to compose spiritual music of a ‘deeper seriousness and stronger character than Mendelssohn’.45 Between the 1850s and 1880s (the period following the revolution, leading to the era of viennese liberalism when restrictions on Jewish life were removed) hanslick wrote comparatively little on Mendelssohn. in the 1890s (a decade in which anti-semitic prejudices became socially acceptable) he mentions him with greater frequency. A remarkable instance is offered by hanslick’s 1892 review of the choral works of Mendelssohn, Brahms and Bach: the last Gesellschaft concert had a true repentance and fasting programme! to begin with we called on Mendelssohn, the God of the Jews, to implore a blessing on the house of israel and the house of Aaron;46 the cruel God of the Pagans shattered us in Brahms’s ‘Parzenlied’. Finally, the favourite Protestant theme, comfort in death, and the longing to leave this world of sin as soon as possible, was impressed upon us in Bach’s motet ‘Komm Jesu, Komm.’47 42 ‘Daß jedoch auch die neue Symphonie mehr ein Product kunstvoller Arbeit, als unmittelbarer Begeisterung ist, darf uns bei einem Werke F. Mendelssohn’s nicht befremden, dieses Ueberwiegen der Verstandesthätigkeit über das Gefühl ist mit des Komponisten Individualität unvertrennbar verwachsen.’ Hanslick (1993), I/1, 23. 43 ‘Das Rondo brillant hat mir, wie der größte Teil der Mendelssohn’schen Salonstücke etwas Frostiges, Gemachtes. Daß es musterhaft feinen Baues und voll der interessantesten details ist, kann hier wenig in Betracht kommen.’ hanslick (1993), i/1, 131. 44 see hanslick (1993), i/1, 212 and 120. 45 ‘Heute gilt der Ausspruch nicht mehr vollständig. Man macht in unserer Zeit wieder geistliche Musik von tieferem Ernst und mächtigerem Gepräge, als jene Mendelssohnsche. Das heißt, man macht sie nicht, aber Brahms macht sie.’ Hanslick (1886), 139. 46 We are later informed that the Mendelssohn work performed was the Psalm 115, op. 31 (1831) ‘nicht unserem namen herr’. it is surprising that it was not Psalm 114, ‘da israel aus Aegypten zog’ (When israel out of egypt came), that was sung rather than Psalm 115, as this would have been consistent with what hanslick refers to as ‘a blessing on the house of israel and the house of Aaron’. however, the hanslick source clearly states that it was Psalm 115. 47 ‘Ein wahres Buß und Festenprogramm das des letzten Gesellschaftsconcert! Zu Anfang heißt uns Mendelssohn den Gott der Juden anlehen um Segen für das Haus Israel und das Haus Aaron, dann zerschmettern uns in Brahms’ Parzenlied die grausamen Götter

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In 1897, on the iftieth anniversary of Mendelssohn’s death (and the year in which Lueger was ratiied as mayor of Vienna), Hanslick refers to Mendelssohn’s more popular works in an article titled ‘Zur Erinnerung an Felix MendelssohnBartholdy’, illed with nostalgic reminiscences: his Walpurgisnacht; his symphonies in A-major and A-minor (the works of a 22-year-old youth!), his concert overtures, inally his Paulus and Elias are, nevertheless, still effective with intact freshness and power. … in more recent times, elements from the outside have been used against Mendelssohn – the Wagnerians and anti-semites united in hate and presumption. We allow them this sad business.48

in the one area in which he did champion Mendelssohn in his earlier critical writings, spiritual music, he favours Brahms in later years. in this light, his 1893 review of Rinaldo and Walpurgisnacht is all the more remarkable since it is based more on a judgement of the poetic texts than the music itself, as is the 1900 review of Walpurgisnacht. there are many autobiographical parallels in the lives of the composer and the critic which, for hanslick, could not have gone unnoticed. Both grew up negotiating their Jewish origins or heritage, and thereby their cultural identity; and both were the subject of anti-semitic writings. Mendelssohn’s posthumously emphasised Jewish identity provided a public platform on which hanslick could defend his hidden Jewish heritage.49 in this sense, hanslick’s Walpurgisnacht reviews can be read as a manifestation of the critic’s hidden identity. Further, from our vantage point in the twenty-irst century they provide a window through which we can view a cultural moment of the late-nineteenth century, and its implications for the reception of the music of Jewish composers. And, indeed, these reviews allow us to see that hanslick’s assaults on Wagner were not only motivated by aesthetic ideologies but, more importantly, by a personal ideological agenda.50

der heiden, zuletzt wird uns in Bachs Motette Komm, Jesu komm, das protestantische Lieblingsthema, das Vergnügen am Sterben, eingeprägt und die Sehnsucht, aus dieser Sündenwelt so bald als möglich fortzukommen.’ Hanslick (1892), 314. 48 ‘seine “Walpurgisnacht”, seine symphonien in A-dur und A-moll (Werke eines zweiundzwanzigjährigen Jünglings!), seine Concert-Ouvertüren, endlich sein “Paulus” und “Elias” wirken trotzdem noch mit unversehrter Frische und Macht. “Ewig” ist ein leeres Wort für musikalische Schöpfungen – aber auf sehr, sehr lange hinaus werden sie alle Freunde edler, ernster Kunst erquicken und erheben. In neuerer Zeit haben auch Elemente von außen her sich gegen Mendelssohn gekehrt: die in Haß und Überhebung vereinigten Wagnerianer und Antisemiten. Gönnen wir ihnen das traurige Geschäft.’ Hanslick (1899), 416–17. 49 on Mendelssohn’s posthumously emphasised Jewishness, see cooper (2004) and sposato (2006). 50 on hanslick’s criticism of Wagner, see the essays by thomas Grey and david B. dennis in vazsonyi (2002) at 98–119, 165–89 and 190–208.

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By way of conclusion let us return to Botstein’s contention that the ‘most remarkable example of Mendelssohn’s residual psychological loyalty to his Jewish heritage was the secular cantata Die erste Walpurgisnacht’. It seems itting in this context to apply such a statement to hanslick in suggesting that the most remarkable examples of hanslick’s conscious loyalty to his Jewish heritage are his reviews of the secular cantata Die erste Walpurgisnacht. in terms of its emotional lure for hanslick, the Walpurgisnacht can be understood by its obvious analogy to the historical and contemporary plight of Jewry. this reading obtains a particular relevance when considered in the context of the anti-Jewishness of the 1830s and 1840s witnessed by hanslick as a child, as well as the in de siècle anti-semitism he witnessed as an adult.

chapter 4

Mendelssohn’s conversion to Judaism: An english Perspective colin eatock

Introduction Much has been written about the effects of Mendelssohn’s Jewish ancestry on his life, career and posthumous reception in Germany. such discussions have focused on a variety of issues, including Mendelssohn’s self-perception as either Jewish or christian (or perhaps a mixture of the two); the possible effects of his Jewish or christian values on his music, or on the reception of his music; and the response of christian Germans to his claims to both christianity and German-ness. this literature runs an ideological gamut from the anti-Jewish ranting of richard Wagner to recent studies that attempt to position him within shifting boundaries of Jewishness, German-ness and christianity.1 however, surprisingly little has been written about the perception of Mendelssohn’s religious and national identities in england – either during his lifetime or after his death – and the effect of english attitudes towards Judaism on his reception in that country. this chapter aims to redress this balance. taking the year 1829 as a point of departure, when Mendelssohn was irst thrust into ‘the great London World’2 (on the irst of ten visits the composer made to Britain), this chapter considers the question of how Mendelssohn’s Jewishness was viewed in england throughout his lifetime and in the decades following his death (a topic irst addressed by the present author elsewhere).3 Speciically, this study explores the shift in British thought whereby Jewishness came to be viewed as a fundamentally racial rather than religious distinction, as the nineteenth century progressed. As well, this chapter assesses the impact of Wagner’s ‘Judaism in Music’ on musical Britain, both in 1850 and in 1869. In so doing, the intention is to provide a comprehensive analysis of the changing fortune of Mendelssohn reception

1 In 1998 and 1999 a lively debate on this subject took place in the pages of Musical Quarterly. See Botstein (1998), 213, and Sposato (1999). More recently, the question of Mendelssohn’s Jewishness has been addressed by Sposato (2006) and Cooper (2007). 2 Moscheles (1970), 149. 3 Eatock (2009).

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in England, extending into the twentieth century. Let us begin, however, as Mendelssohn did, in england in 1829.

the Changing status of Jews in england during Mendelssohn’s Lifetime The Jewish community of England was small when the young composer irst arrived there in 1829, estimated at just 27,000.4 two-thirds of this community lived in London, where they made up approximately 1 per cent of the metropolitan population. Mostly the descendants of sephardic Jews who had settled in england at the time of cromwell, they were well established and culturally integrated, and probably did not strike many english christians as especially foreign or threatening. Although Jews in england were historically subject to legal disabilities with regard to land ownership, participation in civic affairs and access to higher education (among other things), these restrictions were gradually eased or abolished during the 1830s and 1840s, with Jews consequently playing a greater role in public life.5 Jews still could not hold seats in Parliament, however, not due to any speciic prohibition against them per se but because of a parliamentary oath – which all MPs were required to read – that contained the phrase ‘on the true faith of a christian’. While reciting this oath posed no problem for the author and politician Benjamin Disraeli when he irst entered the House of Commons in 1837 (he was born into a Jewish family but, like Mendelssohn, was baptized as a boy), it was an insurmountable obstacle for practicing Jews. this inequity was thrown into high relief in 1829 when full political rights were granted to catholics and Protestant dissenters throughout Great Britain, leaving Jews as almost the only religious group in the country who were effectively excluded from Parliament. From this time forward, Jews and their supporters began a campaign to fully enfranchise the Jewish community. Beginning in 1830, the ‘Jewish question’ was frequently raised in the House of Commons (Mendelssohn attended a debate on the subject in 1833); but every time legislation to permit Jews in Parliament was passed in the Lower House, it was defeated in the House of Lords. The question arose again, with new urgency, in 1847 when Lionel de Rothschild was elected to Parliament in the City of London. Arguments surrounding this issue offer a useful window into english attitudes about Jews and Judaism during this era. this is especially true of the opinions expressed in 1847, when Rothschild’s election made the question a practical, rather than hypothetical, concern. An editorial that appeared in The Standard newspaper 4

roth (1941), 239. For instance, Francis Goldsmid became England’s irst Jewish barrister in 1833, and in 1835 David Salomons was elected Sheriff of London. Jews were also elected to municipal ofice in Southampton, Portsmouth, Birmingham, and other places. See Alderman (1989), 3. 5

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began with the words: ‘We are well aware that all opposition to the entrance of Mr. rothschild into our christian Parliament will be stigmatised as unreasonable bigotry and odious intolerance’. the article continued: For centuries we have been taught that christianity is something more than a mere name. to this hour the teachers of christianity through the length and breadth of the land assure us that not to believe in the Divine Founder is to commit an enormous sin, for which the most tremendous of all punishments is inally reserved. Are these men hypocrites? Are they ministers of fraud, and not truth? Is the faith a iction? If it be so, let it be declared!6

Continuing this line of thought, the anonymous editorialist concluded: ‘A Christian nation cannot admit into its legislature the denier of christ, without renouncing its christianity.’ At irst glance this argument may not seem very different from continental anti-Jewishness. But in England, objection to Jewish Members of Parliament (MPs) was presented as a fundamentally religious, rather than racial, concern. the problem was not that Jews were not ethnically english, but that they were not Christians (unless, like Disraeli, they converted to Christianity). In the eyes of many people, England’s status as a ‘Christian nation’ would be undermined by the admission of practicing Jews to Parliament: in this perception, englishness and christianity were inextricably bound together. this argument was articulated by others, inside and outside the house of Commons. ‘I deny your right to introduce these doctrines here’, declared Robert Inglis, the MP for Oxford University, in a parliamentary debate, ‘for here is christian england – here we have a christian constitution – here we all profess ourselves at least to be christian’.7 And The Guardian, a staunchly pro-church of England periodical, summed up its position succinctly: ‘The effect of one Jew in the legislature is to preclude the possibility of any appeal to christian argument or principle. It unchristianises the Government’.8 Other secondary concerns were voiced on both sides of the issue, touching on ethnic, economic and historical subjects, but the main thrust of the debate remained religious in nature.9 In 1847, as in previous years, the House of Lords refused to be swayed. the last remaining restriction on Jewish participation in public life in england was not abolished until 1858. 6

Anon. (1847e), 3. Feldman (1994), 34. 8 Anon. (1847h), 730. 9 Not all publicly expressed opinions in 1847 were hostile to the presence of Jews in the house of commons. The Times remarked: ‘We say that the disability now affecting a Jewish candidate for Parliament is the last of a long series of similar restrictions, differing in no essential point from any of those which have successively yielded to the suggestions of humanity and the dictates of reason.’ Anon. (1847g), 4. 7

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Mendelssohn: A Jew in Germany and a German in england One might expect that in such a chauvinistically pro-Christian environment the son of a famous Jewish family might not have been entirely welcome. however, such was clearly not the case: Mendelssohn was greeted warmly by many musicians, was invited into the homes of aristocrats and played the organ for religious services in the church of england. Yet what might appear today as an inconsistency in Mendelssohn’s reception in england would have seemed entirely consistent to his English admirers in the 1830s and 1840s. To them, Mendelssohn was not, in any signiicant sense, a Jew. that Mendelssohn was of Jewish descent was of course widely known in england. his kinship to the much-admired Moses Mendelssohn was mentioned in the press when he irst visited London in 1829, again in Birmingham in 1837 and on other occasions. In addition, his dark features were sometimes described as Jewish, both explicitly and implicitly. (the author William Makepeace thackeray is said to have remarked: ‘His face is the most beautiful I ever saw, like what I imagine our saviour’s to have been’.)10 Yet his claims to christianity seem to have been accepted without question in England. Indeed, his Three Motets Op. 69 were written speciically for Church of England services, and used as such; and other sacred works, including Hear My Prayer, became staples of the Anglo-christian repertoire. (Perhaps Mendelssohn’s adherence to Lutheranism, a Protestant denomination that had no directly corresponding form in england, made him conveniently ‘neutral’ in the nation’s interdenominational squabbles.) In tandem with Mendelssohn’s recognition as a Christian was his acceptance as a German. his obviously German characteristics (he was born and raised in Germany, spoke english with a German accent, and wrote thoroughly German music) made his German-ness immediately conspicuous in England, thus ‘trumping’ his Jewishness. In Germany, where German-ness was culturally normative and therefore unremarkable, the reverse was the case, and his Jewishness was well noted.11 If he was a Jew in Germany, he was a German in England, and English musical periodicals of the 1830s and 1840s consistently relected this perception. to The Musical Journal he was ‘the great German’;12 to The Musical Examiner,

10

Grove (1928), vol. 3, 418. A perception of Mendelssohn’s identity in Germany is revealed in the 1840 marriage diary of Robert and Clara Schumann. Robert wrote to Clara: ‘for years I have contributed so much to promoting him [Mendelssohn], more than almost anyone else. In the meantime – let’s not neglect ourselves too much. Jews remain Jews; irst they take a seat ten times for themselves, then comes the christian’s turn. the stones we have helped gather for their temple of Glory they occasionally throw at us. therefore do not do too much [for them] is my opinion.’ In response, Clara wrote that she agreed completely with her husband. Sposato (2006) 4. 12 Anon. (1840c), 35. 11

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‘the illustrious German’.13 With conviction, The Musical World stated, ‘His mind is thoroughly, intensely, German – saturated at once with the wisdom of Bach and the sentimentality of Beethoven’.14 In Mendelssohn’s obituary in The Athenaeum, the critic Henry Chorley observed, ‘Let it never be forgotten that he was intensely and affectionately German’.15 While Mendelssohn was alive, the idea that there might be anything signiicantly Jewish about him or his music found no foothold in english criticism. such acceptance in england as both christian and German would have been welcomed by Mendelssohn, who had absorbed from a young age his family’s assimilationist values; it may, in fact, have been one of the things he most liked about the country. But it should not be forgotten that during the 1830s and 1840s public discourse concerning Mendelssohn was dominated by ardently pro-Mendelssohnian critics who were intent on promoting his interests. henry Chorley, James Davison, George Macfarren, and other critics wanted the English nation to perceive Mendelssohn as christian by faith and German by culture, and Jewish only by ancestry (a matter of little consequence). Yet although his english admirers held up this model of Mendelssohn’s identity as a self-evident truth, not everyone in england shared their views.

Anti-Jewishness or Anti-semitism: A Matter of Race or Religion? John Michael cooper has drawn an astute distinction between anti-Jewishness and anti-semitism in relation to Mendelssohn reception, the former being recognized as hostility towards Jews ‘as a religious group’, the latter being recognized as ‘hostility towards Jews as a racial or ethnic group’.16 this distinction is useful here also. Both these attitudes existed in England, to various degrees, during Mendelssohn’s lifetime, but it was disdain for Jews as a racially distinct people that gained traction in Victorian Britain as religious objections waned. The belief that race was an immutable force that inluenced human character was already winning adherents in the 1830s and 1840s. During the irst half of the nineteenth century, English scientists showed a keen interest in the signiicance of racial differences: pre-Darwinian biologists argued the merits of monogenist and polygenist theories (that the various human races are either descended from a common ancestor or are essentially unrelated). Physiognomy and phrenology were regarded as respectable sciences that could be used to investigate racial differences in intelligence. Johann Spurzheim, a London-based phrenologist who read Mendelssohn’s head in 1829, claimed that phrenological methodology, applied

13 14 15 16

Anon. (1844b), 721. Anon. (1840b), 211. Anon. (1847f), 1179. Cooper (2007b), 277.

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to questions of race, would ‘exercise a great inluence on the welfare of nations, in indicating clearly the differences between natural and arbitrary nobility’.17 In 1846 the anatomist Robert Knox undertook a speaking tour to promote his racial theories in lectures throughout Britain. ‘With me,’ he wrote in 1850, ‘race, or hereditary descent, is everything; it stamps the man’.18 Furthermore, he rejected the idea that religion might inluence human behavior: that elastic robe, modern christianity, adapts itself with wonderful facility to all races and nations. It has little or no inluence that I can perceive over human affairs, further than a great state engine serving political purposes; a tub for the whale. the great broad principles of the morality of man have nothing to do with any religion.19

The main thrust of Knox’s writings was his attempt to prove the superiority of the saxon race over the celts. however, he also turned his attention to Jews. While anti-Semitism was not a new phenomenon in England, Knox’s efforts to enfold it in modern scientism were novel: But where are the Jewish farmers, Jewish mechanics, laborers? Can he not till the earth, or settle anywhere? Why does he dislike handicraft labor? Has he no ingenuity, no inventive power, no mechanical or scientiic turn of mind? No love of war, nor for the arts of peace? And then I began to inquire into this, and I saw, or thought I saw, that the Jews who followed any calling were not really hebrews, but sprung of a Jewish father and a saxon or celtic mother; that the real Jewess admits generally of no intermarriage; that the real Jew had never altered since the earliest recorded period; that two hundred years at least before Christ they were perambulating Italy and Europe precisely as they do now, following the same occupations – that is, no occupation at all …20

In the irst half of the nineteenth century, many of Knox’s ideas were considered radical, even heterodox, in England. But as the Victorian era progressed, many in England came to regard the term ‘Jew’ as primarily a racial rather than a religious distinction. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of this shift in perception is that it was driven not just by anti-Semites, such as Knox, but also by philo-Semites. In the mid-nineteenth century, Judaism enjoyed a kind of cachet in england, born of a romantic fascination with its exotic beliefs, culture, and history. The ‘BritishIsraelite’ movement, which may have had its origins in Cromwell’s era, was rejuvenated in 1840 through the publication of John Wilson’s Lectures on our Israelitish Origin. In this work, Wilson claimed that the Anglo-Saxon race was 17 18 19 20

Johann Spurzheim in Stepan (1982), 25–6. Knox (1850), 6. Augstein (1996), 243–4. Knox (1969), 194.

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directly descended from the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. Basing his theories largely on philological interpretations, Wilson argued that ‘Saxon’ meant ‘Isaac’s son’,21 and ‘Britain’ was derived from the Hebrew word ‘brit,’ meaning ‘covenant’.22 Furthermore, he claimed that the Stone of Destiny, on which Jacob rested his head when he dreamt of climbing a ladder to Heaven (Genesis 28:11–16), was in fact the stone of scone, preserved in Westminster Abbey.23 Wilson’s elaborate theories evidently appealed to the Victorian imagination: by 1876 his book was in its ifth edition. One of the most prominent philo-Semites in England was Disraeli, who viewed his Jewish ancestry as a badge of honor, even superiority. his strategy for negotiating his Jewishness in a christian society was the polar opposite of Mendelssohn’s policy of remaining quiet on the subject in public.24 Disraeli insisted that he was Jewish, reconciling this claim with his membership in the Church of England by arguing that Christianity ‘completed’ Judaism.25 In 1847 he was a vocal advocate of Jewish emancipation in the house of commons, where he rose to remind MPs that ‘all the early Christians were Jews. The Christian religion was irst preached by men who had been Jews until they converted; every man in the early ages of the church by whose power, or zeal, or genius, the christian faith was propagated, was a Jew’.26 As a writer, Disraeli presented overtly philo-Semitic ideas in his novels. In Coningsby, irst published in 1844, the Jewish character Sidonia catalogs the many Jews who were contributors to European culture. On the subject of music, Sidonia declares: Almost every great composer, skilled musician, almost every voice that ravishes you with its transporting strains, springs from our tribes. the catalogue is too vast to enumerate; too illustrious to dwell for a moment on secondary names, however eminent. enough for us that the three great creative minds to whose exquisite inventions all nations at this moment yield, rossini, Meyerbeer, and Mendelssohn, are of hebrew race.27 Wilson (1876), 211. Ibid., 159. 23 Ibid., 166. 24 Devrient notes that Mendelssohn generally ‘avoided all reference to his Jewish descent’ (57) However, in private contexts, Mendelssohn occasionally made pro-Semitic statements, and acknowledged his Jewish ancestry. In 1829, his sister Rebecka complained to him about a distant relative who was too culturally Jewish for her assimilated tastes: ‘I don’t hate Jews,’ she wrote, ‘but this was really too much.’ Felix sarcastically replied, ‘What do you mean you don’t hate Jews? It’s really too nice of you not to despise your own family.’ Tillard (1996), 210. 25 Endelman and Kushner (2002), 1. 26 Davis (1976), 83. 27 Disraeli (1983), 274. 21 22

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rossini was not Jewish in any sense of the word.28 But Meyerbeer was very much a Jew – and the inclusion of Mendelssohn in this list indicates that, to Disraeli, it was race, not religion, that most mattered. As racial theories of human intelligence and behavior became increasingly popular, Disraeli claimed a measure of credit for bringing these ‘great truths of ethnology’ to public attention.29 ‘The general inluence of race on human action’, he proudly stated in the preface to the 1870 edition of his novels, was now ‘universally recognised as the key of history’. Another philo-semite in mid-nineteenth-century england whose racially mediated views of Judaism may have had an effect on shifting perceptions of Mendelssohn’s identity was Elizabeth Sara Sheppard, the author of the 1853 novel Charles Auchester. In a brief autobiographical sketch in the opening chapter, the character Auchester, a young english musician, announces that (like sheppard herself) he is one-quarter Jewish: herein my chief glory lies; and whatever enlightenment my destiny has boasted, streams from that radiant point. I know that there are many who would as genuinely rejoice in descent from Mahomet, from Attila, or from Robin Hood, as from any of Israel’s children; but I claim the golden link in my genealogy as that which connects it with eternity and all that in my faith is glorious.30

next to Auchester, the novel’s most prominent character is chevalier seraphael, a composer and conductor who was loosely based on Mendelssohn. When he is introduced – as an unknown man who suddenly appears at a provincial english choral festival to direct a performance of Messiah – the young Auchester suggests to an older musician, Lenhart Davy, that the mysterious conductor looked like a prince. ‘Not a German prince, my Charles!’ Davy replies. ‘He is more like one of your favorite Jews; and that is where it is, no doubt’.31 soon Auchester travels to Germany to further his musical studies, and becomes a close friend of seraphael, whose racial Jewishness is conirmed – although he is also apparently a Christian by faith. towards the end of the novel, Auchester describes seraphael’s astonishing musical ability as a kind of supernatural blessing bestowed on the composer by virtue of the fact that he was ‘of unperverted Hebrew ancestry’.32 28 Disraeli may have confused Gioacchino Rossini with Salamone Rossi, a Jewish composer who lived in Mantua from about 1570 to 1630. However, Disraeli’s penchant for padding his lists of illustrious Jews did not go unnoticed in victorian england. thackeray poked fun at coningsby by suggesting that Queen victoria and the Pope were actually Jews. Knox’s response was to deny that any of the eminent people named by Disraeli were of pure Jewish ancestry. 29 Disraeli (1926), xiv–xv. 30 sheppard (1911), 3. 31 Ibid., 37. 32 Ibid., 318.

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In the decades following Mendelssohn’s death, comment on his racial heritage and its signiicance iniltrated critical assessments of the composer. such references, while often innocently neutral, or even philo-semitic in tone, nevertheless lent a deterministic aspect to Mendelssohn’s Jewishness that was absent from critical writing in the 1830s and 1840s. In 1862, an anonymous article in The National Review attempted to clarify the layers of the composer’s ethnicity, arguing that his Jewishness was a mark of superiority, and urging its readers to remember that ‘although Mendelssohn always regarded himself as a German, and was thoroughly imbued with christian culture, he came of hebrew race; and there was undoubtedly a strong infusion of hebrew tenacity and depth in his nature, which held his susceptibility in check, and elevated the whole tone of his mind above the average German level’.33 even George Grove could not resist invoking Mendelssohn’s ancestry. In 1880, in his Dictionary of Music and Musicians, he remarked, concerning the composer’s setting of Psalm 114, Da Israel aus Ägypten zog, that: ‘The Jewish blood of Mendelssohn must surely for once have beat iercely over this picture of the great triumph of his forefathers, and it is only the plain truth to say that in directness and force his music is a perfect match for the splendid words of the unknown Psalmist’.34 Meanwhile, the continuing efforts of english scientists to understand the causes and effects of human racial attributes were emboldened by the 1859 publication of Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, followed by The Descent of Man in 1871. His theories were, to say the least, controversial, meeting with initial opposition in both the scientiic and theological communities. Nevertheless, they were soon widely accepted, as the science historian nancy stepan explains: Scientists, before Darwin, whether monogenist or polygenist, had agreed that species had been created by God. the suggestions that man had arisen from some unknown animal ancestor, and that the distinction between species and varieties was continually being broken down by evolutionary change, were deeply disturbing … Yet this opposition proved to be more apparent than real. As early as the late 1860s, scientists embracing evolution found that, despite the novelty of Darwin’s anti-creationism, evolutionary thought was compatible with the idea of the ixity, antiquity, and hierarchy of human races. Far from dislodging old racial ideas, evolution strengthened them, and provided them with a new scientiic vocabulary of struggle and survival.35

The Theory of Evolution was the ‘big idea’ of its era, and the popularization of Darwinism led to a greater preoccupation – in such varied disciplines as anthropology, philology, sociology, economics, and even musicology – with issues of race. 33 34 35

Anon. (1862), 7–8. Grove (1928), vol. 2, 304. Also found in Todd (2004), 167. stepan (1982), 48–9.

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For example, in 1886 the anthropologist Joseph Jacobs addressed the question of ‘ability’ as a racially inherited characteristic among Jews. In an article in The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, he attempted to compare Jews to the races of england and scotland. his methods were, by today’s standards, highly anecdotal and arbitrary.36 nevertheless, based on the evidence he collected pertaining to the Jewish population of Europe between 1785 and 1885 he proposed: ‘If Jewish intellect is equal to the English standard, we should expect to ind in dictionaries of biography, one illustrious Jew, twentyone eminent ones, and 350 distinguished men of Jewish blood’.37 What he found, however, were four Jews whom he deemed ‘illustrious’: Disraeli, Heine, the socialist philosopher Ferdinand Lassalle, and ‘Felix Bartholdy-Mendelssohn [sic], one of the great musicians of the world’. the fact that most of these men were christians by faith was evidently of no concern to Jacobs.38 As race-based interpretation of Mendelssohn’s identity became increasingly accepted, those who knew him personally viewed this trend with alarm: chorley, in his memoir Thirty Years’ Musical Recollections, published in 1862, reiterated his opinion that Mendelssohn was a ‘true German’.39 In the same year, in a lecture to the Royal Institution, the critic offered a rebuttal to the ‘disparaging criticism’ that Mendelssohn’s music was, in any essential way, Jewish: that he had tastes in harmony tending towards mannerism, is not to be denied; but the sole trace of Hebrew inluence that I can think of, in all the body of music he poured out, is in a few portions of his Athalie music. These as well beitted a Jewish story as did the faëry tone of his Midsummer Night’s Dream – as did the wild billowy heavings of the north sea in his Hebriden overture – as did the ‘Saltarella’ inale to his symphony which we call Italian …40

As late as 1890, the composer and author William Smyth Rockstro, who had studied with Mendelssohn at the Leipzig Conservatory, underscored his teacher’s ‘earnestness as a Christian’ in an article in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.41 Yet 36

Jacobs’s methods were so lawed that it is dificult to know where to begin criticizing them. He offered no deinition of ‘ability,’ nor any systematic way of measuring it, either in individuals or communities. rather, he based his statistical data on the number of English and Jewish individuals he was able to ind listed in biographical dictionaries. How he sorted his data into the three hierarchic categories of ‘illustrious,’ ‘eminent,’ and ‘distinguished’ remains unclear. 37 Jacobs (1886), 354–6. 38 There is some debate as to whether Lassalle was formally baptized as a Christian; however, during his life, he maintained no ties with either Jewish faith or culture. 39 Chorley (1862), 103. 40 Chorley (1911), 48. See also Bledsoe (2002), 150. 41 Anon. (1890), vol. 16, 6. In his article, Rockstro makes no mention of Mendelssohn’s connections to Judaism.

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by the end of the century, the perception of Mendelssohn that had dominated discourse in england during the composer’s lifetime – that he was a German and a christian, with his Jewishness very much in the background – was reversed. As Mendelssohn’s english friends, admirers, and protégés faded from public life, he became widely viewed as Jewish, irst and foremost. Moreover, the ‘disparaging criticism’ chorley hinted at suggests that his Jewishness was increasingly viewed as a debilitating inluence on his musical talent and oeuvre.

the Impact of wagner’s view on Mendelssohn Reception in england the sea-change in the perception of Mendelssohn’s identity cannot be entirely attributed to ‘scientiic’ racial theories or philo-Semitic attempts to claim him as Jewish. Any discussion of Mendelssohn reception in the second half of the nineteenth century must take into consideration the most infamous attack on the composer ever written. This was, of course, ‘Das Judenthum in der Musik’ by Richard Wagner, published in 1850 in Die Neue Zeitschrift für Musik under the pen-name ‘K. Freigedank’. Concerning Mendelssohn, Wagner acknowledged that although he may be ‘gifted with the ripest speciic talent, he may have acquired the inest and most varied education, he may possess the highest and most inely tempered sense of honour,’ nonetheless: he may remain unable, even in so much as one solitary instance, to bring forth that deep effect upon our hearts and souls which we expect from Art because we know its capability in that direction – because we have experienced it many a time and oft – in fact, whenever a hero of our craft has designed, as it were, to open his mouth to speak to us.42

In Wagner’s view, Mendelssohn’s Jewish heritage was an innate and insurmountable obstacle to his success as a composer, despite his talent, education, and even his ‘sense of honour’ (Wagner was careful not to impugn Mendelssohn’s character): to the critics by profession, who must necessarily have arrived at a similar view, the duty falls of conirming this unquestionable fact by references to individual instances among the Mendelssohnian productions. the general statement, however, will here be made suficiently clear if we recall that, in hearing a piece by this composer, our attention is only ixed whilst graceful, smooth, and artiicial igures are in progress. These are brought forward ordered and combined more or less for the entertainment of our fancy; their changes being akin to those of a kaleidoscope. But never do we feel moved at those situations where the igures are intended to express any deep or pithy heart-sensation.43 42 43

Brown (2003), 480. Ibid., 480–81.

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Wagner concluded that Mendelssohn’s attempts to contribute to europe’s artistic traditions in an original or profound way were stymied by the fact that he was not, racially, a european at all. to Wagner, Mendelssohn was simply a Jew. The extent of the impact of ‘Das Judenthum in der Musik’ in 1850 (and the extent to which the article was attributed to Wagner, as it was pseudonymic) remains a point of disagreement in Wagnerian scholarship.44 In England, it is unlikely that more than a handful of people read the essay.45 Yet when Wagner visited London in 1855 to conduct the Philharmonic Society’s season, England’s leading critics were waiting for him with sharpened knives. Evidently Davison had heard about Wagner’s ideas and was also under the impression that Mendelssohn, his musical idol, had been no admirer of the controversial Zukunftmusiker.46 Even before Wagner arrived in London, Davison assumed a hostile stance, accusing Wagner of having ‘little respect for any music but his own’ and positing that ‘he entertains much the same opinion of Felix Mendelssohn as Felix Mendelssohn was wont to entertain of richard Wagner.’ As well, he asserted that Wagner was: earnestly bent on upsetting all the accepted forms and canons of art – forms and canons which Bach and Handel, Haydn and Mozart, Beethoven and Mendelssohn respected – in order the more surely to establish his doctrines that rhythm is superluous, counterpoint a useless bore, and every musician ancient or modern, himself excepted, either an impostor or a blockhead.47

similarly, chorley expressed consternation in print at the Philharmonic society’s appointment of a conductor ‘whose avowed and published creed is contempt for all such music as the english love.’48 In March, Wagner’s arrival in London further provoked Chorley, and throughout the Philharmonic’s 1855 season he relentlessly opposed everything the composer-conductor did. For Wagner’s own music – Wagner conducted his Tannhäuser overture and excerpts from Lohengrin – chorley had nothing but contempt. And when Wagner directed a performance of Mendelssohn’s violin Sinéad Dempsey-Garratt makes the case for the centrality of Wagner’s 1850 essay to the conventional historiography of Mendelssohn’s reception in her chapter in the current volume. 45 Wagner’s essay ‘Das Judenthum in der Musik’ may have been irst introduced to England by Ferdinand Praeger, the London correspondent for the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik. See Dzamba Seesa (1979), 20. 46 Davison’s impression that Mendelssohn held Wagner in low esteem may have been true. According to Robert Schumann, Mendelssohn was ‘totally indignant’ about Wagner’s music after attending the 1844 premiere of Der liegende Holländer in Berlin. See Todd (2003), 469. 47 Anon. (1855a), 41. 48 Anon. (1855b), 120. 44

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concerto, the critic’s review indicated that he had at least some knowledge of the ‘published creed’ he had mentioned previously. ‘In the dashing disrespect, however, with which this masterpiece of music was treated’, the reviewer wrote, ‘Herr Wagner was self-consistent. He has, as a critic (unless we mistake) “inished up” Mendelssohn, having described him as a man “who, having nothing to say, said it elegantly”.’49 After a stormy season in London, Wagner was only too glad to leave England, and did not return for 22 years. (In a letter to Otto Wesendonck in Zurich, he denounced London’s critics as ‘Jewish rabble’.)50 Yet from 1855 onward, Wagner slowly found a place in english musical culture: the Philharmonic society programmed his works, and his music was heard in concerts at the crystal Palace. In 1870 London’s musical public at last had the opportunity to see a fully staged Wagner opera – Der liegende Holländer, in Italian, at the Drury Lane Theatre – and two years later a Wagner society was established in england. similarly, Wagner’s anti-Semitic ideas gradually iniltrated the realm of English thought. When ‘Das Judenthum in der Musik’ was re-published in Germany in 1869, this time under Wagner’s name, it was respectfully addressed in the pages of The Musical Standard. An anonymous reviewer considered the ‘grand charge of this “Judaism in Music” … [to be] very serious indeed, and men naturally pause over such an assertion as that the Jews have bought up all opinion, private, press, and even that of the musicians themselves, all over europe: they naturally pause – and doubt’.51 However, the writer went on to endorse Wagner’s unlattering portrayal of Jews as an uprooted people who clung to a downtrodden heritage alien to Europe. He considered this ‘picture of the Jew’ to be: true, although drawn with a black pencil, we feel: the man [i.e. the Jew] whom no residence can ever make to speak in the tones of a foreign land, whose eye falls before northern poetry, whose God is still the god of a desecrated temple, whose many other features Wagner has drawn with the most intense hatred, is a picture unmistakable …52

By the 1870s Wagner had become a subject of considerable interest amongst England’s intelligentsia. The construction of the Festspielhaus at Bayreuth was followed by the musical press, and concerts were presented in London to raise money for the production of the irst Ring cycle. Articles on Wagner and his views appeared in The Fortnightly Review and The New Quarterly Review, among other publications; and Wagner’s (and also Liszt’s) anti-Semitic theories were discussed in The Monthly Musical Record in 1875 in an article by the Edinburgh-based

49 50 51 52

Anon. (1855c), 385. Spencer and Millington (1987), 355. Anon. (1869), 157. Ibid.

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violinist and chopin biographer Friedrich niecks – although niecks made it clear that he did not support these views.53 By the time Wagner returned to London, to conduct a series of concerts at the Albert Hall in 1877, his anti-Semitic and anti-Mendelssohnian views were well known – and had, according to an opinion expressed in The Musical Times, found some measure of support in England. In that year, the anonymous author of the article ‘Is Mendelssohn in Danger?’ expressed concern that Mendelssohn was becoming ‘the favorite object of mud-throwing.’54 he made a distinction between ‘Mendelssohn’s earlier assailants’ who, with the exception of Wagner, ‘lung stones at him in the dark and sneaked off’ and those that are ‘more courageous now, perhaps because the exception referred to has acquired inluence enough to make him a potent backer’. With admiration, the author noted Wagner’s boldness: Herr Wagner never lung stones at Mendelssohn in the dark. On the contrary, he took his stand, so to speak, in the marketplace, and told all men that their idol was a poor creature who, ‘having nothing to say, said it in a gentlemanly manner’. Fair ighting, this, and we are glad whenever those who think with the champion imitate his example.55

Yet if english anti-Mendelssohnians were in fact inspired by Wagner, they were evidently disinclined to imitate his vitriolic racial polemics; and public criticism of Mendelssohn that drew attention to the composer’s Jewish ancestry was rare and subtle. It is dificult to say, for instance, whether or not George Bernard Shaw’s famous attack on Mendelssohn in 1889 – for his ‘kid-glove gentility, his conventional sentimentality, and his despicable oratorio-mongering’ – was tinged with anti-Semitism. Despite the efforts of the self-styled ‘Perfect Wagnerite’ to distance himself from his hero’s hatred of Jews, it is not hard to read a subtext into his comparison of Mendelssohn with a monger. A more overt example, however, may be found in the early years of the twentieth century: the composers charles villiers stanford and cecil Forsyth proposed, in their History of Music, that Mendelssohn’s music was marked by ‘perpetual and unvaried repetition of phrases and even bars: a habit which probably had its source in his hebrew blood’.56 the Fragmentation of Mendelssohn’s Reputation in in de siècle england the disdain for Mendelssohn’s music that made its presence felt in late-victorian england took place against broader political and social circumstances that were 53 54 55 56

284.

Niecks (1875), 164. Also found in Todd (1991a), 383. Anon. (1877), 209. Ibid. George Bernard Shaw, as cited in Botstein (1991), 7. Stanford and Forsyth (1917),

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increasingly disadvantageous to Jews. Indeed, English anti-Semitism in the late nineteenth century was a widespread phenomenon that manifested itself in many ways. In the realm of politics, Jews found themselves increasingly unpopular – even though Disraeli (now the Earl of Beaconsield) had risen to become Prime Minister of Great Britain. The political historian David Feldman observes a shift in attitudes towards Jews between 1876 and 1880 whereby ‘many nonconformists, radicals and Liberal intellectuals – groups which had supported the Jews’ claims during the struggle for emancipation – associated themselves with a critique of Judaism and criticism of Jews’. Feldman argues that many of ‘Disraeli’s opponents found the key to the Prime Minister’s actions in his Jewish origins and “oriental” sympathies’. he points to a tendency on their part to scrutinize the motives and question ‘the patriotism of English Jews’.57 Disraeli’s racial allegiances were openly debated in 1877, when Turkey forcefully put down revolts in the Balkans. His government’s tacit support for the turks was interpreted by his opponents as placing the interests of nonChristian Asians before those of Christian Europeans. One polemicist, Edward Augustus Freeman, argued in print that Disraeli was promoting a Muslim–Jewish alliance against Christians, making the case that ‘the one subject on which Lord Beaconsield, through his career, has been in earnest has been whatever has touched his own people’, arguing that whereas he was ‘a mocker of everything else, he has been utterly serious about this’. Freeman saw it in starkly polarized terms, asserting that ‘we cannot sacriice our people, the people of Aryan and christian europe, to the most genuine belief in Asian mystery. We cannot have england or europe governed by a hebrew policy’.58 Disraeli’s Jewish ancestry had lost its cachet, and he found that he could no longer turn it to his political advantage. Furthermore, a rise in english anti-semitism was fueled by a steep increase in Jewish immigration. Waves of anti-Jewish pogroms in russia, Poland, and Rumania, beginning about 1880, led to the forced emigration of approximately 2 million Ashkenazy Jews from eastern europe, some of whom found their way to England. Many settled in London, where the Jewish population swelled from 47,000 in 1883 to 150,000 by 1902.59 Other towns and cities, including Leeds, Manchester, and Glasgow, saw signiicant increases in their Jewish populations. Predictably, the arrival of these ‘aliens’ was greeted with alarm by many people in england – including some within the well-established Jewish community, who feared that an inlux of newcomers would kindle a backlash against them. their fears were soon realized, as Yiddish-speaking Jews moved into english working-class districts and transformed them into east european ghettoes. Concerning this phenomenon, Charles Booth – a social reformer who in the 1880s and 1890s studied conditions in the slums of East London – 57 58 59

Feldman (1994), 94. Ibid., 101. Roth (1941), 267.

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wrote of the impossibility of Gentiles living in the same house with ‘these poor foreign Jews’, pointing to their unpleasantness ‘even as neighbours’. As Booth saw it, because ‘people of this race, though sometimes quarrelsome amongst themselves, are gregarious and sociable, each small street or group of houses tend to become entirely Jewish. the crowding that results is very great, and the dirt reported is indescribable’.60 Anti-Jewish sentiment led to the creation, in 1903, of the Royal Commission on Alien Immigration, which was charged with investigating the ‘extent of the evils which are attributed to the immigration of Aliens, especially in the Metropolis’.61 two years later, Parliament passed the Aliens Act, which placed restrictions on foreign immigration. It was against this socio-political backdrop that the consensus of support that Mendelssohn had enjoyed in the mid-nineteenth century began to disintegrate. The ‘illustrious German composer’ of the 1840s was, by the end of the century, the supericial, derivative, Jewish composer. (However, it must be stressed that this interpretation was upheld only in ‘progressive’ musical circles. Mendelssohn remained popular with many english musicians, critics, and concert-goers to the end of the century, and beyond.) In the debate over Mendelssohn’s ‘true’ identity, and stature as an artist, the composer’s Germanic culture and his lifelong christianity were often forgotten, or deemed of little consequence when balanced against ‘weightier’ racial issues. He was, in effect, posthumously re-converted to Judaism. there were other factors not directly connected to Mendelssohn’s racial and religious identity that also contributed to the fragmentation of his popularity in england – not the least of which was the emergence of a nationalist movement in English music that strove to oppose the ‘domination’ of Germanic classicism and cosmopolitanism. It is impossible therefore to speak in quantifying terms about how the perception of Mendelssohn as a Jew led to increased disdain for his music. But the identiication of Mendelssohn as essentially Jewish at a time when Jews were becoming increasingly unwelcome amongst england’s Gentile population could surely have done nothing to aid the cause of his music. In coming to regard Mendelssohn as essentially Jewish, the English fell into line with the rest of the world. this view was of course wholly endorsed in nazi Germany: his statue in Leipzig was pulled down, and performances of his music were banned. today, although Mendelssohn’s musical reputation has risen substantially in the years since World War II, his essential Jewishness has often been accepted as a donné. he is listed in numerous twentieth-century directories and indexes of Jewish musicians (although biographers are usually careful to indicate that he was a convert to christianity). And when, in 1993, the AfricanAmerican violinist Louis Farrakhan – better known as the leader of the Nation of 60

Feldman (1994), 182. Lionel de Rothschild et al., Report of the Royal Commission on Alien Immigration with Minutes of Evidence and Appendix, accessed 20 January 2011 from http://www. bopcris.ac.uk/bopall/ref7411.html. 61

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Islam – decided to publicly perform a work by a Jewish composer, as a gesture of conciliation towards the Jewish community for his alleged anti-semitism, he chose Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. nevertheless, there was a time and a place when Mendelssohn was perceived as he wished to be: as a German and a christian.

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PArt ii Between tradition and innovation

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chapter 5

norm and deformation in Mendelssohn’s sonata Forms Paul Wingield and Julian Horton

Introduction it has become commonplace to regard Mendelssohn’s instrumental forms as orientated retrospectively between classical and romantic mindsets. At least since the critiques initiated by richard Wagner and Franz Brendel, the prevailing view, fuelled by biographical constructions of excessive musical facility and material privilege, has often styled Mendelssohn as at best reactionary, concerned more with consolidation than progress, at worst supericial and rooted excessively in the past.1 When Gerald Abraham, writing in 1938, described Mendelssohn’s music as a ‘shady half-brotherhood of romanticism and neo-classicism’, he encapsulated a sentiment that endured, in various forms, for more than a century.2 recent scholarship has done much to change these perceptions. the ‘progressive’ elements of Mendelssohn’s style, the complexity of his engagement with a wide range of contemporary and prior inluences, and the sometimes tortuous nature of his compositional process have become much more thoroughly understood.3 nevertheless, fresh perspectives from which to regard Mendelssohn’s instrumental music are still emerging. in particular, issues of sonata form, and speciically questions of its historical and generic status, have of late undergone considerable revision, and this has opened up new avenues for the analysis of Mendelssohn’s sonata practice. in this context, the perceived dichotomy of classicism and romanticism becomes emblematic of a decisive schism in the development of sonata form arising in the immediate wake of Beethoven’s achievement. Whereas late eighteenth-century forms are commonly regarded as direct expressions of classical style, the progress of sonata form after Beethoven is marked by the dissociation of style and form. the ‘circumpolarity’, as carl dahlhaus put it, of symphonic practice in the nineteenth century could in these terms be extended to encompass sonata forms 1 For useful commentaries on this reception history, see todd (2003), xix–xxix and Botstein (1991), 5–42. 2 see Abraham (1938), 59. 3 on the progressive aspects of Mendelssohn’s style, see for example vitercik (2004); for a detailed account of Mendelssohn’s compositional process, see cooper (2003).

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in general; rather than responding directly to stylistic change, composers persisted in the reproduction of a reiied classical pattern, made artiicially prestigious but historically redundant by Beethoven.4 Mendelssohn’s ‘neo-classicism’ consequently expressed in a particular way a problem common to sonata-type works of this period. For charles rosen, this shift was propelled by two related factors: a transfer of aesthetic priority towards lyricism and the ‘fragment’ as its representative form; and the emergence of a body of theory – the Formenlehre tradition – which reiied practice into a set of didactic norms. The former generated nineteenthcentury style and its concomitant forms (the miniature, the cycle, the Lied); the latter was a theoretical expression of reception history, which ramiied a source of inluence into a pedagogical tool, and in so doing rendered it historically impotent. As rosen has it: ‘When sonata form did not exist, it had a history – the history of eighteenth-century musical style. once it had been called into existence by nineteenth-century theory, history was no longer possible for it; it was deined, ixed and unalterable’.5 nineteenth-century composers constructed classical forms from post-classical materials, and thereby founded their works on a basic and, for rosen, irreconcilable dichotomy.6 The recent ‘sonata theory’ of James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy formulates this rupture more systematically, tracing the passage from a generic ‘classical’ to a reiied ‘romantic’ sonata form, where the agent of reiication is again the Formenlehre tradition. If Mozart and Haydn employ non-normative procedures, they ‘deform’ a generic convention; if Brahms and Bruckner do the same, they ‘deform’ the ‘standard-textbook’ model.7 Whereas rosen dispenses with the idea of a classical tectonic norm altogether in favour of a more broadly deined stylistic principle, the central tenet of sonata theory is that ‘sonata form’ is in essence a historically variable normative abstraction.8 It is not enough, Hepokoski observes, to identify the sonata characteristics of a given movement; rather, we must recognise that these characteristics operate against the background of a formal paradigm, in relation to which any speciic example needs to be understood. As he elaborates: the ‘real form’ of any … piece – and indeed, the ‘real piece’ itself – should not be restricted to the literally presentational succession of sound events. instead, 4

see dahlhaus (1988), 152–60. see rosen (1980), 292. 6 rosen has repeatedly advanced this view. see rosen (1971), 451–60, and rosen (1996), 586–90. 7 See Hepokoski (1993), 5 and 19–30; also Hepokoski (1992), 135–75; Hepokoski (2001–02), 127–54; Hepokoski (2002), 91–154; Hepokoski (2006), 4–43. See also Hepokoski and Darcy (1997), 115–54 and Hepokoski and Darcy (2006). 8 the notion of the sonata ‘principle’ is usually traced back to edward t. cone: see Cone (1968), especially 76–7. This idea is critiqued in Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 242–5. 5

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the real form exists in that conceptual dialogue with implicit generic norms, which exist outside of the material surface of the printed page and its acoustical realisation.9

According to Hepokoski, this obtains because, for any given piece, ‘form resides … in the composer- and listener-activated process of measuring what one hears against what one is invited to expect’.10 composers, in other words, always write sonata forms in such a way as to accept, or deviate from, a kind of Platonic model (or in dahlhaus’s terms, an ‘ideal type’), which necessarily precedes practice.11 the formal identity of the piece at any point is thus a compound of ‘sounding’ events and the prior abstract conception that they either evoke or evade. this conception is historically grounded, inasmuch as the a priori ‘sonata form’ changes over time, and in particular takes on a different status under the inluence of nineteenth-century compositional theory. For Hepokoski, classical sonatas rely upon the a priori model of ‘the genre “sonata form”’.12 if we wish to comprehend Beethoven’s practice in, for instance, the Egmont overture, we need to identify ‘the essential generic markers’ informing the composition and reception of sonata-type works in the Viennese high-classical style. Hepokoski and darcy conceive of these markers as a ‘generic layout’, which consists of the largest scale of an ‘essential sonata trajectory’ (est), comprising exposition, development and recapitulation spaces. the exposition itself enacts an ‘essential expositional trajectory’ (eet), concluded by an ‘essential expositional closure’ (eec) normally articulated by a perfect authentic cadence (PAc) in a non-tonic key, and this is balanced in the recapitulation by an ‘essential structural closure’ (ESC), which revisits the EEC in the tonic. Hepokoski and Darcy break the EET down further into primary, transitional, secondary and closing areas (P, tr, s and c), tr and s being distinguished by the intervention of a medial caesura (Mc). P, tr, s and c are themselves made up of ‘modules’ which ‘launch’ the trajectory in P, ‘relaunch’ it in s, close it in c (temporarily for the eet and permanently for the est) and supply ‘energy gain’ in tr. Because the eet does not close in the tonic, it constitutes a ‘structure of promise’; because the recapitulation does, it constitutes a ‘structure of accomplishment’.13 Egmont is regarded as a ‘deformation’ of the ‘generic layout’, since the recapitulatory ‘structure of accomplishment’ is thwarted

Hepokoski (2001–02), 135. ibid. 11 see dahlhaus (1991), 91–120. 12 Hepokoski (2001–02), 134. 13 Ibid., 129. The schematic representation of this model is reproduced in Hepokoski and darcy (2006), 17; 14–22 supply a detailed appraisal of its properties. such diagrammatic representations have a long heritage; see for instance Anton reicha’s illustration of the ‘grande coupe binaire’ in reicha (1826), 300. 9

10

86

Mendelssohn Perspectives

by the return of s in the submediant, an evasion that is redressed by the extended tonic-major coda.14 In the nineteenth century, these tectonic ‘norms’ appear increasingly reiied by theoretical intervention: the ‘dialogue with a conceptual model’ into which the composer enters ceases to be a conversation with the ‘genre’ itself and becomes a matter of accepting and ‘deforming’ the Formenlehre precedent. Formenlehre deformations are themselves susceptible to taxonomy, and Hepokoski isolates ive central categories: the ‘breakthrough deformation’; the ‘introduction-coda frame’; ‘episodes within the developmental space’; the ‘strophic/sonata hybrid’; and the double-function form, or ‘multi-movement form within a single movement’.15 He also speculates about three more localised practices: the ‘Brahmsian deformation’ or non-repeating exposition; the ‘Brucknerian deformation’, which relates to the ‘strophic/sonata hybrid’; and the ‘non-resolving recapitulation’ as witnessed in Egmont, a practice Darcy has deined as ‘sonata process failure’.16 Hepokoski understands these procedures ‘to have stemmed from key works of Berlioz, Mendelssohn, schumann, liszt and Wagner, although certain structures of Beethoven, Weber, schubert and chopin were by no means irrelevant’.17 these ideas have subsequently provoked studies by Darcy and Timothy L. Jackson, amongst others.18 Darcy augments Hepokoski’s basic taxonomy with three speciically Brucknerian concepts; Jackson places it in a Schenkerian context, and associates the reversal of recapitulatory order with Aristotelian rhetorical igures of tragedy.19 He has also traced its implications for multi-movement cycles, furnishing various conceptions of super-structural deformational process.20 if the history of sonata forms from the late eighteenth to the early twentieth century really is deined by a move from a generic to a reiied normative model, then an investigation of the transitional repertoire will obviously prove crucial. As a seminal effort to ground post-classical style in classical forms, or conversely to modify classical form to accommodate new aesthetic criteria, Mendelssohn’s sonata-type music is central to an assessment of this historical progression, not least in view of Hepokoski’s citation of it as a signiicant source of deformational practices. it is also precisely coincident with the development of the main 14 As Hepokoski puts it, the non-resolving recapitulation ‘defers closure beyond rhetorical sonata-space into a functionally enhanced coda’; see Hepokoski (2001–02), 134. this point is contentious: if the end of sonata space is determined by the position of the esc, then it must include the coda in Egmont, or in any movement in which resolution is deferred beyond the end of the recapitulation. 15 Hepokoski (1993), 6–9. 16 ibid., 94 and darcy (1997), 256–77 and especially 274–6. 17 Hepokoski (1993), 5. 18 See Darcy (1997) and Jackson (1997). 19 the relationship between reversal and the Aristotelian rhetoric of tragedy is considered in Jackson (1997), 140–49. 20 See Jackson (1999), 26–9.

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Formenlehre models, from reicha’s Traité de haute composition musicale of 1826 to czerny’s School of Practical Composition, published a year after Mendelssohn’s death.21 Our aim in this chapter is therefore twofold: irst, to evaluate sonata theory and its speciic relevance for Mendelssohn’s music; second, to establish, through an analytical survey of sonata-type movements, precisely what can be considered normative in Mendelssohn’s sonata practice, and whether this has any correlation with the acceptance or deformation of a Formenlehre model or generic scheme.

sonata Form and ‘sonata theory’ An engagement with sonata theory might begin by scrutinising the controversy between ‘conformational’ or ‘generative’ conceptions of form, to invoke Mark evan Bonds’ distinction.22 Hepokoski and Darcy preface Elements of Sonata Theory with cautionary remarks on this matter. Unlike Hegelian models, which from A. B. Marx forwards have stressed either the generation of form through material development or its classiication into formal-functional schemata, sonata theory is, for its creators, ‘dialogical’: sonata theory starts from the premise that an individual composition is a musical utterance that is set (by the composer) into a dialogue with implied norms. this is an understanding of formal procedures as dynamic, dialogic. our conception of the sonata as an instance of dialogic form is not accurately described as seeking to reinstate a bluntly ‘conformational’ view of that structure … Viewed more subtly, it is not the obligation of a sonata to ‘conform’ to a ixed background pattern … rather, the composer generates a sonata … to enter into a dialogue with an intricate web of interrelated norms as an ongoing action in time [italics in original].23

the generic layout is consequently not to be understood as a pattern to which composers are obliged to refer; instead, it collates abstracted conventions, with which they engage in a kind of interactive discourse. Hepokoski and Darcy clear this theoretical ground before proceeding because it deines what Hepokoski has elsewhere called the ‘modernist’ idea of form: the binary perception that forms either reinforce known structural categories, or else spring unmediated from their 21 reicha (1826), vol. 2; czerny (1848). the German original of czerny’s treatise was not published until the following year; see czerny (1849–50). 22 Bonds (1991), 13–14. 23 See Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 10. For an elegant assessment of left- and rightHegelian notions of form in relation to the analysis of Beethoven, see Michael Spitzer (2006), 241–9. On the right of the argument, Spitzer identiies recent examples in Ratz (1973) and caplin (1998); on the left he cites dahlhaus (1975); dahlhaus (1991) and schmalfeldt (1996).

Mendelssohn Perspectives

88

primary material.24 the notion of dialogue steers a middle path between these polarities in an effort to maintain both a normative terminology and an individuated conception of formal process at the level of the work. Sonata theory’s categorical framework is, in practice, less lexible, deining formal procedures according to the extent to which they resemble the generic layout, and organising the results into a hierarchy of defaults. the harmonic characteristics of the medial caesura in the classical repertoire, for instance, are arranged by ‘statistical frequency’: the imperfect cadence in the dominant (or ‘v: HC MC’) constitutes a ‘irst-level default [italics in original]’ because ‘in most major-mode cases the Mc is constructed around a half-cadence or active dominantarrival in the dominant key’.25 concomitantly, in major-mode movements the i: HC MC constitutes a second-level default, the V: PAC MC a third-level default and the i: PAc Mc a fourth-level default, beyond which we enter deformational territory. the hierarchy of defaults therefore enacts an empirically grounded notion of conformity: the more common a practice is, the higher up the hierarchy it is placed. Thus Hepokoski and Darcy deine the ‘blocked medial caesura’ (that is to say, a medial caesura displaced by an interrupted cadence) as a deformation, presumably because it is less common than any of the defaults.26 Blocked medial caesurae must be signiicantly rarer than fulilled medial caesurae; if the contrary is true, then there is no basis for deining the latter as normative. despite its dialogical formulation, then, the default hierarchy anchors sonata theory in a conformational mentality. the procedures of a given movement are still understood as more or less normative in relation to a tectonic scheme (the ‘generic layout’), the degree of normality being determined by frequency of application, and the default levels are meaningful primarily because they describe proximity to an aggregation of norms. one assumes, in other words, that the generic layout is assembled from procedures that are statistically normative; certainly, it would make no sense to include within it a practice that can be found in only one piece. the defaults, and by extension deformations, must consequently measure statistical conformity, otherwise ‘the occasional stretching or overriding of the options on offer from the genre’, as Hepokoski and Darcy deine deformation, could not occur. the dialogical relation of genre and practice is also affected by the way the generic layout’s historical status is construed. As Hepokoski and Darcy suggest, their terminological apparatus is not historically grounded: there is no question of Beethoven regarding his irst-theme groups as comprising P modules, which progress, via energy gaining tr modules, to a medial caesura. the authors view this ahistoricality as an advantage: Given the history of the term [sonata form] and its self-consciously ahistorical application to eighteenth-century works, what one chooses to call a sonata type 24 25 26

See especially Hepokoski (2006), 31, fn.72. See Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 25. ibid., 47–8.

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or a sonata form depends on the interpretive purposes one has in mind for doing so. there is no reality question at stake here. once one takes a more sophisticated view of the genre … not as a concrete thing to be found in the music proper but as a regulative idea guiding analytical interpretation, many of the problems associated with this terminological concern become less pressing.27

sonata form, in other words, is a heuristic device, which structures our response to the repertoire, not a property of the repertoire itself. Yet it is hard to reconcile this position with a dialogical conception of form: composers enter into a dialogue with generic norms, which, it transpires, are interpretative models of the authors’ devising. this means that the generic layout is not a conceptual a priori with which composers converse, but an ex post facto extrapolation from the repertoire which classiies statistical exceptions as non-normative and is then projected onto the compositional process. dialogical and heuristic nuances aside, then, sonata theory retains a conformational orientation in key respects, as Joseph Straus has pointed out, positing an aggregation of common formal functions redeined as ‘the constellation of standard or traditional options’ comprising the ‘genre’ sonata form.28 When we move into the nineteenth century, this model gains complexity because classical practice has passed into tradition, succumbing to the retrospective gaze of compositional theory or an equivalent process of reiication. Whereas for the classical sonata a direct relationship is proposed between form as an ideal type and practice as its dialogical counterpart, nineteenth-century sonata forms express an additional relationship with theory, embodied above all in the Formenlehre tradition. And if this tradition both inluences and describes the repertoire, then its formal conceptions must also be manifest in a body of works.29 As a model of nineteenth-century sonata form, sonata deformation theory is thus dependent on two fundamental precepts: a model increasingly crystallised by theoretical engagement; and a repertoire which relects that model, either by conformation or deviation. The empirical status of these precepts is, however, evasive. In the irst place, we cannot deploy the term Formenlehre as a metonym for the norms in relation to which deformations might be identiied because no consensus, reiied tectonic 27 28

ibid., 343. See Straus (2006), especially 126–36. This quotation, Hepokoski and Darcy (2006),

616. 29

the presence of such a repertoire is sweepingly assumed by charles rosen: ‘in fact, except for those of chopin, most nineteenth-century sonatas were written according to the orthodox recipe, and mostly for the worse’; see rosen (1971), 31. Given the diversity of sonata practice in the nineteenth century, it is hard to know to which works rosen alludes here.

Mendelssohn Perspectives

90

scheme emerges from nineteenth-century theory. the models of reicha, Marx, czerny and richter, to pick a representative sample, are in crucial respects incompatible. reicha did not identify sonata form at all, but ‘la grande coupe binaire’ (or ‘the large binary arch’).30 Marx explicitly identiied ‘sonata form’, but considered it a tripartite structure; however, he shared reicha’s conviction that form is a large-scale expression of the musical material, which czerny’s model conspicuously lacked.31 reicha and Marx, in other words, have more in common with a generative than a conformational approach, arriving at a formal model only after having clariied the nature of the musical idea and its capacity to generate larger structures. Marx diverged from reicha in the dialectical orientation of his thinking: form, for Marx, arose from the dialectic of rest and motion (Ruhe and Bewegung) incipient in the musical material, embodied in the contrasted phrase forms of the Satz and Gang.32 other nineteenth-century treatises only serve to complicate matters further. For example, ernst Friedrich richter’s Die Grundzüge der musikalischen Formen und ihre Analyse, which Anton Bruckner consulted during his composition lessons with otto Kitzler, adopts the generative aspects of Marx’s thinking, but follows reicha in regarding sonata form as bipartite.33 Any Brucknerian two-part sonata form would have to be considered deformational from a Marxian perspective, but would be quite orthodox in richter’s terms.34 the consequence of this diversity is that there can be no metonymic designation ‘Formenlehre’ supplying the basis for a deformational taxonomy. Yet despite Hepokoski’s entirely reasonable assertion that ‘at no point in its history should we regard sonata form as a simple or unitary “thing” or ixed grid’, the classiication of deformations has relied unavoidably on a ixed, normative point of theoretical orientation.35 this is precisely how Elements of Sonata Theory operates (works from early Haydn to late Beethoven are understood in relation to the ‘generic layout’), and a similar (but not overtly theorised) assumption lies behind the taxonomy of nineteenth-century deformations. A theory of deformation in nineteenth-century music can thus only be sustained if we ignore the diversity of the Formenlehre tradition and instead deploy an abstraction of our own devising. But there are no grounds for locating such an abstraction under the aegis of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century traditions of formal theory. 30

see reicha (1826), vol. 2, 300. Marx (1845), and see also selected writings in Marx (1997). On the deinition of sonata form, see Marx (1997), 92–154. Czerny’s deinition of sonata form appears in czerny (1848), especially as tabulated on 33. 32 on the philosophical basis of Marx’s thought, see Burnham (1989). 33 Richter (1852). On Bruckner’s studies with Kitzler, see Hawkshaw (2001), 3–29. 34 in sonata theory’s terms, this amounts to the difference between a type 3 sonata, which has a full recapitulation, and a type 2 sonata, in which development and recapitulation are fused into a single space, which has no tonic return of the irst theme. On the type 2 sonata, see Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 353–87. 35 See Hepokoski (2006), 30, fn.70. 31

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if a degree of historical focus is to be retained, then each example of nineteenthcentury sonata practice would require assessment against its composer’s formative pedagogical experience. Mendelssohn’s music is particularly instructive in this respect, given his well-documented relationship with Marx, his pivotal position between the generic classical sonata and emergence of Formenlehre texts, and his seminal status for deformation theory. it seems most unlikely that Mendelssohn’s view of sonata form was inluenced by Marx. Their relationship peaked in the late 1820s and early 1830s, declining irrevocably after 1839. Marx’s mature model of sonata form, however, did not appear until 1845, with the publication of volume three of Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition. Commentators on this relationship tend to stress the inluence of Marx’s aesthetics of programme music, as well as his promotion of Beethoven, rather than the transmission of a theory of form.36 Marx’s inluence would also have to be disentangled from that of Mendelssohn’s teacher, carl Friedrich Zelter – who emphasised pre-Beethovenian models (especially Mozart) – and ludwig Berger, a pupil of Muzio clementi.37 in any case, Mendelssohn’s conception of the form was well established before his friendship with Marx developed in 1824–25, as the piano quartets and other works amply attest. Mendelssohn’s early sonata forms pre-date even reicha’s Traité of 1826, but also post-date sonata theory’s ‘generic’ classical sonata. Yet even if we could demonstrate a clear relationship between Mendelssohn and a speciic theoretical model, we could not concomitantly assume a dialogue between it and his compositional process: the fact of a composer’s contact with theory is not in itself proof of its compositional inluence. All of this begs the essential question: what, precisely, is Mendelssohn deforming? it is not simply the classical ‘genre’; but neither is it any version of the Formenlehre model. the principal texts of sonata theory and sonata deformation theory do not respond uniformly to this question. In the past, Hepokoski has speciically deined late nineteenth-century forms as ‘“deformations” of the Formenlehre (standard-textbook) structures’, which ‘depend on the listener’s prior knowledge of the Formenlehre “sonata”’.38 More recently, however, he has rejected the idea that we need to take particular Formenlehre models into account: A more sophisticated position [than the generative conception of form] – regardless of what richter, Marx, schoenberg and others might have averred for their own purposes – would acknowledge the likelihood of certain composers seeking to create the impression of spontaneous, content-generated forms …

36

silber Ballan (1992), 149–61 and todd (2003), especially 127–8, 184 and 189. on the matter of Mendelssohn’s studies with Zelter, see todd (1983). see also lorraine Byrne Bodley’s chapter in the present volume. 38 See Hepokoski (1993), 5. 37

92

Mendelssohn Perspectives still housed within a large-scale format … in dialogue … with pre-existing compositional models.39

if deformations are related to ‘pre-existing’ Formenlehre patterns, however, then we must take cognisance of the speciic models of Richter, Marx, Schoenberg and others, for where does the ‘Formenlehre sonata’ reside if not in the literature of the Formenlehre tradition? if this is not the source of ‘compositional models’, then we need to deine a reiied normative scheme for the nineteenth century and explain its relationship to the Formenlehre tradition. such an explanation would still struggle to accommodate Mendelssohn, or indeed any sonata-type music of his generation, notwithstanding the claim that late nineteenth-century deformations originate in ‘key works of Berlioz, Mendelssohn, schumann, liszt and Wagner’.40 the normative repertoire, which would constitute the empirical manifestation of the Formenlehre scheme, is similarly intangible; nineteenth-century sonata movements that, for instance, simply reproduce the Marxian pattern are not easy to discover. It could of course be argued, via a variant of Harold Bloom’s notion of misreading, that deformation is essentially a theory of innovation: departures from the norm signify genius, and are sustained in the canon; ‘orthodox’ sonata forms do not, and therefore recede into a hinterland of forgotten compositions.41 Hepokoski and Darcy approach this position, without appealing directly to Bloom, when they contend that ‘instances of aesthetic deformation are instances of normality in strong works of art’.42 Yet thus far a study substantial enough to verify this has not been forthcoming.43 our preliminary investigations indicate that there is no correspondence between the presence of deformations and the prestige or canonical status of a composer or work. A survey of sonata-type movements by Clementi, Hummel, Field, Spohr, Weber, Fanny Mendelssohn, Clara Schumann, Anton rubinstein, scharwenka, Kalkbrenner, Moscheles and others reveals that deformations are no less common here than in the music of Mendelssohn, schumann, chopin, Bruckner and Brahms.44 39 Hepokoski (2006), 31. Hepokoski responds here to Horton (2004b) and also Horton (2004a), 152–6. In this regard, see also Horton (2005). 40 Hepokoski (1993), 5. This point is underscored by Hepokoski’s description of Sibelius’s generation as ‘the irst … to come of age in a post-Lisztian/post-Wagnerian world of recently reiied or crystallised musical systems’. Hepokoski (1993), 3. 41 We think of Bloom (1973). 42 Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 617. Compare with Bloom (1973), 5: ‘Weaker talents idealise; igures of capable imagination appropriate for themselves. But nothing is got for nothing, and self-appropriation involves the immense anxieties of indebtedness, for what strong maker desires the realisation that he has failed to create himself?’ 43 the most substantial existing study, newman (1969), is not conceived as a test of formal orthodoxy, and in any case is restricted to works carrying the generic designation ‘sonata’. 44 We cite as an extreme, but by no means exceptional, example the irst movement of Anton Rubinstein’s Piano Concerto No. 4 in D minor of 1864 (inal version 1872).

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Altogether, despite the clear applicability of the concepts they describe, we are reticent to adopt unqualiied sonata-theoretical models as a basis for analysis, primarily because they assume the active participation, in both the compositional process and its reception, of an abstraction that is hard to locate either in nineteenth-century theory or practice. in making these observations, we do not advocate what Hepokoski describes as ‘the high-modernist ideological position that “content” alone is capable of generating the large-scale structure of a piece’.45 Our approach is not purely generative or work-speciic; nor do we maintain that composers somehow composed with no regard for tradition. rather, we question whether sonata form can be reduced to a Platonic model that simultaneously stands apart from and yet informs the repertoire. the vocabulary deployed for describing sonata form is always formulated a posteriori on the basis of an engagement with practice. the dialogical relationship between these vocabularies and compositional practice could therefore never be veriied historically without mistaking a theoretical construct for an historical fact, a problem carrying evident ramiications for the concept of deformation.

Analyses: Mendelssohn’s sonata Forms i in contrast with sonata theory’s emphasis on theory building, we advocate an inductive, empirical strategy grounded in the analysis of an entire corpus of works.46 We have thus sought to establish what might be regarded as normative for Mendelssohn’s sonata-form music via analysis of 154 of Mendelssohn’s sonatatype movements. rather than abandon the deformational categories, our strategy at this stage has been to assess them critically against Mendelssohn’s practice, with the aim of establishing the relative prevalence of normal and deformational devices under the broad terms of the concept. We have applied both Hepokoski’s taxonomy of Formenlehre deformations, for which he cites Mendelssohn as a crucial progenitor, and various departures from the ‘generic layout’ as signalled in Elements of Sonata Theory as a categorical framework here, since Hepokoski and darcy have not supplied a comparable model for the analysis of early nineteenthcentury practice.47 See Hepokoski (2006), 31, fn.73. Our approach owes something to that adopted by James Webster in relation to Brahms; see Webster (1990). 47 The progression to a reiied sonata form is occasionally addressed in Hepokoski and darcy (2006). see for example 190: ‘Particularly in sonatas after 1800 s may break down without producing a PAc … in such instances the question inevitably arises as to whether the nineteenth-century C, as a by-now reiied, separable thematic concept, was capable of forging ahead on its own in the absence of an eec.’ 45 46

table 5.1

list of sonata-form movements/works written by Mendelssohn (1825–47)

Work

opus

date

revisions

‘trumpet’ overture

101

1825

1826, 1833

Piano Quartet no. 3

3

Jan 1825

overture, Die Hochzeit von Camacho

–

octet for strings

Key

category

c

iA

i ii iv

b e b

iA iiB iA

Aug 1825

–

e

iA

20

oct 1825

i ii iii iv

eb c g eb

iA iiA iA ic

Piano sonata

6

Mar 1826

i iv

e e

iA iB

string Quintet no. 1

18

Mar 1826

i iv

A A

iA ic

overture, Ein Sommernachtstraum

21

Aug 1826

–

e

iA

Piano sonata

106

May 1827

i iv

Bb Bb

iA ic

string Quartet no. 2

13

oct 1827

i iv

A–a a–A

iB iB

Rondo capriccioso for piano

14

Jan 1828

e–e

id

Feb 1832

1830

Movement

overture, Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt 27

May 1828

–

d

iB

‘scottish’ Fantasy for piano

28

1828-29

i iii

f# f#

iA iA

string Quartet no. 1

12

sep 1829

i iv

eb c–eb

iB iB

overture, Heimkehr aus der Fremde

89

dec 1829

–

A

iB

symphony no. 5

107

May 1830

i iv

d–d G–d

iB iB

Lied ohne Worte

19b/5

oct 1830

–

f#

iA

overture, Die Hebriden

26

dec 1830

–

b

ic

Piano concerto no. 1

25

oct 1831

i

g

iA

overture, Die erste Walpurgisnacht

60

Feb 1832

–

a

iA

Capriccio brillant for piano and orchestra

22

May 1832

–

B–b

iB

overture, Die schöne Melusine

32

nov 1833

1835

–

F–f–F

iB

symphony no. 4

90

nov 1833

various (incomplete) i ii

A d

iA iiB

string Quartet no. 4

44/2

Jun 1837

e G e

iA iiB ic

Jan 1833

1830, 1832

1842-43

i ii iv

table 5.1

continued

Piano concerto no. 2

40

sep 1837

i

d

iA

string Quartet no. 5

44/3

Feb 1838

i ii iv

eb Ab eb

iA iiA ic

Apr 1838

–

b–d

id

Serenade und Allegro giojoso for piano and 43 orchestra Andante cantabile e Presto agitato for piano

Wo06

Jun 1838

–

B–b

id

string Quartet no. 3

44/1

Jun 1838

i iii iv

d b d

iA iiB ic

cello sonata no. 1

45

oct 1838

i iii

Bb Bb

iA ic

overture, Ruy Blas

95

Mar 1839

–

c

iB

Piano trio no. 1

49

Jul 1839

sep 1839

i iii iv

d d d

iA iA ic

symphony no. 2, Lobgesang

52

Jun 1840

nov 1840

i

Bb

iB

Andante und Allegro assai vivace (Allegro brillant) for piano duet

92

Mar 1841

Mar 1841

–

A–A

iB

symphony no. 3

56

Jan 1842

i ii iv

a F a–A

iB iA iB

scherzo from Ein Sommernachtstraum

61

1843

–

g

iA

cello sonata no. 2

58

Jun 1843

i iv

d d

iA iB

violin concerto

64

sep 1844

i iii

e e

iA iB

Piano trio no. 2

66

Apr 1845

i iv

c c

iA ic

string Quintet no. 2

87

Jul 1845

i ii iii iv

Bb g d Bb

iA iiB iiA ic

overture, Athalie

74

nov 1845

–

d

iB

string Quartet no. 6

80

sep 1847

i iii iv

f Ab f

iA iiB iA

Mendelssohn Perspectives

98

the key date in Mendelssohn’s compositional development is 1825, when at the age of 16 he composed what are widely regarded as his irst mature masterpieces: the Piano Quartet no. 3 and the octet. Before 1825 Mendelssohn produced some 80 sonata-form movements modelled mainly on the works of Mozart and Haydn. By 1824, Beethoven and Weber had both also become major inluences. As Table 5.1 suggests, after 1824 Mendelssohn wrote 74 sonata-form movements from the irst movement of the Piano Quartet No. 3 up to and including the inale of the F minor String Quartet of 1847. This total excludes sonata rondos (Hepokoski’s and Darcy’s type 4 sonata) and the inale of the ‘Italian’ Symphony, which we, like Larry Todd, deem to resist interpretation as a sonata allegro.48 of the 74 movements, 37 are in the major mode and 36 in the minor. The inale of the String Quartet No. 1 is a special case, since it is tonally progressive: a sonata allegro in c minor is followed by an E lat major coda recalling material from the irst movement. the 74 movements can be divided into six broad categories, shown in the inal column of Table 5.1. Four of these categories are straightforward: sonata allegros (principally opening movements and inales), either without framing introductory and/or coda material (iA), or with such material, usually marked by a slower tempo (iB); and slower internal movements, with or without developments (iiA and iiB respectively).49 the other two categories require a little elucidation. Category IC consists almost exclusively of inales in which the sonata-allegro layout is supplemented by a brief return of the opening theme in the tonic between exposition and development proper and/or between recapitulation and coda. it seems unsatisfactory to classify such inales – which predominate in the works Mendelssohn composed in his inal decade – as sonata-rondo variants, as in all other important respects they invite interpretation as sonata allegros.50 category id see todd (2003), 279–80. Another piece – the Rondo brillant in E-lat major, Op. 29, for piano and orchestra (1833) – is classiied as a sonata allegro by some analysts, although the piece is most convincingly interpreted in accordance with its title as a sonatarondo variant with a structural frame similar to that of the inale of Beethoven’s Piano concerto no. 4. 49 category iA includes four scherzos: the third movement of the octet; the third movement of Piano trio no. 1; the second movement of symphony no. 3; and the ‘scherzo’ from the incidental music to Ein Sommernachtstraum. one further scherzo – the second movement of the string Quintet no. 2, marked ‘Andante scherzando’ – has a sonatawithout-development groundplan (category iiB). 50 The persistent interrogation in Mendelssohn’s inales of the distinction between ‘sonata rondo’ and what might be conveniently labelled ‘rondo sonata’ is a topic worthy of an article in its own right. In fact, one movement listed in Table 5.1 – the inale of the Piano Sonata in B-lat, Op. 106 – problematises the line of demarcation between the two to such an extent that it could almost as plausibly be analysed as a sonata rondo. it should be further noted that Hepokoski (2002), 113, helpfully distinguishes between ‘true sonata rondo’ with a ‘clear exposition and recapitulation’ and the ‘symmetrical seven-part rondo’ (ABA’CA’’B’A’’’+Coda). The distinction is further elaborated in Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), where they deine the sonata rondo as a ‘type 4 sonata’ and explore the distinction 48

Norm and Deformation in Mendelssohn’s Sonata Forms

table 5.2 *1

99

some existing and some additional categories of ‘sonata deformation’

introduction-coda frames

2

three-key expositions

3

tonal regions outside the i–v and i–iii/i–v tonal opposition

4

Theme groups presented as harmonic ields rather than prolongations of a single key

5

Second groups occurring substantially over dominant pedals or irst-inversion triads

6

elisions of exposition and development

7

the appearance in development space of ostensibly new non-tonic (often fugal) material that is often resolved in coda space

8

elisions of development and recapitulation, including themes returning over dominant pedals, or harmonic progressions, or irst-inversion tonic triads

9

truncated recapitulations

*10

reversed or partly reversed recapitulations

*11

non-resolving recapitulations

12

The return of themes from earlier movements in inales

Note: * Denotes categories previously identiied as ‘deformations’ by Hepokoski and Darcy (2006).

includes three pieces – Rondo capriccioso, Allegro giojoso and Presto agitato – in which a slow parallel-mode introduction is followed by a fast sonata allegro without development and a coda beginning with a return of the irst theme in the tonic. As a group, the 74 movements listed in table 5.1 explore a wide variety of procedures that might be regarded as deformational of sonata theory’s ‘generic layout’ or ‘standard-textbook’ pattern. By analysing such a large corpus of works we have been able to identify several additional categories of deformation, some of which are listed in table 5.2, along with the three established deformations that are the most widespread in Mendelssohn’s mature music: the introductioncoda frame (category 1); the reversed recapitulation (category 10); and the nonresolving recapitulation (category 11). the introduction-coda frame is in a sense linked to category 12, the return of themes from earlier movements in inales, in that in both categories the sonata activity is subordinated and/or disrupted by elements from beyond its conines. Categories 2, 3 and 4 are also interconnected: between this and the seven-part rondo in more detail (404–29). However, this distinction needs reining because, as it stands, it would appear to necessitate our classifying irst movements and inales with very similar structural outlines as different sonata types merely because type 4 sonatas are deemed to be ‘historically and generically unavailable for irst movements’ (351).

Mendelssohn Perspectives

100

table 5.3

categories of ‘deformation’ deployed in the Piano Quartet no. 3 in B minor, op. 3, and the octet, op. 20

type of deformation

relevant movements of the octet and the Piano Quartet no. 3

1)

introduction-coda frames

2)

three-key expositions

octet iii, PQ3 iv

3)

non-standard tonal oppositions

octet iii, PQ3 iv

4)

theme groups presented as harmonic ields second groups over dominant pedals etc. elisions of exposition and development

octet iii, PQ3 iv

new non-tonic material in development space recapitulations over dominant pedals etc. truncated recapitulations

octet iv, PQ3i, PQ3 iv

reversed or partly reversed recapitulations non-resolving recapitulations

PQ3 ii, octet ii

return of themes from earlier movements in inales

octet iv

5) 6) 7) 8) 9) 10) 11) 12)

PQ3 iv octet iv

octet iii, octet iv, PQ3 iv octet i, octet ii, octet iv

PQ3 iv, octet iii

a three-key exposition is likely to involve non-standard tonal regions and often the second group will progress from one key to another or oscillate between two keys. these three categories have a close relation to category 11 (the non-resolving recapitulation), for the more complex an exposition’s key structure is, the less likely that it will be recast entirely in the tonic in the recapitulation. categories 5, 6 and 8 all concern what may be termed ‘the elision of formal boundaries’, respectively between transition and second group, between exposition and development, and between development and recapitulation.51 the remaining all appear as important 51 We are aware that Hepokoski and Darcy draw a distinction between ‘tonal form’ and ‘rhetorical form’, and locate their formal categories under the latter, whereas our categories 5 and 7, in particular, concern large-scale bass progression rather than formal function. See Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 23. We are also aware that they would regard the chord inversion underpinning the presentation of material as subordinate to the nature of the eec and the ESC, which they understand as the structural goal of the second group. However, we

Norm and Deformation in Mendelssohn’s Sonata Forms

table 5.4

101

summary of the exposition and recapitulation of Piano Quartet no. 3 in B minor, op. 3, Finale

exposition Bars sections

1 1st group

30 transition

67 2nd group

117 transition

Key areas i recapitulation Bars 263 sections 1st group

→V/VII

v/vii–vii

→V/v

286 transition

307 2nd group

329 transition

Key areas

→V/III

v/iii–iii

→V/i

v/iv–iv–i

129 closing group v 358 closing group i

structural revisions of the ‘generic layout’: the introduction of new non-tonic material in the development (category 7); signiicantly truncated recapitulations (category 9); and reversed or partly reversed recapitulations (category 10).52 remarkably, as table 5.3 demonstrates, with the exception of the introductioncoda frame, all of these categories are deployed in the seven sonata-form movements of the Piano Quartet no. 3 and the octet, and eight of them are utilised in both works. The tonal structure of the Piano Quartet’s inale is particularly noteworthy. the exposition and recapitulation are summarised in table 5.4. there is a three-key exposition involving the tonic, the relative major of the dominant also note their remarks at 129: ‘regardless of its phrase structure, one thing is de rigueur: s must be harmonically and tonally stable. if not – if s is tonally unstable, or if it is undergirded with a dominant pedal or some other tension-producing device – then one is dealing with the deformation of a generic norm’ (italics ours). Given the crucial role that the collaboration of bass progression and chord inversion plays in eliding formal-functional divisions in Mendelssohn’s music, and especially bearing in mind the rarity of clearly articulated medial caesurae in his mature sonata forms, it seems appropriate to consider this issue as challenging signiicantly the distinction between the ‘launch’ of P and the ‘relaunch’ of S as it is conceived in the generic layout, and therefore as a ‘deformation’ impinging on ‘rhetorical form’ under the terms of sonata theory. Moreover, none of the examples of these categories qualify as continuous expositions, as deined in Elements of Sonata Theory, because there is very clear secondary thematic material in all cases. important precedents for Mendelssohn’s practices can be found in the irst movements of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas Op. 31, No. 2, Op. 106 and op. 111, all of which have secondary themes commencing over unstable chord inversions, and the irst two of which have an elision of transition and second theme. 52 We advance this category despite the fact that Hepokoski and Darcy prefer to see reversed structures as part of a ‘double rotation’ within a type 2 sonata. See Hepokoski and darcy (2006), 365–9 and 382–3. in Mendelssohn’s practice, and many other nineteenthcentury examples, we see no reason to give primacy to a larger rotation over a reversal of formal-functional order. We cannot, however, address this issue fully in the present context.

table 5.5

summary of the structure of the octet, Finale exposition

Bars sections Key areas

1 1st group i

development 51 transition →V/V

89 2nd group v

133 closing group v

recapitulation Bars sections Key areas

339 (= bars 33–42 + 6 new bars) 1st group i

189 1st theme i

213 Fugato* i–modulation

273 return of scherzo v/v–modulation

327 retransition v/i

coda 355

387

closing group i

i

Note: *The fugato is built on a variant of a motive irst stated at bar 25. As several observers have pointed out, this variant bears a close relation to the ‘And he shall reign’ motive from the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus in Handel’s Messiah.

table 5.6

‘deformation’ category totals for Mendelssohn’s works (1825–47)

category of ‘deformation’

total (74)

Major (37)

Minor (37)*

singleFirst slow scherzos movement movements movements (4) works (16) (24) (10)

Finales (20)

1)

introduction-coda frames

10

4

6

5

4

0

0

1

2)

three-key expositions

13

2

11

2

6

0

1

4

3)

non-standard tonal oppositions

9

4

5

2

5

0

1

1

4)

theme groups presented as harmonic ields second groups over dominant pedals etc. elisions of exposition and development new non-tonic material in development space recapitulations over dominant pedals etc. truncated recapitulations

10

1

9

2

4

0

1

3

23

8

15

3

8

3

1

8

11

5

6

5

3

0

0

3

13

7

6

1

4

1

0

7

36

16

20

8

10

3

2

13

49

29

20

10

17

6

2

14

reversed or partly reversed recapitulations non-resolving recapitulations

9

5

4

4

1

2

0

2

5

0

5

3

0

0

1

1

return of themes from earlier movements in inales

7

4

3

0

0

0

0

7

5) 6) 7) 8) 9) 10) 11) 12)

Note: *Includes the inale of String Quartet No. 1.

Mendelssohn Perspectives

104

minor and the dominant minor respectively. But there is a twist, because the second group begins over a lengthy dominant pedal. the recapitulation is also surprising in a number of respects. First, it begins with a v–i progression in the subdominant; then the substantial second group is simply transposed down a ifth to the relative major and is thus non-resolving. if one adds to this the appearance in the development of ostensibly new fugal material in the relative major that is in turn transposed down a ifth to A major in the coda, then this movement appears profoundly unorthodox. The inale of the Octet is equally innovative. The structure is summarised in table 5.5. Although the exposition is full of contrapuntal combinations and overlaps of material, its gestural and tonal structure clearly outlines the traditional exposition format. The irst major curiosity is the return of the main fugal theme in the tonic with a new counter-subject at the start of the development. there follows a modulatory fugato based on a variant of a motive irst stated at bar 25, after which Mendelssohn reintroduces the opening theme of the scherzo. this gives way to a burst of contrapuntal display culminating in a triumphant passage over a dominant pedal exhibiting all the usual markers of a retransition. the recapitulation is, however, elided with the development, beginning fortissimo over the persisting dominant pedal. the removal of the opening 32 bars inspires a wholesale jettisoning of the transition and second group, as a drive towards the closing group and coda becomes the overriding concern. As a result, we can view from bar 339 to the end as a fusion of recapitulation and coda space. Alternatively, the movement could be seen as initially following a sonatawithout-development plan, with the reprise beginning at bar 189. After the irst part of the irst group has been restated, a developmental section is belatedly inserted into the recapitulation, which then continues where it left off with the second part of the irst group.53 the potential ambiguity seems precisely calculated and supplies a fruitful line of exploration in several later works. Table 5.6 demonstrates that the procedures we have identiied in these works dominate Mendelssohn’s 1825–47 output. the table gives totals for each category as they apply to the 74 movements, and also breaks down those totals by mode and by movement type. virtually all the categories have a broad chronological spread: the exception is the last, since the inale of Symphony No. 3 is the only post-1830 movement to recall earlier material. What table 5.6 makes clear is that some categories are entirely or predominantly movement- or mode-speciic. For example, innovative tonal oppositions are largely found in the irst movements. Particularly notable is the fact that non-resolving recapitulations are entirely conined to the minor mode, as also are three-key expositions, with the exception 53

todd places the start of the recapitulation at bar 321 – todd (2003), 153 – which is unconvincing. Although there is a transitory return to the root position here, this proves to be merely a prefatory gesture to the dominant pedal that spans bars 327–54 and underpins the return of exposition material at bar 339 (bars 339–48 are equivalent to bars 33–42 of the exposition).

Norm and Deformation in Mendelssohn’s Sonata Forms

105

of the irst movements of Symphony No. 2 and String Quintet No. 1. Some subcategories of deformation are in fact extremely speciic: for example, in the minor-mode inales of both piano trios, and nowhere else, an ostensibly new lyrical theme is introduced in the submediant major in the development and then transposed to the tonic major in the coda. the two most common deformational categories – major formal truncations in the recapitulation, and elided reprises – occur in all movement types. A huge array of truncation procedures is deployed, ranging from the omission of internal repetitions within themes to the substantial curtailing of transitional passages and even the removal of parts or occasionally the whole of second and closing groups. the majority of elided recapitulations – 26 out of a total of 36 – involve the irst theme returning over a dominant pedal, and another six works substitute a irst-inversion triad. The earliest two movements to deploy a dominant pedal at the moment of recapitulation are in fact the opening movement of Piano Quartet no. 1 and the slow movement of Piano Quartet no. 2, both composed in 1823. But these are isolated examples before 1824, whereas from the octet onwards this, arguably, becomes Mendelssohn’s standard practice. Perhaps the most forthright example is the inale of the ‘Scottish’ Fantasy for piano. The repeated c-sharps over which the recapitulation begins (bar 132) are an overt reference to the irst movement of Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata’ Sonata, Op. 57 (bar 134), one of a handful of Beethoven’s works with an elided reprise of this type. one last major point about table 5.6 merits brief attention. certain types of deformation tend to occur in conjunction with one another. For instance, elided recapitulations are often employed alongside second groups over dominant pedals or irst-inversion triads, meaning that full-scale resolution is often deferred until the coda. A sizeable number of movements even begin their codas over dominant pedals. The inale of the String Quartet in E minor Op. 44, No. 2, for example, contains the full set of pedals, delaying unequivocal consolidation of the tonic until the closing stages of the coda. of course, we have only presented a tiny proportion of our research here, but the net result should now be clear: there is scarcely a sonata movement by Mendelssohn that does not contravene sonata theory’s ‘generic’ norms. in fact, only the scherzo of the string Quintet no. 2 would appear to be ‘deformation’free. thus, in response to the question of what the norm is for Mendelssohn it is probably useful to examine a movement that is in many respects a compendium of his principal sonata strategies, namely the inale of the Piano Trio No. 2 in C minor, the structure of which is summarised in table 5.7. Although the exposition contains the conventional i–iii tonal opposition, the second group enters over a dominant pedal and the closing group evades deinitive closure in the relative major through its underpinning by irst-inversion triads. Rather than reaching a clear cadence point, the exposition is elided with the development through a transition that prepares a return of the rondo-like irst theme in the tonic. This is followed by another transition and an ostensibly new ‘chorale’ derived from the second theme, which acts as a sort of sibling rival to the exposition’s second

table 5.7

summary of the structure of Piano trio no. 2 in c minor, op. 66, Finale exposition

Bars sections Key areas

1 1st group i

development 32 transition →V/III

49 2nd group v/iii

79 closing group iii6

recapitulation Bars sections Key areas

189 transition v/i

201 2nd group v/i

98 transition v/iii–vii6

106 1st theme i

124 transition v/i

128 ‘chorale’ i–v/vi–vi

167 retransition vii–vii0/7/v

267 ‘chorale’ v/i

296 2nd theme i

327 1st theme + cadence i

coda 231 closing group i6

243 1st group i

251 1st theme i

Norm and Deformation in Mendelssohn’s Sonata Forms

107

theme and tonicises the submediant major, a key area that dominates much of the remainder of the development. A retransition commencing at bar 167 arouses the expectation of a full-scale tonic return of the main theme, but instead a partly reversed recapitulation ensues, which persistently emphasises irst and second inversions, and it is only when the opening theme returns at bar 243 that the tonic minor is consolidated in root position. The preliminary phase of the coda is a minor-mode intensiication developing the irst theme, but this passage’s drive towards the dominant in the bass results in a switch to the tonic major and a return of the chorale theme suspended over a dominant pedal. Mendelssohn’s strategy becomes clear when the second theme returns at bar 296 in the tonic major (which might have been expected in the recapitulation) for the irst time with the secure support of the tonic in the bass. it is now the original second theme that is tonally grounded and the sibling rival that is denied full closure. Fittingly, the movement is rounded off by a inal variant of the irst theme in the tonic major. By the standards of sonata theory’s ‘generic layout’ this movement is a cornucopia of deformations. Yet in the context of Mendelssohn’s own oeuvre it constitutes a masterly integration of his most strikingly creative sonata procedures. ii the evidence accumulated here challenges the concept of deformation because it calls into question the applicability of a model which distinguishes between an ideal type and a deviation in practice to a repertoire in which the deviations themselves are statistically predominant. Given the almost total absence of the normative model as a whole in Mendelssohn’s music, and the problematic status of both the ‘generic layout’ and the Formenlehre ‘textbook’ pattern in this historical context, it seems more realistic to abandon the distinction between norm and deformation, and instead understand Mendelssohn’s sonata forms empirically, as a body of works revealing more-or-less common strategies which can be named and assessed in terms of context and prevalence. this is not to deny Mendelssohn’s engagement with tradition; rather, it is to assert that tradition is no less empirical than the practice it informs. there are, to be sure, conventions which are manifest in the repertoire, undoubtedly absorbed by Mendelssohn (as by any composer), and which require classiication. They are, however, no more nor less than properties of a body of works, which he adopts and interprets to speciic compositional ends. the above analytical evidence could therefore be reconstrued simply as a taxonomy of sonata practices rather than of sonata deformations. Mendelssohn’s sonata forms can, in these terms, be evaluated on two axes: analytically, in relation to each other, in order to establish the nature and frequency of compositional strategies; and historically, as part of the esthesics of past practice understood not as a generic template but as a fund of procedures present in the repertoire. the two axes interact, inasmuch as the latter supplies the comparative framework for the former. in other words, Mendelssohn’s sonata

Mendelssohn Perspectives

108

forms are documents of reception history: they embody the mediation of tradition (the models in past practice that proved inluential) and innovation (the speciic materials of a work and the processes to which they give rise). The irst axis of this approach is pursued critically above; the second can be elaborated through brief consideration of two examples from our survey. Possibly the most blatant instance is found in the irst movement of Mendelssohn’s Piano sonata no. 3, op. 106, which betrays correspondences with the opening movement of Beethoven’s ‘Hammerklavier’ Sonata that go beyond similarities of key (B-lat major), material (Mendelssohn’s irst theme closely resembles Beethoven’s in a number of respects) and opus number (an accident of posthumous publication). Most tellingly, the tonal scheme of the exposition is underpinned by a modulation from B-lat to G major in both cases. The way Mendelssohn handles the modulation also betrays parallels with Beethoven’s treatment. Both irst groups are essentially rotational, and in each case the return of the opening material at the start of the second rotation leads abruptly to its restatement over v of G (a root position for Beethoven, a passing 6-4 between B-lat and G for Mendelssohn), after which transitional material ensues.54 Mendelssohn’s development also owes much to Beethoven. in each piece, a fugal pre-core builds in textural density to a homophonic, sequential core juxtaposing forte statements of irst-theme material and piano responses.55 the ways in which Mendelssohn departs from Beethoven’s model are no less instructive. Firstly, whereas Beethoven discontinues the rotation of the irst theme as soon as the transition gains momentum, Mendelssohn continues it well into the secondary key area. Bars 40 to 49 in Mendelssohn’s movement consist of a truncated restatement of bars 1 to 17 in G major. this gives the new material from bar 50 the appearance of a continuation of the irst theme, rather than a distinct second theme. Mendelssohn’s irst group, in short, is much more strongly rotational, resulting in a misalignment of tonal and thematic presentation in the second group. the development also misreads Beethoven in that its fugato develops out of a new theme, which alludes to the third movement of J. S. Bach’s Concerto for Two Harpsichords, BWV 1061 (Example 5.1 shows the comparison). in the recapitulation, Mendelssohn strays even further from Beethoven’s precedent. At bar 153 the primary rotation of the irst theme leads straight into the closing gesture from the exposition. there follows an extended coda, based initially on the development’s fugato theme. 54

it is hard to see how these parallels could be anything other than direct responses by Mendelssohn to a speciic Beethovenian example. The exposition key scheme I–VI was still exceptional in 1827, even if Beethoven had already also deployed it in another B-lat major piece, the irst movement of his ‘Archduke’ Piano Trio, Op. 97 (1811). It is most unlikely that schubert’s exploration of chromatic third relationships could have inluenced Mendelssohn, since the dissemination of Schubert’s instrumental music was highly protracted. 55 We use the terms ‘core’ and ‘pre-core’ in the manner proposed by caplin (1998), 139–59, and especially 141–55.

Norm and Deformation in Mendelssohn’s Sonata Forms

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Example 5.1 Comparison of Bach, Concerto for Two Harpsichords, BWV 1061/1061a (third movement) and Mendelssohn, Piano sonata, Op. 106 (irst movement, start of development)

Our second example is the irst movement of the Piano Concerto No. 1 (1831). one of the many notable features of this movement is the extensive truncation of the recapitulation of the irst and second groups, as a result of which a 112-bar expositional span of music is reduced to just 24 bars. From bar 175, Mendelssohn reinterprets the movement’s initial orchestral gesture as a six-bar dominant retransition, which then leads into the start of the orchestral tutti originally commencing at bar 37, as a result of which the whole of the piano’s expository statement of the principal theme is excised. the transition is then reduced from 26 bars to six, and the second group from 36 bars to eight, so that the majority of the reprise comes to consist of the closing section. Precedents for this strategy are harder to ind. The conlations of solo and orchestral expositions in the concerti of Mozart and Beethoven never produce such drastic truncations; indeed Mendelssohn’s single-minded absorption of Beethovenian and Mozartian models in his chamber music seems not to have extended to the piano concerti. One compelling antecedent can be found in the irst movement of Weber’s Piano concerto no. 1 in c, composed in 1810. Weber’s recapitulation is rather more straightforward than Mendelssohn’s. The irst theme returns, tutti and in the tonic, at bar 205, and after a two-bar extension of this phrase by the soloist the second theme enters immediately in bar 216. Weber, like Mendelssohn, omits an extensive transition and proceeds directly to the second theme as a continuation of the irst. the second theme is also radically shortened: seven bars in the reprise replace 16 in the exposition. the two recapitulations are compared in examples 5.2 and 5.3. A comprehensive study would identify antecedents for all of the movements we have considered, establishing the relationship between their formal strategies and

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Example 5.2 Weber, Piano Concerto No. 1 in C, Op. 11 (irst movement, recapitulation of irst and second themes)

those of the suggested precedent in each case. the point, however, should already be transparent, and can be extended to the entire survey: neither of these works consists, in the irst instance, of a dialogue between Mendelssohn’s material and ‘implicit generic [or theoretical] norms’. rather, they comprise engagements with particular models by particular composers, which are genre speciic. For the piano sonata, he turns to Beethoven; for the piano concerto, Beethoven is hardly in evidence, and, at least in the example considered above, Weber seems more pertinent. Conclusions By approaching Mendelssohn’s sonata forms in this way, we have pursued a twofold agenda. Primarily, we have employed this music as a critical vehicle for assessing the applicability of the deformation concept in an early nineteenth-century context. We have, it is hoped, given empirical substance to the theoretical claim that Mendelssohn’s sonata forms can be grasped without recourse to a distinction between norm and deformation. We maintain this view because – notwithstanding Hepokoski’s and Darcy’s assertion that deformations can paradoxically become ‘indications of normality within strong works of art’ and Hepokoski’s claim that, by the later nineteenth century, ‘once non-normative sonata deformations were … becoming normative deviation-options from a classically established constellation

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example 5.3 Mendelssohn, Piano concerto no. 1 in G minor, op. 25/i (recapitulation of irst and second themes)

of traditional guidelines’56 – we regard it as historically problematic to allow a model, which is at base a presentist theoretical construct, to stand metonymically for the plurality of practice whilst furnishing one part of a dialogue informing the compositional process. We suggest, instead, that sonata form is the totality of practices, observed at any given time, in which an arrangement of systemic elements is articulated, in certain generic contexts, by a particular mixture of stylistic conventions and material processes. some of the strategies so deployed may be common at a particular point in history (in the sense that they are apparent in a large proportion of the repertoire), whilst others are less prevalent. this, however, is not a measure of proximity to an abstracted set of defaults; it is simply a statement of statistical ubiquity. As sonata forms develop historically, their nature becomes increasingly susceptible to the inluence of an enlarging ‘anterior corpus’, to borrow a term from Julia Kristeva, as a result of which the question of a work’s poietics – its absorption of the canon of precedents – becomes more pressing.57 composers may, of course, accept or modify practices arising from this corpus, and we can develop vocabularies after the fact for describing and 56 57

See Hepokoski and Darcy (2006), 617 and Hepokoski (2006), 30. We have in mind Kristeva (1986), 34–61.

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explaining the results; but to employ these abstractions as both heuristic devices and historically grounded compositional options is to conlate two quite separate epistemological categories. At the same time, and relexively, we have tried to develop a framework for comprehending Mendelssohn’s sonata-type music. This has, in the irst instance, involved applying deformation, so to speak, against itself, as a way of revealing the overwhelming presence, even in Mendelssohn’s early essays, of practices that could only be regarded as deformations by any of sonata theory’s benchmarks (the ‘generic layout’, the Formenlehre ‘standard textbook’ model, the ‘classically established constellation of traditional guidelines’), to the extent that a ‘standard textbook’ or ‘generic’ pattern is almost never present in reality. We suggest that it is preferable to conceive of Mendelssohn’s formal habits as both more or less common within the gamut of sonata-type practices he employed (where ‘common’ implies no more than statistical frequency), and also as conversing with inluential precedents, which are often speciic to the given genre. In sum, there is such a thing as a Mendelssohnian sonata form, which comprises post-classical principles that were consistent within his idea of a sonata style fused with allusions to classical precedents, and which can be deined without recourse to the deformation of ‘reiied defaults’. The use of rotational irst groups, the truncation of the recapitulation and the expositional and recapitulatory presentation of themes over irst or second inversions are especially prominent, indicating that Mendelssohn had attained, with these practices, a stable notion of compositional strategy. James Garratt’s description of Mendelssohn as ‘the irst composer of modernity: the irst musician to wrestle with the dilemma of being dispossessed of a lingua franca’ seems apposite in this context.58 What this repertoire reveals is not a process of deforming a theoretical scheme, but a seminal response to the dialectic of innovation and tradition that beset the post-Beethovenian generation: the question of how to forge a self-consistent style that both absorbed and superseded the precedents of high classicism, and above all the models bequeathed by Beethoven, to which Mendelssohn often overtly alludes. in this respect, Mendelssohn is no regressive classicist; nor is he caught between classicism and romanticism, however that is deined. Rather, he is precisely of his time, confronting an issue that is endemic to post-enlightenment Austro-German musical culture.59 58

Garratt (2004), 55. the authors recognise that there have been numerous contributions to the debate on sonata deformation addressed above since this article was written. see, for instance, Paul Wingield, ‘Beyond “Norms and Deformations”: Towards a Theory of Sonata Form as a Reception History’, Music Analysis 27/i (2008): 137–77; Pieter Bergé, ed., Musical Form, Forms and Formenlehre (Leuven: University of Leuven Press, 2009); Julian Horton, ‘John Field and the Alternative History of Concerto First-Movement Form’, Music and Letters 92/1 (2011): 43–83; seth Monahan, ‘success and Failure in Mahler’s sonata recapitulations’, Music Theory Spectrum 33/1 (2011): 37–58; and Janet Schmalfeld, In the Process of Becoming: Analytical and Philosophical Perspectives on Form in Early Nineteenth-Century Music (new York and oxford: oxford University Press, 2011). 59

chapter 6

Mendelssohn and Berlioz: Selective Afinities John Michael cooper

Among the quirkier items in the German and French musical presses in 1838–40 was a serial debate over which letter of the Roman alphabet was more signiicant for music, ‘B’ or ‘M’. one periodical, weighing in for ‘M’, cited the names of Mozart, Méhul, Mendelssohn, Moscheles, Meyerbeer, Molique, and Milder, among others, as evidence. to this, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik retorted on 2 July 1839: We believe, however, that the letter ‘B’ can in any case compete with [‘M’], and we would name [to support our position] Boieldieu, l. Berger, Berton, Benda, Baillot, Bériot, Bennett, Bocklet, Bellini, Bertini, Bohrer, Berlioz, n. Burgmüller, Bärmann, Benedict, Belleville, [and] Blahetka. At the Breitkopf publishing house we would also have the premier music dealership, as in Broadwood pianoforte irm the leading English maker of instruments – and inally there occur to us also: Bach and Beethoven. We would thus hardly trade a ‘B’ for an ‘M’.1

Admittedly, quirky articles are anything but rare in the nineteenth-century musical press. This particular journalistic dispute, however, also relects a more serious issue: the consistent tendency of critics, analysts, and other commentators to portray Mendelssohn and Berlioz as oppositional voices in nineteenth-century music. commentators have consistently emphasized the brashly modern aspects of Berlioz’s music and ignored his brilliant uses of conventional and archaic musical idioms, while discussing Mendelssohn overwhelmingly in terms of his music’s references to earlier composers and works and overlooking the fact that for his contemporaries he personiied the modernity of his generation no less than Berlioz did. Because of the blind eye critics often turn to the role of convention and archaism in Berlioz’s music and the topicality of Mendelssohn’s, Berlioz’s modernity is secure, while Mendelssohn comes off as a composer who is somehow out of touch with the discourses of originality and modernity. consequently, two in Memoriam W. G. cooper, 1931–2012. Anon. (1839), 4. Except where otherwise noted, all translations are my own. The full extent of this serial debate has not yet been chronicled; the most extensive review (with new editions of relevant texts) is found in Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 423–6. 1

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composers who in their day personiied not only modernity but also the stylistic diversity of romanticism emerge in simplistic – and unbecoming – guises in latterday discussions. i wish to propose a more nuanced view – one that focuses on Mendelssohn and Berlioz as dissimilar but by no means oppositional voices in mid-nineteenthcentury musical culture, and as individuals who were both very much children of their own age. A review of the context and chronology of their artistic and personal interactions offers evidence for the existence of artistic afinities that would otherwise seem unlikely. these observations in turn offer useful insights into how the two composers related to each other as friends and artists. ***

Many essentials of the chronology of the relationship between Mendelssohn and Berlioz have become staples of the literature on both composers.2 Berlioz was introduced to Felix Mendelssohn’s father, Abraham, in Paris in August 1830 through the composers’ mutual acquaintance Ferdinand hiller. the two met in Rome in March 1831. There, they explored the eternal city’s culture and history, commiserated over what they considered the shameful state of musical affairs in Italy, enjoyed lively exchanges over other composers’ music, and got to know each other’s works. they met again in February 1843 when Berlioz gave two concerts in Leipzig, where Mendelssohn was the music director of the Gewandhaus Orchestra; during this stay the two conductors exchanged batons in a symbolic display of professional esteem. there is no evidence that they ever met again. Berlioz was in london, home to some of Mendelssohn’s closest friends and scene of some of his greatest professional triumphs, when the German composer died on 4 november 1847. in the wake of the news of Mendelssohn’s death he offered his condolences to Mendelssohn’s friend henry chorley, noting that ‘it is a harsh blow that death has delivered to the cause of worthy and serious music, and we must all feel it deeply’.3 But this history also has a prehistory – one that ought to temper the customary portrayals of these two artists’ relationship – for, despite the many and obvious differences in the musical worlds the two composers inhabited, there is little to suggest that they viewed themselves with the sort of artistic enmity that most studies generally suggest. Indeed, in their interactions of the 1830s it is dificult to ind any signs of even the mild antagonism reported in their accounts of what Mendelssohn later called their ‘roman friendship’ (amitié Romaine).4 The context 2

see, most recently, the magisterial biography of Berlioz by cairns (2000) and of Mendelssohn by todd (2003). 3 ‘c’est un rude coup que la mort vient de frapper sur la musique digne et sérieuse, et nour devons tous le sentire profondément’. Berlioz 3 [1978]. trans. quoted from Berlioz (1995), 243. citron gives the date of this note as 12 november. 4 letter from Mendelssohn to Berlioz, 25 January 1843, held in the British library, london (shelfmark Add. 33965), no. 261.

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for that early encounter sheds important light on the nature and extent of the differences that complicated the early acquaintance of the two composers in rome, and this light in turn clariies their relationship as it existed in the early 1840s. The context of which I speak irst emerges in the earliest known reference to Berlioz in the Mendelssohn family’s correspondence. in a letter of 27 August 1830 Abraham Mendelssohn wrote home to his wife, lea, and in this letter established the frame of reference by which the Mendelssohn clan knew of Berlioz at that point: the day before yesterday [hiller] introduced me to hector Berlioz, the author or composer of ‘Faust’, who struck me as agreeable, interesting, and a great deal more sensible than his music. You cannot imagine how all the young people look forward to Felix. Berlioz recently obtained the grand prix de composition and for ive years will receive a scholarship of 3,000 francs for a sojourn in Italy. he does not, however, wish to go there, but intends to apply for permission to remain here. (this is grist for your mill, leah!)5

Three points of this passage warrant explanation. To begin with, Abraham’s reference to the young people looking forward to Felix relects the celebrity status Felix had already begun to acquire around Europe by the turn of the 1830s. Still in his early twenties, he had 12 published opera to his name, some of them quite successful in Paris; he had already become a major contender for fame in England; and had achieved further renown as a conductor and advocate for the music of J. s. Bach through his epoch-making performances of the Baroque master’s St Matthew Passion in March 1829. By the time Abraham wrote these lines in connection with Berlioz, Felix was well into his grand tour, and it had already been established that his travels would soon bring this youthful celebrity of German music to Paris. More important is Abraham’s reference to Berlioz as ‘the author or composer of “Faust”’ – for Berlioz had acquired a different sort of renown in the Germanspeaking countries, and this renown was based on a contribution that at the time was viewed with considerable ambivalence: the Huit scènes de Faust. As is well known, in these scenes Berlioz set several key moments from Goethe’s monumental recounting of the Faust legend with characteristic imagination – but in French, using Gérard de Nerval’s translation adapted from Goethe’s text.6 Publishing the work in April 1829 at his own expense through Maurice Schlesinger in Paris – who also published most of the French irst editions of Mendelssohn’s 5 letter from Abraham Mendelssohn to lea Mendelssohn, 27 August 1830, trans. from sebastian hensel (1929), 1: 288. 6 Nerval’s translation (published in 1828) has taken considerable lack from latterday commentators for his poetic licenses in translating Goethe’s tragedy, but it actually represented a considerable improvement over the other French (and English) translations available in the 1820s; and Goethe’s personal secretary, Johann Peter Eckermann, reported that in Goethe’s opinion ‘everything [in it] had the effect of being completely fresh, new, and witty’ (trans. from Eckermann (1948), vol. 24, 383.

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works7 – Berlioz sent two copies of the score to Goethe, who by that point had enjoyed a close paternal relationship with Felix for nearly eight years. Although impressed with Berlioz’s cover letter, Goethe was well aware of the limitations of his musical education, so on 11 June 1829 he forwarded a score to Karl Friedrich Zelter – composition teacher to Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn, and close friend of the Mendelssohn family – asking his guidance. Zelter complied on 21 June 1829, with words that were hardly lattering to Berlioz: certain people can make their participation and their intellectual presence known only through loud coughing, snorting, cawing, and spitting; Herr Hector Berlioz seems to be one of these. … Thank you for sending [the score]; it will probably be of good use by an abscess, a low-life born of grizzly incest.8

having received from his trusted musical advisor such vivid suggestions that his poetry had been betrayed rather than honored in Berlioz’s setting, Goethe declined to reply to Berlioz. Public recognition of Berlioz’s Faust music in the German press came some months later, when Adolf Bernhard Marx reviewed the score in the lead article of the Berliner Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, a journal published by Adolph Martin schlesinger, father to Berlioz’s publisher Maurice schlesinger, on 26 September 1829. This review, the German press’s irst discussion of any work by Berlioz, stopped well short of attributing the work’s creation to ‘grizzly incest’ – indeed, Marx was so impressed with its creator’s promise that he invited Berlioz to be a French correspondent for the journal. Nevertheless, Marx made clear his opinion that however ‘noble’ the intentions of this music’s creator, the work itself was fatally lawed. Marx lauds the French for their increasing enthusiasm for Goethe, schiller, Beethoven, and Weber, but then adds that ‘we cannot expect to see the French spirit become German’ (‘Wir dürfen nicht erwarten, den französischen Geist deutsch werden zu sehn’).9 he then proceeds to portray Berlioz as a composer who, despite laudable intentions and abundant gifts, simply failed to comprehend the enormity of the challenge he faced. Berlioz’s setting of Goethe, Marx inds, is an ‘abstract endeavor’ (‘ein abstraktes … Streben’) that is eluded by ‘love and the most individual calling for a deinite object’ (‘die Liebe und der eingenste Beruf für einen bestemmten Gegenstand’).10 his review closes with these words: if a French composer feels a need to give his fatherland a new music, working with French translations of German poems will only lead him astray unless he has learned German in Germany itself, fully absorbed its full sense and spirit, 7 8 9 10

see cécile reynaud’s contribution to this volume, chapter 16. translated from Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 329. ibid., 3. ibid., 4.

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and then made a poetic-musical language born of a German-educated spirit his mother tongue.11

As of the late fall in 1829, then, Berlioz’s original opus 1 was languishing in an uncomfortable no-man’s-land: the venerable poet had answered only with stony silence, and Marx’s review had done little to encourage German readers’ conidence or interest in Berlioz’s setting. Nevertheless, Berlioz included one of the work’s eight scenes (the ‘concert of the sylphs’) in a concert given at the conservatoire under François-Antoine habeneck’s direction on 1 november – and this concert, too, was subjected to withering criticism in the German press.12 this, then, is the hector Berlioz whom Abraham Mendelssohn met and liked, and whom he submitted as ‘grist for [lea’s] mill’.13 this Berlioz would have been known in name, and perhaps through his music, to Felix: for Felix had close professional dealings with Berlioz’s publisher; the ‘betrayed’ poet Goethe was his close friend and mentor; Zelter was his composition teacher; and Marx was a close personal friend. Berlioz and Mendelssohn certainly knew of each other at least a year before they inally met in Rome, but whereas Mendelssohn had a reputation to live up to in France, Berlioz had a reputation to live down in Mendelssohn’s familial and professional circles. these circumstances hardly encouraged the development of a real friendship between Berlioz and Mendelssohn when they inally met. Moreover, at this point, Mendelssohn, who was still trying to reassure the more conservative members of his circle of family and friends that his pursuit of a career in music would not compromise the family’s hard-won status as upstanding (i.e. assimilated) members of German-Jewish culture, could not have written openly about any of his more positive reactions to the Frenchman whom they viewed with such suspicion. doing so would only have fueled his family’s fears that he might fall under the pernicious inluence of the irreverent Frenchman who many Germans felt had blasphemed Germany’s greatest literary work. Because of this circumstance, Germans who responded positively to the inluence of the irreverent Frenchman would have been viewed with skepticism or suspicion. despite these prejudicial circumstances, Mendelssohn and Berlioz became fast friends when they inally met in Rome. As shown in Figure 6.1, Mendelssohn’s diary from the irst stage of his Italian journey reveals that Berlioz played a central role in his plans and activities. the entry of 12 March ends with the annotation: 11 ibid., 4–5: ‘Fühlt ein franzöischer Komponist das Bedürfnis, seinem vaterland eine neue Musik zu geben: so wird ihm das Arbeit nach französischen Übersetzungen deutscher Gedichte nur irreleitend werden, wenn er nicht in deutschland selbst die deutsche sprache lernt, ihrem ganzen sinn und Geist nach in sich aufnimmt und dann mit deutsch gebildetem Künstlergeist seine Muttersprache erst zu einem dichterisch-musikalischen macht.’ 12 see Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 331. 13 Abraham Mendelssohn was a proud Francophile, but this sentiment was not shared by lea Mendelssohn.

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Figure 6.1

Excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from spring 1831 (Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS. M. Deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 5r).

‘Music with Berlioz. his songs, symphony, overture, etc.’14 The next entry, for sunday, 13 March, records that they visited the papal chapel and the forum together that day, and that they spent time together in Mendelssohn’s room through the evening. They visited the artists Eduard Bendemann and Horace Vernet together on Monday, 14 March; and on Wednesday (16 March) they traveled on horseback to the outlying churches of san lorenzo and santa Agnese, had dinner with horace vernet in the villa Borghese, and then enjoyed punch in Berlioz’s quarters. On Thursday (17 March) they went to St Peter’s, the hermitage of San Onofrio, the church of Maria in cosmedia, and Mount testaccio. ‘the Frenchmen’ (presumably Montfort and Berlioz) visited with Mendelssohn on sunday, 20 March, and on tuesday, 22 March the two composers went sightseeing again (this time to the capitol, among other places). the diary entry for thursday, 24 March (fol. 5v) ends with a rather cryptic ‘late in the garden with Berlioz!’ (spät im Garten m[it] Berlioz!) – a reference to a conversation that surely any reader of these pages would love to have overheard. And so it continued for the better part of the two weeks, the diary reveals. distance between the two seems to have developed only when Berlioz, planning to return to Paris in order to deal with his growing (and justiied) concerns about the idelity of his iancée, Camille Moke, left the Academy at the end of the month. According to Berlioz’s account (irst submitted in 1843 as Letter IX of Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS M. Deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 5r: ‘Sonnabend. Ab[ends] Locusthart. Morg[en] Arb[eit]. ½ 1 Galizinn [sic] Probe des / Septetts. Briefe. Musik mit Berlioz, seine lieder, sinf[onia], ouv[ertüre] etc.’ the date of 12 March may be deduced from the clear reference to 9 March in the entry for Wednesday in l. 1 on this page of the diary. 14

Mendelssohn and Berlioz: Selective Afinities

Figure 6.2

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Excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from June 1831 (Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS. M. Deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 17r).

the Voyage musical en Allemagne et en Italie and reiterated in the Memoirs in 1864–70), Mendelssohn had already left for naples by the time Berlioz had made his way back to Rome in June; however, Mendelssohn’s diary shows that the two did reconnect in rome in June.15 As shown in Figure 6.2, the entry for Monday, 6 June reads: ‘Letters early. To Valentini, Vernet, dinner at Vollards at 1:30. Evening writing and with Berlioz, conversation about Paris’.16 the second, dated 18 June 1831, reads: ‘saturday the 18th. Prepare for departure from Rome. Letters to and from [my] parents. To Valentini, Bunsen, [?]Boirricheux, Hildebrandt, Kestner, Berlioz, Montfort, and Vernet’; this is followed by a penciled addition (perhaps entered the next day) mentioning two other visitors and noting that he was unwell that evening (see Figure 6.3). these observations and the little-known primary sources on which they are based paint a different picture than the one created by the two artists in their correspondence – and these details, as well as some of the seemingly insigniicant inconsistencies within and among their accounts, are too substantive to be simply dismissed. For one thing, Mendelssohn’s diary entry of 12 March 1831 refers to a letter to his family bearing that date. there is in fact such a letter, though it remains almost entirely unpublished even in the most thorough editions of his correspondence to date. on the whole, this letter is devoted to addressing and 15

Most biographers have followed Berlioz’s account on this point. the fact of their summer reunion was irst recognized in Todd (2003), 246. 16 Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS M. Deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 17r: ‘Montag. Früh Briefe. Zu valentini, vernet, ½ 2 din[er] vollards. Ab[ends] [something deleted] Schreiben u[nd] Berlioz, Gespr[ache] über Paris.’

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Figure 6.3

Excerpt from Mendelssohn’s diary from June 1831 (Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS. M. Deneke Mendelssohn g. 3, fol. 19r).

delecting Abraham Mendelssohn’s strong suggestions, in a letter of 21 February 1831 (now lost),17 that because of the political unrest Mendelssohn should abandon his plans for the remainder of his italian sojourn, returning instead to the relative safety and stability of the north. Ensconced within this extended essay in reassurance and diplomacy, however, are several sentences devoted to Berlioz: Afterwards Berlioz, who arrived yesterday, came by, and we played his pieces, the overture to The Tempest (this is how you become passé before you are published, i thought to myself, and felt like a grand homme) and then the symphony, which is called ‘Episode from the Life of an Artist’, and for which a printed program will be distributed [that describes] how the poor artist goes to the devil, where the listeners would like to have been long ago. now and then all the instruments have a hangover and vomit music, making us very uncomfortable. And yet he is a very pleasant fellow, he speaks well, and he has ine ideas, and one cannot help but like him.18 Felix refers to Abraham’s letter in the irst line of his response, written on 12 March (see below). 18 Letter of 12–15 March 1831 from Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy to his family in Berlin. The two parts of this letter have been separated. The irst part (quoted here) is No. 129 in the collection of Mendelssohn Familienbriefe held in the New York Public Library; the continuation (dated 15 March and quoted in note 19) is held in the Bodleian library, Oxford, MS M. Deneke Mendelssohn d. 13. This portion reads: ‘nun kam nachher Berlioz, der gestern angekommen ist, u. wir spielten seine sachen, die ouvertüre aus la tempête (so wirst du eher nachziehend, als gedruckt, sagte ich mir und fühlte mich einen grand 17

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the letter continues on 15 March, and this portion elaborates on Mendelssohn’s negative reaction to Berlioz’s music, especially the symphony: But you should get to know Berlioz with his music! he actually saddens me because he is a truly educated and pleasant person but composes so unbelievably badly. He’s leaving already tomorrow morning to return to Paris; he seems to be terribly in love and therefore has written a symphony titled Episode in the Life of an Artist. When it was performed he had 2,000 copies of an explanatory program distributed, in which it is related that in the irst movement the composer, with his [representative] theme, has thought of a lovely young lady, and that his sorrow, jealousy, tenderness, tears, etc. are presented in it. … The ifth and inal movement is titled Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath. in it he sees witches dancing on the Blocksberg, among them his beloved; at the same time he hears a parody of the Dies irae and the witches waltz to that. i need not tell you how indescribably nauseating this is [to me]; it simply has to outrage a person when he sees the ideas he holds dearest distorted and caricatured, and that’s just the program … But when one sees the man himself, the amiable, quietly thoughtful man, how he calmly follows his path, doubts his calling for not a second … how clearly and astutely he knows and judges everything [else] while remaining in the dark only about himself – that is unspeakably horrible …19

homme) u.dann die sinfonie, welche heißt “épisode de la vie d’un artiste[”], u. zu der ein gedrucktes Programm ausgetheilt wird, wie der arme Künstler im letzten Stück zum Teufel fährt, während die Zuhörer schon längst desselben treten möchten – nun u. da haben alle instrumente den Katzenjammer u. vomiren Musik, u. man wird sehr unglücklich dabey, u. doch ist er ein sehr angenehmer Mensch u. spricht gut, u. hat nette ideen, u. man mußt ihn liebgewinnen.’ 19 Continuation of letter of 12–15 March 1831 from Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy to his family in Berlin, Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS M. Deneke Mendelssohn d. 13, also quoted in Peter Sutermeister 1979, 119–20: ‘nun solltet Ihr aber Berlioz kennen mit seiner Musik! der macht mich förmlich traurig, wer er ein wirklich gebildeter, angenehmer Mensch ist, und so unbegreilich schlecht componirt. Er reist übermorgen schon wieder ab, u. geht zurück nach Paris, er scheint fürchterlich verliebt zu sein, u. hat demzufolge eine sinfonie gemacht, die épisode de la vie d’un artiste heißt. Als sie gegeben wurde, ließ er eine Erklärung von 2000 Exemplaren drucken, die besagt denn, daß der Componist im ersten stück mit seinem thema eine liebenswürdige dame gedacht hat, die den Künstler eingenommen hat, und daß seine Wut, Eifersucht, Zärtlichkeit, u. Thränen etc. darin vorkommen; … das fünfte und letzte [Stück] heißt Songe d’un nuit du Sabbat, wo er die Hexen auf dem Bloxberg tanzen sieht, seine Geliebte darunter, zugleich hört er das Dies irae mit seinem Cantus Firmus, aber parodirt; die Hexen walzen dazu. Wie unbeschreiblich eklig mir dies ist, brauche ich nicht zu sagen; seine liebste Ideen entstellt u. mißverstandene Caricaturen davon zu sehen, muß einen recht empören, u. doch ist das nur das Programm. … und sieht man nun ihn selbst, den freundlichen, nachdenklichen Menschen, wie er so ruhig u. sicher seinen Weg geht, u. an seinem Beruf so keinen Augenblick zweifelt, sich auch an keine stimme von Außen kehren kann, weil er seinem innersten zu folgen denkt,

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In addition to conirming 11 March as the speciic date of Berlioz’s arrival in Rome (a bit of information that has otherwise eluded Berlioz’s biographers), this letter identiies one more work of Berlioz that Mendelssohn heard on this occasion: the orchestral fantasy on shakespeare’s The Tempest, which had been premiered on 7 november 1830 and enthusiastically reviewed by Fétis.20 What is more, in so doing it directly contradicts Berlioz’s assertions in the Memoirs, in a footnote dated 25 May 1864, that at the time of the critical comments addressed to Mendelssohn’s Berlin family he had heard not one of his pieces, and that the only score he had shown him was the one to the King Lear overture.21 More important in a general sense is Mendelssohn’s parenthetical (and again, somewhat cryptic) statement in connection with the Tempest fantasy: ‘this is how you will become passé before you are published, i thought to myself, and felt like a grand homme’. At the time of the two artists’ roman sojourn, both were very much under the spell of shakespeare, and both had scored public successes with programmatic orchestral works based on the renaissance master’s plays. But in 1831 Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture, irst composed in 1826, was still unpublished and was completely unknown in France; when Habeneck inally did conduct it on 19 February 1832 it received a truly withering review from Fétis (who had reviewed the Tempest fantasy in glowing terms). in other words, although there were plenty of artistic differences and seeds for professional rivalry between the two young geniuses, these problems did not prevent them from forging a pronounced bond of friendship and mutual support in the following weeks. Perhaps most important for our purposes, however, are the aspects of Berlioz’s artistic personality that are the targets of Mendelssohn’s sharp criticisms. While he pokes fun, as Zelter had, at the formidable orchestral means the Frenchman required to realize his artistic vision, Mendelssohn presents these orchestral resources as means to an even more objectionable end: what he considered the banality of the work’s quasi-autobiographical program. Moreover, the Symphonie fantastique’s parody of the Dies irae in combination with what Mendelssohn calls a witches’ waltz is precisely the sort of stylistic excess that earned Berlioz’s Faust setting the scorn of upstanding Germans. Finally, Mendelssohn’s description of Berlioz’s quasi-autobiographical celebration of grotesquery as ‘indescribably nauseating’ is consistent with the self-evident goal of this letter as a whole: to delect Abraham’s strongly worded advice that he break off his Italian tour because of political unrest. Felix’s statements about Berlioz thus offered reassurance to those who were worried that he might fall prey to the political and the artistic threats that surrounded him. Berlioz, overwrought with concern about the lack of any letters received from his beloved Camille Moke, was largely unable to ind time to correspond during the wie scharf u. richtig er alle dinge beurtheilt u. erkennt, nur über sich ganz im Finstern ist, das ist unsäglich furchtbar …’ 20 see cairns (2000), 1: 413. 21 Berlioz (1870), 260–61n. see also Berlioz (1975), 291.

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composers’ weeks together in Rome; the one surviving letter from those troubled days, written to his sister nanci on 25 March, centers on all manner of instability (including Berlioz’s own emotional state), and clearly conveys that there was no time for Berlioz to prattle on about day-to-day visits.22 likewise, Berlioz’s letter of 24 June to his family fails to mention the renewal of the two artists’ reunion a few days earlier, even though it is written in the congenial narrative tone typical of letters written during Berlioz’s calmer periods. the one substantive reference to Mendelssohn that does occur fairly brims with enthusiasm: i have found Mendelssohn … he is an admirable young man. his technique is as great as his musical genius, and that is saying a great deal. Everything I have heard by him has charmed me, and I irmly believe that he is one of the leading musical talents of our age. … Mendelssohn is one of those candid souls that one encounters but seldom. He believes irmly in his Lutheran faith, and sometimes i scandalize him by laughing at the Bible. he has given me the few tolerable moments that i have had [here] in rome.23

Beginning in the fall, however, Mendelssohn begins to surface rather frequently in Berlioz’s letters, at least in part in anticipation of his planned visit to Paris. typically, these letters effuse over Mendelssohn – his personality, his music, his promise. Examples of this tone are found in his letter to Hiller dated 17 September 1831 and another letter written on 3 december to Maurice schlesinger.24 in a word, Mendelssohn and Berlioz seem to have been much closer personally than is evident from most latter-day accounts or even their own correspondence. in fact, neither composer’s correspondence squares with the picture of the interaction suggested by Mendelssohn’s diary – arguably the purest of the surviving records of those days. The diary makes clear that Berlioz igured prominently in Mendelssohn’s day-to-day life for the entire second half of March 1831 – more so, indeed, than any of the other names that ill those pages – and that the two composers saw each other again on at least two days in June (the 6th and the 15th). Yet Berlioz scarcely igures in Mendelssohn’s many letters from Rome. those letters that do mention Berlioz are sharply critical of him but otherwise aimed at reassuring Mendelssohn’s family and friends; and they do not mention Mendelssohn’s having shown Berlioz any of his own music, any signiicant shared 22

see Berlioz 1 [1972], 420–21. ibid., 441: ‘J’ai trouvé Mendelssohn. … c’est un garçon admirable, son talent d’exécution est aussi grand que son génie musical, et vraiment c’est beaucoup dire. Tout ce que j’ai entendu de lui m’a ravi; je crois fermement que c’est une des capacités musicales le plus hautes de l’époque. … Mendelssohn est une de ces âmes candides comme on en voit si rarement; il croit fermement à sa religion luthérienne, et je le scandalisais quelquefois beaucoup en riant de la Bible. il m’a procuré les seuls instants supportables don’t j’aie joui pendant mon séjour à Rome’. 24 ibid., 506. 23

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experiences between the two, or the composers’ Roman reunion in June – a fact that Berlioz, for his part, latly denies. conversely, Berlioz’s correspondence written from rome would tend to suggest that Mendelssohn was of no particular signiicance. His failure to mention Mendelssohn in the agonized letter of 25 March to nanci is certainly understandable, but the more even-tempered letters of 6, 16, and 21 June are less easily explained. The one surviving letter from the period that does discuss Mendelssohn in detail is addressed to Berlioz’s young friends – and this letter, too, is aimed primarily at reassuring those who knew of the severe personal and emotional travails he had suffered in recent months. then, beginning several months after their roman reunion (but nearly three months before Mendelssohn’s actual arrival in Paris), Berlioz waxes enthusiastic about Mendelssohn in a series of letters addressed to persons who already had a clear and overwhelmingly sympathetic relationship with Mendelssohn: Maurice schlesinger had been Mendelssohn’s exclusive French publisher since 1823, and at that point hiller had been a close friend for nearly a decade. this implicit disparity in Berlioz’s correspondence – the absence of Mendelssohn in letters addressed to persons who had no ‘need to know’ about Berlioz’s presence of his life, and the prominence of Mendelssohn in Berlioz’s letters addressed to persons who would have viewed the two artists’ association approvingly – suggests that he, too, was reporting and describing with a clear eye to the needs of his readers. These Italian experiences laid the foundation for the two composers’ next encounter. on 23 January 1843, on the eve of the last concert planned for his stay in Weimar, Berlioz wrote two letters soliciting an opportunity to offer a concert in a nearby city in the coming weeks. one of these was addressed to Karol lipinski, Konzertmeister to King August II in Dresden;25 the other, to Mendelssohn. the latter reads: My dear Mendelssohn, it has been long since we saw each other, and in our search for beauty we have probably followed different paths, either parallel or divergent. i have no hesitations about asking your assistance in bringing some of my compositions to the attention of the public in leipzig. is this possible? When and under what conditions? Please be so good as to send me a few lines on the subject as soon as possible, for i am giving my last concert here tomorrow and your response will determine whether i go from here to rural leipzig or to wait here in Weimar until things are arranged for me in dresden, where i will also visit. Many cordial greetings renewed from … the romans26 25

Berlioz 3 [1978], 58. ibid.: ‘Mon cher Mendelssohn, 26

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Mendelssohn acted quickly on this proposal. he received Berlioz’s letter on 25 February and on that same day suggested to the directors of the Gewandhaus concerts that the program of the upcoming concert be adjusted to include some of Berlioz’s works. The directors opted instead to arrange for a beneit concert for the poor of the city on 22 February,27 and Mendelssohn conveyed the outcome in a letter to Berlioz in a response dated the next day, also engaging him to give an earlier beneit concert on 4 February on his own behalf: My dear Berlioz, i thank you wholeheartedly for your good letter and for the good memories you have preserved of our roman friendship! For my part, i will never forget it and i will be delighted to tell you so in person, soon, and in my homeland. it will be both a pleasure and a duty for me to do all i can to make your stay in leipzig agreeable and proitable. First of all, i contract you to come to leipzig, for i believe i can promise you that you will be satisied with the city – that is, with its musicians and its people. I did not want to write to you without having irst consulted with several people who know the city better than i do, and all have corroborated my opinion that you should be able to give a irst-rate concert here. You did not tell me your intentions – you spoke only of making your music heard – but i assume this could refer to a concert that you give yourself. the best days for this would be Mondays or saturdays. … But as you did not tell me the details of your intentions, i [simply] communicated to the directors of our subscription concert series your project of coming [to leipzig]. they charged me with asking you if you would like to perform one of your works on a beneit concert for the poor of the city on 22 February, and in that case they will arrange the program according to your wishes. i tell you this because they asked me to do so …

il y a bien longtemps que nous nous sommes perdus de vue et nous avons probablement suivi, dans notre recherche du beau, des routes différentes, parallèles ou divergentes. Je n’hésite pas néanmoins à vous demander votre assistance pour faire entendre quelques-unes de mes compositions au public de leipzig. ‘Cela se peut-il? Quand e comment e à quelles conditions? ‘Soyez assez bon pour m’écrire deux lignes à ce sujet le plus tôt possible car je donne concert ici après-demain, et votre réponse me déterminera à partir pour Leipzig sur le champ ou à attendre à Weimar que mes affaires soient arrangées à dresde, où je vais aussi. ‘Mille amities renouvelées des … romains’ 27 letter of 10 February 1843 from Mendelssohn to heinrich dörrien, in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1971), 68.

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Perhaps you could accept the directors’ proposition after the concert or concerts you give for your own beneit, if this is quite convenient for you. i therefore engage you to come here as soon as possible after leaving Weimar. i am delighted that i will be able to shake your hand and bid you Willkommen in Germany. if you cannot come right away and if there is something i can do for you while waiting, communicate this to me in writing. And do not laugh at my bad French as you used to in rome, and remain my true friend as you were then, as i shall always be yours, Your devoted, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy28

28

letter from Mendelssohn to Berlioz, 26 January 1843 (london, British library, shelfmark Add. 33965); selected passage of translation adopted from Berlioz (1975), 291: ‘Mon cher Berlioz, ‘Je vous remercie bien de cœur de votre bonne lettre et de ce que vous ayez encore conservé le souvenir de notre amitié romaine! Moi je ne l’oublierai de ma vie et je me réjouis de pouvoir vous le dire sous peu de tems [sic] de vive voix et dans ma patrie. Tout ce que je puis faire pour y rendre votre séjour heureux et agréable, je le ferai comme un plaisir et comme un devoir. ‘D’abord en tout cas je vous engage de venir à Leipzig, parce que je crois pouvoir vous répondre de ce que vous serez content de la ville, c’est-à-dire des musiciens et du public. Je n’ai pas voulu vous écrire sans avoir consulté plusieurs personnes qui connaissent la ville mieux que moi, et tous m’on conirmé dans mon opinion, que vous ferez un excellent concert ici. Vous ne me dites pas, quelles sont vos intentions; vous me parlez seulement de faire entendre votre musique; mais je présume que cela doit être dans un concert que vous donneriez vous-même. les meilleurs jours pour cela seraient les lundis ou biens les samedis. […] ‘Mais comme vous ne me dites pas les détails de vos intentions j’ai communiqué votre projet de venir aux Directeurs de la Société des Concerts d’Abonnement, qui m’ont chargé de vous demander si vous voulez faire exécuter un de vos ouvrages dans leur concert pour les pauvres de la ville, qui sera donné le 22 février, et que dans ce cas ils arrangeraient leur programme suivant vos intentions. […] ‘Peut-être pourrez-vous accepter la proposition des Directeurs après le concert, ou les concerts que vous aurez donnés vous-même, si toutefois elle vous convient. ‘Je vous engage donc de venir ici aussitôt que vous pourrez quitter Weimar. Je me réjouis de pouvoir vous serre la main & vous dire “Willkommen” en Allemagne. Si vous ne pouvez pas venir sitôt et s’il y a quelque chose que je puis faire pour vous en attendant écrivez-moi. ‘Et ne vous moquez pas de mon méchant français comme vous faisiez à Rome, mais continuez d’être mon bon ami comme vous étiez alors et comme je serai toujours. votre dévoué Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’

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Berlioz acknowledged Mendelssohn’s response in a letter from Weimar on sunday, 26 January and proposed in that letter that the irst of the two concerts take place the following saturday (4 February).29 Because his more recent scores were in Frankfurt am Main, he suggested that the irst of these two concerts comprise mostly older works – the Symphonie fantastique, the King Lear and Francs-Juges overtures; the Rêverie et caprice for solo violin and orchestra; and three songs sung by Berlioz’s traveling companion, Marie recio – ‘Absence’, ‘le Jeune pâtre breton’, and ‘la belle voyageuse’. As it turned out, Berlioz did end up giving two concerts in the city, the irst in the subscription concert on 4 February and the second as a beneit concert for the city’s poor on 22 February – but the logistical challenges of preparing for two allBerlioz programs on short notice and in close proximity to one another severely taxed the musical resources of Leipzig. For the irst concert, eight violinists had to be found to augment the Gewandhaus orchestra’s section to 24 instead of its usual 16; the English horn and ophicleide required for the Symphonie fantastique were found to be in such disrepair that they had to be replaced by a clarinet and a fourth trombone, respectively; and when, after a week of work getting two harps delivered from Berlin for the performance, the amateur harpist proved unable to master Berlioz’s harp writing in the symphony’s second movement, Mendelssohn performed the part himself on a piano.30 the second concert also posed its fair share of challenges. since Berlioz’s letter of acceptance from 26 January, he and Mendelssohn had planned on the concert comprising the inale of Roméo et Juliette. Before rehearsals Mendelssohn discovered that the prosody of duesberg’s German translation of the Roméo et Juliette inale was lawed, so he amended the text himself and even entered the corrections into the parts. After all this labor, the bass engaged for the part of Friar laurence proved to be so inept and arrogant that Berlioz withdrew the work at the dress rehearsal. Mendelssohn arranged an extra rehearsal for the following morning (22 February) – the morning of the concert itself – and now the program was reworked to comprise the King Lear overture (already familiar to the orchestra from Berlioz’s irst Leipzig concert) and the ‘offertorium’ from the Requiem. despite the brilliance of Berlioz’s music and Mendelssohn’s strenuous efforts on behalf of his friend, Berlioz’s concerts provoked considerable controversy. some critics issued valiant defenses of Berlioz, with appropriate jabs at his detractors; but even these defenders conceded that they found moments or much of his music incomprehensible or bizarre (Bartholff senf called him ‘a devil’),31 and hermann hirschbach’s lengthy apologia published in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik on 16 February 184332 rested principally on the grounds that Berlioz, as a Frenchman, could not be held to the same standards as a German symphonist – 29 30 31 32

Oxford, Bodleian Library, Green Books, vol. 17, no. 47. todd (2003), 400. see Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 45–6. NZfM 18/14 (1843): 55–6, quoted in Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 523–4.

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hardly a compelling defense. indeed, critical response to the 4 February concert was suficiently adverse that the board of directors of the Gewandhaus concerts considered retracting their invitation for Berlioz to offer a beneit concert on 22 February; however, Mendelssohn intervened, dissuading them from that improvident gesture.33 the strong friendship the two composers had established in 1831 casts new light on the complexities of their 1843 encounters. Despite signiicant differences in taste and professional status, Berlioz and Mendelssohn had become fast friends as ambitious young composers in rome – more so than either was inclined to report to their respective readerships of friends and family. of necessity as much as anything else, they had no further documented interactions during the later 1830s. After all, Berlioz was in Italy during Mendelssohn’s Parisian sojourn, and Mendelssohn traveled only within Germany and to England during the rest of that decade. When Berlioz did approach Mendelssohn with the prospect of a concert or concerts in leipzig, Mendelssohn accepted eagerly. he obviously worked diligently to make his friend’s concerts a success and even blocked what would have been a serious professional insult by dissuading the Gewandhaus directors from their plan to cancel the second concert. there is no evidence of any antagonism or interpersonal tension between Mendelssohn and Berlioz in this chapter of their relationship. rather, they collaborated as professionals with a history of friendship. this reading also makes sense of some subsequent events in the composers’ relationship, and in Berlioz’s relationship with leipzig in particular. Against the backdrop of their collaboration, and given the considerable prestige Mendelssohn held in leipzig’s musical culture, Berlioz must have been especially hurt by the ambivalent reception his music was accorded in ‘crepuscular’ Germany.34 he may well not have known about Mendelssohn’s efforts at damage-control on his behalf, but he was in any case probably correct in his belief that the city’s Mendelssohnian cult had worked to his detriment. The next chapter in the composers’ relationship is less afirmative. Berlioz gave full voice to his disappointment with his leipzig detractors in the fourth letter of his Voyage musical en Allemagne et en Italie, a document offering a sharply critical view of leipzig’s entire musical establishment. intended principally for dissemination in French in the Journal des débats, this collection of letters was also published in Germany – speciically, Leipzig – in a German translation by Mendelssohn’s friend and colleague, the journalist Johann christian lobe, in August 1843. this circumstance is unfortunate, for Berlioz portrays both the rewards and the challenges he encountered in leipzig with characteristic candor – and the tone as well as the content of the letter explicitly reveals his skepticism about the validity of his detractors’ criticisms of his music. this alone may not have been offensive to leipzig’s musical public, but Berlioz also included, as a summary of 33

see Mendelssohn’s letter of 10 February 1843 in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1971), 68–70. Berlioz refers to ‘l’état crépusculair’ in his letter of 26 January 1843 to Mendelssohn (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Green Books, vol. 17, no. 47). 34

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his earlier acquaintance with Mendelssohn, a number of eminently amusing stories that portrayed the celebrated director of the Gewandhaus orchestra and the de facto founder and director of the city’s newly opened conservatory as a playful youth who never quite managed to gain the upper hand in his interactions with Berlioz. those who were not annoyed by this irreverence probably did take offense nevertheless at what is probably the most explicitly ad hominem manifestation of the wounds inlicted on Berlioz’s pride: a statement that he originally had reservations about even attempting a success in leipzig because of the ‘dictatorship’ (dictature) of Mendelssohn.35 if Mendelssohn winced at reading Berlioz’s colorful account of his youthful behavior in rome in the pages of a popular journal, he must have been genuinely offended at the suggestion that his ‘musical dictatorship’ had impeded Berlioz’s success – especially after his diligent efforts on his friend’s behalf. the rest of the story amounts to a sad epilogue. Mendelssohn and Berlioz did correspond further, and amicably – but Berlioz, for reasons that are probably self-evident, declined to visit leipzig during his second German tour in 1845–46 even though he apparently received a letter from Mendelssohn that solicited his return. Fourteen years after Mendelssohn’s death, in 1861, Felix Mendelssohn’s younger brother, Paul, published the irst edition of the composer’s travel letters from the ‘grand tour’, including a truncated version of the sharply critical letter Mendelssohn had written on 15 March 1831. Berlioz encountered this letter in that widely circulated book’s irst French edition, published in Paris in 1864, and, understandably wounded, on 25 May added two footnotes quoting from the edition and voicing his sense of betrayal.36 Although this chronology makes clear that strong interpersonal tensions had arisen between Berlioz and Mendelssohn by the end of 1843, there is little to support the conventional assumption that their artistic and personal relationship was conlicted before then. The question remains, however, of whether these closer relations also were manifested in their music itself. i believe that they were. several manifestations of this stylistic intercourse are largely gestural and stylistic and therefore intrinsically resistant to unequivocal proof; yet they are probably also self-evident to most musicians familiar with these composers’ works. certainly the musical idioms of their scherzos (such as the Midsummer Night’s Dream and ‘Queen Mab’ scherzos) are cut from the same cloth, as are the techniques both used for creating dramatic intensiications and resolution over the course of several sequential movements in explicitly narrative music (for example, in Berlioz’s Roméo et Juliette and Mendelssohn’s Antigone and Elijah). There are also numerous other instances that offer more speciic suggestions of reciprocal insemination, however, including two instances in which the composers crossed each other’s path in works whose gestation began during their italian sojourns. 35 See Berlioz (1844/1970) 1: 72; Berlioz (1975), 291; Braam and Jacobshagen (2002), 268. lobe’s German translation of this phrase (certainly available to Mendelssohn) reads: ‘ungeachtet der Dictatur, mit der Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy dort bekleidet war’. 36 See Berlioz (1870), 260–61; Berlioz (1975), 291.

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The irst of these instances is a stylistic and reception-historical intersection of Berlioz’s and Mendelssohn’s italian symphonies: i.e., Berlioz’s Harold in Italy and Mendelssohn’s A-major (‘italian’) symphony, the second movement of which is often described today as a ‘pilgrims’ march’ and associated with Mendelssohn’s experiences in the Vatican in 1831. For purposes of this brief review, the relevant facts concerning this intersection are as follows:37 •

•

•

•

• •

By the time Berlioz and Mendelssohn met in rome in mid-March 1831, Mendelssohn had been discussing in his letters work on a new symphony in A major. he had begun to refer to it as ‘italian’ by 22 February 1831, but in mid-March he reported that it was ‘still far aield’. no manuscripts containing music for an orchestral work in A major survive from Mendelssohn’s Italian sojourn; all surviving manuscripts for the music of the A-major symphony as it is known today date from after midJanuary 1833 – a year and a half after Mendelssohn had left italy. After March of 1831, Mendelssohn himself never again referred to any of his works as an ‘italian’ symphony. none of the programs for the four performances of the A-major symphony given during his lifetime billed it as Italian; no contemporary reviewers described it as Italian; and no members of his friends or family who discussed the work in their correspondence with him ever associated that music with the symphony he had reported composing in rome. neither did they refer to it – even the last movement, which is explicitly titled ‘Saltarello’ – as Italian. Even after the work’s posthumous revival, which began in london in 1848, no critics associated it with Italy or Italian music. Likewise, the irst edition, published in 1851, made no such association. in other words, Mendelssohn’s A-major symphony was never labeled ‘italian’ during Mendelssohn’s lifetime – a fact that is all the more striking in view of its closing saltarello. Berlioz attended the concert in which the irst posthumous performance of the symphony was given, and wrote glowingly of it to the critic J. W. davison – but he gave no indication that he had ever heard any of its music before then. this suggests that he had not heard any of it during his time with Mendelssohn in rome. The spring of 1848 also witnessed the irst publication of Berlioz’s Harold in Italy. the lack of an italian epithet for Mendelssohn’s A-major symphony continued for three years after Mendelssohn’s death; the irst suggestion that the symphony’s music dated from Mendelssohn’s italian journey was offered by Jules Benedict’s brief biography of Mendelssohn, published in london in 1850. subsequent commentators latched onto the association and began to

37 For a more detailed account and a discussion of the musical relationship between Berlioz’s harold symphony and Mendelssohn’s A-major symphony, see cooper (2003), 199–202.

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discover a multitude of Italianisms. Eventually, the work began to be construed as a quasi-autobiographical travelogue of Mendelssohn’s italian sojourn. Even after Mendelssohn’s A-major Symphony had posthumously assumed the ‘italian’ dimensions of its musical identity, the Andante was not identiied in terms of Roman clerical processions etc. for some time. the correspondence in which Mendelssohn so vividly describes those processions was not, in fact, published until 1861. Enter Berlioz: Mendelssohn’s A-major Symphony was performed by the Philharmonic Society of London in mid-May 1853; Berlioz conducted the same orchestra, to considerable acclaim, in a performance of Harold just two weeks later, on 30 May. in June 1853, less than a month after the acclaimed london performance of Berlioz’s Harold and its ‘pilgrims’ march’, the irst separate editions of the Andante of Mendelssohn’s A-major symphony began to appear. Now, for the irst time in the work’s history, the movement was entitled ‘Mendelssohn’s Pilgrims’ March’ – and this publication of the original version was followed by a sea of arrangements of that movement, with the characteristic title, for virtually every conceivable medium. the association has not only endured, but has also become a staple of critical and analytical commentaries on the movement.

the upshot of this aphoristic narrative is relatively straightforward: in effect, Berlioz, by way of Harold in Italy, evidently is more responsible than Mendelssohn himself for the Italian characterizations that have since been irmly afixed to the slow movement of Mendelssohn’s A-major symphony. Moreover, since the correspondence that would constitute the sole irsthand association of this music with that aspect of Mendelssohn’s italian sojourn remained unpublished for nearly another decade after 1853, this reception-historical intercourse would seem to have resulted from contemporary perceptions of substantive stylistic and gestural parallels between the music of the two works. if these perceptions are not entirely unfounded, the A-major symphony and Harold reveal a material and emphatic musical afinity scarcely possible in our usual antipodal view of Berlioz and Mendelssohn as composers. My second case study concerns Mendelssohn’s setting of Goethe’s ballad Die erste Walpurgisnacht – for much of the nineteenth century one of Mendelssohn’s most popular works. Written in 1799, Goethe’s ballad invokes the ubiquitous eighteenth- and nineteenth-century legend of Walpurgis night, a legendary witches’ sabbath that supposedly centered on the Brocken, the highest peak of the harz Mountains. the poet based his ‘poetic fable’38 on a late eighteenth-century theory that the night’s legends originated in the historical conlict between paganism and Christianity, speciically Charlemagne’s forceful imposition of Christianity on the pagan Saxon tribes in the eighth century. Over the course of the poem, Goethe 38 letter from Goethe to Zelter, 3 december 1812, quoted in Beutler (1950–71), vol. 20, 301–4 at 303–4.

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Example 6.1a Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60, no. 5, bars 21–26

Example 6.1b Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60, no. 6, ‘Kommt mit wilden Klapperstöcken’ theme

Example 6.2

Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, 1830–33 version, bars 312–29

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Example 6.2 continued

Note: For an Urtext edition of this score with critical commentary, see Cooper (2010).

establishes the contextual conlict, recounts a Saxon ruse to outwit and scare away charlemagne’s foolish christian sentinels by carrying out a masquerade of a witches’ sabbath, and ultimately celebrates the nobility and strength of the pagans while mocking the cowardice and superstition of their christian adversaries.39 Mendelssohn began to set Goethe’s ballad in 1830, and worked on it steadily throughout the spring of 1831, continuing to revise it up to the very last days before its premiere in Berlin on 10 January 1833. he suppressed the work for another decade, thoroughly overhauling it late in 1842 and premiering the revised version in leipzig on 2 February 1843. the chronology is important, for this work’s creation is remarkably bound up with Berlioz’s presence. to begin with, Mendelssohn was hard at work on it – indeed, quite possibly on its scene representing the feigned witches’ sabbath – during the weeks in which he saw and described for his family the score and program of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, the last movement of which he described as depicting witches waltzing on the Brocken. Moreover, according to Berlioz’s Memoirs it was Die erste Walpurgisnacht that prompted him to suggest that he and Mendelssohn exchange batons when he arrived in Leipzig in 1843.40 Musically, too, the Walpurgisnacht suggests fascinating intersections between the compositional personas of the two composers. to begin with, the revised version of 1843 contains some of Mendelssohn’s most Berlioz-like orchestration – including, in the scene of the feigned witches’ sabbath, prominent use of piccolo, bass drum, and cymbals. these instruments are not included in the main score, but were added retroactively in a second score created just before the work’s premiere. (the temptation to speculate that the plans to host Berlioz in leipzig spurred 39 in a letter dated 3 december 1812, Goethe described this historical conjecture as a ‘fable-like history’ that his ballad transformed back into a ‘poetic fable’. see cooper (2007a) for a detailed review of Goethe’s several explanations of the poem. 40 Berlioz (1970), 260; Berlioz (1975), 291.

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Example 6.3 Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60, no. 6, bars 241–52

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Example 6.3 continued

Mendelssohn to their addition is considerable, but the surviving evidence does not permit secure positing of a speciic date.) Moreover, the cantata is an extended essay in thematic metamorphosis of a variety similar to that practiced by Berlioz in the Symphonie fantastique. And, as is well known, Mendelssohn’s cantata begins with a vividly programmatic ‘Introduction’ extending over some 400 measures and depicting two elements extraneous to Goethe’s poem: the foul weather of the late winter and the gradual transition to springtime. the instances in which the Walpurgisnacht illustrates this last point are numerous. one obvious such instance is a critical passage from the ‘witches’ sabbath’ scene – a scene that, as catherine rose Melhorn observed already in 1980, presents a brilliantly modiied sonata process. In both versions of the cantata, the exposition-like irst section and the developmental middle section center on the famous ‘Kommt mit Zacken!’ theme, but the emphatic return to A minor unleashes a new thematic element: a dense stretto based on the descending chromatic motive derived from the instrumental introduction, irst prominently stated in the theme in which the pagan watchmen take up the idea of a ruse to frighten off the Christian guards (see Example 6.1a and b). In the irst version of the cantata – the version that was written around the same time as Mendelssohn’s irst exposure to the Symphonie fantastique – the developmental middle section of this movement in A minor goes to great lengths to tonicize the lowered second scale degree, B-lat, before abruptly swerving back to the tonic in second inversion at measure 303 – a daring neapolitan cadence that is rarely, if ever, encountered at such an important structural juncture elsewhere in Mendelssohn’s oeuvre (see Example 6.2). Moreover, this bold tonal movement initiates a new thematic

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Example 6.4a

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Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, 1830–33 version, bars 484–87

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Example 6.4a continued

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table 6.4a continued

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Example 6.4a continued

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140

Example 6.4a continued

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Example 6.4b

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Mendelssohn, Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60, no. 9, bars 18–23

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element: a series of layered and staggered chromatically descending lines that are further developed, in conspicuously irreverent and thus un-Mendelssohnian imitation, to lead to a further climax – an orchestral interlude that prepares the change of scene to the pagans’ solemn rites. in the revised version of the cantata the gesture is similar: although the jarring cadential move at the return to A minor is smoothed out, the stretto leads to a further culmination, emphasizing the ‘howl’ built into Goethe’s text with punctuating accents from the bass drum and cymbals (see Example 6.3).41 Finally, the musical language by which Mendelssohn represents the religious exaltation of Goethe’s pagans is also noteworthy. The closing bars of the version of 1830–33 obsess over the pagans’ line ‘and if they rob us of our old ways’ in language whose iguration, harmony, and contextual intrusiveness resemble those of Mendelssohn’s new friend Berlioz (Example 6.4a); and both versions set the pagans’ closing invocation to the Allvater Wuotan – ‘your light, who can rob us of that?’ – with the same affect of grand spiritual exaltation already famously associated with St Paul and the symphony-cantata Lobgesang, later cultivated with renewed splendor in his inal completed oratorio, Elijah (see Example 6.4b). the gestural and stylistic parallels between Die erste Walpurgisnacht and the last movement of the Symphonie fantastique corroborate the impression of a genuinely amicable rather than antagonistic relationship between Mendelssohn and Berlioz, especially through the early 1840s, by offering evidence of their musical as well as personal afinities. Both works are extended narrative explorations of intersections between mainstream Christian society and its profane Other; both are masterful essays in the achievement of large-scale musical unity within emphatically heterogeneous extramusical and stylistic contexts; and both rely principally on the technique of thematic transformation to articulate the single source of the narrative and musical unity. And there is more: for in the Walpurgisnacht the academically inclined and devoutly lutheran Mendelssohn textually and musically mocks, in the most explicit terms, the Christian clerics of Europe’s distant past, while also celebrating the nobility, courage, and strength of Goethe’s pagans in the face of historical and cultural adversity. in the Symphonie fantastique, the atheist or agnostic Berlioz likewise profanes the mores of catholicism by using the ancient sequence from the catholic liturgy in the context of a celebration of the grotesque, the profane, the vile – but Berlioz’s aesthetic stance vis-à-vis this grotesquerie remains, au fond, sympathetic to the perspective of his more religiously and aesthetically orthodox contemporaries. in the Symphonie fantastique, what is profane and anti-christian possesses no attributes of nobility, no legitimate position in a grand historical narrative: the quasi-autobiographical narrative persona of the work, and thus Berlioz himself, still views the participants in his witches’ sabbath as creatures that are grotesque, ugly, crude, vile. in these senses, the Mendelssohn of the Walpurgisnacht adopts an 41

See Prandi (2002), 135–46 at 137–8, and Chapter 3 of Cooper (2007a).

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aesthetic stance and enunciates a voice consistent with what one would normally expect of Berlioz, while the composer-cum-narrative persona of the Symphonie fantastique speaks from a perspective more consistent with what one might expect from Mendelssohn. This observation explains the title of my chapter. Certainly there are few composers whose backgrounds, aesthetic proclivities, and professional lives were more antithetical than those of Berlioz and Mendelssohn – and certainly the obviousness of these antitheses accounts for a substantial part of historiographers’ overriding tendencies to portray the two as oppositional forces in the history of nineteenth-century music. But this image fails to account for the signiicant instances of biographical and artistic empathy that also existed between the two, who not only promoted and respected each other (with reservations but also with sincerity) but also championed similar causes to their respective musical publics, and even crossed into each other’s aesthetic terrain on occasion. the conventional portrayal of Berlioz and Mendelssohn as thoroughly antipodal igures fails to account for the signiicant instances of their biographical and artistic empathy, an empathy that suggests a deeper and by no means less important artistic afinity. That afinity emerged during the early months of their acquaintance and extended through the Leipzig winter of 1843; it was compromised only afterward, and faded primarily because of circumstance rather than any personal antipathy between the two. it certainly was not ‘elective’ in the sense of the ineluctable mutual attraction of opposites central to Goethe’s 1809 novel Die Wahlverwandschaften. But it does qualify as a ‘selective’ afinity, one that was fundamental, as their contemporaries understood it, to the modernity of Mendelssohn and Berlioz alike. By acknowledging and exploring this afinity, we can better understand how these obviously different composers were both able to champion the cause of historically eclectic innovation in the musical discourse of their day.

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chapter 7

Between tradition and innovation: Mendelssohn as Music director and his Performances of Bach in leipzig1 Anselm hartinger

Whenever historical scholarship concerns ‘long periods’ and ‘long centuries’, the discussion usually involves long-term economic, demographic, and intellectual conditions and processes that ultimately shape the political, social, and cultural history of entire epochs. the evolution – and continuities – of these conditions and processes usually escape the notice of those who experience them, and are thus rendered dificult for ensuing generations and scholars to identify. Nevertheless, these cultural phenomena effectively determine the philosophy and actions not only of whole groups of society but also of particular individuals, including even those who we might think were separated from the ‘normal sphere’ by provenance, talent, or achievement. the enduring image of the deeply romantic ‘artistic genius’ whose art is revealed to him in a solitary, emotional world is outdated and the concept has been irmly refuted, particularly with regard to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.2 the nineteenth-century hero cult, which caused historical personalities to be seen as heroes virtually unbound by contemporary or even human restrictions and which resulted in a weighty long-term burden for both Mendelssohn and Bach reception, was replaced by the twentieth-century obsession with cultural conditioning and social structures in which historical personalities were seen merely as a product of intellectual, economic, and social formulas. We are now, perhaps for the irst time, in a position to assess the achievements of these ‘great’ personalities from a more objective standpoint, without these stereotypes blinding our interpretation of history. in this light, the challenge is to assess accurately Mendelssohn’s life and work in the context of his time and to consider his interaction with the social An earlier version of this chapter, ‘Zwischen Tradition und Neuanfang: Der Musikdirektor Mendelssohn und seine leipziger Bach-Aufführungen’, was read at the conference ‘Mendelssohn in the Long Nineteenth Century’ at Trinity College Dublin, July 2005. 2 on Mendelssohn’s musical schooling see todd (1983). on Mendelssohn’s compositional process see todd (1991b). 1

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circumstances and attitudes fundamental to his culture, especially his musical culture. to do so, we must consider the local traditions Mendelssohn shaped and reforms in his profession that he led throughout his life. on the other hand – while avoiding platitudes and excessive admiration – we will draw attention to and critically assess the various effects that this extraordinary musician and person had on his contemporaries and on posterity. The following relections on two aspects of Mendelssohn’s performances of Bach in leipzig are intended as a preliminary contribution to this extensive project. this study implies a certain change of perspective: the starting point is not Mendelssohn’s well-known concert activities and his special interest in Bach. rather, this study is based on a detailed overview of all varieties of Bach performances in Leipzig during the irst half of the nineteenth century, based on comprehensive source studies, and a detailed discussion of playing traditions, audience preferences, and performance habits in leipzig.3 it is only in this context that Mendelssohn’s Bachian activities can be properly categorized and appreciated.

Programming the historische Konzerte: Practices and Precedents We will begin with the question of Mendelssohn’s programming politics in his capacity as music director of the Grossen Concerts in leipzig. the three cycles of historische Konzerte (which Mendelssohn integrated into the usual subscription concerts of the Gewandhaus in 1838, 1841, and 1847) are among the best-known contributions towards appreciating Bach and the ‘music of the past’ in the age of romanticism. After the research of sabina Großmannvendrey,4 models for this program have often been cited, especially the london ‘Ancient concerts’. despite the similar title, direct correlation to the Gewandhaus projects cannot be assumed, however, especially concerning the repertoire chosen.5 First, it is instructive to discuss the basic characteristics of Mendelssohn’s historische Konzerte in Leipzig. Despite what at irst inspection seems like a loose arrangement of concert programs, a set of speciic criteria emerges which, surprisingly, deines the selection of repertoire quite precisely. this is all the more remarkable because the preparation of the concerts was often relatively spontaneous and lacking in coordination; and Mendelssohn frequently had to modify his selections.6 From another angle, however, this emphasizes 3

hartinger (2010). Großmann-vendrey (1969), 159–72. 5 lichtenfeld (1969), 41–53. 6 in this context, Mendelssohn’s letter to Karl Klingemann of 20 december 1840 is also relevant: ‘Until then we put on historische Konzerte as we once did three years ago; with a Triple Concerto by Bach, a Flute Concerto by Frederic the Great, we will arrive in ive weeks at the Ninth Symphony by Beethoven’ (‘Bis dahin machen wir “historische Konzerte”, wie wir bereits vor 3 Jahren einmal in einem kritischen Zeitpunkt taten; die 4

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how much less Mendelssohn and the representatives of the board of directors – jointly responsible for planning the concerts – thought of speciic pieces than of ‘product proile’. Leaving aside smaller shifts of emphasis between the cycles from 1838, 1841, and 1847, the following features are characteristic and requisite for almost all historische Konzerte: • • • • •

Focused on the music of the previous century, by renouncing the historische Konzerte tradition of older vocal polyphony and the antique and ‘exotic’ musical examples, as Karl Kloss had preferred;7 concentration on important masterworks, in both vocal and instrumental genres, independent of their secular or spiritual purposes; selection of predominantly German music; consistent arrangement of individual concerts in historical periods instead of by other methods, such as genres or schools; chronological arrangement of individual concert programs, and in particular the entire series – showing the progression from Bach and handel to the newest music.

Many of these characteristics – such as skepticism towards the higher value placed on older vocal polyphony common in thibaut’s circles and others – can be explained largely by Mendelssohn’s personal preferences.8 So inluential was Mendelssohn on the development of this type of concert that some contemporaries were even inclined to attribute the concept of the historische Konzerte to him exclusively. A leipzig review from 1847 reads: ‘for the idea for a course showing the development of newer music, as demonstrated in our concerts, we can thank none other than our Mendelssohn’.9 this statement, however, is historically inaccurate. the concept of the historische Konzerte was in place before Mendelssohn assumed his position in Leipzig, and was realized on numerous occasions there. Noteworthy in this regard helfen durch: von einem Tripel-Konzert von Bach, von einem Flöten-Konzert von Friedrich dem Grossen, gelangen wir da in 5 Wochen bis zur 9. symphonie von Beethoven’). Mendelssohn Bartholdy/Klingemann (1909), 254. Mendelssohn’s comment, with its scarcely concealed irony, refers to a certain scruple of the music director’s view of a shortcut in music history. It should therefore guard against overestimating the signiicance of the project for Mendelssohn himself. 7 the similarity between Mendelssohn’s concerts and the concert projects of Karl Kloss which Großmann-vendrey stresses must be put in perspective. Großmann-vendrey (1969), 159f. Signiicantly, Mendelssohn apparently never responded to the plans that Kloss sent him (GB-ob, Ms. M. deneke Mendelssohn [M.d.M] iv/208). in addition to combining the order of musically historical periods with ‘archeologically’ and ethnographically oriented musical examples from various times, the works Kloss chose for his concerts could not even stand on their own aesthetic merit and were only legitimate as ‘examples’. 8 see Großmann-vendrey (1969), 23ff.; and Wehner (1997). 9 Signale für die musikalische Welt, 5/11 (February 1847), 83.

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is the festival concert for the iftieth anniversary of the Gewandhauskonzerte on 24 November 1831. Friedrich Rochlitz arranged this concert program so that – apart from a short prologue and epilogue – each of the preceding ive decades was presented in chronological succession, represented by one or two outstanding works by a characteristic composer.10 the concert included overtures, opera scenes, and concertos by Gluck, haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber.11 We can see here already the most important characteristics of the type of concert later conducted by Mendelssohn, except that the periods – for this special occasion – were reduced to several decades. An even clearer comparison with Mendelssohn’s type of program is evidenced in a hitherto completely unknown historisches Konzert that was organized by the music association euterpe, competing with the Gewandhaus, on 4 April 1835 in the leipzig Hotel de Pologne. titled ‘characteristics of German eighteenth-century composers’, the concert presented an ‘overture’ by Bach,12 the ‘hallelujah’ chorus of handel, an overture by Gluck, a chorus from haydn’s Creation, the overture to Die Zauberlöte by Mozart, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7.13 the presentation and sequence of the program, the arrangement of composers, and even the speciic works on this program are almost identical to Mendelssohn’s later cycles of concerts.14 how can such coincidences be possible, considering that Mendelssohn could have had no inluence on Leipzig programming politics at these particular times and occasions? the key lies in a view of music prevailing in leipzig which can be linked in particular to Rochlitz, who we may regard as the most inluential writer on music in leipzig at the time. As a member of the board of directors of the Gewandhaus concerts from 1805 to 1842, rochlitz incontestably had great practical inluence on the arrangement of the concert programs, which can be veriied on the basis of drafts and documents from Mendelssohn’s term.15 What 10

one of rochlitz’s own compositions served as a prologue to the concerts – an eightvoice male chorus on Martin Luther’s text ‘Haltet Frau Musica in Ehren’. In the printed concert program, however, rochlitz withheld his name. 11 the full particulars and exact order of works on the concerts are described in Dörffel (1884/1980), 77–80. See Lichtenfeld (1969), 45. 12 Presumably this refers to the overture in d major, BWv 1068 (trumpets und drums were also needed for other works in the concert). it is very peculiar that rather than a Bach motet, an orchestral work was heard, even though the thomanerchor was participating. this can only have been a deliberate decision to present Bach as part of the symphonic orchestral tradition. 13 D-B, M.A. N. Mus. Nachl. 17/2, 123. 14 the program also served a pedagogical function by publishing the birth and death places and dates of the various composers. that it was a jubilee concert for the tenth anniversary of the founding of the euterpe concert society accentuates the similarities to the Gewandhaus concerts of 1831. 15 see the collected plans for the historische Konzerte of the year 1841 (GB-ob, Ms. M.d.M. c. 49, fol. 19r). Writing to rochlitz on 16 April 1835, Mendelssohn spoke of his ‘Joy … to seek and choose the music for the concerts together with you’. Mendelssohn

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is less obvious, however, is that with his historical considerations and writings on music, rochlitz in a certain sense prepared the way for the establishment of a speciic type of historical concert which had already dominated in Leipzig before Mendelssohn’s arrival. And so in his ‘Grundlinien zu einer Geschichte der Gesangsmusik’ – a publication which does not represent a purely theoretical doctrinal system, but rather returns to the impulse of musical practice16 – rochlitz conceptualized the development of vocal music in ive periods: from the late middle ages, to vocal polyphony of the renaissance; through the high Baroque, the age of Bach and Handel, and up to the ifth and most modern period, which began with haydn.17 rochlitz expressly rejected contradictory arrangements such as those based on regional schools or the history of genres.18 in polemical opposition to carl von Winterfeld and Kiesewetter, whose interests were primarily in older music history,19 rochlitz focused his attention on the direct forerunners of musical modernism. in an unpublished manuscript, ‘Geschichte der Tonkunst meiner Zeit’, he equates the ifth and last period directly with the history of the musical present, with which he generalizes his system over the generic borders of vocal music.20 rochlitz’s concept, therefore, was based less on a purely historical model, but was related rather to the music of his time. he sought to legitimize contemporary music by the musical heritage of the past, which added didactic implications to his concept.21 therefore, rochlitz’s concept also differs from that of a meticulous researcher such as Winterfeld in its representational mission, and even in its techniques of describing music history.22 rochlitz’s historical concept of music and Mendelssohn’s historische Konzerte coincide in their objective to deduce the musical present aesthetically and, from a technical compositional viewpoint, to measure it against the past. Bartholdy/elvers (1984), 180f. Mendelssohn’s comment displays his tactful handling of the change of power throughout his impending assumption of ofice; it also indicates that he knew well who led the musically historical opinion at the Gewandhaus. 16 the ‘Grundlinien zu einer Geschichte der Gesangsmusik’ was based on the lectures that rochlitz held in the 1830s in Weimar. these lectures were accompanied by demonstrations by the häserschen singverein. 17 rochlitz (1832). 18 rochlitz (1832), 16f. 19 in a handwritten annotation in his personal copy of ‘Geschichte der Gesangsmusik’ (d-leu handschriftenabteilung, Ms. 0648, vii, s. 16), rochlitz stated that other music historians devoted a disproportionate amount of attention to works of the more distant past. the author thanks Prof. lothar schmidt (Marburg) for access to rochlitz’s handwritten materials in leipzig. 20 d-leu, handschriftenabteilung, Ms. 0648. 21 landau (1997); Kast (2001). 22 in the musicological literature – e.g. Maynard solomon – the reliability of rochlitz’s statements has already been placed in doubt.

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the fundamental continuity of the rochlitz conception with the leipzig practice of historische Konzerte before and after Mendelssohn’s appointment can thus hardly be denied. however, another contradiction must be considered, which lies between Rochlitz’s ive periods that look back as far as the late Middle Ages, on the one hand, and the restriction of Mendelssohn’s cycle of concerts to the music of the last 100 years, on the other hand – a limitation that also applied to the euterpe concert of 1835. Thus, Mendelssohn’s time span corresponds only to periods four and ive in Rochlitz’s sequence, which can be attributed to a number of reasons: irstly, personal convictions; secondly, the concerts were staged for special occasions; and thirdly, the concerts included instrumental music. But this deviation also helps us to understand a further central facet of the historische Konzerte in leipzig – the choice of repertoire concentrated on German musical heritage. rochlitz had reported irst and foremost on the history in Italy, and only then on that in Germany in his ‘Geschichte der Gesangsmusik’, but then adopted a signiicant shift in perspective at the beginning of his fourth period shaped by Bach and handel: ‘we now reverse the order of our views: we place the Germans at the forefront and leave the italians to follow’.23 thus, for rochlitz, the classic dominant leading role of German music began precisely with the age of Bach and handel. A music history restricted to the previous century must therefore inevitably receive a nationalistic coloring, which also shaped the programs of Mendelssohn’s historische Konzerte. the historical concert of euterpe was expressly and exclusively limited to a program of ‘teutsche composers’. thanks to rochlitz’s concept of the development of music history, it became possible to incorporate a limited selection of the musical past into the expanding repertoire of the present. Mendelssohn’s personal identiication with a musical heritage going back as far as Bach and handel could be advantageously aligned with this concept. it is therefore anything but a coincidence that Mendelssohn accomplished this mission in leipzig. in fact, known for its conservative, literate, and somewhat elitist public, leipzig represented a particularly good location for such programmatically organized concerts. With its venerable music publishing houses and its municipal and decidedly bourgeois traditional institutions of Grosses Concert and the Thomanerchor, leipzig had at its disposal distinct links to a musical aesthetic anchored in the past. Moreover, the name of Bach – although more than his music itself – played a signiicant role in the ‘great legend’ of both institutions.24 This special musical climate was, in a certain sense, the result of inluential opinion-shapers such as rochlitz. on the other hand, their successful work was also 23

rochlitz (1832), 150. it was obvious to everyone that there was a connection between the ‘Great cantor’ and the thomanerchor. But Bach – as former ‘director musices’ of town music and conductor of a collegium musicum that grew out of a milieu of students and bourgeoisie – was also referenced and appropriated for the tradition of the town orchestra, as was pointed out in the program notes for the concert to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the ‘Großen Konzertes’ in 1843. 24

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only possible on the basis of this living tradition.25 this preference for historically oriented concert projects in leipzig also occasionally had strange results, however. Thus the program for the Gewandhaus concert on 1 January 1850 was arranged – in all seriousness – to include only compositions by composers who had died in the irst half of the century.26 Mendelssohn, unforgettable in leipzig, was represented prominently in this concert with the premiere of his Psalm 98, announced as a ‘posthumously released work’.

Romantic Continuo Practices: From organ to string ensemble and Back Again? We turn now to a practical question that concerns one of the central problems of the performance of the works of the basso continuo era, with special implications for the presentation of Bach in the age of romanticism. As is well known, for his leipzig revival of the St. Matthew Passion in April 1841 Mendelssohn arrived at a broader, more inclusive version of the work, with many different readings, compared to that of 1829.27 of special interest therefore is both the inclusion of the organ in selected movements of the score and the accompaniment of the secco-recitative by cellos playing double stops, as well as double bass.28 this latter technique – in which the harmonization is provided by groups of string instruments rather than by instruments capable of playing chords – was in itself not new; nor was it essentially foreign to Baroque thinking: it corresponded somewhat to the common realization of early Baroque continuo by an instrumental capella idicinia (such as a gamba quartet). in view of the completely different circumstances of the performance in 1841, however, it is not so simple to account for the origin of this special arrangement. this was not an exception that was born out of necessity, but was rather an arrangement that in Mendelssohn’s view was valid, if not preferable. Moreover, in his 1844 edition of Israel in Egypt for the handel society, Mendelssohn gave the clear performance direction – ‘violoncello 1 violoncello 2’ – in his arrangement of the secco-recitative for organ. the type of notes used and the consistent arrangement of the suspended organ part to two voices each per line make it clear that this was not a later adjustment.29 however, this arrangement did not initially correspond to Mendelssohn’s ideal conception. In his Berlin and Düsseldorf eras, as well as during his irst years in leipzig, he still preferred other performance versions – such as the 25 rochlitz became a thomaner, and became familiar with the music of Bach through the cantors and music directors doles, hiller, and Müller. 26 Signale für die musikalische Welt, 8/2 (January 1850), 10. 27 Ward Jones (2007). 28 Kimura (1998). 29 GB-Ob, M.D.M. Ms. 72. Only Mendelssohn’s proof copy for the irst part of the oratorio survives.

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accompaniment of recitative at the piano or the addition of a wind section – mostly as pragmatic solutions when the organ was unavailable.30 Writing to sir George smart in 1835,31 Mendelssohn was still unsure about the best solution to this problem. For the performance of Israel in Egypt on 7 November 1836 he could count on the use of the large organ at the Paulinerkirche in leipzig. As the organ part preserved in oxford shows,32 Mendelssohn consequently allowed almost all complete pieces and also the shorter secco-recitatives to be accompanied by organ; there is no trace of a recitative accompaniment by string instruments. in complete contrast to the version of 1844, the organ part for 1836 also exhibits the classic voice distribution of 3:1 and is thus not intended or adaptable for a performance by divided celli. Relecting on the origins of the variations in instrumentation for the 1841 performance, we may consider anew an investigation of local leipzig conventions; handel proves to be a good guide in the absence of performances of Bach’s cantatas and passions in leipzig before 1841.33 In the records of Leipzig music history by the lautist and Gewandhaus chronicler Carl Augustin Grenser, we ind this noteworthy entry in 1817: 11 May, sunday: handel’s Messiah, in Mozart’s arrangement, was given in the Thomaskirche, for the beneit of the poor of our town, the music director Schulz directed from the piano, Matthäi led the string instruments. cellist voigt and double bassist temmler accompanied the recitatives.34

With regard to further performers in the concert, Grenser names in particular the ‘strongly cast orchestra’ and the leipzig sing-Akademie which joined forces with the Gewandhaus Orchestra of Johann Philipp Christian Schulz. The Thomanerchor was also included in the performance.35 to clarify the exact circumstances of this concert – in particular the question of the precise relationship between ‘piano’ and strings in the accompaniment of recitative – we must seek original leipzig performance materials of the Messiah from the relevant time and from those associated with the institutions mentioned.36 30 he led the St. Matthew Passion in 1829 from the piano with the Berlin singAkademie, but for the performance of Handel’s anthem ‘Zadok the Priest’ on 1 January 1836 in leipzig, woodwind and brass parts survive that show they were substituted for the organ. 31 letter of 24 March 1835, cited in Großmann-vendrey (1969), 77f. 32 GB-ob, M.d.M. Ms. 3. 33 see also Wehner (2008). 34 Grenser (2005), 131. 35 ibid., 131. 36 the review unfortunately did not deal with the performance of the continuo part as the accompaniment for recitatives. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung 19 (21 May 1817): col. 363–65.

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in the music library of the städtische Bibliothek in leipzig, a set of parts and a director’s score of the Messiah ‘after Mozart’s arrangement’ were in fact found, which can be attributed to the former ownership of the city church music (‘Kirchen-orchester’ and Thomanerchor) or respectively to the leipzig singAkademie. On the basis of the handwritten dedication of 10 February 1818, the score can be identiied as a personal gift from Rochlitz to the Sing-Akademie.37 the copy contains numerous markings of a meticulous performance leader, such as precise instructions for the performance of the secco-recitatives, for which the igured bass parts were supplemented by a four-part accompaniment in pencil. the names of the instruments planned for the secco-recitative were also added – ‘violin i/ii’ and ‘viola’. on the basis of these sketched additions, appropriate parts could be made. Even more signiicant is the set of parts PM 6065, also in the music library in leipzig,38 which consists of two different layers. The irst layer preserves a group of parts which was arranged by the Thomaskantor Johann Gottfried Schicht for the shortened performance of the irst part of the Messiah for christmas 1811 in both of Leipzig’s main churches, St Nicholas and St Thomas. On the basis of the two organ parts with igured bass it becomes clear that the organ participated only in certain movements – but when it did participate, it did so continuously. this applies only to choruses and arias; secco-recitatives were not contained in the shortened performance version of the work.39 this custom, to present the continuo without chordal realization in solo movements and occasionally even to omit secco-recitatives entirely, seems to have become gradually more acceptable in leipzig around 1800.40 the majority of the source PM 6065 contains complete choral and orchestral parts for the entire Messiah. An examination of the bass parts leads to surprising indings: after the handwritten amendment ‘Violoncello e Basso 1mo’ and ‘violoncello e Basse 2’ was introduced – a division of the bass part that was clearly not indicated in handel’s score – the parts of the second ‘violoncello e Basso’ contain only the continuo parts, as well as the untexted vocal lines 37 d-lem PM 6930. this is a copy of the edition by Breitkopf & härtel, leipzig, 1803. The author thanks the head librarian, Frau Geyer, and her assistants at the music library for their friendly assistance with the archives. 38 d-lem, PM 6065. 39 these were performed for liturgical purposes in an arranged setting with only numbers 1–4, as well as 9–11, of Messiah, in which the organ only accompanied during the choruses and arias with the numbers 1, 3, 4, 9, and 12. church music in leipzig of the early nineteenth century, as in the time of Bach, still alternated between performances at St. Nicholas and St. Thomas, wherein lies the reason for the two musically identical organ parts, transposed for st. thomas with its organ tuned to chorton and in ‘normal’ pitch for St. Nicholas. 40 this transition can be described in detail with the Bach performances of August eberhard Müller from the years 1803 and 1805. see hartinger (2006b).

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in the three secco-recitatives of the irst part of the oratorio. However, in the part ‘violoncello e Basso 1’, beside the continuo and the vocal lines there is additional igured bass in the continuo which was clearly entered after the drawing up of the actual part. that the parts for the remainder of the string instruments all pause at this point, and that in particular an organ part is not included in an otherwise complete set of parts, can only mean that the recitatives were accompanied by the contrabass and at least one cello playing in double stops. These source indings are remarkably consistent with the performance situation described by Grenser. All the voices in both layers of the vocal parts bear the name ‘Weisse’ or ‘Weiss’ on the irst page. Most likely hidden behind this inscription is the merchant, music patron, and amateur musician Carl Friedrich Ernst Weisse (1780–1836), whose death is mentioned in schumann’s diary.41 in the obituary found in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik of 17 January 1837, Weisse is speciically remembered as a well-known ‘violoncellist’; that he was also the son-in-law of the long-term Gewandhauskapellmeister and former Sing-Akademie director Johann Gottfried schicht makes Weisse’s appearance in the performance materials of the singAkademie easily understandable. the dates of Weisse’s birth and death allow no other conclusion than that the performance materials discussed here must have already been used in performances of Messiah before Mendelssohn’s performance of 16 November 1837. An examination of these sources thus shows that in the approximately 20 years before Mendelssohn took up his post in leipzig, there were at least two possibilities for the accompaniment of secco-recitatives on strings: besides the ‘conventional’ arrangement for four-part strings, there was deinitely also a performance version by bass and at least one, if not two, cellos playing in chords. it is therefore likely that Mendelssohn became acquainted with this method in his dealings with leipzig orchestral musicians at some point between 1836 and (at the latest) 1841 and adapted it for himself. if one takes into consideration that by the spring of 1838 Mendelssohn had already demanded such a performance of the recitative by one to two cellos and contrabass for the performance of handel’s Joshua at the cologne music festival,42 then the link to his own performance of Messiah in leipzig in November 1837 becomes even more apparent. In addition, for the performance in cologne – for which the scoring of the recitatives corresponds quite closely to the Passion performance of 1841 – Mendelssohn had already prepared a continuo 41 Schumann/Nauhaus (1987), vol. 2, 30. Entry from December 1836. Schumann wrote the name as ‘Weisse’, which corresponds to PM 6065. 42 Mendelssohn’s procedure is described precisely in his letter to a copyist in cologne, Julius Nacken, on 3 May 1838. See Esser (1923), 54f. The performance took place on 3 June 1838 in the Cologne musical hall ‘Gürzenich’. It was also noteworthy in this case that Mendelssohn emphatically requested the recitatives be accompanied by strings, despite the availability of a recently enlarged organ at the music festival.

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arrangement written out at the piano, which would have been distributed among the cologne musicians on the appropriate low string instruments.43 thus it is all the more unfortunate that we do not have the original materials for the 1837 performance of Messiah in leipzig. We can by no means rule out the possibility that in this exceptionally large-scale performance they used the undoubtedly older set of parts PM 6065, which we referred to earlier.44 there are clear references in the parts to indicate the later use of this material, or at least portions of it.45 the research of clive Brown, in particular, draws attention to the point that recitatives were often accompanied by cello, at least in classical-era opera, even if this accompaniment was realized in broken chords.46 As can now be shown, a similar model was also established in leipzig’s local church and oratorio tradition. Building on this double tradition (the musicians of the orchestra directed by Mendelssohn also played frequently in the town theater and in the churches), Mendelssohn developed a system of continuous, organ-like, fourvoice accompaniment for this more modern and lexible instrumentation. This was possibly a reaction to the common criticism of the ‘stiff’ and inlexible sound of the organ when used as an accompaniment to vocal soloists.47

43 see esser (1923), 54f. According to a contemporary report, there was such an arrangement in cologne for the expert cellist Bernhard Breuer. there was also a particular cologne tradition for the performance of the continuo by divisi cellos and basses. Anon. (1844c), 548. 44 in light of the great number of contributors, every able musician and serviceable orchestral instrument was presumably pressed into service. it is at present not certain who wrote in the score. it can be ruled out, however, that it was Mendelssohn; it also bears no resemblance to the hands of the music directors of the Sing-Akademie, Johann Philipp christian schulz (director until 1827) or christian August Pohlenz (director from 1827 to 1843). the author thanks ralf Wehner for his helpful advice while assessing the handwriting. 45 the numerous sketches and corrections in the score and vocal parts likely suggest several layers of performance-oriented engagements with the material. the untransposed ‘Nikolai’-organ part – which belongs to a layer of the vocal parts that dates to the year 1811 – even contains a pencil mark, which indicates a use of, or at least a reference to, the materials in 1836, probably by Wilhelm leberecht ‘Barth’, who was jointly responsible for church and oficial music in Leipzig. The Handelian work that the Leipzig Sing-Akademie actually performed on Good Friday 1836 was certainly then the ‘Empindungen am Grabe Jesu’, a contemporary parody of the ‘Trauerode’, HWV 264. 46 Brown (1999), 601–9. 47 Thus wrote the Thomaskantor Moritz Hauptmann in a letter of 30 July 1844 to Franz Hauser: ‘These are unfortunate pieces that only have the bass for the continuo. Even if one had the organ with it, they are too inlexible in tone and at the least compete with the voice. the organ can only be used to good effect in the forte parts in the chorus’. (‘das sind auch fatale stücke, wo nur der Baß, der continuo dabei ist. Auch wenn man die orgel dazu hätte; die ist aber doch gar zu steinern im ton und schließt sich eigentlich am allerwenigsten an die Stimme, nur im Forte der Chöre kann sie von guter Wirkung sein’.);

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that Mendelssohn no longer left the realization of the continuo to the cellist, but rather notated it completely – in contrast to an older source such as PM 6065, which provides only igured bass – shows not just a dwindling general knowledge of the continuo; it was also consistent with his role as a conscientious performance director. these details constitute the difference between the older Baroque style of performance direction, which relies upon the performer’s individual skills, and the new nineteenth-century style of conducting. indeed, as Gottfried Weber had already pointed out in 1811 in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, referring to this chordal accompaniment of the continuo by the cellos, he observed: ‘here the music director can help ininitely, by prescribing the chords in the easiest positions for the cellists’.48 even such an apparently marginal detail shows the extent to which Mendelssohn disciplined and professionalized the leipzig orchestra and its traditions and playing culture. A characteristically Mendelssohnian adjustment to this tradition would then be evident in the reintegration of the organ into the ensemble. indeed, no longer acting as the fundamental continuo instrument, the organ instead provided selective intensiication and an ‘archaic churchlike’ tone quality – all of which is entirely unBachian.49 in practice, this meant that in many places the organ essentially merged with the orchestral sound, and could only be discerned by the trained ‘hawk-like ears’ of a listener like Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy.50 thus the employment of the organ in Mendelssohn’s most mature and important performances of Bach came very close to his own large-scale compositions on sacred texts – for instance in Paulus and in particular in Lobgesang. the Lobgesang was in many ways a genuine ‘leipzig’ composition because of its anchorage in lutheran biblical text and chorales, and because of its reference to both Bach and Beethoven. the debut of the Lobgesang on 25 June 1840 in the Thomaskirche has intriguing implications for the present study because the thomaskirche was also the location for the performance of the St. Matthew Passion the following year. in certain places, the use of the organ in the Lobgesang resembles the details so peculiar to the leipzig version of the St. Matthew Passion that it appears quite possible that Mendelssohn enhanced his arrangement speciically for this performing space, where the organ was still tuned to choir pitch (Chorton). Although the classical secco-recitative of Bach – for which Mendelssohn had instigated his performance variant of divisi cellos cited in Schöne (1871), 19. A setting of the Actus tragicus ‘after Hauptmann’s reworking’ is preserved in Berlin, in which the generalbass part has been changed into an orchestral setting. see Geck (1997). 48 Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 13/5 (30 January 1811): Col. 97. 49 one can see evidence for similar principles in Mendelssohn’s organ accompaniment to Handel oratorios. See Fellerer (1931). The author thanks Prof. John Michael Cooper for a stimulating discussion about this matter. 50 See the letter of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy to Eduard Otto from 26 May 1841 cited in Großmann-vendrey (1969), 150, footnote 2.

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and basses – is lacking in the Lobgesang, there are nonetheless remarkable divisions and fanning out of the lower strings in more than one episode of the ‘symphony-cantata’. thus, this division of labor between organ and strings may stand as an example of how Mendelssohn succeeded in solving practical performance problems in not only satisfactory but even pleasing, elegant, and ‘pseudo-baroque’ ways, and it shows how he could still derive productive implications from the performance practice for his own works. the integration of Bach into the modern repertoire, which originated from rochlitz’s historical concept of music and was put into practice by Mendelssohn, quite literally forced its presentation into a sonic guise that corresponded with modern symphonic principles and listening habits. the associated mixture of styles and compromises led, however, to substantial transformations in the sonority and understanding of Bach’s music, which solidiied in the second half of the century to a late romantic monumental style that we ind hard to endure, and against which historical performance practice of the twentieth century justly revolted.

the Price of Progress: Adapting Bach to the Romantic Age long considered to be a ‘success story’, the revival of Bach was in reality a substantially more complex and contradictory development, and still requires some thoughtful consideration. Mendelssohn’s signiicance for the Bach revival and his personal reverence for the music of the Thomaskantor are beyond question. But it is imperative at this time to address the problematic heritage of his choice of works and his performance practice decisions, and to think about the price that Bach’s works had to pay for their admission to the extended classical canon and their adaptation to the ideal sound of the symphonic age. this applies in particular to the performance situation in leipzig, where the musical community, suddenly ‘fatherless’ in 1847, strove to conserve the traditions and allegedly authoritative decisions of Mendelssohn. that it was under Mendelssohn’s aegis that several Bach cantatas were performed in the Gewandhaus clearly represented progress; what had formerly been a leipzig public whose care for Bach had been shown almost exclusively in the performance of motets by the Thomanerchor could now contribute to a perspective of Bach that was based on wider repertoire.51 however, these cantatas usually had to be substantially abridged so that the appearance and the internal structure of the works were seriously altered. thus, Bach’s ‘ratswahl’ cantata, Preise Jerusalem den Herrn (BWV 119), was performed for the irst time since his death in the festival concert for the unveiling of Mendelssohn’s Bach monument on 23 April 1843 – this, however without any of the arias, 51 see footnote 3 for a comprehensive documentation and description of Bach performances in leipzig between 1829 and the 1850s by the author.

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resulting in a version reduced from nine to four movements.52 the reformation cantata Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott (BWv 80), which was performed in 1844 for the irst time, even achieved the prestigious place of opening the New Year’s Day concert on 1 January 1847.53 Yet, in the place of Bach’s original score, which features intimate solo movements, was a monumental protestant Schlachtgemälde in the form of a choral cantata ‘for choir and orchestra’ in three (or four) movements. thus, for this work a highly one-dimensional reception history and tradition was created, which is documented in leipzig performances until the 1880s54 – despite the cantata having already appeared in 1822, published by Breitkopf & härtel in unabridged form. however, this practice could be based on an implicit understanding established with the leipzig musical public before Mendelssohn’s commencement of work, that extensive reworking of such pieces was necessary.55 the linguistic polishing and modernization of the original Baroque cantata texts represented the accepted practice for Bach performances of the time, as demonstrated in the practice of Mendelssohn’s teacher, carl Friedrich Zelter.56 in addition, in the area of instrumental music, Mendelssohn’s interventions can be understood in every individual case as reactions to public taste and to the rapid changes in the ield of instrument building and performance since the Baroque era which caused many obstacles for performance purposes. Nevertheless, these techniques shaped the sonority of Bach’s compositions for generations and thereby the view of Bach by an audience who had only limited knowledge. this process began with the isolated performances of popular movements and excerpts which, taken out of the context of the work, adjusted a tendentious view of Bach’s stylistic preferences and his achievements in the history of music. this further concerns the lengthy cadenzas that Mendelssohn inserted into Bach’s piano concerti, described by contemporaries as ‘electrifying’, and, moreover, the ‘simpliied’ trumpet parts Mendelssohn added to such works as the D-major

52

hartinger (2005a). For broader context, see Sposato (2011). 54 thus this model following the three-movement format, for example, is still in evidence until 1884 in the performances of the riedel verein (founded 1854), one of Leipzig`s leading institutions in the ield of old choral and oratorio music. The 1844 and 1847 performances of BWv 80 were directed by david and Gade. 55 The cantata was edited in unabridged form by Friedrich Schneider, and a review by rochlitz appeared in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 24/30 (24 July 1822): Col. 485–93. For the critic Rochlitz, the edition was merely a praiseworthy monumental project without much practical relevance. it is unlikely that rochlitz could have imagined an actual performance of the work, but for such a performance he recommended serious alterations which may have been inspired by, or at least drawn on, his experience with the leipzig Bach performances of August eberhard Müller shortly after 1800. 56 Mendelssohn himself repeatedly adapted the linguistics of Bach’s cantata texts. 53

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orchestral suite (BWv 1068) and the B-minor Mass (BWv 232).57 A review in a musical journal of 1850 on the renewed performance of the d-major suite in the Gewandhaus states: ‘also remarkable here is the admirable, experienced historicity with which Bach knew how to use the trumpet’.58 this compliment elicits a certain involuntary comedy, because the favourable impression was due less to Bach’s original trumpet parts and rather more to Mendelssohn’s skill in adjusting parts for the brass instruments and players of his time. it is not surprising, therefore, that the d-major overture was published in 1866 by Ferdinand David – with Mendelssohn’s ‘simpliied trumpets’ – as the ‘oficial’ edition of the Gewandhaus.59 With the addition of piano accompaniment to selected movements from Bach’s partitas for solo violin, Mendelssohn justiied a tradition of composed-out and written-out arrangements which, for the generation of Mendelssohn’s students and followers, ‘buried’ Bach’s original scores under a multiplicity of interpretative additions and harmonic ‘improvements’.60 it was all too soon forgotten that Mendelssohn was somewhat hesitant about the printing and subsequent ixing and distribution of these piano accompaniments, and that he relied to a large extent in his adaptations on Baroque techniques and even on Bach’s original material.61 Nevertheless, Mendelssohn’s inluence on recitative accompaniment in the St. Matthew Passion survived in leipzig until the beginning of the twentieth century.62 Mendelssohn himself could probably still reconcile the problematic implications and diverging tendencies of his Bach performances on the basis of his immense authority and knowledge of the Bach works in the canon – the 57

see the description by charles edward horsley of a cadenza that Mendelssohn inserted into the performance of the ‘triple concerto’ in d minor for three Pianos (BWv 1063) in london in 1844. the passage is quoted in todd (1991a), 243f. 58 Signale für die musikalische Welt, 8/9 (February 1850), 77. 59 david’s edition appeared in 1866 with senff (leipzig) as well as with ewer & co. (london), with an explicit reference to the performance practice at the Gewandhaus under Mendelssohn. 60 A critical study of the history of accompaniments for the chaconne was presented by Georg Feder in 1969. Feder (1969), 168–89. 61 thus, Mendelssohn’s piano accompaniment to the Prelude in e major (BWv 1006/1) constitutes a new arrangement of Bach’s own orchestral setting of the movement in the form of the sinfonia to the cantata (BWv 29). see hartinger (2005b). see cooper (1997) for a study of the formal aspects of the accompaniment to the chaconne (BWv 1004/5). 62 schering (1936), 118. in the appendix, schering discusses ‘recitative practices in the St. Matthew Passion as they were generally arranged in the leipzig Gewandhaus orchestra in the 19th century’. schering avoided naming Mendelssohn, but instead cited dubious traditions in leipzig in the eighteenth century. this precluded the need to attribute to Mendelssohn the introduction of this speciic arrangement to the performance practice of the Passion, which can be further understood in relation to the Fascist cultural politics in the 1930s which made Mendelssohn taboo.

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loodgates, once opened, however, could not be so easily closed. The dificulties and conlicts concerning principles of editing in the early years of the BachAusgabe, begun in 1851,63 show that the small – and to a great extent idealistic and extremely heterogeneous – community of ‘Bachians’ was by no means prepared for the collision with the reality of pragmatic and commercially oriented concert life. reverting to the musical practice of Mendelssohn could therefore only serve as a conditional orientation. A paradoxical situation thus arose: although Mendelssohn’s legendary performances and style of music making were considered exemplary and ideal in the memory of his contemporaries, there was soon hardly anyone who could say with any certainty how such excellence had been achieved. the ready assimilation and careful advancement of local performance traditions provide a comprehensive explanation for Mendelssohn’s popularity with the public and his success as an ensemble leader and orchestra conductor.64 his exceedingly pragmatic manner that built on his own professionalism, charisma, and ability to motivate was not suited, however, to the formation of lasting and teachable rules and principles of interpretation. in truth, the performance practitioner Mendelssohn – the quintessential romantic ‘hero’ who could move and inspire performances and audiences with a wave of his baton – left to his successors an ambiguous inheritance of lexibility, contradictions, and spontaneity. Translated by Angela R. Mace and Nicole Grimes.

63

see Kretzschmar (1899), xxiii–xxiv. Mendelssohn had comparably serious discussions and conlicts while editing for the Handel Society, and he had to deal with various leipzig publishers himself. 64 For this the sketch by Johann Peter Lyser, written following Mendelssohn’s assumption of ofice in Leipzig in 1835, may serve as an example: ‘The young master – he looked barely 25 years old, conducted himself with praiseworthy intelligence. he never struck out, like many, with much spite, many expected a violent reformer, but soon it became clear that an entirely different spirit now animated the Gewandhaus concerts, as it had formerly’. see lyser (1847/1958), 49.

PArt iii Mendelssohn and the stage

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chapter 8

converting the Pagans: Mendelssohn, Greek tragedy, and the christian ethos Jason Geary

When sophocles’ Antigone premiered at the Prussian royal court in Potsdam on 28 october 1841, with staging by ludwig tieck and music by Felix Mendelssohn, it was immediately recognised as a pivotal moment in the history of the German stage. the classical archaeologist e.h. toelken, for example, described this performance as ‘an extraordinary event for the German theatre’, while the actor, singer, and historian eduard devrient (who had played the role of haemon) recalled in his memoirs that ‘the deep impression, which the revival of ancient tragedy could leave on our theatrical life, promised to be epoch-making’.1 in the eyes of its contemporaries, this production had more faithfully re-created Greek drama than the handful of previous German attempts, including Goethe’s 1809 staging of Antigone at the Weimar court theatre based on a condensed version of the play by the writer and music critic Friedrich rochlitz.2 By contrast, the 1841 Antigone, which had been commissioned by King Friedrich Wilhelm iv, presented the entirety of sophocles’ tragedy using Johann Jakob donner’s recently completed translation, which was aimed at reproducing the play’s original meter. in addition, the production featured an elaborately reconstructed stage modelled on the ancient theatre; because of this stage format, the actors performed atop an elevated platform at the rear of the stage while, toward the front, the chorus occupied a circular playing space known to the Greeks as an orchestra. Also regarded as ‘authentic’ was the use of music, which, in the words of one commentator, represented ‘a wholly new element’ where the modern performance of Greek tragedy was concerned.3 clearly shaped by the historicizing nature of the production, Mendelssohn’s score included not only settings of the six choral odes but also music composed for those other portions of the play thought to have been sung or recited in sophocles’ day. And while the orchestral accompaniment and the overture in particular were clearly less ‘authentic’, the use of a chorus, 1

toelken (1841), 1369; devrient (1869), 224. For a discussion on the performance of Greek tragedy in Germany, see Flashar (2009). somewhat separate from the few productions prior to 1841 are those that took place within the conines of the school theatre. But even here, Roman tragedies were typically preferred over those of ancient Greece. 3 Friedrich Förster, foreword to Böckh et al. (1842), x. 2

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comprising 16 men divided into two semi-choruses, underscores the degree to which this performance was aimed at re-creating the classical past.4 Word of this groundbreaking event spread quickly across Germany and elsewhere in europe through published reports that discussed not only the production itself but also sophocles, his Antigone, and the potential merits of reviving Greek drama. not surprisingly, classical scholars were at the forefront of these discussions. in 1842, for example, toelken, along with the Berlin classicist August Böckh (who had served as the production’s scholarly advisor) and the philosopher Friedrich Förster, published a compilation of three essays devoted to Antigone and its Prussian court performance.5 the years following 1841 also witnessed several staged productions of sophocles’ play throughout Germany and abroad that, like the Prussian model upon which they were based, featured unabridged translations, undertook efforts to replicate the ancient playing space, and, most notably, made use of Mendelssohn’s music. Among these were productions mounted in Berlin (1842), leipzig (1842), Paris (1844), london (1845), and new York (1845), where edgar Allan Poe said of Mendelssohn’s music that it was ‘Greek thought adapted into German’.6 At london’s covent Garden, Antigone scored such a success that it ran for a total of 45 nights, despite a dismissive critique of the music that appeared in The Times.7 As the inspiration behind these and many other productions of sophocles’ play, the 1841 Antigone came to occupy an important place in the ongoing revival of Greek tragedy. thus as edith hall and Fiona Macintosh have recently noted, it was this performance that ‘secured the pre-eminence of [Antigone] in the nineteenth-century european repertoire’.8 Yet while the historical signiicance of this event has generally been acknowledged by scholars across a wide range of disciplines, less emphasis has been placed on the degree to which Mendelssohn’s music contributed to the success of this and other early German productions of Antigone by reconciling listeners to what was still largely perceived as a strange and unfamiliar dramatic form. this is not to say, of course, that the music has been ignored altogether. on the contrary, in recent decades this work has been the subject of much valuable scholarship by classicists, historians, and musicologists who have explored not only the composer’s strategies for writing a score of this nature but also the larger political and cultural context surrounding the performance of Greek tragedy at 4

the chorus in sophocles’ day actually consisted of 15 men. Mendelssohn, however, appears to have understood this number to be exclusive of the chorus leader. see his letter to Ferdinand david of 21 october 1841 in which he writes: ‘there are sixteen men’s voices, as in the chorus of ancient times’. Published in rothe and szeskus (1972), 169. 5 see Böckh et al. (1842). the essays by Böckh and toelken had also appeared in the Allgemeine Preussische Staatszeitung in the days following the court premiere. 6 edgar Allan Poe (1845), in Poe (1965), vol. 12: 134. 7 Anon. (1845). 8 hall and Macintosh (2005), 320.

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the Prussian court.9 rather, this is to suggest that the mediating role played by Mendelssohn’s music in these early performances of Antigone – and for that matter the less successful Oedipus in Kolonos of 1845 – has yet to be fully explored. to do so is to recognise just how signiicant this music was in the larger European revival of Greek tragedy, if we keep in mind that the productions of Antigone in Potsdam, leipzig, and Berlin that occurred between the fall of 1841 and the spring of 1842 served as inspiration for many future productions. Furthermore, when taking into account the mediating power of Mendelssohn’s music, it is necessary to consider the manner in which the composer bridged the vast historical divide separating Greek antiquity from an emerging modern Germany. As we shall see, Mendelssohn relied on generic and stylistic conventions that not only relected the dramatic content of sophocles’ play but that often resonated with contemporary political and religious concerns. in other words, the reconciliation enacted by this music is multi-layered and complex, as i hope to show by arguing that Antigone, and to an even greater degree Oedipus, can be viewed in relation to the christian ethos surrounding the performance of Greek tragedy at the Prussian court of Friedrich Wilhelm iv. ***

rehearsing the events that led up to the 1841 Antigone, devrient reported that Mendelssohn initially considered writing ‘ancient’ music by using predominantly unison choral recitative with an accompaniment restricted to lutes, tubas, and harps, the last-named in place of the lyre.10 he went on to say that, after beginning in this vein, the composer quickly gave up, realizing that any such attempt at emulating the presumed sound of Greek music would come across as naïve and somewhat childish. Mendelssohn thus decided in favour of ‘modern’ music with an accompaniment for full orchestra (including harp), though he nonetheless relied on certain strategies aimed at evoking Greek tragedy, including the attempt to convey poetic meter through rhythmic manipulation and the use of both melodrama and choral recitative as a way of distinguishing between certain types of Greek verse.11 According to Mendelssohn, the music that he composed for Antigone was determined in large part by what he described as the ‘mood’ [Stimmung] unique to each of sophocles’ choral odes. As he explained of the play’s choruses in a muchcited letter to the historian and philologist Johann Gustav droysen, ‘the moods and the verse rhythms are throughout so truly musical that one does not have to think about the individual words, but rather needs only to compose those moods and rhythms, and then the chorus is inished’.12 For Mendelssohn, this task was clearly 9 see especially Boetius (2005); seaton (2001b); Flashar (2001); and steinberg (1991). 10 devrient (1869), 218–19. 11 For further discussion on this, see Geary (2006). 12 letter of 2 december 1841 in Wehmer (1959), 72.

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dependent on the use of a largely conventional language that allowed him to draw from a rich source of commonly shared (extra)musical associations that in turn would help convey the underlying sentiment of each ode. in some cases this involved writing for distinctive ensembles, such as the brass band that accompanies the initial strophe of the ifth stasimon, or ode, sung near the end of the play (no. 6). in it, the chorus utters increasingly desperate pleas to dionysus (or, in donner’s translation, Bacchus) to spare thebes from the devastating sickness and disease resulting from the rotting lesh of the traitorous Polynices, whose corpse King creon decreed was to remain unburied (and whose attempted burial at the hands of Antigone set the play’s tragic events in motion). Mendelssohn’s setting opens with an eight-bar introduction scored for woodwinds and strings, followed by the chorus singing a march-like theme accompanied by brass instruments (example 8.1). the resulting sound of a wind-accompanied men’s chorus calls to mind the Militärmusik so often performed by such ensembles in nineteenth-century Germany.13 this evocation in turn underscores the ode’s martial character, which itself relects the sheer power and might of Dionysus and which the composer also conveyed through frequent dotted rhythms and the opening fanfare-like gesture in the vocal line. in other instances Mendelssohn alluded to familiar choral genres, relying less on overall sonority and more on the melodic or harmonic aspects of the music to suggest a speciic ‘mood.’ Thus the ode to eros – the god of love – in which the chorus indirectly blames the rift between creon and his son haemon on the latter’s love for Antigone, comprises a mostly unaccompanied part-song for four soloists, enriched through unexpected chromatic harmonies that relect what, according to Sophocles’ text, is the madness inlicted on those who fall victim to love. Most commentators responding to the 1841 Antigone applauded Mendelssohn’s decision to use a conventional language and praised the degree to which his music had captured the essence of sophocles’ choruses. Böckh, for example, claimed that the composer had utilised modern musical means in a way that was ‘appropriate to the character of the choral odes and the ideas contained therein, relecting the noble and the sublime, the contemplative and the elegiac, the melancholy and the more cheerful and hopeful mood of the chorus’.14 similarly, in a review of the 1842 leipzig production, the music critic heinrich schmidt maintained that not only were Mendelssohn’s choral settings distinct from one another but also that each was rooted deep within the meaning of the text.15 A few commentators even suggested that Mendelssohn’s music was somehow akin to a translation. in his foreword to the above-mentioned collection of essays on the 1841 Antigone, Förster explained: ‘Just as those who are unfamiliar with the Greek language can gain some understanding of, and enjoyment from, the original [literary work] only 13 For a discussion of Mendelssohn’s music for accompanied men’s chorus and its potentially rich associations, see Mercer-taylor (1995). 14 Böckh et al. (1842), 90. 15 heinrich schmidt (1842), 95.

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example 8.1 Mendelssohn, Antigone, no. 6, bars 8–16

by means of a translation, we must agree that the composer was wholly justiied in inding a musical language of our time for the choruses of Greek tragedy’.16 he also noted, however, that Mendelssohn’s achievement was far more signiicant than that of a translator, precisely because he possessed no original Greek music on which to base his composition.17 droysen, too, discussed Mendelssohn’s task with reference to translation, claiming that the composer’s own experience of reading sophocles was itself translated into modern terms through the medium of music.18 to these and to many other listeners of the day, Mendelssohn’s music constituted an important mediating force between past and present, compensating to a large extent for the ‘otherness’ of ancient Greek tragedy. to be sure, the works of the Greek tragedians would have been generally familiar to most educated Germans, owing at least in part to the efforts of the eighteenth-century art historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann. challenging the traditional French preference for roman classicism, he declared in 1755 that ‘the only way for us to become great […] is by imitating the ancients’, by which he meant the Greeks and more speciically Greek sculpture.19 Winckelmann ascribed to Greek art a normative beauty and to Greek man an ideal humanity, in the process helping to shape a view of Greece that would profoundly inluence the next generation of German intellectuals. Fuelled by mounting interest in the Greeks, the late eighteenth century witnessed scores of Greek dramas published in German translation, as well as works based on classical models by major German poets such as Goethe and schiller. Yet despite these developments, many aspects of Greek culture remained shrouded in mystery to all but those trained in the burgeoning academic ield of classical studies, or what the pioneering philologist August Wolf termed

16 17 18 19

Förster, foreword to Böckh et al. (1842), x–xi. ibid., xi. droysen (1842), repr. in droysen (1894), vol. 2: 146–52; 148. Winckelmann (1985), 33.

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Altertumswissenschaft.20 As schlegel explained in his widely read Vorlesungen über dramatische Kunst und Literatur (Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature) (1808; published 1809–11), modern readers of Greek tragedy – quite aside from the question of reliable translations – were sure to be confronted with numerous obstacles to a thorough understanding of the work before them: But even supposing a translation as perfect as possible and deviating only slightly from the original, the reader who is unacquainted with the other works of the Greeks will be perpetually disturbed by the foreign nature of the subject, by national peculiarities and by numerous allusions (which cannot be understood without the help of scholarship). thus unable to comprehend the particulars of the work, he will be prevented from forming a clear idea of the whole.21

elsewhere in his lectures, schlegel discussed the puzzlement with which modern critics have generally approached the Greek tragic chorus, concluding that: the Greek tragedy in its pure and unaltered state will always remain for our theatres an exotic plant, which we can hardly hope to cultivate with any success, even in the hothouse of learned art and criticism. Greek mythology, which supplies the material of ancient tragedy, is as foreign to the minds and imaginations of most spectators as is its form and manner of presentation.22

Judging from the reviews of Antigone that appeared in the 1840s, this sense of alienation from classical drama persisted over the three decades separating schlegel’s lectures from the Prussian court performance of sophocles’ play. As one reviewer claimed in response to the production that premiered in Berlin on 13 April 1842, ‘[Sophocles’] work can be understood only supericially by a majority of the public’.23 For many commentators, however, it was precisely Mendelssohn’s music that provided deeper insight into the tragic events unfolding onstage. Relecting on the impact of the 1841 Antigone, devrient maintained that the music ‘undoubtedly rendered sophocles’ tragedy accessible to, and popular with, the general theatre public in such a way that … resulted in a greater understanding and a greater impression of [the play]’.24 Following the leipzig production, a reviewer for the Vossische Zeitung expressed a similar sentiment when he noted: ‘What must have been lacking from the understanding of the audience, which surely cannot be familiar with ancient Greek performance, was compensated for by that language 20

For a discussion of the institutionalization of classical philology, see Marchand

(1996). 21 22 23 24

schlegel (1965), 47. translation lightly emended. ibid., 71. translation lightly emended. Anon. (1842c). devrient (1869), 224–5.

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[i.e. music] which is the same for all times and for all cultured people’.25 But perhaps no one described more poignantly the role that Mendelssohn’s music played in connecting the audience to sophocles’ tragedy than droysen, who, admittedly, was also a close friend of the composer in addition to being one of the foremost ancient historians of his generation. in an essay devoted to the premiere of Antigone at the Berlin schauspielhaus, droysen discussed in vivid terms how, with each subsequent chorus, Mendelssohn’s music seemed to draw the spectator further into the world of classical Greek drama: The irst scene between Antigone and her sister Ismene – with such an unusual setting and such strange-sounding verses, with its harsh subject matter and rock-hard determination [on the part of Antigone] – leaves us feeling rather cold. We see this opening scene without really feeling ourselves drawn into it; [yet] we ind it really interesting to be seeing a classical play. Then comes the singing chorus, and immediately with the sound of the music we become more at home and we ind ourselves in our territory, in our own sensibility, and we grow warmer and warmer. Already the next scene inds us more prepared, more receptive than before, and the following chorus renders us fully at home in this new, ideal world.26

thus, in droysen’s view, Mendelssohn’s score made sophocles’ play accessible to the modern sensibility. Picking up on the translation metaphor (cited above) that he used earlier in the essay, droysen argued that, just as donner’s text had made the original Greek comprehensible to nineteenth-century Germans, so the music had effectively translated the ancient feelings once inspired by this masterful work into a language that spectators could easily grasp.27 to be sure, several critics acknowledged certain timeless qualities of sophocles’ tragedy that also spoke powerfully to contemporary audiences. commenting on the effectiveness of the 1841 Antigone, a reviewer for the Allgemeine Preussische Staatszeitung described the content of the play as ‘eternally beautiful and true’.28 three days later, another reviewer noted the work’s ‘eternal, human, and divine truth’, adding that ‘creon and Antigone still exist today’ and identifying the latter as ‘an everlasting image of genuine womanhood’.29 Moreover, as Michael steinberg has pointed out, the play’s clash between Antigone as a defender of religious and familial custom and creon as the guardian of state law would have resonated with many Germans at a time ‘marked by the consolidation of state power and the perceived dissipation of traditional modes of community and culture’.30 it is also 25 26 27 28 29 30

Anon. (1842b). droysen (1894), 149. ibid. Anon. (1841a), 1366. Anon. (1841b). steinberg (1991), 140.

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important to bear in mind that Mendelssohn’s music was not without its dissenters, a small number of whom expressed regret that the composer had not done more to imitate the presumed sound of ancient music and others who simply believed that the score was not an adequate relection of Sophocles’ tragedy. Still, for many of those who witnessed these early productions of Antigone, it would seem that neither the play’s universal themes nor its relationship to contemporary politics were suficient to entirely overcome the many obstacles to fully appreciating Greek tragedy. As the composer’s sister, Fanny hensel, observed after attending the premiere of Antigone at court, ‘there is no question that the music contributed a great deal in drawing us closer to an understanding of the whole’, adding that if Mendelssohn had ‘insisted on composing in a strictly ancient manner, then [the audience] and the play would have never come together’.31 ***

Mendelssohn’s Antigone not only contributed to the success of those productions staged in Germany in the 1840s but also served as an important symbol of the reconciliation between the pagan past and the christian present. in this way, his music resonated in the broadest sense with some of the cultural and political aims that appear to have motivated Friedrich Wilhelm iv’s decision to stage Greek tragedy in the irst place. Shortly after ascending the throne in 1840, the king spearheaded a campaign to establish Berlin as the undisputed German cultural centre by installing the day’s leading artists and intellectuals at the Prussian court – an effort that netted such igures as the poet Friedrich Rückert and the philosopher Friedrich schelling in addition to both Mendelssohn and tieck. on the one hand, this initiative represented Friedrich Wilhelm’s desire to be a philosopher-king and to win popular support for the monarchy. on the other hand, it formed part of this devout Pietist’s less visible attempt to foster an anti-revolutionary christianGerman state whose foundations would be bolstered by the historical, intellectual and aesthetic legitimization that such luminaries could potentially lend to the king’s own ideological beliefs.32 thus as the royal advisor and noted scholar Karl Josias von Bunsen explained in a letter to schelling written on the king’s behalf, the latter’s aim was not merely ‘to decorate the foremost university of his kingdom with the celebrated name of the nation’s foremost philosopher’, but also to root out ‘the dragon seed of hegelian pantheism’.33 An additional aspect of Friedrich Wilhelm’s cultural program was his goal of reforming the theatre in Berlin, from which the Antigone commission appears to 31

Fanny hensel quoted in sebastian hensel (1891), vol. 2, 203. For a discussion of the king’s personal and political beliefs, as well as of his time on the throne, see Barclay (1995) and toews (2004). 33 see Bunsen’s letter to schelling of 1 August 1840, in Bunsen (1869), vol. 2, 133–4. For details surrounding Mendelssohn’s employment at the Prussian court, see Brodbeck (1992) and dinglinger (1997). 32

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have received its most immediate impulse. As the king stated in a cabinet decree addressed to tieck some eight months after the successful court premiere of the play: ‘You have long known my wish to use your talent for the beneit of the theatre in order to stage the best possible performances of valuable works, the current performance of which leaves so much to be desired’.34 obviously pleased with the results of Antigone, he went on to explain that the production of Greek dramas in translation and of shakespearean plays was to constitute the bulk of tieck’s efforts along these lines. It was apparently Tieck himself who irst suggested Antigone in response to the king’s request to stage Greek tragedy, claiming that this play expressed a modern, christian sentiment more so than any other classical drama.35 Tieck presumably had in mind Antigone’s willingness to sacriice her own life in order to grant Polynices a proper burial and thus ensure his passage into the next world, a decision that not only recalls Christ’s sacriice for humanity but that has often been said to relect love in a Christian sense as opposed to a pagan one. According to the biography of Mendelssohn by heinrich Jacob, tieck went so far as to call Antigone a christian martyr, though this comment supposedly stemmed from the parallel that the poet sensed between Antigone’s concern for the corpse of Polynices and that of the virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene for christ’s earthly remains.36 Whatever its inspiration, tieck’s christian reading of the play no doubt appealed to the king’s own deeply religious beliefs and to his efforts aimed at establishing a christian-German state. Moreover, it is likely that this anachronistic view of sophocles’ tragedy would have lent the entire 1841 production a certain christian ethos. Again according to Jacob, Mendelssohn was ‘profoundly impressed’ with tieck’s christian interpretation of Antigone. Although no evidence exists to substantiate this claim, one can easily imagine the composer embracing such a view. As leon Botstein has noted, Mendelssohn’s adult life was characterised by a ‘prominent and public commitment to and interest in the theology of christianity and [a] reverent use of music to evoke christian faith and religious sentiment’.37 this use of music as a vehicle for expressing christian faith was in no way limited to such overtly Protestant compositions as, for example, the reformation symphony or the Lobgesang. indeed, even ‘pagan’ works such as Mendelssohn’s incidental music to Greek tragedy seem to relect his desire to profess christian beliefs through music. steinberg, for his part, has suggested that the ‘rhetorically understated’ nature of the Antigone choruses can be understood as a ‘departure from, and an answer to, the entirely different rhetorical, moral, and political style of the Lobgesang completed a year earlier.’38 he has argued that the 34

reprinted in ludwig Fischer (1891), 116. devrient (1869), 218. 36 see Jacob (1959), 328–9. Jacob cites as his source W. Krägenbrink, Tieck als Vorleser (Königsberg, no date). After an exhaustive search, i was unable to locate this book. 37 Botstein (1991), 22. 38 steinberg (1991), 152. 35

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music’s rhetorical ambivalence duplicates Mendelssohn’s own ambivalence as a baptised Jew toward the christian-German court of Friedrich Wilhelm iv. Again, it would appear, however, that even within the limited conines of this rhetorical understatement, Mendelssohn searched for ways of evoking a christian ethos, perhaps in response to – or rather, in dialogue with – the christian overtones of the court production as a whole. elsewhere i have argued that, in a manner even more overtly than the ifth stasimon with its use of a brass-band accompaniment, Mendelssohn’s setting of the play’s opening chorus, or parodos, alludes to the kind of music typically sung at the large, public festivals that often took place in nineteenth-century Germany and that frequently assumed a religious (read: christian) character.39 Along similar lines, r. larry todd has suggested that the inal measures of Antigone recall the last movement of Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion, amounting to what he claims may be ‘a link to the German past and [to the] christian adumbrations tieck detected in sophocles’.40 ***

even more so than Antigone, Mendelssohn’s equally ‘understated’ music for sophocles’ Oedipus in Kolonos, which premiered at the Prussian court on 1 november 1845, reveals an attempt to infuse music with the spirit of christianity, namely through the use of chorale-like passages that appear on two separate occasions. like Antigone (and like the 1843 court performance of euripides’ Medea with music by Wilhelm taubert), this production featured staging by tieck and included an attempt to re-create the ancient playing space. once again, Mendelssohn composed ‘modern’ music scored for a 16-member male chorus and full orchestra, with the apparent goal of expressing the dramatic mood characteristic of each choral ode (or, in some cases, a portion thereof). Also like his earlier music for Greek tragedy, this work makes frequent use of both unison choral recitative and of melodrama. the far greater occurrence of the latter in Oedipus clearly owes something to sophocles’ unusually pervasive use of what classical scholars call lyric dialogue, consisting of mostly sung, often rapid back-and-forth exchanges between chorus and actor(s). related to this difference between the two plays is Mendelssohn’s decision in the later work to set to music not only those lines originally meant to be sung or recited but also several lines of spoken verse, presumably in the interest of establishing a greater sense of musical continuity. sophocles’ play tells the story of how the blind, exiled oedipus, with Antigone as his guide, comes upon the town of Colonus and assumes his inal resting place in a sacred grove that is home to the Furies (also known as the euminides). old and weary, oedipus faces the threat of creon, who hopes to install him near thebes for protection, and rejects a plea for assistance from Polynices before undergoing a miraculous transformation through death into the resident protector 39 40

see Geary (2006). todd (2003), 424.

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example 8.2 Mendelssohn, Oedipus in Kolonos, no. 5, bars 115–23

of colonus and nearby Athens. Although no evidence exists to suggest that tieck proposed a speciically Christian reading of Oedipus, it is not dificult to imagine an interpretation that, as with Antigone, highlighted the parallels between christ and the work’s title character. Moreover, the tragedy itself has particularly strong religious underpinnings, from the sacred rituals that oedipus must perform to appease the Furies to his divine transformation at the end of the play. As mentioned above, Mendelssohn’s music features two isolated choralelike passages, each of which occurs unexpectedly in the midst of a choral ode and coincides with a moment of direct address to one of the many Greek gods mentioned in the play. The irst of these, found in the composer’s setting of the hymn to colonus sung by the chorus of town elders (no. 3, bars 129–36), comprises eight measures marked by complete homophony and simple diatonic harmonies that set two lines of text in which the chorus sings praise to Poseidon using, in donner’s translation, the familiar form of the second-person pronoun. the remaining passage of chorale-like music occurs in the play’s second stasimon (no. 5), during which the chorus envisions the ongoing Athenian military campaign to rescue oedipus’ daughters from the grips of theban soldiers (example 8.2). Prevented by age from taking part in the battle themselves, the elders express their wish to join the ighting and in the inal stanza offer up a prayer for victory that begins with an invocation of Zeus as the all-seeing, sovereign ruler of the gods. In his setting of the prayer’s irst three lines, Mendelssohn composed a predominantly unaccompanied passage for both semi-choruses reminiscent of a Protestant chorale (bars 115–27). the next line of text, which completes the address to Zeus, is set in a similar fashion, albeit with a somewhat less uniform rhythm and a more prominent orchestral accompaniment (bars 128–34). Mendelssohn’s use of the chorale is, of course, well known. Aside from completing several chorale cantatas in the 1830s, he also employed traditional

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lutheran chorales in such works as the reformation symphony, Paulus, and the Lobgesang, while in others, including the Piano trio in c minor, op. 66 no. 2 and Elijah, he created his own. Although critics and scholars have not always looked favourably upon these choices, most agree that Mendelssohn’s aim was to lend his music a self-consciously religious tone.41 in the case of Oedipus in Kolonos, Mendelssohn’s use of chorale-like music is meant to convey what Karl Klingemann described as the ‘profound religious feeling’ of sophocles’ play and also the sense of ritual associated with the utterance of a collective prayer.42 More broadly, such passages recall a ‘modern’ christian tradition that ultimately reaches back to luther (and includes the sacred music of J.s. Bach), while at the same time relecting the proto-Christian associations of the play that Tieck surely proposed. thus, as with the 1841 staging of Greek tragedy, Mendelssohn’s score takes on the role of ‘translating’ the spirit of antiquity into modern sensibilities – a task that here involved the transformation of pagan rituals into decidedly christian ones. ***

While the 1845 court production of Oedipus and the two public performances in Berlin shortly thereafter failed to achieve anything even approaching the impact of Antigone, the few critics who commented on these events nonetheless agreed on the success of Mendelssohn’s music. As a correspondent for the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung explained in an otherwise scathing review of the Berlin production: ‘if Oedipus is of less interest than Antigone, then Mendelssohn’s music is not to blame, but rather the greater monotony of the play […] and the fact that the public’s curiosity for these dramatically galvanizing experiments in reviving classical drama has already been exhausted by Antigone and Medea’.43 Moreover, at least one of these reviewers acknowledged the importance of this music for conveying the dramatic essence of sophocles’ play, noting that ‘the spirit of Greek singing has been reborn in musical form’.44 So while the paucity of irst-hand accounts makes it dificult to assess how German listeners typically responded to Mendelssohn’s score, it seems safe to assume that, for many of them, this music once again served the function of bridging the divide between the ancient Greek culture of sophocles’ day and the christian-German values of Friedrich Wilhelm’s Prussia. As suggested near the outset of this chapter, both Mendelssohn’s Antigone and to a far lesser extent Oedipus in Kolonos deserve much of the credit for the nineteenth-century German revival of Greek tragedy, which in turn contributed 41 see, for example, Feder (2001), 272. For a negative assessment of Mendelssohn’s use of the chorale in concert music, see rosen (1995), 590–94, where he refers to Mendelssohn as the inventor of ‘religious kitsch’. 42 letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 7 March 1845, in Klingemann (1909), 305. 43 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 48/10 (11 March 1846): cols. 178–81, at 178. 44 Quoted in Boetius (2005), 240.

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to a larger european one. Fundamental to both works was the composer’s belief in the ability of music to communicate more precisely than language, as he once famously explained in a letter of 1842 to Marc-André souchay.45 For many listeners in the 1840s, Mendelssohn’s effort to, as he put it, compose the ‘mood’ of each choral ode was so successful as to represent nothing less than the spirit of Greek antiquity itself, revealed through the power of ‘modern’ music. only with the rise of Wagnerian music drama in the decades after 1850 – together with Wagner’s own claims to have captured the essence of Greek tragedy – was Mendelssohn’s earlier engagement with the form eclipsed. And even in the wake of this development, Mendelssohn’s Antigone in particular continued to be heard throughout the rest of the century, both on the stage and in the concert hall (to say nothing of the drawing room). For through the use of a musical language that, even as it made concessions to antiquity, was rooted in the conventions and genres of the nineteenth century, Mendelssohn’s music to sophoclean drama revealed a strange, new world of Greek tragedy while addressing the cultural, political, and religious concerns of a modern era.

45

letter of 15 october 1842, in carl and Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1863), 338.

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chapter 9

the Phantom of Mendelssohn’s opera: Fictional Accounts and Posthumous Propaganda Monika hennemann1

the director of the dresden opera, while suppressing a chuckle, looks pointedly at Felix Mendelssohn: ‘i’ve often marvelled at the strange and fatal attraction opera seems to have for laymen and musicians alike’,2 he says, as Mendelssohn reports on the operatic aspirations of leipzig’s musical board. A few years earlier, Mendelssohn, his mind alame with fervour for his prima-donna mistress Maria, for whom his irst opera was intended, would have ignored the implicit warning and steeled his resolve to produce a masterpiece worthy of his passionate lover – or so, at least, we are to believe if we read Pierre la Mure’s torrid biography of Mendelssohn’s life, ictionalised under the subtle title Beyond Desire. if nothing else, it also expresses the importance that the author felt opera composition ought to have played in the composer’s life. of course, there was no conversation with a Dresden impresario, no lashing-eyed mistress called Maria (or indeed anything else), and certainly no opera; but the subject of this chapter is the persistent attempts, both of journalists during Mendelssohn’s lifetime and of novelists long after his death, to invent an opera – an opera that would be the crowning glory of his life’s work. Most biographies of Mendelssohn, even those based on solid research and lacking the trashy proclivities of la Mure, speculate as to why he never produced a mature opera despite dozens of desperate attempts in a more than supportive environment. one even goes so far as to call opera ‘his unrequited love’.3 What ultimately amounts merely to a biographical reality was contrary to the expectations and wishes of Mendelssohn’s contemporaries, and this striking discrepancy with their agenda could not be remedied in fact, but only in iction. throughout his career, Mendelssohn was in contact with dozens of potential librettists, among them the leading authors of his day. despite his enthusiasm for some of the proposed subjects, he found reasons in every single case not to set them to music, be it the resemblance to already extant operas, the objectionable 1 2 3

i wish to thank r. larry todd for his helpful comments on this chapter. la Mure (1955), 186. droysen (1901–02), 205. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own.

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moral standards, or simply dislike of the subject matter. not surprisingly, some of these librettists became frustrated with the overly critical composer and attempted to take charge themselves. they were encouraged by Mendelssohn, who on various occasions had announced that he had begun to jot down music for an opera or even, in the case of his operetta torso Die Lorelei, completed the irst act. Among them was the Austrian author Otto Prechtler, who over the course of a few years prepared almost a dozen libretto sketches for Mendelssohn. Prechtler took advantage of the promising start of their acquaintance by using Mendelssohn’s interest in his work as a booster for his own literary career. his close associate Julius Becher, a lawyer, amateur musician, and part-time journalist whom Mendelssohn had befriended in düsseldorf – himself an ardent promoter of the composer’s opera projects – published the following announcement in a viennese newspaper in August 1842: ‘the poet otto Prechtler, who has returned from his trip to Northern Germany, is writing a libretto for Dr Felix MendelssohnBartholdy.’4 roughly two months later, the viennese Sonntags-Blätter conirmed this announcement: ‘An opera text for Mendelssohn-Bartholdi [sic] is presently being written by the author otto Prechtler’.5 here, we are confronted either with a case of professional nepotism or of lazy journalism, which, unfortunately, did not inspire the composer to fulil the expectations thereby created.

I Astonishingly, Prechtler and his vaulting ambition seemed to have been known well beyond the borders of Austria, for the news of his collaboration even spread as far as england. Mendelssohn’s london publisher Buxton remarked in an unpublished letter to the composer: ‘rumour says that you are at work at an opera by Prechtler. i hope it is true.’6 Mendelssohn’s reaction to neither the press release nor Buxton’s comments is known, but we can assume that he would not have appreciated this kind of press coverage. however, he took no action against Prechtler’s announcement, perhaps owing to the fact that it did not mention any concrete obligations or agreements. indeed, if one looks closely, it does not explicitly mention an opera composition by Mendelssohn at all, but merely states that a libretto was being written for him. however, the assumption that Mendelssohn was actually composing this opera would have been made readily by many of the readers, as was no doubt intended by the author of these announcements. Accordingly, it did not take long before this notice was turned into the gossip Buxton heard in london, though it certainly did not have the envisioned effect on Prechtler’s career. At the very least, it made him seem somewhat more of 4

Anon. (1842d), 379. Anon. (1842e), supplement 10, 776. 6 Unpublished letter of Buxton to Mendelssohn, London, 16 December 1842, GB-Ob Green Books Xvi, item 170. 5

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an expert on matters related to Mendelssohn when his recollections of a personal encounter with the composer were published only days after the irst mention of the projected opera publication.7

II 1842 was a year of rumours about supposed Mendelssohn operas – for good reason. in october of 1841, he had made a name for himself internationally as a stage composer through his incidental music for sophocles’ Antigone. Based on its success, Mendelssohn was asked to provide a work for the Berlin opera house, to be performed subsequently in Paris. Preliminary arrangements were made, but the project did not proceed beyond the offer to the composer and to the librettist eugène scribe. despite this, no less a person than Mendelssohn’s youthful acquaintance and latterly severe critic heinrich heine announced an opera commission for Paris during 1842 – in true journalistic fashion – without any evidence to support his statements: ‘it is said here that Mendelssohn will come to Paris in person in the near future. it is certain that herr leon Pillet has been persuaded to have a libretto by herr scribe, which herr Mendelssohn is supposed to compose for the Grand opéra’. heine could not refrain from adding a sceptical comment to this news: ‘Will our countryman have any luck with this business? i am not sure. his artistic talent is great, but has very worrying limitations and gaps’.8 Although it could hardly have been heine’s polemics that kept Mendelssohn from realising this plan, they openly revealed the acerbic nature of their relationship to the public. The third instance of press propaganda was far more extensive than the irst two. it concerned an opera commission Mendelssohn was offered for the 1847 season in london by Benjamin lumley, the impresario of her Majesty’s theatre.9 As soon as Mendelssohn expressed a preliminary interest in a libretto sketch by scribe on shakespeare’s Tempest, lumley took the liberty of interpreting it as an acceptance. consequently, only days later this opera was announced as a fait accompli in the theatre’s programme and in the major london newspapers, such as The Times: ‘Dr. Mendelssohn Bartholdy has composed […] an opera founded on Shakspeare’s [sic] Tempest’.10 of course, it appears plausible that lumley consciously attempted to use this publicity as a means of forcing Mendelssohn into composing the work. he gave the public the impression that this project was already advanced at that point, and even naïvely thought these newspaper reports would delight Mendelssohn. he forwarded them to the composer with the following comment: ‘i think it will give you pleasure to see the articles in the 7

Prechtler (1842). Metzner (1990), vol. 5, 154. 9 For a more extensive discussion of Mendelssohn’s operatic adventures in england, see hennemann (2010). 10 Anon. (1847a), 5. 8

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papers of today’.11 the effect, however, was quite the opposite – the composer was shocked by this crude method of forcing his hand. he eventually wrote to lumley: in the beginning of January already, when you had mentioned in your letter that his opera was talked of in london, i immediately asked you not to allow such reports to go on, because my composing an opera, of which i had then not the irst verses was too uncertain even to be talked of.12

Mendelssohn had good reasons to be concerned: the Morning Herald announced proudly that ‘the great feature of the season will be the production of an opera, written expressly for the theatre by no less than Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the intimation of which will unquestionably throw the musical public, both professional and amateur, into ecstasies of delight’.13 The Times even proclaimed on 18 March: ‘An opera by Mendelssohn is a european event!’14 it only took a day for the Morning Chronicle to state with a welcome dose of realism: ‘the opera by Mendelssohn is mere moonshine’.15 the point was reinforced by the printing of a letter of Mendelssohn’s publisher Buxton: ‘he is the last man in existence to make an engagement without being sure he can keep it’.16 let us not forget that this was the same man who had picked up the equally insubstantial gossip about Mendelssohn’s opera with Prechtler and believed it. As the press hype would not stop despite Mendelssohn pleading with lumley to withdraw his comments publicly, he threatened as a last resort to take legal steps should the references to his opera not disappear from the newspapers: ‘if that should not be the case, then indeed such announcements would become as you term them “a deception of the public in my name” and I nead [sic] not assure you that against such i would protest on the spot in every way that is in my power’.17 Although the proclamations were inally discontinued, the publicity created by the lengthy press battle could not be taken back – and was certainly much less welcome than it would have been had Mendelssohn actually been composing the opera. But (as the cliché goes) there is no such thing as bad publicity, and the opera certainly drew an enormous amount of attention to the opera house, its programme and the contracted stars, including Jenny lind. the ‘swedish nightingale’ had initially been the projected lead character Unpublished letter, Lumley to Mendelssohn, 11 and 21 January 1847, GB-Ob Green Books XXv, item 6a–b. 12 Letter draft, Mendelssohn to Lumley, 10 March 1847, D-B Mus. Ep. 15, printed in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1909), 326. 13 Anon. (1847b), 5. 14 Anon. (1847d), 5. 15 Anon. (1847c), 5. 16 Buxton (1847), 7. 17 letter of Mendelssohn to Gruneisen, 10 March 1847, printed in Klingemann (1909), 327. 11

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in Mendelssohn’s opera, but instead celebrated her english premiere in May 1847 as Alice in Meyerbeer’s Roberto il Diavolo (an italian version of Robert le Diable).

III the missing opera that the newspaper reports could only try to wish into existence inally appeared in all its whimsical enchantment in Elizabeth Sheppard’s Charles Auchester (1853), a work of over-effusive imagination aptly ensconced in purple prose. Possibly, the author’s fantasy was fertilised by lurid rumours about Mendelssohn, if liszt’s enigmatic comment in a letter to Marie d’Agoult of 8 november 1842 refers to either her mother or to some other relative (the prim authoress herself was born in 1837, and thus hardly old enough to feature personally in such a prurient piece of gossip): Felix spent this week in Coburg. […] La Sheppard threw herself at Felix with many passionate outpourings. he kept her in Frankfurt for a week or so, but is very disillusioned and claims that she no longer smells good, but without having bad breath.18

Were it not for its all too explicit nature, this could almost be a passage from Charles Auchester itself. But nothing else is known of the background to liszt’s casual comment, and his own knowledge of Mendelssohn’s geographical whereabouts appears unreliable – ‘Felix’ had been in Berlin around the time alluded to, and subsequently travelled directly to leipzig. there seems to have been little space in his diary for the alleged drama in coburg or Frankfurt. even if Charles Auchester must remain an unlocked roman-à-clef, the much-read novel appeared in numerous editions all over the English-speaking world up to the twentieth century. in this book, Mendelssohn appears thinly disguised as the ‘chevalier seraphael’. his opera is a threefold mixture of scribe’s projected adaptation of shakespeare’s Tempest, set to music that sounds merely like a ‘poetic’ description of A Midsummer Night’s Dream score (‘three long, longing sighs from the unseen wind instruments, in withering notes, prepared the brain for the rush of fairy melody that was as the subtlest essence of thought and fragrance enfranchised’)19 but dropped into the original domestic context of Mendelssohn’s 1829 singspiel Die Heimkehr aus der Fremde: The Chevalier Seraphael […] has been writing a two-act piece to perform at his birth-night feast, which is in honour, not so much of his own nativity, as of his

18 19

cited in liszt (1998), 187. sheppard (1911), vol. 2, 95.

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parents arriving just that day at the twenty-ifth anniversary of their nuptials. […] It is a fairy libretto, and I should imagine of irst-rate attraction.20

it is hardly surprising to read that the performance had the expected impact (‘how exquisite!’ – ‘How dream-like’ – ‘How fairy!’21 were some of the audience’s comments) and that it enchanted the novel’s youthful protagonists: ‘oh, your music! Your music! it is of all that is the most divine, and nothing ever has been or shall be to exceed it’.22 the unaffected sincerity of seraphael’s opera is contrasted with the other stage work in the novel, a shoddy phantasmagoria of the diabolical and the divine composed by Seraphael’s rival, Milans-André. This has more than a hint of Meyerbeer’s Robert le Diable (and his seductive nuns) about it, as well as a guest appearance from Paganini himself in his traditional role as a satanic violinist – vividly demonstrating that the creativity of novelists is not necessarily hampered by plausibility or, indeed, the fear of cliché. Ironically, the anti-Mendelssohn opera sounds like a very entertaining affair: the opera was called ‘emancipation; or: the Modern orpheus’. the overture took in almost all of us, it was so well put together […] The scenery was very good, the story rambling and iendish; but we thought it fairy-like. There was a perfect hit in the hero, who was a monstrous iddle-player, to represent whom he had Paganini, as he had not to speak a word. the heroines, who were three in number, were a sort of musical nuns, young ladies dedicated to the art; but they, irst one, then another, fell in with the iddler, and inding him, became enamoured of him. […] Next comes a tumble-down church, dusty, dark […] and you are aware of the Lutheran service which is being droned through […] By magic the scene dissolves; coloured lights break from tapering windows; arches rise and glitter like rainbows; altar-candles blaze and tremble, crimson velvet and rustling satin ill the Gothic stalls on either side […] The last scene of all is a kind of temple where priests and priestesses glide in spangled draperies, while the hierarch is hidden behind a curtain. […] The ruins are swept aside by some utilitarian angel, and the inale consists in a great rush of individual masks, who crown the newly inaugurated statue of the elevated orpheus, and then dance around him to the ballet music, which is accompanied by the chorus also, who sing his praise.23

this opera is met with frenetic applause by an entranced audience, but the culmination of the evening is yet to come. A chord, played by a solo instrument, sounds from behind the fallen curtain just after the performance. it seems to be 20 21 22 23

ibid., 95. ibid., 92. ibid., 103. ibid., 17–19.

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mystical, yet simple, a sound from another sphere. As it continues, the audience realises that it is a melody by Bach, to which everybody knows the lyrics and joins in singing, thus unifying all present in one voice and underlining the supremacy of German Protestant sacred music over virtuosity and operatic pomp (like a bizarre dramatisation of robert schumann’s famous essay on Mendelssohn’s St. Paul and Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots).24 When the chorale comes to an end, seraphael appears on the stage, like orpheus come to life through the power of music: ‘As he stood there he looked like a child of royal blood, […] it was so beautiful; and we all stood up with open mouths to see him, hoping to hear him speak’.25 indeed, he asks the audience for the composer of the melody they had heard and, without waiting for an answer, tells them it was Bach: ‘You do not love Bach, – i do. You do not reverence him, – he is my religion. […] I shall give a lecture on Bach in this theatre to-morrow evening’.26 Most evidently in the ludicrously bathetic climax of the ‘lecture on Bach’, the intention here is unashamedly didactic and moralistic. Mendelssohn/seraphael embodies the purity of art, in contrast to the tawdry, avaricious composers of French grand opera.27 schumann would have applauded enthusiastically. opera plays an even more symbolistic role in Beyond Desire. An opera by Mendelssohn is only described in the irst part, which also features his affair with the prima-donna Maria mentioned earlier. She inspires him, with wearisome inevitability, to compose an opera for her. After moving to a country cottage for this very purpose, Felix quickly discovers that Maria’s ‘mind […] had no bottom – anything that came into it fell onto her tongue. He learned [as so many others have done] that the peace of the country did not necessarily mean peace at home’.28 she, on the other hand, quickly begins to feel a growing contempt for his activities as a composer – for he now ignores her singing as he sits and writes. she understands with an artist’s unerring intuition that she can ‘give [him] pleasure but not happiness’.29 therefore, she decides to leave him, and Felix soon afterwards meets his future wife cécile, the daughter of a Protestant preacher. however, temptation reappears when, after temporarily

24

schumann (1837), 73–5. sheppard (1911), vol. 2, 19. 26 ibid., 20. 27 Mendelssohn himself often castigated what he regarded as the immorality of Grand opera (in this case Auber’s Fra diavolo): ‘when in another opera a girl undresses and simultaneously sings a song about how she will be married tomorrow at this time, it made an effect, but i have no music for it because it is vulgar. And if this were what today’s times would require and ind necessary, then I want to write sacred music’. Letter of Mendelssohn to his father, Paris, 19 December 1831, GB-Ob Ms. M.D.M. d. 13, fol. 96, cited in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1863), 287–8. 28 la Mure (1955), 66. 29 ibid., 67. 25

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splitting up with his wife, he runs into Maria accidentally in dresden. the novel subsequently sprawls towards its conclusion in the expected soap-opera fashion. throughout the book, opera composition is associated with youthful passion, lust and decadence, but also with artistic inspiration. From the moment cécile enters Felix’s life, he is successively transformed into a morally better person and then devotes most of his energy to performing a rediscovered Passion by Bach. opera features less and less predominantly as the novel develops because the composer has become disillusioned not only with librettists (Mendelssohn’s one-time colleague and would-be librettist Karl Immermann allegedly asks ‘What do musicians know about poetry?’)30 but also with inept and inadequate singers: ‘Tenors, he found, entertained the most inlated opinion of their worth. They were demanding, supercilious, jealous and unreliable […] Women singers were, if possible, worse. they possessed all the faults of their male colleagues and several of their own’.31 More importantly, cécile ‘did not care for opera’, though trying to be supportive, as ‘a good wife must show interest in her husband’s work’32 – and this attitude of obligation just does not sufice to inspire a genius. Thus, Cécile is indirectly blamed for his failure in the genre – yielding to the general chauvinistic prejudice that she put an end to her husband’s compositional inspiration – which is widely found in the literature on Mendelssohn.33 In the fantasy world of the novel, Mendelssohn also inds sympathetic souls in his opera dilemma. one of them is Frédéric chopin, whom he meets in Paris. A physical source has just been found for Mendelssohn’s permanent headaches, and chopin is coughing violently – a literary portent of the early deaths. ‘Meyerbeer’s new opera’ – said Chopin. He broke into a it of coughing, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it against his mouth. ‘excuse me, mon cher Felix’, he proceeded with a wan smile, ‘my lungs and i are parting company. As i was saying, Meyerbeer’s new opera is the rage. some people are born with the secret of success. […] I am not one of them’.34

here, the familiar romantic concept is introduced of the opposition between genius and mere facility. The latter is equated with the supposedly highly supericial but effective style of French grand opera, which here is subjected to yet more tired abuse. the novel becomes particularly piquant when it attempts to combine reality with iction. In the course of describing the evening activities of Mendelssohn, La 30

ibid., 109. ibid., 110. 32 ibid., 109. 33 see, for example, Werner (1980), where cécile is portrayed as a ‘konventionelle, spießbürgerliche Frau’ (322) who is inclined to have ‘hysterische Zwischenfälle’ (356). 34 la Mure (1955), 136. 31

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Mure emphasises once more how little cécile is interested in the stage – except as a trivial diversion: ‘how about going to the theatre tonight? i don’t know what they’re playing, but it’ll do us good’. in the end, the performance they see is: gory, maudlin and very bad. […] It all wound up in a rash of rapid murders in the last ive minutes of the play with the villainous cousin staggering drunkenly all over the stage, a dagger in his chest, writhing in horrible convulsions and inally breathing his last foul breath in a last imprecation. […] On the way back home cécile remarked it had been a poorly spent evening.35

Tendentiously the ive-act melodrama is called The Two Cousins, hinting at the title of one of Mendelssohn’s early operas (Die beiden Neffen, oder der Onkel aus Boston), which la Mure could have known only by name. similarly revealing about la Mure’s research is a passage representing a dialogue between Mendelssohn and his advisor Muller after the composer resigns from his leipzig conducting post: ‘Why don’t you take two weeks off and go to dresden’. ‘dresden? What for?’ ‘look up that fellow Wagner for your conservatorium. investigate the opera situation. Anything … You know how we’ve been screaming for the last twenty years for an opera season in leipzig – well, go and see what our chances are, if any, of having one …’ Again, the gentleness crept into his voice. ‘Believe me, Felix, it will do you good’.36

In this case, yet again, there is a tiny grain of truth in the ictional account: Mendelssohn did indeed negotiate with representatives from dresden, including richard Wagner, about the relocation of the leipzig conservatory to the city. in the novel, instead of success on the stage, Felix’s career climaxes with the leipzig performance of a Passion by Bach that he discovers on the paper used by the local butcher to wrap up meat – certain resemblances to the fate of Franz schubert’s manuscripts come rushing to mind here. la Mure seizes the opportunity to hint at another one of Mendelssohn’s real-life opera compositions, namely Die Hochzeit des Camacho, based on an episode from cervantes’s Don Quixote: ‘Behold Felix Mendelssohn, the don Quixote of music! the knight of lost causes. he didn’t charge against windmills, he merely fought entire cities singlehanded!’37 in a very predictable manner, opera becomes the topic of an idealised conversation with the terminally ill schumann, whose last energies are devoted to opera: ‘To Felix’s question he replied in mufled, jerky sentences, as though it cost him an effort to speak. His opera, was it inished? … Yes, Genoveva was completed. A long, uneasy pause’.38 Felix’s discomfort with the subject remains 35 36 37 38

ibid., 156. ibid., 178–9. ibid., 174. ibid., 206.

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until the inal page of the novel, for he cannot supply a similar success story. however, having resisted most of the devil’s multifarious temptations, he has at least turned into a better person. he has dedicated his career to the preservation of valuable church music, and survived vicious anti-Semitic attacks. His life has been fulilled – even without an operatic breakthrough. Throughout La Mure’s novel, therefore, opera plays a stereotypical role and is used to illustrate the process of puriication Mendelssohn undergoes. His increasing distance from the genre, coinciding with his growing interest in the sacred music of Bach, underlines this inner development. the ultimate result of the dramatized emotional turmoil created by two opposing representations of Mendelssohn is a posthumous ‘romanticization’ of the composer, in which opera plays an important role.

Iv Urges to recreate ictionally what Mendelssohn had failed to deliver in reality are not only found in literature, but surprisingly also in stage works. two ‘substitute compositions’ promised to present a stage work by Mendelssohn. The irst one is a Liederspiel, supposedly with contributions by a total of six composers. leopold hirschberg claimed that two of the ten songs are Mendelssohn’s contribution to a joint 16-page musical accompaniment to Emil Wilhelm’s ‘Festspiel’ titled Talassio, oder allerlei Töpfe und Scherben fur lustige Polterleute, published in Berlin in 1833.39 of the others, three were composed by Karl Friedrich Zelter, one by Johann Friedrich reichardt and one by carl Maria von Weber, all of whom were already deceased in 1833. the remaining ones were attributed to c. Böhmer and eduard Grell (the then director of the singakademie). the settings that bear Mendelssohn’s name cannot be found among his published songs and are not mentioned in his correspondence. nevertheless, hirschberg is conident of Mendelssohn’s authorship, although he claims that only a personal relationship to the obscure poet Wilhelm emil, under whose name the work appeared, could account for the fact that the composer was willing to set such poor poetry. he also conceded that further research was needed to support his indings. An inspection of the alleged Mendelssohn settings, no. 3, ‘Frohsinn’40 and no. 4, ‘Gesang hinter der scene’,41 reveals that the poor poetry is complemented by equally poor music – one only has to note the amateurish voice-leading, uninspired accompaniment igures and far-from elegant modulations, such as those found in bars 18–10 of the irst song (Figure 9.1). The second song is a slightly more sophisticated imitation of Mendelssohn’s compositional style in that it offers a greater harmonic variety and more skilful setting. nevertheless, another look reveals blatant parallel ifths in bar 17 (Figure 9.2), which (if this is not a case of a printing 39 40 41

hirschberg (1925). Printed in hirschberg (1925), 1. Printed in ibid.

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Figure 9.1

‘Frohsinn’ from Talassio

187

188

Figure 9.2

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‘Gesang hinter der scene’, from Talassio

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Figure 9.3

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title page of Dichterliebe

error) makes it even more doubtful that Mendelssohn could have composed this. if he did, he must have consciously attempted to match the quality of the text in the music. in any case, he would certainly not have approved of the songs’ publication. (For that matter, if the three co-composers gave their approval they must have communicated it posthumously.) if we conclude that Mendelssohn was not the composer of these works, we have found another manifestation of falsely attributed stage compositions, this time bolstered by a scholarly publication, possibly with the intention of securing Mendelssohn’s place within the German musical tradition at a time when his popularity had started to decrease in his native land.

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Figure 9.4

‘Wer im lenz kein schätzle hat’, duet from Dichterliebe, bars 1–12

the authenticity of the stage work in Figure 9.4 attributed to Mendelssohn can be established much more easily and beyond doubt: it is certainly not by him, despite what the title page suggests (Figure 9.3).42 Dichterliebe was modelled after the internationally successful singspiel Dreimäderlhaus of 1816, based on the life of 42

Printed in stern (1919). For further information on this work, see Wolff (1986).

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schubert and set to his music.43 this time, however, the protagonist was heine and the music was pillaged from Mendelssohn. it seems ironic that heine, who had poked fun at Mendelssohn’s operatic endeavours, became vicariously linked with them in this operetta created long after their deaths. Dichterliebe was premiered in 1919 at the Komische oper Berlin and repeated the following year in vienna, where it saw 16 performances at the theater an der Wien. the plot consists of three episodes from the life of heinrich heine, each superscribed with a heading from his poetry. the music is mostly taken from Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte. Simpliied excerpts are connected to newly invented bridge passages and supplemented by variations and free adaptations – even the theme of the scherzo of the ‘scottish’ symphony becomes the melody for a merry song (Figure 9.4).44 The music serves as a limsy accompaniment to an often preposterous text. The tune from the Lied ohne Worte, op. 53, no. 1 is sung to the excruciating doggerel ‘o Buch der lieder, hab’ ich dich wieder, süßeste lieder, die aus lieb’ und leid gewebt’ (Figure 9.5).45 very few numbers unite heine’s poetry with music by Mendelssohn genuinely intended for these words, most prominently the lied ‘leise zieht durch mein Gemüt’. in the new dramatic context it is sung in order to save the protagonist heine from being arrested by the police – yet again to unintentionally comical effect. the work is a grotesque mismatch in every regard and enjoyed only temporary success – even after their deaths, it was impossible to reconcile poet and composer permanently. the impression that Mendelssohn was the creator of this work – which a naïve audience might well be under – might almost qualify for what he himself at the time of the Tempest disaster in london had called a ‘deception of the public in my name’. the careless cobbling together of this operetta reminds one of Mendelssohn’s comments on the italian opera of his time, whose shoddy musical workmanship he openly despised: This is why Donizetti inished an opera in ten days; the audience hisses at it, but that does not matter, since he gets paid for it and can take another stroll. If his reputation were inally in danger he would have to work too much, and that would be uncomfortable. this is why he writes one opera every three weeks, puts a bit of effort into some of the pieces so that they will please the audience, and then he can go for more walks for a while and continue to compose poorly.46 43

Berté (1916). there are obviously many other such examples in music history, the best known of which is perhaps the musical Kismet, which is frequently described as being ‘by’ Borodin. in all these cases, the producers are trying to capitalize on a (fairly) famous name for their own commercial purposes. 44 Printed in stern (1919), 3. 45 Printed ibid., 5. 46 Letter of Mendelssohn to his parents, Rome, 6 June 1831, GB-Ob MS. M.D.M. d. 13, fol. 61v, quoted in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1861), 160.

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Figure 9.5

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‘langsamer Walzer’ from Dichterliebe, bars 1–36

Both hirschberg’s article and the ‘operetta’demonstrate how popular Mendelssohn’s music was after the turn of the twentieth century, even in the face of steadily increasing anti-Semitism in Germany. Nevertheless, they could not really ill the gap in Mendelssohn’s oeuvre. one might almost sympathise with these attempts to assist him and to demonstrate that he possessed more than a great potential

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for opera composition. A inal creative venue illustrates how far Mendelssohn’s admirers would go to see him on the dramatic stage. supported by statements in the scholarly literature such as ‘Elijah is largely a dramatic work, indeed in some ways it is Mendelssohn’s opera’,47 stagings of this oratorio became increasingly common early in the twentieth century. After several popular attempts in various english cities, there was, for example, a dramatised version by W. de Wagstaffe for the new York Majestic Grand opera company in 1912–13, which found some momentary success. these phantom operas, in their various guises, reveal more about Mendelssohn’s image and reception than some of the ‘proper’ sources – even if the obsession with opera composition begins to verge on the pathological. As la Mure’s understated impresario so judiciously puts it: ‘there’s something about opera that prompts everyone connected with it to commit mayhem or suicide’.48 Had Mendelssohn taken the ictional impresario’s advice to avoid opera completely, he would have spared himself much anguish with disappointed librettists and many arguments with friends – and the world would certainly have been spared this essay. on the other hand, we would have been denied these creative forgeries which, despite their dubious provenance and questionable quality, can certainly be culturally enlightening. they show an enduring fascination with Mendelssohn’s legacy and with his bizarrely empty place in operatic history – leaving us with a wistful hope that perhaps more obscure manifestations of Mendelssohn’s phantom opera might yet appear. In the last analysis, what this story demonstrates is the after-life of creativity, or, to put it more positively in the words of Mendelssohn’s one-time friend Adolf Bernhard Marx: ‘every single undertaking, to which our spirit devotes itself with earnest desire and passion bears at least internal fruits, even if it only be for the invisible treasure of the spirit’.49 We are all familiar with the idea of music taking on new meaning for subsequent generations – whether by changes in performance style, or iconography – but in this case there was no music to adapt, only the idea of music, only an operatic might-have-been that had to be created from scratch in the fertile minds of novelists and pasticheurs. the result, of course, is nothing to do with Mendelssohn himself, but it is a powerful part of the image of Mendelssohn. And as we also know, image is sometimes more potent than (and just as signiicant as) reality.

47

Mintz (1960), 20. la Mure (1955), 187. 49 ‘Allein jedes Unternehmen, dem sich unser Geist mit ernstem verlangen und mit inbrunst zuwendet, trägt wenigstens innere Frucht, wäre es auch nur für den unsichtbar bleibenden schatz des Geistes’. Marx (1865), vol. 1, 162. 48

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PArt iv style and compositional Process

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chapter 10

Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte and the limits of Musical expression r. larry todd

How does one deine a Lied ohne Worte? that task was on robert schumann’s mind in 1835 when he reviewed the second volume of Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte, released by simrock as op. 30: Who of us in the twilight hour has not sat at his upright piano (a grand-piano would serve a statelier occasion), and in the midst of improvising has not unconsciously begun to sing a quiet melody? should one happen to be able to play the cantilena along with the accompaniment, above all, should one happen to be a Mendelssohn, the loveliest ‘song without words’ would result. or, still easier: to choose a text and then, eliminating the words, give in this form one’s compositions to the world.1

Of the six pieces of Op. 30, the irst and sixth offer clues that might support schumann’s second alternative. in a letter to Karl Klingemann dated 17 January 1835, Mendelssohn revealed that he was tempted to title op. 30 no. 1 as Der Sommerabend (Summer Evening), but then thought better of the idea.2 nevertheless, his admission suggests that he envisioned the piece as an Abendlied, a genre certainly familiar enough in nineteenth-century German poetry – examples from Goethe, heine, eichendorff, lenau and others abound – raising in turn the possibility that Mendelssohn may have had particular Abendlieder in mind. More tantalizing is the case of op. 30 no. 6. like its celebrated siblings, op. 19[b] no. 6 in G minor and op. 62 no. 5 in A minor, the Venetianisches Gondellied in F-sharp minor is a romantic, impressionistic miniature that calls out for words, as if Mendelssohn conceived the music with text but then deleted it, leaving in place only the special title as a vestige of the union of words and music schumann intimated in his review.

1

Wolff (1946), 210. Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 17 January 1835, in Klingemann [Jr] (1909), 167: ‘ich habe vor einigen Wochen mein bei weitem bestes lied ohne Worte gemacht, das du bald haben sollst, und mir sagen, ob ich es überschreiben soll: der sommerabend oder gar nicht? ich glaube, gar nicht’. 2

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Admittedly, we do not know if Mendelssohn’s inspiration for this piece was a particular poem, as was the case for a later Venetianisches Gondellied, op. 57 no. 5 (1842), a setting of a poem by thomas Moore as a Lied mit Worte. op. 57 no. 5 conjures up a secret assignation among the venetian lagoons between ninetta and her lover, a masked gondolier (example 10.1). Mendelssohn used the German translation of Ferdinand Freiligrath (‘Wenn durch die Piazetta’); here we offer Moore’s original english text: When through the Piazetta night breathes her cool air, then, dearest ninetta, i’ll come to thee there. Beneath thy mask shrouded, i’ll know thee afar, As love knows, though clouded, his own evening star. in garb, then, resembling some gay gondolier, i’ll whisper thee, trembling, ‘our bark, love, is near: now, now, while there hover those clouds o’er the moon, ’twill waft thee safe over yon silent lagoon’.

Mendelssohn captured the clouded, moonlit evening with dappled, low-lying sonorities in the accompaniment, and the inal line, ‘yon silent Lagoon’, with gently lowing patterns that gradually dissolve in the concluding bars. As I have demonstrated elsewhere, op. 30 no. 5 and op. 57 no. 5 are cut from the same musical cloth and share several similarities – the lilting 6/8 meter, minor modalities, blurry pedal passages, and so forth3 – so much so, that were one to remove Moore’s verses from op. 57 no. 5, many listeners would still identify it as a Gondellied. now if, words or not, op. 57 no. 5 and op. 30 no. 6 belong to the same genre, the surviving manuscripts of op. 30 no. 6 do not betray any signs of a suppressed verbal text.4 Still, we should point out that the original manuscript of Op. 30 No. 6, inished for the album of henriette voigt on 15 March 1835, bears the title Gondolierlied, as if Mendelssohn at irst imagined the music from the point of view of a gondolier and then chose to generalize his pianistic abstraction as a barcarole by titling the published version, Venetianisches Gondellied. But Mendelssohn’s accompanying letter to henriette voigt makes clear that the evening before he had improvised at the 3 4

110.

todd (1992), 373–4. see Wehner (2009), 328, in which the composition bears the catalogue number U

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

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example 10.1 Mendelssohn, Venetianisches Gondellied, op. 57 no. 5

piano ‘ein kleines Stück aus is moll’ and then written it down for his friend – there is no mention here of a text or, for that matter, of the descriptive title.5 the composer’s silence about a putative text for op. 30 no. 6 did not prevent at least one anonymous poet from fashioning verses that could be itted and sung to the haunting soprano melody, as if to strengthen schumann’s suspicion. this verbal re-hearing of Mendelssohn’s Gondellied appears in a manuscript titled ‘drei lieder von M. Bartholdi’, part of a miscellany handed down from the composer’s daughter, Marie Benecke (1839–97), and now preserved in the Bodleian library as M. deneke Mendelssohn c. 47.6 The unidentiied amateur poet – perhaps a member of the composer’s circle, perhaps an unsolicited stranger – actually produced four poems and successfully set them to the melodies of op. 30 nos. 3, 5, 1, and 6.7 Presumably the manuscript dates from sometime after May 1835, when Mendelssohn released into print the second volume of his 5 Mendelssohn to henriette voigt, 15 March 1835: ‘aber nun liegt noch das weiße stammbuchblat vor mir, guckt mich an und droht! Gestern abend habe ich ein kleines Stück aus is moll auf dem Klaviere gespielt, das will ich drauf schreiben, wenn ichs aber ausstreichen muß, so halten sie es mir zu gute, und wenns nichts taugt ebenfalls, denn die ersten takte gefallen mir alle meine stücke sehr und ich wollte ihnen gern etwas ganz neues, Unaufgeschriebenes schicken’. Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1871), 171. 6 crum (1980), 14. 7 todd (1992), 368ff.

200

example 10.2

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Mendelssohn, Venetianisches Gondellied, op. 30 no. 6, with added text from Bodleian library, M. deneke Mendelssohn Ms c. 47

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

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Mendelssohn Perspectives

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Lieder ohne Worte; May 1835 thus serves as the most probable terminus post quem for deneke c. 47. only nos. 2 and 4 resisted the poet’s creative fancy, and the reason is not dificult to discern – these two pieces, marked Allegro di molto and Agitato con fuoco, are technically challenging for the pianist to play, and the most dificult to imagine as Lieder mit Worte. We may hypothesize that the poet was also an amateur pianist, who, after reading through Mendelssohn’s music, decided to convert the four most ‘singable’ of the piano Lieder into texted songs, as if to probe just how precisely instrumental music could convey or generate poetic ideas – in effect, to test the limits of musical expression. example 10.2 gives the score of the Gondellied with the poem superimposed above the treble clef. here, for the reader’s convenience, is the supplementary poem: he loh! Auf weitem Meer am Muschelrief der Klagenschwall ist klar und tief der Fischer schweift dort auf der Flut Wann schlummert rings das Ufer ruht die Flut umspühlt ein Frauenbild vom Zauberschlaf umhüllt. vom Zauberschlummer wach auf, mein Kind. dein schiffer harrt so brav gesinnt die Welle weint, wach auf, mein Kind.

clearly the poet took care to fabricate images to mirror individual gestures in the composition. For example, ‘Auf weitem Meer’ found its counterpart in the widely spaced accompaniment patterns spanning upwards of a twelfth or thirteenth; the word ‘tief’, in the periodically recurring, deep bass tones. the lament (‘Klagenschwall’) and weeping wave (‘die Welle weint’) were a response to the coda, where we hear two mufled statements of a descending tetrachord (F#–e–d–c#), a traditional igure for a lament. Finally, the central poetic image of a woman awakening from a trance-like sleep to ind the gondolier waiting to convey her across the lagoon was coordinated with the central climax of the piece. here Mendelssohn doubled the melodic line in thirds, effectively converting the solo Lied into a duet, and built the texture to a brief fortissimo. But as this climax dissolved into the ethereal, delicate trills of bars 32f., the poet reinstated the idea of a magical slumber (Zauberschlummer), which then cast its spell on the highest pitch of the composition, e3, before descending to the register of the opening. Mendelssohn’s contemporaries not infrequently labored over the aesthetic implications of the Lieder ohne Worte. the theorist Moritz hauptmann, before he received his copy of the irst volume, Op. 19[b], could only muse about the meaning of the concept: ‘to be sure, in strictness, pure lyric has no words, but that means no intelligence – no form, therefore no Art’.8 robert schumann’s friend, the 8

schöne and hiller (1892), i, 96–7.

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deaf writer/painter Johann Peter lyser, admitted that he considered adding words to Mendelssohn’s piano pieces, but found the enterprise frustrating and abandoned the effort. in 1842, lyser reported: I once hit upon the foolish idea of desiring to it words to one of those songs, of which Mendelssohn sent me through schumann the original manuscript. so i put together a poem that represented not my worst efforts and that could be sung to the melody, but heaven help me! how leaden the song now appeared! i then soon noticed that Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte could be more correctly labeled Empindungen wofür es keine Worte gibt (‘Feelings for which there are no words’), and i gave up the idea of ever wanting to set words in such an ethereal manner.9

And Johann Gustav droysen – who wrote several poems set to music by Mendelssohn and his sister, Fanny Hensel – also remained unconvinced of the viability of itting new texts to Mendelssohn’s piano pieces. ‘For very good reasons, this does not work well with the Lieder ohne Worte’, he wrote in a letter of 31 december 1841.10 But not everyone could resist the allure of imposing titles and/or texts onto the Lieder, including, as we shall see, the composer himself and his sister Fanny. in 1842 Marc André souchay, a cousin of Mendelssohn’s wife, was emboldened to send extra-musical explanations of several pieces in the irst four volumes of Lieder ohne Worte to the composer: i believe it would not be incorrect to say that the various meanings of the songs could perhaps be the following: Vol. 1 [op. 19]: no. 1, resignation; no. 2, melancholy; no. 3, scene of a par-force hunt; no. 4, praise of the goodness of God; no. 6, venetian gondolier-song.11

souchay then proceeded to append descriptions to the second, third, and fourth volumes (opp. 30, 38, and 53), summarized in table 10.1. We might pause here to consider souchay’s readings. First, in the cases of Lieder ohne Worte for which Mendelssohn himself provided titles – the two Gondellieder op. 19[b] no. 6 and 30 no. 6, the Duetto op. 38 no. 6, and the Volkslied, op. 53 no. 5 – souchay understandably deferred to the composer’s authority, though with op. 53 no. 5 he did not hesitate to identify the particular type of Volkslied as a ‘war-like folksong’. (one wonders if by october 1842 souchay had somehow heard the last movement of his relative’s new Scotch symphony, also in A minor and marked Allegro guerriero.) 9

lyser (1842). ‘Mit den Liedern ohne Worte hat das aus guten Gründen nicht gehen wollen’. cited in Wehmer (1959), 74. 11 souchay to Mendelssohn, 12 october 1842, GB-ob M.d.M. Green Books Xvi, 69, trans. in strunk (1998), 158. 10

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table 10.1

interpretations of Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte, after Marc André souchay (1842)

op. 19[b] no. 1 (e major) op. 19[b] no. 2 (A minor) op. 19[b] no. 3 (A major) op. 19[b] no. 4 (A major) op. 19[b] no. 5 (F-sharp minor) op. 19[b] no. 6 (G minor)

resignation Melancholy scene of a par-force hunt Praise of the goodness of God [no description] venetian Gondolier-song

Op. 30 No. 1 (E-lat major) Op. 30 No. 2 (B-lat minor) op. 30 no. 3 (e major) op. 30 no. 4 (B minor) op. 30 no. 5 (d major) op. 30 no. 6 (F-sharp minor)

depiction of a devout and thankful countenance hunting scene [no description] strong desire to go out into the world lullaby venetian Gondolier-song

Op. 38 No. 1 (E-lat major) op. 38 no. 2 (c minor) op. 38 no. 3 (e major) op. 38 no. 4 (A major) op. 38 no. 5 (A minor) Op. 38 No. 6 (A-lat major)

Boundless but unrequited love … Anxious expectation (alternating longing, anxiety, and pain) love song contentment despair duet

Op. 53 No. 1 (A-lat major) Op. 53 No. 2 (E-lat major) op. 53 no. 3 (G minor) op. 53 no. 4 (F major) op. 53 no. 5 (A minor) op. 53 no. 6 (A major)

[no description] longing despair [no description] War-like folksong [no description]

in the case of op. 19[b] no. 3, Mendelssohn left abundant enough clues – imitations of hunting horns, and passages in imitative counterpoint suggesting a chase – to identify that piece as a hunting song. But with the remaining Lieder ohne Worte, souchay was left to his own devices. Perhaps in approaching op. 30 No. 2, in B-lat minor, he was struck by the persistent, repetitive sixteenth notes and dactylic patterns to imagine galloping horses – an image, in turn, that again led him to a hunting scene. in no way could he have known that in fact Mendelssohn had composed the piece in 1830 for his sister Fanny, and that its

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eventual ‘happy ending’ in B-lat major described not the successful conclusion of a hunt, but his relief over the birth of his nephew, sebastian hensel, after his sister’s dificult pregnancy.12 one senses souchay’s struggle to append verbal imagery to Mendelssohn’s compositions. While he dispatched some of the Lieder ohne Worte as exemplifying common emotional states such as despair, longing, and contentment, other pieces proved more nettlesome, so that he could only offer up rather imprecise descriptions – as, most remarkably, in the case of op. 38 no. 1, which prompted this long-winded fantasy: ‘boundless but unrequited love, which therefore often turns into longing, pain, sadness, and despair, but always becomes peaceful again’. Arguably, this verbal profusion might have been vague enough to support Johann Peter lyser’s conclusion, that the Lieder ohne Worte simply suggested ‘feelings for which there are no words’. nevertheless, souchay persisted in his critical aspirations. And so, what Jascha heifetz in the twentieth century often performed as ‘sweet remembrance’, souchay invited the listener to hear as a song about ‘resignation [op. 19[b] no. 1]’. the anonymous poet of deneke c. 47, incidentally, opted for Trost, or ‘consolation’, a title adopted in later nineteenth-century editions of the Lieder ohne Worte for op. 30 no. 3. op. 30 no. 3 was among a handful of Lieder ohne Worte which souchay was unable to decipher, leading him to turn to the composer for clariication. inconveniently for souchay, Mendelssohn’s celebrated answer, frequently taken as arguing for the autonomy of musical expression, shed no light on the question of titles or verbal content of the pieces, but rather argued for the precision of music over words: ‘there is so much talk about music, and so little is said. i believe that words are not at all up to it, and if I should ind that they were adequate I would stop making music altogether’. Mendelssohn continued: if you ask me what i was thinking of when i wrote it, i would say: just the song as it stands. And if i happen to have had certain words in mind for one or another of these songs, i would never want to tell them to anyone because the same words never mean the same things to different people. only the song can say the same thing, can arouse the same feelings in one person as in another, a feeling which is not expressed, however, by the same words.13

We owe to Fanny Hensel, for whom Mendelssohn composed his irst Lied ohne Worte in 1828,14 a crucial piece of evidence about the origins of the Lieder ohne Worte and, what is more, about the question of hidden texts. Fanny was not merely a bystander who witnessed irsthand her brother’s remarkable maturation as a composer during the 1820s, but an accomplished composer/pianist in her own 12

todd (2010), 145. Mendelssohn to souchay, october 15, 1842, in Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1868), 269–71. 14 The Lied in E-lat major, written for Fanny’s birthday on November 14, 1828. For an edition, see Mendelssohn Bartholdy (2009), 152–3. 13

Mendelssohn Perspectives

206

right, who produced lyrical piano miniatures that are stylistically clearly related to the Lieder ohne Worte. We have it on Fanny’s authority that in Berlin the siblings played a musical/textual game in which they created texts for Mendelssohn’s piano pieces (and, presumably, for Fanny’s as well). the source of this assertion, which may bear directly on the origin of the Lieder ohne Worte, is a letter Fanny wrote to her brother on 7 september 1838 in which she commented on the current practice of piano virtuosi of transcribing texted songs for performance at the piano: dear Felix, when text is removed from sung lieder so that they can be used as concert pieces, it is contrary to the experiment of adding a text to your instrumental lieder – the other half of the topsy-turvy world. i’m old enough to ind many things utterly tasteless in the world at present: that may well fall into that category. But shouldn’t a person think a lot of himself … when he sees how the jokes that we, as mere children, contrived to pass the time have now been adopted by the great talents and used as fodder for the public?15

Fanny may have had in mind the transcriptions of Franz liszt, who during the late 1830s began producing piano arrangements of Lieder by schubert in which the silent texts were actually printed, as if to empower pianists to re-experience vicariously schubert’s artful fusion of verbal and musical images. But as to the childhood game that the Mendelssohn siblings played – what Fanny termed ‘the other half of the topsy-turvy world’ – we are on considerably less secure ground. no hard evidence from Mendelssohn’s manuscripts of the 1820s has yet emerged to conirm Fanny’s claim, though we do have at least one later example, in Mendelssohn’s hand, of a piano piece that became a vocal composition. What is more, we also have Fanny’s song ‘es rauscht das rote laub’, a setting of an emanuel Geibel poem which she may have written in response to her brother’s Lied ohne Worte Op. 67 No. 5, almost as if to it a text to his music. Because these two examples are relatively unknown in the Mendelssohn literature, we shall examine them in some detail here for evidence about the meaning of the Lieder ohne Worte and the relation between instrumental music and text in Mendelssohn’s aesthetics in order to consider again the limits of musical expression.

I Our irst example dates from 16 October 1836, when Mendelssohn composed in leipzig an Allegro molto in F-sharp minor for piano, the autograph of which is preserved in volume 18 of the Mendelssohn Nachlass of the deutsche staatsbibliothek in Berlin. Following the precedent of his sister Fanny hensel, who typically used the simple term Lied to refer to her piano pieces, Mendelssohn titled this Allegro molto a Lied, even though by 1836 the term Lied ohne Worte 15

Fanny hensel to Mendelssohn, 7 september 1838, in citron (1987), 261.

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had been oficially established by the release of the German irst editions of the irst two volumes of Lieder ohne Worte. one hundred and forty bars in length, Mendelssohn’s Allegro molto remained in manuscript and virtually unknown until Christa Jost published the irst edition in 2001.16 in comparison to most of Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte, which often employ a ternary song form (ABA), the Allegro molto falls into a seven-part rondo form, with an opening refrain and contrasting episodes, which we may summarize in table 10.2.

table 10.2

Mendelssohn, Lied (Allegro molto) in F-sharp minor (1836) section:

A

B

A

B

A

B

Key area:

f#

b

f#

c#

f#

d/f# f#

i

iv

i

v

i

vi/i i

1

20

36

44

87

103

Measure no.

A

133

As one would expect, the refrain – a soprano melody doubled in thirds and accompanied by a pulsating tremolo igure in the bass – remains in the tonic F-sharp minor throughout; the episodes touch on contrasting keys, including the subdominant, dominant, and submediant. As we shall see, the recurring refrain seems to have inluenced the text that was ultimately devised for the music; and, further, the characteristic opening melody, doubled in thirds, determined that the piano composition would be transformed into a duet. Mendelssohn never revised the 1836 Lied for use in his later volumes of Lieder ohne Worte; instead, the piece resurfaced in a more unusual way. in 1844 his london friend Karl Klingemann fashioned a text for the piece, prompting Mendelssohn to rework the Allegro molto and release it in 1845 as a Duett mit Worte, the Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4. on 18 July 1844 Mendelssohn wrote to Kistner, who would publish the op. 63 duets, that the composer’s english publisher would be sending a ‘new two-voiced lied’ for inclusion in the op. 63.17 By process of elimination – the other ive duets of Op. 63 survive in dated autographs – it is clear that the new duet was the Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4. in June and July 1844 Mendelssohn had made his eighth visit to london, where he spent considerable time with Klingemann, an embassy oficial at the Hanoverian legation and an amateur poet who had already authored several verses set by Mendelssohn as songs. Piecing together all of the evidence, we can infer that the duet version of Herbstlied originated at this time, when Mendelssohn evidently asked Klingemann to devise a poem that could be convincingly itted to the melody of the original piano Lied of 1836. 16 17

Mendelssohn Bartholdy (2001), 176–9. Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1968), 328.

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As i have discussed elsewhere,18 Mendelssohn’s composing autograph of the Herbstlied, preserved in Mendelssohn Nachlass 39, now found in the Biblioteka Jagiellońska in Kraków, reveals a bit of the compositional process by which the piano piece was transformed into a Herbstlied about the passage of time, and the autumnal transformation of spring and summer into Winterzeit. the composing score transmits a different version of Klingemann’s poem, revealing that the collaboration between the two friends cost considerable effort. For example, the irst stanza originally read: Ach, wie so schnell bist du entschwunden, sonne des lenzes lieblichste Zeit! Ach, die erinn’rung aller Freudestunden Gleichet so sehr dem bittersten leid. Bald sind die letzten Blätter verlogen, Bald ist der letzte vogel gezogen, Bald ist das letzte Grün dahin! Alle sie wollen heimwärts ziehn.

oh, how quickly have you vanished sun of spring, most lovely time! oh, the remembrance of all joyous hours Mirrors so much the most bitter sorrow. soon the last leaves have disappeared, Soon the last bird has lown away, soon the last trace of green has left! they all wish to be homeward bound.

In the inal version of this stanza, Klingemann made several modiications, including inserting into the irst line the round dance (Reigen) as an image of spring and of the transience of human affairs: Ach, wie so bald verhallet der reigen Wandelt sich Frühling in Winterzeit! Ach, wie so bald in trauerndes schweigen Wandelt sich alle die Fröhlichkeit! Bald sind die letzten Klänge verlogen, Bald sind die letzten sänger gezogen! Bald ist das letzte Grün dahin! Alle sie wollen heimwärts ziehn!

oh, how soon fades the round dance, As spring turns to the wintry time! oh, how soon into sorrowful silence turns all merriment! soon the last sounds have vanished, soon the last singers have withdrawn! soon the last trace of green has left! they all wish to be homeward bound.

in short, the memories of the round dance and its festive music replace the fading sun of spring and introduce a leeting, circular image that, it seems, was meant to play off the recurring refrain of Mendelssohn’s original Allegro molto. to accommodate Klingemann’s verses, Mendelssohn collapsed the original seven-part rondo scheme of the piano Allegro molto into a ive-part pattern, as our table 10.3 reveals. 18

todd (1992), 363–7.

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

table 10.3

209

Mendelssohn, Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4 section:

A

B

A

B

A

Key area:

f#

c#

f#

d

f#

i

v

i

vi

i

1

18

46

54

78

Measure no.

in so doing, he shortened the piano version, 140 bars in length, to 109 bars for the duet. And he made one other signiicant alteration, this one to the piano accompaniment, by replacing the frenetic, insistent, repeated tremolo chords with a lowing, broken, arpeggiated iguration (Examples 10.3–10.4) which abruptly terminates in the inal bar, as if prompted by the inal words, ‘Ach, wie so bald!’ But he did not signiicantly change the thematic contents, form or circular devices of the original piano piece. rather, Klingemann’s text now seemed to enhance or make verbally perceptible certain expressive qualities of the piano lied. example 10.3

Mendelssohn, Lied in F-sharp minor (1836)

II if Herbstlied offers the clearest evidence of the children’s game that Mendelssohn had played with his sister Fanny, we may have some additional evidence in a song she composed in 1846, scarcely one year before her death, ‘es rauscht das rote laub’, to a text by emanuel Geibel.19 this song is a somber Wanderlied that also treats the season of autumn, now opposed to spring – a time not of renewal but despair over a traveler’s separation from his lover. the contrast encouraged Fanny 19

todd (2010), 328–29; for an edition of the lied, see hensel (1995), 71–5.

210

Mendelssohn Perspectives

example 10.4

Mendelssohn, Herbstlied, op. 63 no. 4

example 10.5

hensel, ‘es rauscht das rote laub’ (1846)

to pair two keys, F-sharp minor for autumn and A major for the anticipation of spring, between which the music indecisively alternates. the repeated, step-like pitches in the tenor voice of the piano and the descending, interlocked fourths of the voice (c-sharp–G-sharp–A–e-sharp) unmistakably tie Fanny’s Lied to her

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

example 10.6

211

Mendelssohn, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 5

brother’s Lied ohne Worte in B minor, op. 67 no. 5, almost as if, in discovering Geibel’s poem, she determined to rewrite her brother’s piano piece from 1844 and convert it into a Lied mit Worten (examples 10.5–10.6). Mendelssohn composed op. 67 no. 5 in Berlin in January 1844,20 when he was serving as a royal Kapellmeister to the Prussian court and when he would have shared his new compositions with his sister. like so many of the Lieder ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 5 is framed by a short piano introduction and postlude. the body of the piece falls into a simple three-part ABA form, as summarized in table 10.4.

table 10.4

Mendelssohn, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 5 (1844) section:

introduction

A

B

A

Postlude

Key area:

b

b

d–F#

b

b

i

i

iii–v i

i

1

5

13

33

Measure no.

23

The drones on the open ifth B–F-sharp in the bass, which return in the central B section as drones on the ifth D–A, give the piece the character of a Volkslied, though Mendelssohn left no other clues as to a speciic type or character of a poem that he may have had in mind. Be that as it may, Fanny made several adjustments to separate her song from her brother’s piano piece. First, and foremost, she changed the meter from the common 4/4 time of the piano piece to 3/4. next, she 20

Autograph dated January 5, 1844, Pl-Kj, Mn 39, 13.

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compressed the piano introduction to just the opening bar, in which instead of drone ifths we hear a pedal point on the dominant C-sharp, as if the Lied begins in medias res. And third, though she retained the opening contour of the melody, with its expressive descending fourth and diminished fourth, she altered a detail of the accompaniment. While her brother doubled the melodic line at the tenth below, Fanny doubled it at the third below. like Felix, Fanny cast her composition in a ternary ABA form, but whereas Felix clearly segregated the tonal areas of the three sections – the A section is unmistakably centered on the tonic, the B section on the mediant – Fanny allowed a tonal ambivalence to wash over the entire song (table 10.5).

table 10.5

Fanny hensel, ‘es rauscht das rote laub’ (1846) section:

A

B

A

Postlude

Key area:

f#/A

A/f#

f#/A

f#

i/iii

iii/i

i/iii

i

1

14

27

38

Measure no.:

thus, the pensive opening in F-sharp minor turns within a few bars to A major; and in the middle section in A major, Fanny delects a deinitive cadence and instead allows the music to be pulled back into the orbit of F-sharp minor. the tonal ambivalence is her response to the shifting images of the poem, which contrasts the red, fall foliage with the greening of spring, a temporal separation that parallels the wandering of the protagonist and his separation from his lover.

III As a pianist, Mendelssohn was one of the most celebrated improvisers of his time. his abilities in this now largely lost art were legendary and, for example, could entail improvising at the keyboard a quodlibet on unrelated themes heard in an orchestral concert at the leipzig Gewandhaus or on themes chosen by Queen victoria in Buckingham Palace; or generating, seemingly at will, in rehearsals at the london Philharmonic a series of alternative cadenzas for the Beethoven Fourth Piano concerto. Mendelssohn often entertained his immediate circle with private performances of Lieder ohne Worte, and the genre was never far removed from extemporization. the Venetianisches Gondellied op. 30 no. 6 written for henriette voigt and discussed earlier, for example, was a by-product of one improvisation. And to return to where we began, robert schumann’s review of Mendelssohn’s op. 30 conjures up an intimate scene in which a musician improvising at an upright piano and singing a melody effectively produces a Lied ohne Worte.

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213

Mendelssohn himself demonstrated the link between his extemporizations and the Lieder ohne Worte in one notable performance at the leipzig Gewandhaus on 5 december 1845, an event possibly attended by schumann. on this occasion, when he accompanied Jenny lind, who had made her leipzig debut with the orchestra the previous evening, he chose on the spur of the moment two unrelated Lieder ohne Worte – the Andante in E-lat major Op. 67 No. 1 and the Frühlingslied in A major, op. 62 no. 6 – and coupled them with two improvisations. his young english pupil William smyth rockstro recorded how the composer gradually transformed the bell-like, static pitches of Op. 67 No. 1 into the harp-like arpeggiated igures of op. 62 no. 6: Beginning with a characteristic prelude in E-lat major, Mendelssohn played, as only he could play it, his own Lied ohne Worte [in E-lat major]. Then, during the course of a long and masterly modulation from the key of E-lat major to that of A major he carried on the quiet semiquaver accompaniment of the irst Lied for some considerable time, without interruption, treating it with new and unexpected harmonies so contrived as to permit the continuance of the bell-like B-lat in the form of an inverted pedal-point, and always presenting the reiterated note in some novel and captivating position. As the modulation proceeded, the B-lat gave place to other notes, treated in like manner, and presently these were relieved by a new igure, which rapidly developed into the well-known feathery arpeggio of the famous Frühlingslied. every one thus knew what was coming; but no one was prepared for the iery treatment which irst worked up this arpeggio-form into a stormy climax carrying all before it, and then as it gradually approached the long-expected chords of A major, died gently away, in a longdrawn diminuendo, so artfully managed that, when the delicious melody was at last fairly introduced, it sent an electric thrill through every heart in the room. the recollection of it returns as vividly as if it had been played but yesterday.21

rockstro recorded his memoir of the performance in 1884, when he published a short biography of Mendelssohn. By then, op. 62 no. 6 was all too well established as Mendelssohn’s Frühlingslied; but in 1845 only his immediate circle would have known the title, for the piece had appeared in 1844 without any attribution. Mendelssohn’s original manuscript of 1842 is headed Lied, though in subsequent autograph copies he did add the designation Frühlingslied.22 Given that he thus understood the piece to be a spring song, can we infer an extra-musical interpretation for op. 67 no. 1, however speculative? At the end of the overture to Die erste Walpurgisnacht, published in its inal form in 1844, the composer had inserted an Übergang to mark the transition from winter to spring (A minor to A major), though most assuredly there is no suggestion in op. 67 no. 1 of the wintry schlechtes Wetter with which the overture begins. 21 22

rockstro (1884), 116–17. Wehner (2009), 345.

214

Mendelssohn Perspectives

But Mendelssohn’s choice to juxtapose op. 67 no. 1 and the Frühlingslied, and thereby to pair the keys of E-lat and A major – separated by a tritone, the most distant tonal relationship – seems curious indeed. Perhaps the distinctive, bell-like pedal point of op. 67 no. 1 suggests a solution. As Mendelssohn would have known, his sister Fanny hensel had treated the month of April in her piano cycle Das Jahr (1842) as a spring song in A major; the preceding movement for March, which begins in F-sharp minor, is suffused with the mufled tolling of bells that adumbrate easter. Perhaps Mendelssohn’s improvised pairing of the two Lieder ohne Worte at the Gewandhaus in 1845 created a somewhat similar programmatic narrative for two otherwise unrelated, distinctly different piano miniatures. in all likelihood, we shall never know for sure. Mendelssohn’s free prelude and interlude are unfortunately lost, though they must have underscored how important the art of improvisation was in european concert life of the 1840s. the appendices offer a modest demonstration of the possibilities in joining the two Lieder ohne Worte, and attempt to introduce and transform op. 67 no. 1, with its pendulating, bell-like igures, into the familiar Frühlingslied. the result is a coupling of two unrelated piano pieces, separated by two most distantly separated keys, E-lat and A major, but now reconigured in a symmetrical plan. The opening prelude (Appendix 10.1), modulating from A major to E-lat major, draws upon and develops the basic rhythmic motive of op. 67 no. 1 (Ä é.ì éê) before eliding with its opening. the transition to op. 62 no. 6 then reverses the tonal trajectory by modulating from E-lat major to A major, as it roughly charts the narrative of events described by rockstro and quoted above (Appendix 10.2). in the end, these improvisations can only offer some hints, nothing more than educated guesses, at how Mendelssohn viewed the genre to which his name was inextricably linked – and, perhaps, why he preferred the precision of music to the ambiguities of words.

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

Appendix 10.1

Prelude to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 1, by r. larry todd

215

216

Appendix 10.1 continued

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

217

Appendix 10.2 interlude connecting Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s Lied ohne Worte, op. 67 no. 1 with op. 62. no. 6, by r. larry todd

218

Appendix 10.2 continued

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

219

220

Appendix 10.2 continued

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Mendelssohn’s lieder ohne Worte

221

222

Appendix 10.2 continued

Mendelssohn Perspectives

chapter 11

improvisation, elaboration, composition: the Mendelssohns and the classical cadenza1 Angela r. Mace Jedes vollkommene Werk ist die totenmaske seiner intuition. – Walter Benjamin

‘every perfect work is the death mask of its intuition’. As richard Kramer rephrased it in his monograph Uninished Music, ‘all works, whether measurably perfect or not, partake of this axiomatic truth: that in their completion, they die’.2 thus, Benjamin’s image of the ‘death mask’ equates to our modern tendency to view works as ‘inished’, and the compositional text as ‘sacred’. In the early nineteenth century, however, this concept was much less prevalent; eighteenthcentury piano concertos in particular represented for most performers anything but a inished, perfected, or ‘vollkommenes’ work. Rather, the concerto, and especially the cadenza, was a place to display personality and talent, a canvas with only a few guidelines to direct the creativity of the artist. some performers were more successful than others, and in many cases, beauty – or lack thereof – rested in the eye of the beholder. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, for one, had high standards when it came to cadenzas: camille Pleyel made two cadenzas longer than the entire concerto, and decorated the entire piece with coquettish affectations, at best appropriate for rossini; now he played above, now below, here a trill, there a run, here a double appoggiatura, there a suspended ninth, in short, a concerto by Mozart revue et corrigé par c. Pleyel.3

1 My gratitude to r. larry todd, Anselm hartinger, Martin edin, and Benedict taylor for their helpful comments on this chapter. 2 Kramer (2008), vii. 3 Fanny and Felix Mendelssohn (1997), 33. letter of 1 April 1825: ‘er machte zwei cadenzen, welche länger, als das ganze concert waren, und hatte sich überhaupt das stück mit coquetten Manieren, wie sie in rossini allenfalls passen, verziert; bald war er oben, bald unten, hier ein triller, dort ein läufer, hier ein doppelschlag, dort eine vorgehaltene none, kurz ein concert von Mozart revue et corrigé par c. Pleyel’. english translation from todd (2003), 143.

224

Mendelssohn Perspectives

We know that the young Mendelssohn’s disdain for musical taste in France extended well beyond such performances, but we see in this letter to his sister Fanny, written from Paris on 1 April 1825, that the siblings – aged 16 and 19 – had already formed strong opinions about what they did and did not like, especially with respect to the music of the eighteenth century. the practice of revising piano concertos was common in the early nineteenth century as virtuosos attempted to update eighteenth-century works to appeal to the increasingly extravagant tastes of their audiences. Just as Mendelssohn observed at a fashionable Parisian concert in 1825, some of these revisions included elaboration of simple restatements of themes, ornamentation, doublings at the octave, and illedout textures to utilize the growing compass and power of the piano. the debate over authenticity in performing Mozart’s piano concertos, in particular, raged hotly through the irst two decades of the nineteenth century. Some Mozart devotees, like Philipp Karl hoffmann, attempted to remedy the situation; in 1801 and 1803 hoffmann published elaborations of six slow movements from Mozart’s concertos as well as cadenzas for the same works. the embellishments of the slow movements are in some places quite attractive (consisting mostly of runs, arpeggios, and trills that ill in wide leaps or ill out long notes), but the cadenzas are clearly formulaic and generally at least twice as long as a typical Mozart cadenza.4 even Mozart was known to extemporize embellishments for his own concertos, so the issue was not that an authentic performance could not be embellished; the problem arose when the task fell to hands less talented than Mozart’s. the situation with cadenzas was potentially much worse – depending, of course, on which side of the argument one took. For the purposes of this study we will explore the viewpoint of the Mendelssohns and critics writing from conservative backgrounds, in relation to performances primarily in Germany, or reviewed by Germans. if we may judge from contemporary reviews and Felix Mendelssohn’s own observations about camille Pleyel, many performers in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries improvised cadenzas in a style that offended the artistic sensibilities of those musicians educated in the guidelines set forth by such authorities as carl Philipp emanuel Bach (Versuch über die wahre Art, das Clavier zu spielen, 1753 and 1762), Johann Joachim Quantz (Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversiere zu spielen, 1752), and daniel Gottlob türk (Klavierschule, 1789). türk, in particular, did not attempt to conceal his distaste for badly improvised cadenzas, as this passage from his Klavierschule demonstrates: it is not seldom that a concerto or the like seems to be played merely because of its cadenzas. the performer goes to excess not only with regard to the suitable length of the composition, but moreover even incorporates all sorts of ideas that do not have the least relationship to what has gone before in the composition. 4 hoffmann (1959). the six Mozart piano concertos are K. 467, 482, 488, 491, 503, and 595.

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

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the result is that the good impression that might have been made on the listener is for the most part cadenzaed away (wegkadenziert).5 [emphasis original]

türk goes on to detail what a good cadenza should include: among other attributes, a cadenza should not be too long (türk considers ‘several minutes’ excessive); should be in a mood appropriate for the concerto; should not merely offer a technical showcase; and should not modulate to any key the composer did not use in the concerto. he emphasizes further that a cadenza should be composed of themes from the concerto, presenting something approaching a summary of the concerto. türk points out that a cadenza thus properly constructed could not be reused in another concerto, which suggests that performers were recycling cadenzas in the manner of the ‘suitcase’ aria. even though the cadenza might (advisedly) be prepared beforehand and even set on the piano during performance, türk urges the performer to create the impression that the cadenza has been improvised on the spot.6 Performers in the early nineteenth century apparently continued to ignore the old-fashioned warnings of the eighteenth-century writers. in his 1805 essay ‘Ueber Kadenzen’ (‘About cadenzas’) in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, Friedrich Guthmann noted that ‘the minds of the audience have enough to do at most long concerts; they don’t need to be even more wearied by the cadenza or even completely distracted and alienated from the orderly progress of the entire piece’.7 Guthmann was particularly distressed by a showy, thoughtless cadenza, which he likened to ‘no more than a festive cloth, a little piece of tinsel, dangling from a light garment’.8 that Felix Mendelssohn’s comments to his sister Fanny Mendelssohn9 on Pleyel’s performance in 1825 echo much the same sentiment illustrates just how pervasive and enduring the problem of the cadenza remained throughout the irst half of the nineteenth century (or, depending on one’s viewpoint, how conservative the musical taste of the Mendelssohns remained). the Mendelssohns thus found 5 türk (1982), 298, and (1962), 309. ‘denn nicht selten scheint es, ein Konzert u. [dgl.] werde blos der Kadenzen wegen gespielt. – der Ausführer schweift dabey nicht nur in Absicht aus die zweckmäßige länge aus, sondern bringt noch überdies allerley Gedanken darin an, die auf das vorhergegangene tonstück nicht die geringste Beziehung haben, so daß dadurch der gute eindruck, welchen das tonstück vielleicht auf den Zuhörer gemacht hätte, größtentheils wieder wegkadenziert wird’. 6 türk (1982), 297–309. 7 Guthmann (1805). ‘die seele des Zuhörers hat bey den meist langen Konzerten ohnehin genug zu thun, sie braucht nicht erst durch die Kadenz noch ermüdert oder doch zerstreut und vom regelmässigen Gange des ganzen stücks abgezogen zu werden’. 8 ibid., ‘nicht selten waren Kadenzen weiter nichts, als ein bunter lappen, ein stückchen Flittergold, an ein einfaches Gewand gehängt’. 9 i use Fanny Mendelssohn hensel’s maiden name throughout this chapter when the focus is on her musical activities prior to her marriage to Wilhelm hensel in 1829.

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themselves between the received but contentious tradition of Mozart and the stillforming legacy of Beethoven. Already pianists mature and experienced enough to perform virtuoso works – including concertos – both Felix and Fanny were also conscientiously and thoroughly trained to respect the eighteenth-century tradition. the focus of this study is thus how the Mendelssohns approached this tradition and practised their artistic ideals in their own renderings of concertos by Beethoven and Mozart while retaining their personal styles and navigating the aesthetic battles of their contemporaries.

Beethoven and Concert Life in the Mendelssohn Family Felix and Fanny were most likely irst introduced to the piano works of Beethoven before 1820 during piano lessons with Marie Bigot de Morogues (née Kiéné) in Paris and ludwig Berger in Berlin, two sought-after pedagogues especially famous for their interpretations of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. Marie Bigot, the wife of count razumovsky’s librarian, had been a friend of Beethoven while the Bigots lived in vienna,10 and Berger had been well schooled in the traditions of the late eighteenth century through his apprenticeship with Muzio clementi.11 The iery and charismatic Beethoven proponent Adolph Bernhard Marx also heavily inluenced Fanny and Felix in the early 1820s, and signs of Beethoven’s style are easily found in works of both siblings around this time, and for the rest of their lives. Felix and Fanny’s primary stage in their early years was not the public concert hall, but rather the Musiksaal of their family’s Berlin residence. While public performance was out of the question for Fanny, Felix did give a number of public performances, appearing as a soloist in concerto or concerto-type works at least four times (and as a chamber musician on several other occasions) before embarking on his Grand tour on 10 April 1829. Both young prodigies, however, did enjoy a remarkably active private musical life. their concerto performances alone – gathered in tables 11.1 and 11.2 – display the breadth of repertoire and technical ability both pianists had acquired already by their late teens, especially remarkable for a young upper-class woman like Fanny Mendelssohn. not so clear is what kind of accompaniment Felix and Fanny would have had for their performances of concertos performed in private venues; an orchestra would have been possible for performances at the Mendelssohn residence, since Abraham and lea Mendelssohn often hired members of the royal orchestra to premier Felix’s string symphonies at the sunday musicales.12 More probable, however, is either 10

Forbes (1967), 407. For more on Bigot’s relationship with Beethoven, see schwarz-danuser (2001), 86–105. For more on Berger, see siebenkäs (1963), especially 20. 12 lea Mendelssohn referred to the sunday musicales as ‘sonntags Uebungen,’ perhaps in the spirit of their function as trials to promote Felix’s talents. letter of 19 october 1821, lea to henriette von Pereira-Arnstein, cited in Klein (2005), 11. 11

table 11.1

Fanny Mendelssohn’s selected concerto repertoire, 1822–25

composer, Work

location

date

Johann nepomuk hummel Piano concerto in A minor, op. 85 (presumably) Johann nepomuk hummel Rondeau brilliant in A major, op. 56 Felix Mendelssohn Piano concerto in A minor ludwig van Beethoven Piano concerto in c major, op. 15 ludwig van Beethoven Piano Concerto in E-[lat] major, Op. 73, the ‘Emperor’ Felix Mendelssohn concerto for two Pianos in e major (with Felix) Felix Mendelssohn Concerto for Two Pianos in A-[lat] major Johann sebastian Bach Keyboard concerto in d minor (BWv 1052) ludwig van Beethoven Piano concerto in G major, op. 58

sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin Aloys schmitt’s residence, Frankfurt

24 March 1822a

c. F. Zelter’s residence, Berlin

22 october 1822c

Presumably sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin Presumably sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin c. F. Zelter’s residence, Berlin

Presumably early 1823 (cadenza dated 11 April 1823) 11 May 1823d

Presumably sunday musicale, leipziger strasse 3, Berlin

Notes: a letter of 29 March 1822, lea Mendelssohn to henriette von Pereira-Arnstein; GB-ob M.d.M. c. 29. b hiller (1874), 4. c Montgomery (1990), 203. d dinglinger (2006), 45. letter of 27 May 1823, lea Mendelssohn to henriette von Pereira-Arnstein. e letter of 9 december 1823, Felix Mendelssohn to c. F. Zelter. elvers (1986), 18. f Großman-vendrey (1969), 17. g Moscheles (1873), 67. h elvers (1997), 97.

July 1822b

7 december 1823e and 14 november 1824f Presumably 1824 3 december 1824g By 1825h

table 11.2

Felix Mendelssohn’s selected concerto repertoire, 1818–27

composer, Work

location

date

J. l. dussek Concert militaire Felix Mendelssohn Piano concerto in A minor Felix Mendelssohn double concerto in d minor, with eduard rietz (violin) Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Piano concerto (key unknown) Felix Mendelssohn double Piano concerto in e major (with Fanny). Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Piano concerto in c minor, K 491 ludwig van Beethoven Choral Fantasy, op. 80 Felix Mendelssohn Concerto for Two Pianos in A-[lat] major, with Carl Gottfried Loewe carl Maria von Weber Konzertstück

Private event (no review), Berlin

1818a

Public concert of Anna Milder-hauptmann

5 december 1822b

schauspielhaus, Berlin, and sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin Bad reinerz, celebration for nathan Mendelssohn’s iron foundry sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin sunday musicale, neue Promenade 7, Berlin concert of violinist ludwig Maurer, Berlin

3 July 1823c and 25 May 1823 24 August 1823d

stettin (szczecin), concert directed by loewe

20 February 1827h

stettin (szczecin), concert directed by loewe

20 February 1827i

a

7 december 1823 and 14 november 1824e 14 november 1824f 2 november 1825g

todd (2003), 36. ibid., 103. c ibid., 118. d ibid., 122. An account says he ‘embellished’ the movement, playing essentially in double time, because the other musicians (about seven) were inept and were playing the Allegro as an Andante. e ibid., 135. f todd (1991c), table 3 for a further listing of performances of Mozart concertos after 1829. g todd (2003), 155. reviewed by A. B. Marx. see Marx (1825a) and (1825b). h todd (2003), 167. Mendelssohn’s overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream was also given its public orchestral premiere at this occasion. i ibid., 167. b

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

229

a second piano or small string ensemble. Fanny and Felix frequently presented four-hand or piano duet works, and we do know that Fanny performed Felix’s Rondo brillant, op. 29 with a string quartet and double bass at one of her own Sonntagsmusiken in 1835.13 Furthermore, string quartet and other reduced chamber accompaniments for concertos were not uncommon at this time; Felix Mendelssohn and Frédéric chopin both performed concertos with chamber accompaniments in Paris during the winter of 1831–32. Felix presented several Mozart concertos in this manner, and chopin his own Piano concerto in e minor, op. 11.14 After Fanny married Wilhelm hensel on 3 october 1829, she assumed the role of concert hostess in the Mendelssohn home at leipziger strasse 3, and organized a series of sunday concerts similar to the events inaugurated by her parents in the 1820s.15 Fanny appeared frequently as a soloist, chamber musician, accompanist, and conductor in these concerts, which she hosted throughout the 1830s and 1840s. Attended at times by up to 200 people, the concerts became one of the most sought-after invitations in Berlin. Franz liszt and clara schumann numbered among the illustrious guests and performers, and Fanny’s concerts were even attended by Prussian nobility on occasion. the concerts ranged from intimate events with lieder and chamber music to the Berlin premieres of some of Felix’s larger works – his irst oratorio Paulus on 22 January 1837,16 for instance. Fanny was thus in a position of great cultural power (following in the footsteps of her aunt sarah levy17), and her choice of repertoire had the potential to shape the taste of her peers in Berlin and beyond. several composers appear with some frequency on her programmes, but Beethoven emerges as a favourite, nearly equal with her beloved brother (see table 11.3). We see, for example, in her diary entry of 28 october 1833 that Fanny calculated how often she had programmed works of nine composers over the previous two months on four occasions: 6 times Beethoven 2 times Bach 2 times Mozart 4 times Weber 3 times Felix 1 time Gluck 13

Klein (2005), 41. eigeldinger (1987), 263–4. see also todd (1991c), 184. For further discussion, see Goldberg (2002). 15 Abraham and Lea Mendelssohn organized concerts irst at Neue Promenade 7, then at the inal family residence in Berlin, Leipziger Strasse 3, where the family was living by mid-1825. the events Fanny hensel organized in the 1830s and 1840s were also at leipziger strasse 3. see todd (2003), 31, 73, and 137. 16 Klein (2005), 45. 17 Wollny (1993). 14

Mendelssohn Perspectives

230 1 time spohr 1 time Moscheles 1 time me 18

regrettably, Fanny’s records are incomplete, and there were periods of months and even years when – due to travel, sickness, or deaths in the family – the concerts did not take place; but enough evidence survives to extend Fanny’s list to compile a provisional list of her most frequently programmed composers (table 11.3).

table 11.3 Performances

Fanny hensel’s most frequently programmed composers, 1833–47 composer

40

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy

38

ludwig van Beethoven

16

Johann sebastian Bach

13

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

12

carl Maria von Weber

9

Fanny hensel

7

christoph Willibald von Gluck George Frederic handel

4

Franz Joseph haydn

2

Ferdinand david Karl Anton Florian eckert Johann nepomuk hummel ignaz Moscheles

1

charles de Bériot Frédéric chopin heinrich Marschner Gioacchino rossini louis spohr henri vieuxtemps

Note: data compiled by the author from Klein (2005) and lambour (2001).

18 ‘6 mal Beethoven, 2 mal Bach, 2 mal Mozart, 4 mal Weber, 3 mal Felix, 1 mal Gluck, 1 mal spohr, 1 mal Moscheles, 1 mal ich.’ hensel (2002), 47–8. For more, see lambour (2001), 111.

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

231

the list in table 11.3 represents at best approximate tallies of only those composers mentioned in Fanny’s diary or letters of her family members (most usually her mother), and thus may be skewed in the direction of Felix’s works, while various works of other composers were most likely performed without being recorded. even so, it is apparent that Felix Mendelssohn and Beethoven were Fanny’s clear favourites, with a steep drop-off to Bach, Mozart, and Weber; then another cluster around herself, Gluck, and handel; with haydn and ten other composers bringing up the rear. Fanny’s early engagement with the music of Beethoven, then, continued to inluence profoundly her choices as both a performer and composer and remained central to her musical activities for the remainder of her life.

Fanny Mendelssohn’s Cadenza for Beethoven’s Piano Concerto in C major, op. 15 A little-known source which provides a signiicant example of Fanny’s early enthusiasm for the music of Beethoven both as a performer and a composer lies tucked away in a mixed manuscript at the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz: a cadenza Fanny wrote for Beethoven’s Piano concerto in c major, op. 15. the date on the manuscript of the cadenza, penned in her hand, is ‘11 April [18]23’, which suggests a performance that year, if not earlier. however, the cadenza19 is the third item in what appears to be a pre-bound volume containing primarily piano etudes and lieder, dated consecutively from 22 March 182320 to 12 september 1823. the cadenza shows no signs of wear which might accrue from repeated performances, and appears to be a Reinschrift, bearing only a few corrections. the manuscript occupies two pages, on the inner leaves of a double bi-folio gathering (Figure 11.1, see p. 234). the integrated position of the cadenza within this mixed manuscript suggests that this version of the cadenza was not a performing version, but rather a memory aid – either the record of something that had already been improvised in performance or the preparation for a future performance. Fanny’s cadenza for the c-major concerto most likely would not have provoked her brother’s sharp criticism, for she conceived her cadenza in the late eighteenthcentury tradition of Mozart, stylistically appropriate for this early Beethoven work irmly entrenched in the late classical style (composed 1795, revised 1800, published 1801). the Mozartian style of Fanny’s cadenza is evident in the emphasis on the prolongation of the cadential six-four chord, the brevity of the cadenza, and its tendency to merge spontaneous, improvisational gestures with themes 19

d-B, MA Ms. 33, 4–5. This irst entry in the manuscript, however – an Übungsstück for piano in C major – is a copy of a piece composed on 6 november 1822. the copy is dated 22 March 1823 (see h-U 53). the intervening pieces – ‘im herbst (h-U 54, 9 november 1822) to ‘das ruhetal’ (h-U 64, February 1823) – are all notated in MA Ms. 32. there is no surviving manuscript of the earlier version of the Übungsstück. 20

Plate 11.1

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza to Beethoven’s Piano concerto in c major, op. 15. MA Ms. 33, p. 4. (reproduced by permission of the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv).

Plate 11.2

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza to Beethoven’s Piano concerto in c major, op. 15. MA Ms. 33, p. 5. (reproduced by permission of the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin-Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv).

Mendelssohn Perspectives

234

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Übungsstück (h-U 53) 22 March 1823 (copy of 6 november 1822) Übungsstück (h-U 53) 22 March 1823 (copy of 6 november 1822) ‘Wiegenlied’ (h-U 65) March 1823 Cadenz zu dem Concert v. Beethoven aus C dur Op. 15. 11 April 1823 Cadenz zu dem Concert v. Beethoven aus C dur Op. 15. 11 April 1823 ‘die furchtsame träne’ (h-U 66) 16 April 1823 ‘die furchtsame träne’ (h-U 66) 16 April 1823 ‘im Molo di Gaeta’ (h-U 89) 17 April 1823, etc.

Figure 11.1

construction of d-B MA Ms. 33, pp. 1–8. staatsbibliotek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteiling mit Mendelssohn-Archiv.

and motives found in the concerto. it is as if Fanny combined improvisation and composition so that, as christoph Wolff has observed of Mozart’s own cadenzas, the cadenza is ‘gradually … removed from genuine improvisation and, instead’, becomes ‘much closer to compositional elaboration’.21 We will see how this concept of compositional elaboration – not far removed from türk’s concept of the ‘concerto summary’ or the practice of revision – forms the basis for Fanny’s approach to the cadenza. As shown in Plate 11.1, the cadenza occupies two pages in oblong format. Although most of the cadenza is notated non mesuré, Fanny inserts 14 bar lines, several of which appear in structurally important locations before cadential sixfour chords, or to reinforce thematic material – in one passage (Plate 11.1, MA Ms. 33, p. 4, fourth system), closely modelled on mm. 432ff. of Beethoven’s irst movement, she introduces regular bar lines, almost as if to acknowledge her source. if completely re-barred in the common time of the concerto, the 164 beats of Fanny’s cadenza would equal 41 bars, comparable to the length of a typical Mozart cadenza. the cadential six-four chord reappears intermittently throughout Fanny’s cadenza as a structural marker, clearly dividing the cadenza into ive sections. Fanny varied the spacing and register so that each six-four chord occupies a unique position in the cadenza (example 11.1). the result is an apparently well-planned and balanced musical architecture. A particularly intriguing aspect of these ive cadential six-four chords is that they raise the possibility that Fanny improvised beyond what she preserved in notation for her cadenza. As is apparent in Plate 11.1, the cadential six-four chords demarcate distinct sections, each recalling one or more thematic elements from Beethoven’s concerto. these sections continue to prolong the cadential sonority, much like the eighteenth-century ‘eingang’, a harmonically static decoration of the cadential harmony, and the arrival on the cadential chord at the end of each section naturally results in an interruption in the low of the cadenza. If these sections represent planned transitions between sections of free improvisation, the concept 21

Wolff (1991), 235.

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

example 11.1

235

cadential six-four chord structure in Fanny Mendelssohn’s cadenza

of the cadenza would change radically, from what appears to be a brief Mozartian cadenza to a considerably more developed concept of improvisation, which would be especially signiicant for Fanny as a young, female performer. However, we have no evidence beyond this manuscript, so this possibility must remain an open, tantalizing question and we will turn instead to a few of the most salient examples of what we can understand of Fanny’s reading of Beethoven’s themes in her cadenza. The irst section of Fanny’s cadenza echoes a particularly distinctive triplet motive adapted from non-thematic passage work in Beethoven’s irst and third solos (examples 11.2a and 11.2b). Fanny does not quote Beethoven’s theme verbatim, but rather expands and elaborates on Beethoven’s concept; she extends the triplet scales to encompass the whole octave and reverses directions, whereas Beethoven restricted the motive to a ifth and retained the descending contour. The second section of Fanny’s cadenza, an energetic ascending scale motive illed out with chords, bears a substantial resemblance to a passage in the solo part of Beethoven’s Concerto in E-lat major, Op. 73, the ‘Emperor’, which provides a valuable clue to the context for Fanny’s cadenza for the c-major concerto. correspondence of Fanny’s mother, lea, reveals that Fanny performed the ‘emperor’ concerto on 11 May 1823, exactly one month after dating her cadenza for the c-major concerto.22 in addition, Fanny’s own list of the Mendelssohns’ music library shows that in 1823 they received a full score of Beethoven’s ‘emperor’ concerto as a gift from eduard rietz.23 rather than allowing the performer to improvise a cadenza for the ‘emperor’, Beethoven had interpolated cadenza-like passages throughout the irst movement – this in itself an act of compositional elaboration, which is dictated by the composer instead of left to the taste of the performer – and here, in these ‘mini cadenzas’, we ind distinctive stylistic elements that appear in Fanny’s cadenza for the c-major concerto. For instance, Beethoven employed sections of non mesuré notation and shifting subdivisions of the beat such as triplets, quintuplets, and sextuplets; 22 dinglinger (2006): 45. letter of 27 May 1823, lea Mendelssohn to henriette von Pereira-Arnstein. 23 elvers and Ward Jones (1993), 91.

236

Mendelssohn Perspectives

example 11.2a

Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 414–16

example 11.2b

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 1

Fanny introduced similar divisions into her cadenza (see Plate 11.1, MA Ms. 33, p. 4, irst system, irst bar: triplets and sextuplets; MA Ms. 33, p. 5, irst and second systems: quintuplets). the similarity of the third section of Fanny’s cadenza to the passage in bar 371 of the ‘emperor’ concerto extends beyond the scale motive to include the manner of concluding the passage; Fanny’s four repeated c4s, set against the rising motive in the inner harmonic voices, correspond to Beethoven’s four repeated a lat3s, also set above the rising motive, although Fanny modiies the inner voices to include the viio7/v she utilized before each cadential chord (examples 11.3a and 11.3b). since most likely she would have been preparing the ‘emperor’ in the early months of 1823, Fanny’s study of that work appears to have inluenced her cadenza for the C-major concerto, and further reinforces the dating of her performance of the c-major concerto to this same time period.

example 11.3a

Beethoven, ‘emperor’ concerto, Mvt. i, bar 371

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

example 11.3b

237

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 2

After the scale motive in the second section races up four octaves to pause precariously on the third cadential six-four chord, Fanny defuses the explosive energy of the irst two sections by thinning the texture to a delicately descending scale. this scale falls two octaves back down the keyboard to introduce the third section, the passage that most closely approaches a direct quotation of Beethoven’s op. 15 (examples 11.4a and 11.4b). Fanny alters the allusion slightly, however, by compressing Beethoven’s passage. Unlike Beethoven, who in the space of four bars strays as far aield as D-lat major, Fanny remains in the orbit of c major; in the third ‘bar’ she uses an a-natural in the bass instead of Beethoven’s a lat, allowing her to proceed directly to a irstinversion dominant-seventh chord in the fourth ‘bar’ instead of Beethoven’s D-lat major chord. Beethoven then requires four more bars to arrive on the cadential sixfour chord; Fanny needs only two. Fanny does not provide performance indications, but one may safely assume that she would have interpreted this section pianissimo and legato just as Beethoven directs in the concerto. The inal trill on the dominant prompts a inal comparison between Fanny’s cadenza and Beethoven’s C-major concerto. Below Fanny’s inal trill, the left hand recalls the chromatic voice leading of a motive from Beethoven’s op. 15 (examples 11.5a and 11.5b), showing that Fanny exploited the possibilities of Beethoven’s compositional palette beyond just the primary themes. These ive examples show Fanny to have been a careful observer of Beethoven’s thematic structures, as well as a performer who could balance conscientious adherence to the ‘inished’ score with a personal compositional interpretation of the fundamental formal and thematic elements of Beethoven’s concerto. Beyond the evidence provided by this cadenza and its relationship to the ‘emperor’ concerto, no precise record or possible date for Fanny’s performance of the c-major concerto is known at this time; nor do we have any records of Fanny improvising cadenzas for her other concerto performances. it is the only known surviving manuscript of a cadenza composed or improvised by Fanny Mendelssohn, but it is not the only cadenza to be found among her papers at the Mendelssohn-Archiv in Berlin.

238

Mendelssohn Perspectives

example 11.4a

Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 432–40

example 11.4b

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 3

example 11.5a

Beethoven, concerto in c major, Mvt. i, bars 366–8

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

example 11.5b

239

Fanny Mendelssohn, cadenza, section 5

Beethoven’s Cadenza No. 2 for the Concerto in G major, op. 58 the other known surviving cadenza in Fanny’s hand is a copy of Beethoven’s second cadenza for the irst movement of his Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58. this manuscript presents exactly the opposite problem from that of the c-major cadenza: records of Fanny’s performances of Beethoven’s concerto in G major do survive, but Fanny’s copy is undated. however, this particular manuscript copy24 can date to no earlier than 1825 because it is notated directly in a full score of the concerto presented to the Mendelssohns by eduard rietz at some point in 1825.25 carl Klingemann and Felix Mendelssohn recorded an important clue about the chronology of the G-major concerto in Fanny’s repertoire when they fabricated a humorous letter from Beethoven to accompany a present of Beethoven’s Piano sonata, op. 106 to Fanny on her twentieth birthday, 14 november 1825: My most worthy Fräulein! reports of your efforts on my behalf have reached as far as vienna, – a stout herr with a moustache [Wilhelm hensel] and a thin man with a Parisian accent [eduard devrient] whose names i cannot recall relayed how you managed to keep a cultured audience there politely listening to my Concerti in E-lat and G and my Trio in B-lat, so that only a few led the performance.26

thus, we learn that Fanny had already performed the concerto in G major by the time this letter was dated on 8 november 1825.27 Fanny’s next recorded performance of op. 58 is 1 september 1833, the opening concert for her revived 24

d-B, MA Ms. 51, 176–7. lambour (2001), 110; elvers and Ward Jones (1993). 26 elvers (1997), 97. ‘Mein werthestes Fräulein! der ruf ihrer verdienste um mich ist bis nach Wien gedrungen, – ein dicker herr mit einem schnurrbart, und ein dünner mit einem Pariser Accent, deren namen ich nicht behalten konnte, haben mir berichtet, wie sie es dahin gebracht haben, daß ein gebildetes Publikum meine concerte aus es und G, und Mein trio aus B mit Anstand gehört hat; und daß nur Wenige davon gelaufen sind’. english translation from todd (2010), 89. 27 Because this copy of the concerto bears no markings of a performance, it is possible that there was another copy of parts for an even earlier performance of the G-major concerto 25

240

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Sonntagsmusiken.28 it is thus possible that the copy of the cadenza dates from this later performance, and was not entered into the copy of the concerto until then. the concerto itself is meticulously copied in rietz’s precise and beautiful hand, but one inal ruled page remained unused in the back of the volume; it is on this page that Fanny copied the cadenza. The cadenza was slightly too long to it onto the page, so she ruled by hand one more grand staff on the blank leaf on the inside of the back cover. this cadenza, like the manuscript for the c-major cadenza, shows no signs of performance wear; nor does the impeccably preserved score for the G-major concerto. the concerto is copied on heavy paper with decorative green edges, and the volume is signed ‘Fanny Mendelssohn Bartholdy’ inside the front cover – giving us a hint that she felt some ownership of this concerto, even though she listed it in the ‘Musikalienverzeichnis’ she compiled between 1823 and 1833 for both herself and her brother. how Fanny came into possession of this original Beethoven cadenza nearly 40 years before its publication is as yet unknown. Beethoven’s cadenzas to his irst four piano concertos, committed to paper in 1809 for Archduke rudolph of Austria, were not published until 1864, when they appeared as part of the complete Beethoven edition. Beethoven’s autograph of the cadenza is now held by the Beethoven-haus Bonn.29 how a copy of the cadenza made its way into Fanny’s hands can only be a matter of speculation, but any of the frequent international musical guests in the Mendelssohn home could have transmitted the manuscript. Fanny’s copy differs only in a very few small particulars from the version printed in the Beethoven complete edition and other modern editions, demonstrating that she had in her possession an extremely reliable source. Although not Beethoven’s longest cadenza, it is quite eccentric, and is rarely played today. on the autograph, Beethoven scrawled ‘cadenza (ma senza cadére)’ or ‘cadenza (but without falling)’, offering a challenge to the intrepid performer – or, perhaps, offering a clue that this cadenza was never intended for performance, but was conceived rather as a didactic exercise or musical joke for the Archduke rudolph. the cadenza puts performers through their paces with a succession of virtuosic igures that seem expressly designed to trip the performer. The most dificult hurdle is the double trill at the conclusion, which is surrounded by motivic material in the outer ingers of both hands, spaced too far apart and metrically overlapped so that hand crossing is rendered impossible (example 11.6). the technical challenge of this section is comparable to or even greater than the dificulty of the lengthy trills in several of Beethoven’s sonatas; two of these were already in Fanny’s library by 1825. At the conclusion of the third movement of the sonata in c major, op. 53 – the ‘Waldstein’, which appears in Fanny’s by either Fanny or Felix which has not survived, nor is recorded in Fanny’s record of their musical library. 28 Klein (2005), 33. 29 sammlung h. c. Bodmer, hcB Mh 15.

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

example 11.6

241

Beethoven, cadenza for concerto in G major, op. 58

‘Musikalienverzeichnis’ for the year 1816 – the 36-bar trill becomes a double trill for only two bars, but exhibits a similar use of thematic material in the outer part of the right hand. lengthy double and single trills feature as well throughout op. 106, the ‘hammerklavier’, which as we have seen Fanny received for her birthday in 1825, the same year rietz gave her the concerto in G major. the sonata in e major, op. 109, listed in Fanny’s ‘Musikalienverzeichnis’ in 1827,30 showcases thematic material above and below the double trill in the bars just preceding the inal single trill in the bass in variation vi, in a manner quite similar to Beethoven’s cadenza for the G-major concerto. if Fanny did perform this cadenza, it would attest to the level of her technical ability; but in the absence of evidence either way, it is equally possible that the cadenza served as a study copy and she improvised her own cadenzas for her performances. improvisation was certainly an integral part of both Fanny’s and Felix’s compositional process, and in many cases the unrevised solo piano works of Fanny impress as notated improvisations, merely one version of many possible performance variants. A greater number of reports on her brother’s practice in this area do survive, fortunately, and we shall turn now to considering Felix’s cadenza practice throughout his career.

Felix Mendelssohn’s Cadenzas Felix did not leave as rich a manuscript source for his solo keyboard cadenza practice as Fanny did, but we can piece together some evidence resulting from his more public proile and his proliic letter-writing. Thus, we have reviews of and anecdotes about his improvised cadenzas, as well as his own descriptions in his letters.31 this study will not extend to include the cadenzas to his own works, as the focus here is on cadenzas added to works of other composers, but one may reference Mendelssohn’s early concerted works for examples of short, classical-style cadenzas; see, for example, the 13-bar cadenza in the third movement of the second version of the concerto in d minor for violin and string orchestra, from 1823. 30

elvers and Ward Jones (1993), 91 and 93. For more about Felix as an improviser and a reconstruction of one of his noncadenza improvisations at the leipzig Gewandhaus, see the study by todd, chapter 10 in this volume. 31

Mendelssohn Perspectives

242

The irst records of Felix performing as an improviser date from around 1821, at the age of 12,32 and even as a young performer Felix astonished his listeners with the force and depth of his musical imagination.33 improvisation played an immensely important role throughout the remainder of his career. however, such extemporizing held a very different place in Felix’s musical life than it did for some of his contemporaries such as Franz liszt, whose improvisations on themes submitted from the audience were legendary. For Felix, although he did improvise for audiences (especially from the organ loft), improvisation appears to have been something rather more intimate, linked inextricably with his compositional practice. thus, his approach to improvisation is much closer to schumann’s – although, unlike schumann, Felix did not improvise out of lack of a rigorous education in composition, as dana Gooley has shown schumann may have done early in his career.34 one salient example can be found in Felix’s Fantasy in F-sharp minor, Op. 28, which was not written down until about ive years after he irst composed – or rather, improvised – it around 1828 or 1829.35 Many of his other works came to us through this same process, and it is well known that he tended to compose whole pieces or sections of larger works in his head before writing them down. several works in various stages of improvisation and composition could be simultaneously carried on in his mind and on paper, as he explained to his english friend and translator, William Bartholomew, in a letter from leipzig on 12 June 1843: Pray do not be angry at receiving my very late reply to your two very kind letters. i found the second after a stay at Berlin, where i had a great deal to do (musical and otherwise) and since my return this is the irst day that I am at liberty; for not only had i a great many compositions going on in my head and on my desk, but the life in my house was so busy, + so many foreign friends came + went, that i felt almost giddy every evening, when i thought of the day.36

Mendelssohn appears to have improvised his cadenzas on the spot without a great deal of prior preparation, but the letter to Bartholomew suggests that this preparation most likely took place in his mind (hence, our lack of surviving manuscripts). his appearances throughout his career as a soloist in both Mozart and Beethoven concertos for which no cadenzas were supplied were numerous. As r. larry todd has shown, Mendelssohn especially favoured Mozart’s concertos

32

hensel (1891), vol. 1, 106. Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1970), 12. 34 Gooley (2010). My thanks to dana Gooley for allowing me to read his chapter before publication. 35 todd (2003), 211. 36 GB-ob M.d.M., c. 42. original in english. 33

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

243

K. 466 and K. 467,37 as well as Beethoven’s concerto in G major, op. 58, which he apparently performed often enough to name his cheval de bataille in 1842.38 thus, Felix had to improvise cadenzas for each of these many performances. We might expect him to have worked out and reused cadenzas, and he very well may have relied on some sort of formula; but in one instance at least, his irrepressible creativity and tendency to self-revision was apparent: while rehearsing for a 24 June 1844 concert with the Philharmonic society in london, Mendelssohn treated the musicians in the orchestra to four different cadenzas for Beethoven’s concerto in G major – one for each rehearsal, and yet another during the performance itself.39 there is as yet no evidence that Mendelssohn ever used his sister’s copy of Beethoven’s own cadenza for op. 58 in his own performances, but there would have been no expectation for him to do so, as the prevailing performance practice of the time was for (male) soloists to improvise their own cadenzas. Although countless numbers of Felix’s improvised cadenzas to the works of other composers have been lost due to the ephemeral nature of the genre – enjoyed, applauded and forgotten – several manuscript source fragments and references in letters attest to his serious engagement with the practice. After a performance of Mozart’s Concerto in D minor, K. 466 in Leipzig in 1836, Felix felt suficiently proud of his cadenza to notate portions of it in a letter to Fanny: In the irst movement I made a cadenza, which succeeded wonderfully and caused a tremendous sensation [Mordlärm] among the leipzigers. i must write down the end for you. You remember the theme of course? towards the close of the cadenza, arpeggios come in pianissimo in d minor, thus:

then again G minor arpeggios; then:

then:

37

todd (1991c), 190. letter of Felix to lea Mendelssohn, 11 december 1842. Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1868a), 285. 39 rockstro (1884), 96–7. 38

Mendelssohn Perspectives

244 Arpeggios and

etc., to the close in d minor. our second violin player, an old musician, said to me afterwards, when he met me in the passage, that he had heard it played in the same hall by Mozart himself, but since that day he had heard no one introduce such good cadenzas as i did yesterday – which gave me very great pleasure.40

if we extend the interpretive possibilities of Felix’s letter to a more general cadenza practice for the Mendelssohns, we may even return to the question of whether or not Fanny’s cadenza for Beethoven’s concerto in c major, op. 15 was complete or represented only thematic transitions between further improvisations; it certainly is possible that the process Felix describes above – ‘arpeggios etc.’ between thematic references from the concerto – is precisely the process that Fanny employed in her own cadenza. even within the cadenza itself, a relaxed approach to the (uninished?) score is beneicial; section 4 of Fanny’s cadenza is improved greatly by the addition of further arpeggiations of 40

todd (1991c), 192. ‘in den ersten satz machte ich eine cadenz, die mir sehr gut gelang, und nach der die leipziger einen Mordlärm machten. ich muß dir das ende herschreiben: du erinnerst dich noch das themas? Gegen das ende der cadenz kommen pianissimo Arpeggien d moll heraus; dann wieder G moll Arpegg.; und etc. bis zum scluß in d moll.–ein alter Musiker von der zweiten Geige sagte mir nachher auf dem Gange, er habe es in demselben saale von Mozart gehört, aber seit ihm habe kein Mensch so gute cadenzen hineingemacht, wie ich gestern, worüber ich mich sehr freute’. Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1997), 114–16.

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

245

the dominant harmony to complete the pattern already begun and to ill out the texture of the arching igures. Another instance in which it is likely the soloist – in this case, soloists – improvised material beyond the surviving source material can be found in Felix Mendelssohn’s cadenza for a performance of Mozart’s concerto for two Pianos in E-lat major, K. 365, with Ferdinand Hiller in 1840. As R. Larry Todd has shown,41 there is a slight discrepancy between hiller’s description of the performance and the surviving autograph of the irst piano part of the cadenza in Mendelssohn’s hand (preserved at the University of leeds, Brotherton collection). hiller relates that he ‘was to begin extemporizing and make a pause on some chord of the 7th. Mendelssohn was then to continue and pause on another chord which we had ixed upon’ and so on. the written out cadenza, even though it transmits a fully prepared composition, may thus admit moments of improvisation, like Fanny’s cadenza for Beethoven’s c-major concerto. the effect of the cadenza, whether it was completely prepared in advance or not, was that of ‘a free double fantasy’ according to one reviewer, who lauded the performers on their inventive interpretation, development of themes, and musical badinage, ‘thereby producing, so to speak, a veritable contest that in itself formed a uniied whole’ and ‘both artists’, concluded the reviewer, ‘celebrated a true triumph this evening’.42 Based on the autograph evidence, it appears that this cadenza did in fact present on at least some level a planned, uniied whole, but apparently succeeded brilliantly in creating the effect of a spontaneous improvisation, which had been so valued by daniel Gottlob türk.43

41

todd (1991c), 199. Anon. (1840a): ‘Beide Kadenzen wurden von der geehrten Künstlern bis auf dem schluss einer jeden und den leitenden Uebergang in das stück ganz frei ausgeführt; es war so zu sagen eine freie doppel-Fantasie. einer lauschte dem Andern, um ihm zu folgen, ihn zu leiten oder ihm terrain zu einer freien selbständigen Bewegung abzugewinnen. Jeder nahm sich und erhielt Gelegenheit, verschiedene Motive des Konzerts rein aus und durchzuführen, und es war im höchsten Grade interessant, als in der ersten Kadenz herr hiller mehrere themen lang ausgeführt und auf ausgezeichnete Weise verarbeitet hatte, nun unmittelbar Mendelssohn mit seiner Meisterschaft eingreifen, diese themen weiter fortführen mit neuen Motiven verweben und so gewissermaassen einen Wettkampf herbeigeführt zu sehen, der in sich eine zusammenhängendes Ganze bilden musste und doch von zwei verschiedenen Künstlern selbständig geführt wurde. der hierdurch hervorgezauberte Kunstgenuss lässt sich nicht beschreiben, so etwas muss man selbst mit anhören, um den hohen Werth desselben begreifen und empinden zu können. Der Beifall des Publikums war unermesslich und beide Künstler feierten wahrhaften triumf an diesem Abende’. 43 For more on this double cadenza and to reference a facsimile of the autograph, see todd (1991c), 196ff. 42

Mendelssohn Perspectives

246

Reconsidering the ‘Death Mask’ the following review of Felix Mendelssohn’s 1832 performance of Mozart’s concerto in d minor, K. 466, could have just as well been written in response to a performance by Fanny Mendelssohn, had she publicly performed Beethoven’s concerto no. 1 in c major, op. 15 with her own cadenza: herr Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy performed the exquisite concerto with much taste and thorough skill … The cadenza, added at the end of the irst movement and the performer’s own creation, was founded on some motives of the movement totally in the spirit and style of this masterful composition.44

that Fanny wrote her own cadenza at all would have certainly interested a reviewer, since even young women who were able to perform publicly generally did not provide their own cadenzas for concertos – for example, when louise dulcken performed Mendelssohn’s Piano concerto no. 2 in d minor, op. 40 in dublin in 1847, Felix is reported to have provided her with a cadenza.45 By writing her own cadenza, Fanny claimed her place alongside her brother as a composer; furthermore, by writing a cadenza to a work by Beethoven, Fanny asserted her intellect in the role of the masculine artistic creator, the nineteenth-century concept of genius which excluded women.46 We may never know how Fanny’s private audiences responded to her cadenza, but we have seen that the fragments from and descriptions of Felix’s cadenza practice closely relect the elements of stylistic integrity we found in Fanny’s notated cadenza, leading us to a deeper understanding of how the two composers approached the genre. We have seen that both composers not only displayed a sensitivity to the stylistic integrity of the concertos they performed – in a manner that especially daniel Gottlob türk would have applauded – but that they also adapted and further developed and elaborated

Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 34 (1832): col. 802: ‘Das trefliche Concert für das Pianoforte von Mozart in d moll trug hr. Felix Mendelssohn Bartoldy mit vielem Geschmacke und solider Fertigkeit … die am schlusse des ersten satzes hinzugefügte Cadenz, von eigener Erindung, war auf einige Motive desselben ganz im Geiste und Style der meisterhaften composition gegründet’. 45 C. R. (1847), 118. This source also provides a mid-century English deinition of what a cadenza should entail: ‘A cadenza in a concerto is very different thing from a cadenza in a vocal morceau. it is a brilliant development of some motive of the concerto, and is written so as to employ the executive power of the pianist to the greatest advantage’. Unfortunately, Mendelssohn’s cadenza for dulcken is not known to survive. When Fanny did perform in public – a total of three times – she played works by Felix, such as the Piano concerto in G minor, op. 25 (19 February 1838), the trio in d minor, op. 49 (4 March 1840), and as an accompanist (21 February 1847). reviewers noted her rare talent and the social limitations on her career options. see todd (2003), 363. 46 For more on women as concerto soloists, see ellsworth (2003). 44

Improvisation, Elaboration, Composition

247

Beethoven’s and Mozart’s themes to create cadenzas that relected their unique readings of the concertos. For both composers, improvisation was never far from composition, relected perhaps in the great number of compositions Felix left unpublished. For Fanny, who wrote without the expectation of publishing for most of her life, the concept of the mutable work is even stronger. While many of her manuscripts in the collection at the staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz do betray the signs of a conscientious artist in their occasional revisions, and in some cases up to two or three copies, we can only wonder what her repeated performances of her own works in her studio and Musiksaal may have sounded like. As richard Kramer argues in Uninished Music, our concept of the sacred, inished score is perhaps too rigid, conjuring the image of Benjamin’s ‘death mask’ with which this chapter began. We have seen that the Mendelssohns traced a delicate path between the two extremes possible from this interpretation. they neither entirely rejected the integrity of the music for which they wrote cadenzas, nor allowed the inished score completely to dictate their interpretations of the concertos. rather, they chose to reconceptualize and elaborate the musical themes and motives from the concertos, and to blend improvisation and composition in their reception of the classical concerto tradition. composers later in the century, such as Johannes Brahms and clara schumann, would develop the concept of the cadenza even further in the direction of fully compositional reception in their own cadenzas to Beethoven’s Piano concerto op. 58. Fanny and Felix, however, were among the slightly earlier generation still closely tied to the traditions of the late eighteenth century, just emerging while Beethoven was still alive.47 even while choosing to remain within the eighteenth-century guidelines for cadenza practice, both Fanny and Felix exercised their own creativity, providing a window into their own concepts of the ‘unvollkommene Werke’ of the eighteenth century as musical entities into which they could breathe new life.

47

Felix’s views on the supremacy of the original manuscript can easily be reinforced by his insistence on publishing his edition of handel’s oratorios in a manner closely approaching our modern concept of the Urtext, unusual for his time. however, he was not dogmatic about performance practices in any way and was willing to take a lexible approach to the score when necessary (see hartinger, chapter 7 in this book).

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chapter 12

cyclic Form and Musical Memory in Mendelssohn’s string Quartet in E-lat Major, Op. 12 Benedict taylor

The String Quartet in E-lat major, Op. 12, in common with several of Mendelssohn’s pieces from the 1820s, is an example of a work using cyclic form. The recall of musical material from an earlier movement in a later one in such works can have major implications for our perceptions of musical time and, consequently, of memory, both musical and psychological. Although the quartet appears to be a relaxed and predominantly sunny work, the closer it is examined the more precarious the balance becomes between the youthful lyricism of its immediately apparent lighter side and the darker memories which at times break through. The present chapter will focus on the remarkable formal ‘deformation’ of the irst movement, whereby the generative opposition between irst and second subjects is replaced by that between the themes of the exposition and a new theme in the development. This new theme is left undeveloped and unresolved in the coda of the irst movement, and consequently becomes the cyclic motivation for the rest of the work. Starting from Hans Keller’s observation that this new theme in fact constitutes the movement’s second subject, this study offers a reading of the quartet and the generative role of this theme across it. My analysis combines here with a hermeneutic approach from the perspective of Freudian psychoanalysis; rather than presenting a vision of halcyon happiness, the recall of the (musical) past instead possesses a darker, more disturbing effect, which may be seen as loosely analogous to the psychological notion of trauma. This dual nature is enacted across the quartet with a polarity between tonal and thematic areas, as embodied in Freud’s distinction between the heimlich and the unheimlich; the quartet’s lyrical exterior conceals this darker twinship at work beneath its beguiling surface.1 1 My reading of the quartet in this chapter proceeds from this idea of ‘trauma’, and Sigmund Freud’s codiication of the concept in particular, as a useful way of interrogating Mendelssohn’s work, though inevitably such a theoretical tool will exaggerate certain aspects of the music it seeks to explain. The reined chiaroscuro of Mendelssohn’s work, the subtle balance of light and shade, might therefore appear slightly distorted in the lurid expressionist hues of Freud, though I hope through such an approach a genuine aspect of the work (and one that is moreover often overlooked) will also be brought out.

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The cyclic structure of the Op. 12 Quartet arises from the recall of the new F minor theme from the irst movement twice within the inale, the last instance leading into a wholesale reprise of the earlier movement’s coda as the conclusion of the work. Such recall of music from a past movement might proitably be viewed here as a form of musical ‘memory’. Musical recall, the desire for repetition, is obviously a basic premise of musical structure, but in cases where this occurs contrary to or beyond the level of traditional requirements, such recall can unquestionably impart a strong sense of memory, as if music is itself modelling human consciousness and its concomitant temporal levels. Rather than suggesting a nostalgic embrace of the past, however, the recall here is more akin to some distressing memory, which disturbs the quartet’s overriding mood of tranquil lyricism and breaks down the posited form of the work. Remarkably, the inale is in the ‘wrong’ key, C minor, characterised by a passionate turmoil which would seem more appropriate in the composer’s String Quartet in A minor, Op. 13, of two years earlier. Here, the passionate outburst seems to intrude upon the predominantly serene mood of the rest of the E-lat quartet. This intrusive memory stems ultimately from the unresolved appearance of this Fminor theme in the development section of the irst movement, the relationship made explicit by the reappearance of this theme in an episode which occupies the developmental space of the inale. The inale in fact forms the full realisation and working-out of this irst movement theme, its minor-key tonality and thematic basis stemming from this source. To understand why the cyclic re-emergence of this theme should prove so disruptive, we must examine closely the remarkable structure of the earlier movement, where the theme irst appeared. The irst movement of the E-lat quartet is a prominent example of a type of sonata deformation particularly characteristic of Mendelssohn: a new (if related) theme enters in the development section and is recapitulated in the coda, thus presenting us with a parallel two-strophe design in which the recapitulation mirrors the exposition, while the coda mirrors the development.2 In such designs, the intrusion of new material may often give the impression of another, separate level – whether of aesthetic presence or of time – and thus can strongly suggest some particular musical narrative. Normally, this new material in the development is tonally ‘resolved’ in its subsequent appearance, but in the present quartet the 2 The term ‘deformation’ is of course, as with ‘rotational’, drawn from the work of James Hepokoski. Other examples include the overture to Die erste Walpurgisnacht, the inale of the First Symphony, Op. 11; the irst movements of the Piano Quartet, Op. 3 and the Third and Fourth Symphonies, Opp. 56 and 90; the Adagio of the E-lat Quartet, Op. 44, No. 3; and the sonata/sonata-rondo designs of the inales of the two Piano Trios, Opp. 49 and 66. A variation of this design is found in the inale to the ‘Reformation’ Symphony (1830), where the external introduction (Luther’s chorale ‘Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott’) is incorporated into the fabric of the main movement during the development, a structure similar to the irst movement of the Lobgesang (1838–40). This structure was later copied by Robert Schumann in several works from the mid-1830s onwards.

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new theme, upon its return in the coda, is again unresolved, catalysing its later reappearance in the inale. The ‘new theme’ of the irst movement is the F minor idea which is introduced at bar 107 (Example 12.1). Example 12.1

New development theme, Mendelssohn, String Quartet, Op. 12, irst movement

Though nonetheless related to the themes of the exposition, this F minor theme is the irst truly contrasting material in the quartet, differing from the earlier themes in thematic outline and, most importantly, mode. As pointed out above, Hans Keller goes so far as to call it the second subject, which may seem rather paradoxical, except that Mendelssohn had only one year earlier written another sonata-form movement with a second subject that undeniably does enter halfway through its development section (namely the scherzo of the String Quintet in A major, Op. 18).3 In fact, Keller’s interpretation is an extremely perceptive insight into the radically inverted structure of this movement. The exposition is notable for its absence of any strongly differentiated subject group: the second theme grows from the irst in a typically Mendelssohnian process of organic lyrical evolution, and the development starts as if it were feigning the expected repeat of the exposition, returning to a statement of the irst subject in the tonic.4 the appearance now of the irst truly contrasting material following the irst subject in this erstwhile ‘repeat’ of the exposition almost suggests that we are listening to the ‘real’ exposition, which has been covered over – even ‘repressed’ – by the irst. In terms of scale, for instance, the size of the development section surpasses that of the exposition by 84 bars to 76, an unusual feature for Mendelssohn, which implies in itself a far greater importance placed on this section than normal. And from its opening, the development runs parallel to the exposition in several important respects, in a manner which suggests a recomposition or second rotation of this irst section. In thematic layout, the events of the development mirror those of the exposition: the ‘new theme’ replaces the continuation of the irst subject and transition, the two 3

Keller (1965), 141, and Keller (1976), 200. For a consideration of the Quintet, see Vitercik (1992), 163–80. 4 A ploy that had been used before by both Haydn and Beethoven (see the Sonata Hob. 51 and irst ‘Razumovsky’ Quartet, Op. 59, No. 1). By Mendelssohn’s standards, such a return without any transition would have been surprisingly unsubtle for a real exposition repeat.

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passages that are most closely related to it, while the subsequent reintroduction of the second subject (bar 123) and closing statement of the irst theme (bar 131) follows the succession found in the exposition, reinforcing the suggested rotational thematic structure (Figure 12.1).

Figure 12.1

Thematic parallelism of exposition and development in the irst movement of the String Quartet, Op. 12.

The harmonic sequence of this development strophe likewise parallels the exposition in several respects. The new F minor theme seems unable to close cadentially or to develop; it is instead restated in sequence up a tone in G minor before modulating further to A minor, where the music remains for the greater part of the section. This harmonic template parallels the transition of the exposition (the corresponding place in the thematic cycle), where a rising linear intervallic pattern moves from E-lat through F minor to G minor and from there, via a diminished seventh, to V/V (bars 45–58, Example 12.2). Here, the penultimate stage of the progression becomes massively prolonged, replacing the stable dominant secondary area, B-lat, with the tritonally removed A minor. The harmonic symbolism of this juxtaposition of E-lat major with its antithesis A minor is unambiguous; such a polar opposition of harmony and mode suggests the furthest point of remove, a void. No warning of this key had been given in the exposition, although the interval of the tritone had been set out right at the start of the quartet as the very irst melodic event. Its careful outlining there thematicised the interval melodically, which is now paralleled at the higher level of the movement’s harmonic structure. The extended use of A minor here might even be read as referring back to the tonality of Mendelssohn’s Op. 13 quartet. So far there had been no hint of the impassioned world of that piece in the apparently sunny E-lat major work, but the elusive memory of the

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Example 12.2

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Harmonic reduction of exposition and development in irst movement of the String Quartet, Op. 12

F minor theme now pitches the quartet back into this seemingly suppressed time. If Op. 13 was inspired by the same love affair as Op. 12, one could even go so far as to posit an autobiographical meaning to this sudden reversion.5 The entirety of the development section from the introduction of this new theme is in the minor mode, a remarkable change from the exposition, which – apart from a few hints of the minor mode – was relatively unclouded. The unexpected arrival of the new theme seems somehow to cast a shadow over the music: it disrupts the expected form of the movement; undermines the signiicance of the expositional material (speciically the generative contrast of irst and second subject); and acts as the catalyst for an extensive, anguished working-out of previous ideas as the previously serene exposition material plunges into the extremity of the tritonally distant A minor. In view of the unexpected intrusion, the quality of otherness or reminiscence, and the strife this new theme causes, it seems appropriate here to introduce the idea of ‘trauma’. In the lecture ‘Fixation to Traumas – the Unconscious’, Freud applies the term ‘traumatic’ to ‘an experience which within a short period of time presents the mind with an increase of stimulus too powerful to be dealt with or worked off in the normal way’, which results ‘in permanent disturbances of the manner in which the energy operates’.6 The excess psychical energy – for Freud, invariably 5 Todd (2003), 176. The E-lat quartet was dedicated to Betty Pistor, a noted Berlin beauty with whom Mendelssohn was much enamoured; nothing is known, however, concerning who the igure behind Op. 13 might have been. See further Rudorff/Reich in Todd (1991a), 265–9. 6 Freud (1991a), 315.

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negative – seeks to be discharged or ‘abreacted’; only when the experience is too painful for the conscious mind to cope with is it involuntarily repressed into unconscious parts of the psyche, where this energy inds a way of discharging itself through neurotic symptoms. Patients suffering from traumatic symptoms appear to be ‘ixated’ to a particular portion of the past, ‘as though they could not manage to free themselves from it and were for that reason alienated from the present and the future’. This traumatic event is commonly repeated in dreams: in Freud’s words, ‘It is as though these patients had not inished with the traumatic situation, as though they were still faced by it as an immediate task which has not been dealt with’.7 Applying this theory of trauma here to Mendelssohn’s string quartet is effectively taking up a project Hans Keller left uninished, the illumination ‘of the actual elements of musical structure and texture’ by psychoanalysis.8 In his writings on music and psychoanalysis, Keller examined the procedures typically found in the development section of sonata-form movements, using terms taken from Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams to describe the modiication expositional material undergoes in the development. Keller believed that the development constituted a modiication of the exposition’s themes closely analogous to the process of dreamwork (the operation of the mind during sleep, which transforms unconscious desires into the coded manifestation of dreams), arguing that the development’s relation to the exposition equals ‘in many respects the relation of manifest dreamcontent to latent dream thought’.9 It is questionable whether the F minor theme, on its irst appearance, constitutes a memory. I would contend that this theme has a quality of emotional and temporal distance even at its irst appearance, alongside an uneasy impression of familiarity, which gives it the lavour of reminiscence.10 But certainly when the same theme appears again in the coda of the movement, and further, twice in the inale, undeveloped and almost unchanged, it is dificult not to hear it now as a memory of the past, if only a musical past. The new theme enters from a static prolonged dominant of F minor (bars 105– 6). Though this theme has been described as being in F minor, it is in truth poised on an unstable second inversion of that key; while F minor is always implied, only once does the 64 support resolve up to the tonic root (bar 111), and this is with 7

Ibid., 313 and 315. Keller (2003), 197. The two principal works of Keller’s here are ‘Manifestations of the Primary Process in Musical Composition’ (contained in the above volume) and ‘Dream-Work and Development in Sonata Form’ (unpublished draft ms., Cambridge University Library, n.d.). Both papers, incomplete drafts from the late 1940s and extremely similar, deal with the procedures typically found in the development section of sonata-form movements. 9 Keller, ‘Dream-Work’, 4. 10 Perhaps coincidentally, the new F minor theme echoes the opening of Mendelssohn’s own Piano Quartet in that key, Op. 2, written six years earlier. 8

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the ifth scale degree in the melodic voice, forming the start of a modulation up a tone. The possibility suggests itself that in fact the passage is not in F minor at all, but rather the Fm 64 is just a b64 suspension above a C (major) tonic.11 The ambiguity is left unresolved here; indeed, since the following statement of the theme in sequence is now in G minor but with the root of the tonic provided (bars 115ff), the reading of the previous passage as F minor becomes more probable – but the question remains as to how many times this harmony will have to be heard before we start hearing it as iv64–I instead of i64–V, in C rather than in F minor. The theme itself has the appearance of unreality or distance, stemming not only from its enigmatic presence here. Besides the tonal uncertainty and ‘suspended’ 64 harmony, a certain ixated quality is imparted by the repetition of the same two-bar motive which, rather than being developed, is merely sequenced up a tone at the end of the inconclusive eight-bar phrase, where it repeats itself again. Repetition without development threatens to stop the ongoing experience of time in the movement; rather than a telos-driven progression through time, such reiteration results in a static (even fatalistic) circularity that Freud would ind reminiscent of dream-states. A further feature of the theme’s presentation is its spatial distancing at its original appearance. The irst violin, normally the primary musical ‘voice’ in the quartet, is here silent, while the new theme emerges mysteriously in the other three instruments. The sense of otherness engendered here connects the passage all the more strongly to the sense of an external voice, distinct and distanced from the consciousness of the present and emanating from the unconscious memory of the past. What is also uncanny about this theme is the sense in which it is new, but yet already familiar. Just as the development section presented a darkened mirror of the exposition, so the new theme forms the shadowy double of the themes in the exposition. This connection is fully revealed in the central section of the movement. After the statement on G minor, the new theme moves up to a diminished seventh functioning as V of A minor, as if about to repeat itself again in sequence (bar 122). Now, however, rather than hearing a further statement of the development theme, the melodic line turns into the second subject, which we now realise is very similar to this ‘new’ theme. After eight bars, the irst subject in turn replaces the second, taking up and intensifying the imitative, canonic texture characteristic of the latter. All three themes, by their juxtaposition, are shown to be related; common to each is the rhythm and descending contour. Though, as Krummacher remarks, all three themes are shown to be closely related, in terms of tonality, mode, and affective content, the passage is starkly uncompromising.12 Rather than imparting a ‘unity’ Since the dominant resolution of the 64 is here a seventh (C7, bar 106), F minor is clearly implied; but this still does not mitigate against hearing this tonic as under-deined and therefore potentially chimerical. 12 Krummacher (1978), 320–22. For Krummacher, this passage forms the dynamic culmination of the movement, the similarity between the themes’ head-motives demonstrating how all three are variations of the same fundamental idea [Grundgedanke]. 11

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to the music, this connection darkens the perception of the previously contented major-key exposition material. The two seem to come from a common source. This is perhaps the root of the music’s ‘trauma’: the new development theme is nothing other than the unheimlich side of the heimlich exposition. For Freud, ‘the uncanny is that species of the frightening that goes back to what was once well known and had long been familiar’.13 In ‘Das Unheimliche’ of 1919, Freud investigates the ambiguous relation manifested in language between the familiar and the frightening. Heimlich can mean both ‘homely, cosy, comfortable, and familiar’ and ‘secret, concealed, or hidden away’. The unheimlich is the uncanny, eerie, uneasy, uncomfortable, used often in conjunction with words denoting fear, terror and the supernatural – that which Schelling had previously described as ‘what one calls everything that was meant to remain secret and hidden and has come into the open’.14 the unheimlich is only antithetical to the irst deinition of heimlich: the word heimlich is therefore ‘not unambiguous’. ‘Heimlich [as it begins to signify the secret, the hidden, and therefore dangerous] thus becomes increasingly ambivalent, until it inally merges with its antonym unheimlich’.15 In Freud, the uncanny is the lip side of the homely and familiar, related back to traumatic childhood experiences that lurk half-repressed in the pre-conscious realm of the mind, as exempliied in E. T. A. Hoffmann’s story The Sandman. The uncanny is therefore the frightening element of that which has been repressed and now reappears – the returning past.16 Here in Mendelssohn’s quartet, the new F minor theme reveals itself as the dark twin of the E-lat major exposition. The ‘trauma’ of the development, halfrepressed from the consciousness of the work, is merely the lip side of the heimlich exposition, as the apparently cheerful exposition material inds its Doppelgänger in this new theme. In effect, Mendelssohn presents us with two expositions – a light, lyrical, predominantly relaxed one, and the darker, minor-coloured one which unfolds here. Such a structure fundamentally splits the shell of the sonata template down the middle. Rather than the generative process of the music arising out of the contrast of irst and second subjects internal to the exposition, here it occurs between the exposition and development sections, a relationship which will have to be worked out at the larger level of the recapitulation and coda, and at the broadest level across the whole work. The minor-key angst of the inale and the return of this new development theme within that movement are merely the inal consequences of this bipolar split in the music which had originated in the irst movement. The relationship of E-lat to its relative C minor (and the ‘F minor’ theme associated with the latter) takes further this idea of bipolarity. In this movement, not only are the themes of the exposition and the new development idea related to one another like the two sides of a coin, but so are the key areas associated with 13 14 15 16

Freud (1991b), 340. Quoted by Freud (1991b), 345. Ibid., 345 and 347. Ibid., 363–4.

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the two.17 Much of this tonal ambivalence stems from the unstable grounding of the exposition in the join between introduction and exposition. The return to the tonic at bar 10 of the introduction had been delected to ii, prolonging the drive to a full cadence over the next few bars. A pre-cadential I63 in bar 15 seems inally to be leading the harmony towards an imperfect cadence in preparation for the start of the allegro (IV–ii8-7–V(7)). However, on the last chord of this sequence the bass line stays ixed to the F of the preceding ii, thus ending the introduction with an unstable-sounding V43. This harmonic anomaly, whilst not outlandish, is nevertheless disconcerting. Harmonically it is slightly ‘wrong’, being neither a cadential tonic 64 nor passing by step to the ensuing opening of the allegro, and the effect is of a delayed cello voice which does not resolve as expected to the dominant B-lat. The resolution of this second-inversion dominant at the opening of the allegro is then undercut by the use of another unexpected inversion – V43 moving to I63 – and subsequently an interrupted move to vi supporting the downbeat tonic E-lat in the melody. Something seems to be rather strange about the harmonic underpinning of this movement. Vitercik has suggested that: The bass-line motion over the join between the introduction and the Allegro non tardante suggests a iv–V–I progression in C minor that reinforces this submediant turn by gently playing it against the sense of the progression as V–I– vi in E-lat major. … There is a friction between the bass line as implied rootmotion and the chord grammar of the passage that blurs the harmonic sense in these irst moments of the theme, giving a delicate emphasis to the submediant tinge that colours its opening measures.18

This opposition between E-lat tonic and C minor areas, irst heard in the opening bars, will become one of the primary generative motives of the quartet. Essentially, the harmonic irregularity undercuts the foundation for the allegro exposition. While its opening theme clearly derives from the preceding adagio, its harmonic support is slightly insecure. The return to the recapitulation is also a remarkable conception. Startlingly, the irst subject is now underpinned by a root-position tonic triad – the most normal harmony imaginable – for the irst (and only) time in the work. The manner in which Mendelssohn makes this root-position tonic sound so extraordinary is remarkable. Charles Rosen has suggested that: Mendelssohn here manipulates the most classical elements of Classical form to achieve a deeply unclassical effect. The cadence on V of vi is traditional, and so 17

Psychological bipolarity, the notion of the psyche being split by two opposing tendencies – the un- or pre-conscious and the conscious, the id and the ego or id and superego – is an important part of Freud’s thinking. See, for instance, Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis (Freud 1991a, 342) or ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’, 1920 (Freud 1961). 18 Vitercik (1992), 272.

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Mendelssohn Perspectives is the device of surrounding a tonic (E-lat) by the mediants (C and G) balancing each other … Ending with a half cadence drained of all force on the leading tone, D, and then raising the pitch gently and unobtrusively a modest half step to E-lat is Mendelssohn’s own contribution and resembles nothing he could have heard … there is no suggestion of a dominant in the six bars marked pianissimo preceding the theme …19

Although, as Rosen notes, ‘since the theme is harmonised for the irst time here with the tonic in the bass, it gains a quiet stability that it never had until this moment’,20 the lack of any dominant preparation and therefore true modulation cannot but make this re-entry of the exposition material appear slightly unreal. The start of the exposition was destabilised by the underlying non-tonic harmony; astonishingly the ‘stable’ root-position tonic in the recapitulation is now heard as illusory, due to its lack of preparation. Reversing the sequence of the exposition, the previously stable cadence to the root-position tonic in the fourth bar of the theme is now interrupted by being delected to vi. Thus, the familiar is defamiliarised. The homecoming to the tonic – and the tonic major triad itself – is made to sound unhomely. The recapitulation proceeds as if the events of the development had never happened, but the lack of harmonic foundation points to this fragile self-illusion. The development, the trauma emanating from the unanticipated appearance of the F minor theme, is forcibly repressed by the ego in an attempt to maintain some semblance of order. But this order is imposed from without; the recapitulation, conforming to generic expectation, is arbitrary. In accordance with conventional theories of sonata form, the recapitulation fulils its obligatory purpose, the second subject being resolved to the tonic – although, as we have seen from this movement, the internal events of the exposition are less important than the conlict between exposition and development, the exposition’s second subject subordinated to the F minor development theme. Standard twentieth-century accounts of sonata form determine that any nontonic material introduced before the movement’s recapitulation needs to be resolved tonally by its restatement and harmonic grounding in the recapitulation, or, if introduced in the development section, in the coda – the so-called ‘sonata principle’.21 Correspondingly we may be expecting a return to the development theme, but now heard in the tonic, either E-lat minor or fully transformed to the tonic major, thus grounding the anomalous theme tonally and ‘resolving’ the

19

Rosen (1996), 583–4. Ibid., 584. 21 The terminology originated with Barford (1952) and was taken up by Cone (1968). It should be noted that many commentators are now questioning the validity of this belief and the formalist harmonic model of sonata form which underpins it. See particularly Hepokoski (2002). 20

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conlict of the movement. Instead, we are presented with the recall of the new theme in F minor again, with no sense of resolution projected. After an extension of the second subject material, the recapitulation prolongs the climactic anticipation of the closing theme, picking out the three-note descent familiar to the development theme (bars 222–4). The closing theme subsides, continuing its melodic descent, touching on the subdominant and then F minor (bar 231), returning more insistently (bar 233). This passage – the transition from recapitulation to coda – now echoes more clearly than ever the introduction to the movement (bars 10–13), moving chromatically, via a German augmentedsixth chord, to a 64 of F minor, and the reappearance of the development theme, as before. No resolution is offered to the F minor theme; the eight-bar phrase feints at modulating up to G minor, but its last two bars are repeated, stretching out the rising ifth/semitone descent. This motivic link extends to the reappearance of the irst subject, which, in its halcyon lyricism, peacefully brings the movement to its close. The two opposing themes are placed side by side; the latter grows out of the end of the former, but there is no resolution. The enigmatic question of the new development theme, its meaning and F minor tonality, are left unresolved. The import of the F minor theme will thus have to be carried across the larger level of the work to the later movements. Hence, this opening movement’s highly expressive structural deformation will operate as the cyclic principle across the quartet. For this quartet, the usual position of scherzo and slow movement is inverted, an intermezzo-like Canzonetta in G minor preceding the B-lat Andante espressivo, which, through its subdominant-tinged close, seems set to serve as a large-scale dominant upbeat to the fourth movement. Contrary to all expectations, however, the inale bursts in, attacca, with strident G chords, functioning as V of C minor. This is almost a complete surprise, although at this point the listener should be starting to realise that such interruptions are a structural principle of the quartet. In fact, the interruption of a B-lat dominant by V of C minor recalls the interruption between the irst movement’s slow introduction and allegro exposition, the third movement and inale mirroring these two sections at a larger structural level. What was just an understated hint of submediant colour there, though, has now materialised into the true tonality of the ensuing movement. This same G dominant chord is also familiar from the preceding movement, where it twice interrupted the course of the irst theme (bars 7–8 and 34). Consequently, its intrusion here, following the return of the irst theme in the third movement’s coda, directly parallels its previous appearances. The opening of the inale in C minor may be a shock, but nevertheless it was – if obliquely – forewarned. The main body of the inale – a sonata-form structure over two-thirds of the total length of the movement – is in this ‘wrong’ key of C minor. Earlier, the conlict between the light and dark poles had managed largely to repress the latter, though at times the memory of this conlict – the F minor theme – broke through.

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Like psychological trauma, the memory of the experience remains submerged at some subconscious level, however, and resurfaces without warning, shattering the harmony of the present. The very existence of an extended sonata-form movement in C minor as the inale of a quartet whose home tonality is E-lat drastically upsets the expected structure of the work. The movement ‘should’ be in E-lat, and the inale will correspondingly have to ind its way back to that key if the work is to ind any resolution. This change in the fate of the work is in fact nothing other than the largest-scale manifestation of the polar E-lat/Cm opposition that has run through this quartet from the introduction onwards. The dual key structure of the quartet is now seen relected in the tonalities of the separate movements, the complementary poles of E-lat and C minor setting up their own dominants in the inner movements (G minor, II, and B-lat major, III), an interlocking or chiastic design where movement I relates to III and movement II to IV. This conlict is even relected in the harmonic structure of the inale’s exposition, which, although charting a large-scale move from C minor to the dominant minor as the secondary tonal area, incorporates brief passages of E lat and B-lat major interpolated within each tonal group, as if residues of the ‘proper’ course of events.22 Associated with this tonal duality was the thematic opposition between the enigmatic new development theme and the exposition. Within the irst movement this theme was notably never developed or modiied, its presence, like a past memory, remaining ixed and unchangeable. Almost all of the material for the last movement – again largely monothematic, with a proliferation of variants of the opening material – is clearly derived from the new F minor theme. What appeared there above an uncertain F minor dominant, however, is here unmistakably in C minor. The relationship of this movement to the ‘trauma’ theme, as noted earlier, is made explicit by the reappearance of the F minor theme in an episode which occupies the developmental space of the movement (bars 106–19). After the conclusion of the exposition on G minor, hollow octave Cs again pre-empt the materialisation of this theme, once more perched unstably above the F minor 64 chord. The presence of this theme from an earlier movement is now even more uncanny: unlike in the irst movement, here it actually is a memory, the regression into a past thought lost, a ghostly presence which has all along haunted the work. The repetition of the same thing is, for Freud, one of the primary sources of the unheimlich – ‘the factor of unintended repetition that transforms what would otherwise seem quite harmless into something uncanny and forces us to entertain the idea of the fateful and the inescapable’. Related to the unconscious mind’s

As Vitercik has claimed, it almost seems as if Mendelssohn has written ‘a double exposition, establishing both C minor and E-lat major in the irst group, and both G minor (the dominant key of C minor) and B-lat major (the dominant of E-lat major) in the second.’ Vitercik (1992), 279. 22

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compulsion to repeat the traumatic experience, it ‘recalls the helplessness we experience in certain dream-states’.23 For once, the theme is slightly altered, the tail segment modiied to sustain F minor, as if the implacable memory is beginning to yield. And indeed the theme is now becoming more integrated into the material of the quartet. To make the connection between the agitation of the inale and this theme explicit, the threenote descent is broken off and heard to grow into the tarantella material of the opening (bars 120–28), as the movement embarks upon a recapitulation. The F minor theme is shown to give birth to the music of this movement; the otherwise inexplicable neurosis of the inale is merely the outermost manifestation of this repressed memory, which is here revealed to be its cause. At the same time, though, the theme is at last being confronted, the inale working out that which could not be developed in the irst movement.24 Example 12.3

Modiication of exposition material in recapitulation of the String Quartet, Op. 12

Hints of F minor are increasingly prevalent across the recapitulation, with this tonality and echoes of the a-lat–g–f descent characteristic of the irst-movement development theme being continually emphasised. The new bridge section between irst and second groups moves, in passing, to F minor (bars 151–3) touching on 23

Freud (1991b), 359. Cf. Freud, ‘if the original experience, along with its affect, can be brought into consciousness, the affect is by that very fact discharged or “abreacted”, the force that has maintained the symptom ceases to operate, and the symptom itself disappears’. Breuer and Freud (1974), 37. 24

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Example 12.4

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Modiication of exposition material in recapitulation of the String Quartet, Op. 12

the distinctive a-lat–g–f–c motive of this ‘trauma’ theme in the second violin (the same voice that has always stated this theme), while the second group’s irst theme mirrors the exposition’s move to the subdominant by translating Gm–Cm to Cm–Fm (bar 162). Now the climactic continuation (bars 165–6ff) modiies the diminished harmony and ascending thematic contour of the exposition’s bars 50– 53 to an F minor chord and descending a-lat–g–f (Example 12.3). Most tellingly, when the B-lat major interpolation in the second group is reprised (bars 181ff), the melody seems to outline not the expected E-lat but rather C major, though the accompanying harmony (a third-inversion C7) instead suggests that this C is actually the dominant of F minor, playing off the same ambiguity between tonic and dominant that has been a feature of the quartet. To make this connection unmistakable, the ensuing three-note descent in the melodic line is altered from its previous [8̂]–7̂–6̂  –5̂ to [8̂]–6̂ –5̂–4̂, consequently outlining the all-pervasive a-lat–g–f motive (bar 182, Example 12.4). At bar 196, the music swings again from C7 to F minor. Crucially, the descending tetrachord c–b-lat–a-lat–g above this harmony foreshadows the climax of the work in the coda; it has grown out of the third descent of the ‘trauma’ theme in the previous bars (bars 183ff) and, metrically realigned, now preigures the coda (bars 230ff). F minor harmony is further touched upon in the closing stages of the recapitulation (bars 200 and 215 and, in passing, bars 219–20). The inal cadence (bar 223), a C7 irst inversion replacing the expected C minor tonic, seems projected to steer the tonality to F, but the music instead delects immediately to V65 of C minor (bar 225), which leads directly into the work’s coda.

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From a formalist perspective, emphasising the subdominant is common towards the end of sonata-form recapitulations; as Charles Rosen has inluentially formulated it, a move to IV in the recapitulation balances the sharptending direction of the dominant in the exposition, contributing to a relaxation of harmonic tension accumulated across the movement.25 Here, though, this harmonic tendency is further drawn into a formal process which enables the work inally to achieve some degree of resolution. What is crucially different about this sonata movement is that it is in the wrong key – C minor as opposed to E-lat major. The prominence of F minor and the associated thematic thirdmotive in the development and recapitulation refers directly to the unresolved F minor theme of the irst movement, but it is this very theme that is to provide the means for escape from the pervading C minor of the inale and the inal arrival at the true tonality of E-lat. Example 12.5

Transformation of new theme in coda’s E-lat breakthrough, String Quartet, Op. 12

The pivotal point of the quartet – the peripeteia of the drama – is the transformation of the F minor theme at bar 235 which forms the decisive breakthrough to E-lat major. An impassioned dotted igure follows on directly from the V of bar 228, suggesting a last, crucial struggle with the problems of the work. The rising third in the melody is now expanded into a sixth, c2–a-lat2 (bars 233–4), from which materialises the principal motive of the development theme. Now, however, the harmony is a clear root-position Fm. In a supreme effort of will, the melody, rather than descending back down to c2, rises up to b-lat2, under which is pinned a 64 of E-lat major (Example 12.5). This is the crux and turning point of the movement; from this dominant, E-lat is inally regained. The resolution to the quartet’s real tonic is enabled through treating this F minor harmony as v/V, the motive used as the crucial pivot from the inale’s C minor, down the harmonic cycle of ifths, to B-lat and from there to E-lat. The ambiguity running throughout the quartet between C and F minor, between ‘dominant’ and ‘tonic’, is settled in favour of the latter. Thus the ‘trauma’ stemming from the F minor theme – the C minor Molto allegro – is inally transcended through the 25

Rosen (1971), 79.

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theme itself. To extend the psychoanalytical analogy, by being confronted, through the conscious return to the root cause, the work manages to overcome itself.26 E-lat is triumphantly heralded in bar 237 with a return of the coda’s martial igures in the true tonic, though the quartet will not conclude quite as simply. At bars 241ff, the music retraces the crucial Fm–B-lat64 progression, now fully integrated into its true E-lat context (I63–ii65–[V]64). The irst violin lingers over the Fm63 when the chord returns the second time, the texture thinning to an unaccompanied passage virtually constituting a recitative (bars 253ff). The past is recalled once more, glancing back one inal time to the F minor theme from the irst movement which had dominated the quartet. Now on its second statement, the motive moves from f2 up to c3, completing the process seen in the breakthrough passage. Beneath this pitch, the other instruments quietly enter with the full theme (bar 259); the quotation of the theme’s opening bars in the irst violin leads, by the associative power of memory, to the actual reappearance of this memory.27 Throughout the work, the F minor theme has always been stated in the second violin, its companion remaining silent.28 The effect is of different spatial or temporal levels, a memory external to the narrative/protagonist voice of the irst violin. For the irst time now, this memory is voluntarily recalled by the irst violin. The effect is of looking back, consciously summoning up the past which has been overcome. The work does not end with the initial triumph of the E-lat major breakthrough, but, having reached its home, recollects the journey in tranquillity. This recall leads into the irst theme from the opening movement, entering on the back of the F minor theme, mirroring almost identically the coda to the irst movement, which now concludes the quartet. This conirms the latent parallelism of the inale with the irst movement, already suggested by the reappearance of the irst-movement development theme in the inale’s development episode. As Rosen states, ‘the coda to the inale seems almost inevitable when it arrives, as it simply returns to the coda of the irst movement, coming out of the same motives 26 As famously stated by Breuer and Freud in their Studies on Hysteria, ‘we found, to our great surprise at irst, that each individual hysterical symptom immediately and permanently disappeared when we had succeeded in bringing clearly to light the memory of the event by which it was provoked and in arousing its accompanying effect’, Breuer and Freud (1974), 57. 27 Cf. ibid., 67. 28 The one exception is the sequential repetition in G minor at its irst appearance in the irst movement, but this is taken up by the irst violin after the initial F minor statement in the second violin. Since in this G minor statement the harmony is changed for the only time to a more stable root position and this sequence leads to the transformed reprise of the second and irst subjects of the exposition in the minor key, it seems fair to suggests that the ‘trauma’ is initially distinct from the narrative voice of the irst violin, but, on materialising in the external second violin, spreads to (infects?) the irst.

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and ending in the same way, as the opening theme dies into silence’ – what Hans Keller describes as ‘one of music history’s most organic ‘cyclic’ forms’.29 The irst violin inally descends three octaves from its climactic g3 as the work ends, pianissimo, in nostalgic recall. The memory of the development theme still remains; on its inal recall, the theme is still above an inconclusive 64 of F minor, neither resolved tonally nor melodically closed. The memory has been overcome, but the past is unalterable, which is why, when recalled for this last time, the theme is still unresolved. This bittersweet, half-resolved quality takes up a characteristically Romantic theme of loss and distance, both emotional and temporal. To give the inal word to Keller, ‘this Quartet is one of his profoundest and most original inspirations … The passion behind this Quartet is, naturally, youthful, but its serenity and resignation aren’tʼ.30 ***

The approach undertaken in this chapter opens up several intriguing avenues of thought. In the E-lat quartet, the past is seen not only as a halcyon vision of distant happiness but also reveals a darker, more sinister aspect. Rather than a place to tarry ‘in sessions of sweet, silent thought’, the past has a more destructive claim on the individual, the memory of whose experiences are now revealed to have a negative impact on the self. Might this be why the quartet was the last cyclic piece in which the composer would return to the musical past at the work’s conclusion? What might be the relationship of the ‘historical interest’ (as Schumann put it)31 within such cyclic works themselves to Mendelssohn’s highly developed historical sense and his relationship to the music of the past? And how might the process seen within this quartet express the anxiety, widespread in Mendelssohn’s age, concerning the potentially inhibiting effect of this past and the demands of history on the present? These questions cannot be taken further here, but it is to be hoped that this examination might have set out some proitable new ways of approaching Mendelssohn’s music.32

29

Rosen (1996), 586; Keller (1976), 201. Commenting on this quartet, Keller goes on to opine: ‘Mendelssohn and Bruckner have proved the only composers after Beethoven whose cyclic forms are natural rather than frantically unifying’. Keller (1965), 141. 30 Keller (1976), 211. 31 Schumann (1949), I, 59. 32 For a wider consideration of Mendelssohn’s cyclic music and some of the issues raised here, see Benedict Taylor (2011).

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PArt v contemporary views and Posthumous Perspectives

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chapter 13

A Friendship in letters: the correspondence of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy and carl Klingemann regina Back

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy carried out extensive correspondence with his family and friends as well as with artists and other important personalities of his time. his complete correspondence includes 4,700 letters written by him, and 7,000 letters sent to him from 1817 to 1847, and its literary quality and historical value is beyond question. Relecting Mendelssohn’s life, activities and production in great detail, it is an unparalleled historical document of the cultural, social, and intellectual geneses in the irst half of the nineteenth century. Mendelssohn corresponded continuously with many friends whom he had irst met in his youth and at his parents’ house: among them were Eduard Devrient, Ferdinand David, Julius Schubring, and Johann Gustav Droysen. He was in particularly close contact, however, with the Hanover diplomat Carl Klingemann, who was irst active in Berlin and then in london. this correspondence was especially constant, intimate, and intense, until Mendelssohn’s death in 1847. If the composer is well known for his epistolary brilliance, Klingemann was also a master in the art of correspondence, as enthusiastically described by lea Mendelssohn Bartholdy: It is impossible to describe what wonderful, magniicent letters this most clever man has again sent us; only he could have written them. Wit, spirit, richness of thought, originality and congenial mood, everything that is good is there […] I know what I have in him, and he knows what a reader he has in me.1

the literary quality of these letters – by both authors – as well as the dimension of this friendship and the dificulties that it had to endure and was able to overcome are worthy of detailed consideration.

1

‘Welche wunderherrlichen Briefe dieser Klügste, Beste uns wieder geschickt, läßt sich nicht beschreiben, nur er kanns schreiben. Witz, Geist, Gedankenreichthum, Originalität, Gemüthlichkeit, alles Gute ist drin […] Ich weiß also was ich an ihm habe, u. er was er an mir für eine Leserin hat’. Letter of Lea Mendelssohn Bartholdy to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, 24 April 1829, GB-Ob, MS. M.D.M. b.4, 40.

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Born in 1798 in limmer an der leine, a small village near hanover, carl Klingemann was the son of the cantor, schoolmaster and sexton Friedrich Klingemann. In 1814, aged 15 and following conirmation and completion of secondary school, he became a scribe, or, as it was then called, register assistant in the hanover government. two years later, he was dispatched to Paris to assist with the settlement of war damage compensation to be paid to hanover by the French government. Paris opened up new educational and working possibilities to Klingemann, and he himself called this period the great turning point in his life.2 In 1818, he was employed in Berlin as secretary to the Hanover minister Ludwig Karl Georg von Ompteda. The ministry had its headquarters on the irst loor of the Mendelssohn house, where Klingemann lodged in a room on the top loor. Thus, he became acquainted with the Mendelssohn family between 1823 and 1824. ‘It was especially important for the young Klingemann,’ as his son later wrote, ‘that the hospitable Mendelssohn home opened itself to him, thereby laying the foundation for the friendship with Felix, who was ten years his junior’.3 Yet Klingemann had only a short time to spend with the Mendelssohn family: in 1827, he was transferred to the hanover chancellery in london, where he lived until his death in 1862. Following the death of King William IV in 1837 and the accession of Queen Victoria, the personal union between the British and Hanover royal dynasties was dissolved, and the hanover chancellery in london was transformed into a legation. Klingemann advanced to the position of legal counsellor, and in this capacity regulated business relationships between the hanover and British dynasties – and by doing so, he reached a rather high and enviable position for a member of the middle bourgeoisie. In addition to his oficial duties, Klingemann occupied himself with writing poems and novels, but also during the 1820s mostly with composing music. Between 1827 and 1829 he published novellas on musical subjects whilst also acting as the london correspondent for the Berliner Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, edited by Adolph Bernhard Marx, to which he contributed articles on operas and concerts.4 He wrote the libretto to Mendelssohn’s Die Heimkehr aus der Fremde, op. 89, a Liederspiel performed in December 1829 for the silver wedding anniversary of Mendelssohn’s parents. Of the numerous poems written by Klingemann – most of them friendship, farewell or travel poems – Mendelssohn set about a dozen to music. These include ‘Der Blumenstrauß’, Op. 47 No. 5 (1832), ‘Herbstlied’, Op. 84 No. 2 (1838), and ‘Frühlingslied’, Op. 71 No. 2 (1845). Klingemann also set a number of poems of his own and of other authors to music during the 1820s and 1830s. Several of these compositions were published in collections: the Sieben Lieder were published by Wilhelm logier in Berlin in 1826 and his Sechs Lieder, dedicated to henriette Benecke, were Klingemann (1909), 3. Ibid., 5. 4 In 1827 Klingemann wrote three novellas and in 1828 signed ive contributions entitled ‘Das musikalische London’. See Klingemann (1827/28). 2 3

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published by Breitkopf & härtel in leipzig in 1860. A selection of these already published songs, Acht Lieder für eine Singstimme mit Begleitung des Pianoforte, was newly edited by his son, Karl junior, on the occasion of Klingemann’s 100th birthday in 1898 and published by Breitkopf & härtel. A few weeks after Klingemann’s death in 1862, Ferdinand Hiller’s obituary in the Kölnische Zeitung referred to ‘his ine, intimate understanding of the most important things created in our art’ and ‘his clear, sharp, but never injuring or even arrogant judgment of the new’.5 According to Karl Klingemann junior, his father’s letters in particular were ‘full of spirit, wit and poetical conception’ and had ‘a clarity, simplicity and naturalness sometimes lacking in the renowned author’.6

Publication of the Correspondence As known today, the correspondence between Mendelssohn and Klingemann remains considerable, and includes 313 letters: 158 written by Mendelssohn and 155 by Klingemann. To this we must add references to a few other letters, and a further 17 letters written together by both men to Mendelssohn’s parents. The correspondence was begun by Klingemann on 9 June 1826, writing from his home in limmer to Mendelssohn in Berlin,7 and was concluded with a letter sent to Klingemann by Mendelssohn on 3 october 1847, four weeks before the composer’s death, replying to Klingemann’s letter of 16 July 1847.8 230 of the 313 letters known today were published in 1909 by Karl Klingemann junior. Klingemann’s son made a strict selection as well as cuts: Mendelssohn’s letters are occasionally shortened, but those of his father are considerably abridged and presented in selection. however the idea of a publication had possibly already occurred to both authors, judging by Klingemann’s remark to Mendelssohn on 12 July 1832: ‘Write to me in minute detail about what you’re doing – you write me – I write you […] Felix, our letters will contain so much frivolous content that I’m afraid they will be unsuitable for publication! Just write soon’.9

5 ‘Was ihn aber für uns Musiker […] schätzbar machte, war sein feines, inniges Verständniß des Bedeutendsten, was in unserer Kunst geschaffen worden, sein klares, scharfes, aber nie verletzendes oder auch nur anmaßendes Urtheil über Neues.’ Cited according to Klingemann (1909), 40. 6 Ibid., 39–40. 7 Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Mendelssohn-Archiv, Ep. 386. 8 Klingemann (1909), 330–31. 9 ‘Schreibe mir umständlich was Du thust und treibst – so schreibst Du, – so schreibe ich […] Felix, unsre Briefe werden, fürchte ich, so viel Frivoles enthalten, daß sie für den Druck sehr unbrauchbar werden werden! Schreibe nur bald’. Letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 12 July 1832, GB-Ob, MS. M.D.M. d.28, 70.

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The illuminating pre-history of the 1909 edition clearly shows that scholars were by then highly aware of its value for Mendelssohn research. After Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the composer’s brother, edited Mendelssohn’s Reisebriefe aus den Jahren 1830 bis 1832 (Leipzig, 1861) the musicologist and handel researcher Friedrich chrysander came forward with a request that Klingemann, still active in london, write a contribution about his correspondence with Mendelssohn for the Jahrbücher für musikalische Wissenschaft: ‘And you mustn’t wish to withdraw from it, but in my opinion compose it so that the message will appear as the relationship of a friendship between Mendelssohn and Klingemann’.10 Apparently Klingemann refused Chrysander’s request out of consideration for the privacy of people still living and who are mentioned in the letters. The content of Klingemann’s letter is not known, but Chrysander’s answer provides an explanation for the refusal: he could have had no idea that ‘it was a matter of piety […] [having] assumed that the publication of the same [the Mendelssohn letters] had been generally agreed in the close family – and, moreover, that you have not made the least effort to keep yours secret.’11 Seven years later, after the death of Carl Klingemann, Chrysander once again turned his attention to this matter, this time approaching Klingemann’s widow, Sophie. She was apparently willing to proceed with the edition of the correspondence and began to write the ‘Erinnerungen an Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in seinem Verhältnisse zu Carl Klingemann’ (Memories of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in His Relationship to Carl Klingemann). In the ten-page manuscript, she reports the beginning of the friendship in Berlin until Klingemann’s move to London in the autumn of 1827; a selection of letters was intended to follow this. It was possible to discover, as she wrote, ‘some points of general interest from the letters of the Mendelssohn family, and such excerpts and Felix’s own letters […] retrospectively shed light upon Felix Mendelssohn’s and Carl Klingemann’s collaboration as composer and poet, which in those days already blossomed forth delightfully’.12 ‘Und zwar dürften Sie dabei nicht zurücktreten wollen, sondern müßten es so fassen, meine ich, daß die Mittheilung als das Freundschaftsverhältniß zwischen Mendelssohn und Klingemann erschiene.’ Letter of Chrysander to Klingemann, 10 October 1861, D-B, Handschriftenabteilung, Autogr. I/256/2. 11 ‘Es sich um eine Sache der Pietät handelt. […] von der Voraussetzung ausgegangen, zunächst daß die herausgabe derselben in der engeren Familie allgemein beschlossen gewesen – sodann daß Sie namentlich mit den Ihrigen nicht die geringste Geheimhaltung trieben.’ Letter of Chrysander to Klingemann, 12 January 1862, D-B, Handschriftenabteilung, Autogr. I/256/1. 12 ‘Dagegen läßt sich aus Briefen der Familie Mendelssohn Manches mittheilen, was allgemein interessant ist, u. solche Auszüge u Felix’s eigne Briefe […] werfen retrospective ein Licht auf Felix Mendelssohn’s u. Carl Klingemann’s Zusammenwirken als Componist u. Dichter, welches schon damals reizende Blüthen zu Tage förderte.’ Sophie Klingemann, ‘Erinnerungen an Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy,’ D-B, Handschriftenabteilung, Autogr. I/255/1. 10

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In 1868 or 1869 Sophie Klingemann sent this manuscript, along with the letters from the Mendelssohn family to her deceased husband dated 1828, to Mendelssohn’s brother Paul and asked for his opinion on this project. Paul Mendelssohn Bartholdy must have spoken out strongly against this plan, for reasons of reverence. This becomes clear from Sophie Klingemann’s letter to Friedrich chrysander of 11 February 1869: I have now irmly resolved to publish nothing. What I felt yesterday towards P. M. [Paul Mendelssohn] was predominantly indignation. Today I read his letter differently and believe that I am probably lacking in ine tact, which is why some things may appear indiscreet to other people which I had not seen in this way. Even if I were to omit the letters from M.’s [Mendelssohn’s] parents and sisters, the same offences would happen to me, and I shouldn’t be able to bear it if many old friends of Mendelssohn were to turn away from me, or if the world were to utter the name Klingemann with reproach. In short: I am breaking my word to you.13

thus the correspondence remained unpublished for many years – with the exception of the few letters cited by Mendelssohn’s nephew, Sebastian Hensel, in his family chronicle Die Familie Mendelssohn (Berlin, 1879) – until Carl Klingemann’s son eventually published Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdys Briefwechsel mit Legationsrat Karl Klingemann in London (1909) on the occasion of Mendelssohn’s 100th birthday.

stages of a Friendship Absences allow a correspondence to blossom, and so Klingemann’s letter-writing to Mendelssohn and his family began with his move to london in 1827. the correspondence became more frequent due to the planned educational trip that was irst to take Mendelssohn to London in 1829. Along with Ignaz Moscheles, Klingemann was the principal contact for Mendelssohn and his parents concerning all organizational questions in arranging the sojourn of several months in london. Moreover, Klingemann was also the ideal companion that Mendelssohn’s parents ‘Ich bin eben jetzt fest entschlossen, Nichts zu veröffentlichen. Gestern erfüllte mich überwiegend Unwille gegen P.[aul] M[endelssohn]. heute lese ich seinen Brief mit andren Gedanken, u. glaube, daß mir wohl der rechte feine Tact abgeht, u. darum andren Leuten Manches indiscret erscheinen mag, das ich nicht so angesehen habe. Selbst wenn ich die Briefe von M.[endelssohn]s Eltern u Schwestern wegließe, würden mir dergl. Verstöße passiren, u. ich könnte es nicht vertragen, wenn viele alte Freunde Mendelssohns sich von mir abwendeten, oder gar der name Klingemann von der Welt mit tadel genannt würde. Kurz: ich breche Ihnen mein Wort’. Letter of Sophie Klingemann to Chrysander, 11 February 1869, D-B, Handschriftenabteilung, Autogr. I/259/5. 13

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could have desired for their 20-year-old son, who was now traveling abroad for the irst time. Still in Berlin, Mendelssohn had suggested to his friend that they travel together to Scotland: ‘Next August I am traveling to Scotland, with a rake for folk melodies, an ear for beautiful, fragrant places, and a heart for the naked legs of the inhabitants. Klingemann, you must come along, it could be a royal life!’14 this journey during July and August 1829, documented by the jointly written travel journal with drawings by Mendelssohn and poems by Klingemann symbolizing the symbiotic lifestyle,15 forms the foundation of their lifelong friendship. Mendelssohn traveled to England ten times during his life.16 With the exception of the few opportunities when he usually stayed with Klingemann in london, and Klingemann’s even more sparse visits to Mendelssohn in Düsseldorf, the continuation of the friendship was carried out exclusively through correspondence. therefore, over long stretches of time, letters served as the most important, if not the only, documentation of this particularly intimate friendship – which was also, for that reason, at times dificult. the subjects continually discussed include family events and politics, professional changes and artistic projects. Klingemann reliably informed and advised Mendelssohn on london musical life, also settling business affairs with the latter’s English publishers. Klingemann’s letter of 23 April 1834 (translated in Appendix 13.1) offers a good example of such a report: among other things, he informs Mendelssohn about the reception of his overture Die schöne Melusine, op. 32 and the Scena ed Aria ‘Infelice!’ by their mutual friends Horsley17 and Moscheles, and also writes about new concert performances in london. Mendelssohn, meanwhile, who normally did not publicly express his opinion of his own works or those of other composers, openly commented on and appraised the music, literature and art of his time to Klingemann. The correspondence was regulated in 1834 by agreeing to the so-called ‘monthly letter’. Mendelssohn suggested to Klingemann that one should write on the irst day of the month and the other on the ifteenth. ‘It is perhaps pedantic,’ said Mendelssohn, ‘and both parties do not have to be bound to the contract, but

‘Nächsten August reise ich nach Schottland mit einer Harke für Volksmelodien, einem Ohr für die schönen duftigen Gegenden, und einem Herz für die nackten Beine der Bewohner. Klingemann da müßt Ihr mit, es kann ein königliches Leben werden!’ Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 26 March 1829, in Klingemann (1909), 51. 15 ‘Reise-Gedichte von Carl Klingemann Esqre. für die Zeichenbücher von Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy Esqre’, GB-Ob, Music Section, M.D.M. d. 2. 16 For a detailed study of these visits, see Eatock (2009). 17 Charles Edward Horsley (1822–76), a son of the English composer William horsley. he and Mendelssohn met in london in 1832. Following a period of study in Kassel, horsley moved to leipzig in 1841 where he took up composition lessons with Mendelssohn. See Horsley in Todd (1991). 14

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I think it’s not a bad idea’.18 to this Klingemann answered that regular writing was ‘excellent, what do we care about pedantry, if it’s good – keep to it, I want to do it too’.19 Each side continued to remind the other of this contract of friendship up until the late years of the correspondence, either sentimentally or, if need be, in the form of a reminder. Klingemann’s laziness in writing was legendary in the Mendelssohn family – especially during phases of melancholy or depressive moods, to which Klingemann was prone during his life. he often saw himself forced to begin his letters with lengthy apologies for his delay in writing. However, another very signiicant development can be gathered from this. Klingemann, ten years older, was ahead of Mendelssohn in terms of age, foreign experience and profession for a time at the beginning of their friendship. With Mendelssohn’s growing success as musician and composer in the music centers of Europe and his appointment as Municipal Music Director in Düsseldorf in 1833, Klingemann must have seen himself outdone in creative élan, worldliness and professional as well as private success. Klingemann withdrew and began apologizing for the insigniicance of what he had written in his letters. Always very small, his handwriting increasingly developed into barely legible miniature shorthand. A friendship always threatens to lose its balance whenever the equal rank of the friends is in question. When the private lifestyles of Mendelssohn and Klingemann began to diverge as well, their friendship entered an increasingly critical stage. Mendelssohn, at this time Gewandhauskapellmeister in leipzig, was engaged to Cécile Jeanrenaud in 1836. Klingemann, the eternal bachelor, only later married Sophie Rosen in 1845, at the age of 46.20 Klingemann nevertheless was happy to hear the news, as his congratulations show, but still had dificulty accepting the change: ‘I am so glad about all your joy and this new, cheerful time! […] I wish I could take revenge in a noble way, and be the irst to write such a sweet secret to you, if I only had one!’21 In the following letters Mendelssohn again took up a long cherished plan, the composition of a new oratorio for which Klingemann was to write the libretto. the idea was suggested by Mendelssohn to Klingemann on 18 February 1837: 18 ‘Es ist zwar philiströs und beide Parthieen müßten schließlich gar nicht an ihren Contract gebunden sein, aber ich halte es doch für nicht ganz übel’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, Düsseldorf, 30 November 1834, in Klingemann (1909), 156. 19 ‘Das mit dem regelmäßigen Schreiben ist treflich, was macht uns das Philiströse, wenns nur gut ist, – halt es, ich wills auch’. Letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 16 December 1834, in Klingemann (1909), 160. 20 Sophie Rosen was the sister of the orientalist Friedrich Rosen, who had died in 1837 and with whom both Klingemann and Mendelssohn had enjoyed a close friendship. 21 ‘Wie gönne ich Dir alle Deine Freude u Deine neue frische Zeit! […] aber daß ichs zuerst bestimmt in der City, von fremden Leuten […] hören mußte, wurmte mich, […] ich wollte ich könnte mich auf eine edlere Art rächen, u Dir gleich, zuerst, ein solch liebes Geheimniß schreiben, hätte ich nur eins!’ Letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 21 October 1836, GB-Ob, MS. M.D.M. d.31, 131.

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I would prefer it if you would take Elijah, dividing the story into 2 or 3 parts, writing it down with choruses and arias. […]. think it over, what sort of oratorio I would have to write at present, in your opinion, and send one like that to me. It is to be my wedding present; it would be the sweetest thing you could give me; please, do not refuse.22

Klingemann had every intention of complying with the request, but kept on postponing the execution of it until ‘the next good free day’.23 Again he apologized for the delay in responding to Mendelssohn’s repeated urgings,24 citing his professional burdens and lack of inspiration as the cause: I wanted to serve you and your longing immediately, of course, and still didn’t do it because I kept thinking a good hour for doing it would still come up, and I could then send you a few verses or completed acts. […] It is sad that you have given up on me now, but what can one do when one is lazy and has one’s stupid ofice duties.25

Klingemann’s unpredictably melancholy nature – which would be deined today as depressive – had already been occasionally recognized in the correspondence as laziness in writing, as shown here in an insurmountable writing inhibition. It was the consequence of excessive demands that were due to his professional duties and his wish to supply Mendelssohn with texts – always in order to meet Mendelssohn’s creative demands. Klingemann’s confession and failure irked Mendelssohn considerably. The month-long stalling, empty promises, and his friend’s ultimate unreliability ‘Am liebsten wäre mirs Du nähmest den Elias, theiltest die Geschichte in 2 oder 3 Theile, und schriebst es hin mit Chören und Arien […] Denke doch, was ich nach Deiner Meinung jetzt für eine Art Oratorium schreiben müßte, und so eines schick mir. Es soll mein Hochzeitgeschenk sein; es wäre mir das liebste was Du mir geben könntest; bitte, versag es mir nicht’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 18 February 1837, in Klingemann (1909), 211. 23 ‘Am nächsten guten freien Tag stürze ich mich in den Elias’. Letter from Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 10 March 1837, ibid., 213. 24 ‘Wann könntest du mir’s liefern? Und wenn andre Geschäfte oder Ärger über mein Drängen, oder irgend sonst etwas Dich hindert mir eine Zeit zu bestimmen, so bitte ich Dich: schick mir umgehend die Abschrift unseres Plans zum Oratorium und sage mir, daß ich Dich in Ruh lassen soll, damit ich weiß woran ich bin’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 9 February 1838, ibid., 230. 25 ‘Ich wollte Dir und Deinem Verlangen dem Verlangen gemäß umgehend dienen, und tats dann doch nicht, weil ich immer dachte, mein gutes Stündlein sollte noch schlagen, und ich könnte Dir ein paar Verse oder fertige Akte schicken. […] Es ist traurig, daß ich mich nun so von Dir aufgeben lassen muß, aber was ist zu machen, wenn man faul ist und sein dummes Amt hat’. Letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 19 June 1838, in Klingemann (1909), 233. 22

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angered him no end, for they did not correspond to his own character and nature at all. A serious crisis ensued, documented by a break in the otherwise regular correspondence. no letters were exchanged for over six months, until Mendelssohn inally gave in: I should be ashamed of myself for having remained silent for so long, but I confess to you that I was a bit vexed, and since between us the fault must always lie with the vexed one, I did not want to write before this sourness had been sweated out, and now it has been. Your letters to me were so hurried and short as if it had been a burden; or whatever it may have been, I grumbled and that was foolish. Forgive me. You know it has always been a fault of mine to want to force my views upon others, even upon my friend, whom, of all people, I could not leave alone. And so I must have become tiresome to you with my urgings. That mustn’t happen again, but remain your good, unchanged self.26

Mendelssohn learned to accept Klingemann with his idiosyncrasies, just as Klingemann in this case had to recognize Mendelssohn’s energetic superiority. A new balance had to be created, as well as another basis for equality – an important step on the way to a more mature friendship. Klingemann gratefully accepted the offer of reconciliation: ‘since you prefer to take me as I am, ill-humored and lazy, not as I should be, shaking immortal works out of my sleeve, I am grateful and regard myself as much consoled’.27 From then on, however, larger shared artistic projects played no further role in the relationship. Subsequently Klingemann did occasionally take on translations, and now and then Mendelssohn set one of his poems to music. Each friend took care not to overtax the other, or to make promises that perhaps could not be kept. Above all, each respected the other in his respective strengths, each more consciously emphasizing the importance and value of the other in his own life. Klingemann was and remained Mendelssohn’s closest and most important adviser on many important decisions. Mendelssohn valued his friend’s opinion ‘Ich sollte mich schämen, so lange geschwiegen zu haben; aber daß ich Dirs gestehe, ich war ein Bißchen verdrießlich, und da das immer zwischen uns die Schuld von dem Verdrießlichen sein muß, so wollte ich nicht eher schreiben, als bis das saure Zeug ausgeschwitzt wäre, und das ist nun. Deine Briefe an mich wurden so eilig, und so kurz als wär Dirs eine Last, oder was es nun gewesen sein mag, genug ich brummte und das war dumm. Verzeih mirs. Du weißt, es ist von je mein Fehler gewesen, den andern meine Ansichten aufdringen zu wollen, gar meinen Freund, den konnte ich am allerwenigsten in Ruhe lassen, und so mag ich Dir mit meinem Treiben und Drängen lästig geworden sein; das soll nicht wieder geschehen, aber bleib mir unverändert und gut’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 1 January 1839, ibid., 234. 27 ‘Und da Du mit mir vorlieb nehmen willst wie ich bin, verdrießlich und faul, nicht wie ich sein sollte, unsterbliche Werke aus den Ärmeln schüttelnd, so habe Dank und sieh mich sehr getröstet’. Letter from Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 26 February 1839, ibid., 237. 26

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highly, and so he turned to him for advice in the spring of 1841 when he was asked to take a post at the Berlin Academy of the Arts through King Frederick William IV of Prussia: What impression do you have of this from far away, you who know me so very well? Tell me soon and completely openly. […] Does the Berlin calling smile at you or not? […] I am anxious to hear what you think about it, you with whom I would so much like to discuss it!28

Klingemann at irst overlooked the dificult affair, so that Mendelssohn reproachfully let him know that it had greatly distressed him not to receive an answer to these important questions.29 A long-familiar tone of apology comes to light in Klingemann’s answer, as well as a resigned undertone that would become increasingly prominent in later years: I can only say: forgive my peculiar, lazy impenitence – I want to see how I can improve! Precisely that which should have long ago forced me to write, your appointment, was what held me back. oh, young friend, do you still believe that anyone else can give tolerable advice in such a matter? From the very beginning I felt certain that you should accept the offer, but yet had no hope that you would accept it, […] I know […] all your tendencies as a father of the family, quite satisied with little Leipzig and its philistines, but that won’t do! You can wear your father-of-the-family cap anywhere. Remember, I always said that you must appear and be active before the public, that’s the musician’s profession, and you said I was right.30

‘Was macht Dir nun in der Entfernung, Du der Du mich so genau in und auswendig kennst, die Sache für einen Eindruck? Sag mir das recht bald und recht offen. […] Lächelt Dir der Berliner Ruf oder nicht? […] ich bin begierig zu hören, wie Du darüber denkst, Du mit dem ichs so gern bespräche!’ Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 10 March 1841, in Klingemann (1909), 258–9. 29 ‘Daß ich auf die mir wichtigen Fragen, die ich Dir in meinen beiden letzten Briefen that keine Antwort von Dir erhalten habe, war mir sehr betrübend. […] aber eben daß ich sie allein auf eigne Hand, und ohne eine Antwort von Dir zu haben beendigen mußte, that mir sehr leid’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 16 June 1841, ibid., 261. 30 ‘Ich kann nur sagen: verzeihe mir die wunderliche Faulheits-Verstockung – ich will sehen, wie ich mich bessere! Gerade das, was mich längst hätte zum Schreiben zwingen sollen, Deine Anstellungsgeschichte – das hielt mich zurück – o junger Freund, glaubst Du denn noch, daß irgend ein andrer einem in einem solchen Stück erträglichen Rat geben kann? […] Von Anfang an fühlte ich bestimmt, Du müßtest das Anerbieten annehmen, und hatte doch gar keine Hoffnung, daß Du es annehmen würdest, […] Ich kenne […] alle Deine tendenzen als hausvater, dem das kleine leipzig mit seinen Philistern gerade recht war, – aber es tuts doch nicht! Du kannst Deine Hausvatermütze allerwärts aufsetzen. Erinnere Dich, daß ich immer behauptete, Du müßtest öffentlich auftreten und wirken, das sei des 28

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It is always touching to witness just how pronounced the emotional dependence between Mendelssohn and Klingemann remained over the years, regardless of geographical distance, disparity in professional duties and experiences, and changes in the personal lives of the two. these assertions of friendship are evident time and again throughout the Mendelssohn–Klingemann correspondence, a correspondence that reveals the nature of the friendship from a private, intimate, and emotional perspective. The following quotation, with which I wish to conclude, is exemplary in that regard: it conveys the unique character of the friendship, its devoted faithfulness, pure joy at the health and happiness of the other, gratitude and mutual assurance of the truly important things in life. Mendelssohn wrote to Klingemann on 15 April 1846: At the end of a serious conversation about cooled friendships, I said to my cécile: one should not grieve over them, for whoever can become cooler was never my true friend after all, and indeed one cannot have many more than one, and I have one, and he is Klingemann, and that you haven’t written to me for a long time really did not occur to me for a moment. If you want to write to me in order to remove such doubts, then you needn’t for the irst ten or twenty years; but if you really want to ill my heart with joy, do it often […]. For I hardly need to write here that it gives me the greatest joy to see your handwriting again, and when you tell me that you are happy, and that you are fond of me. thank you for doing it!31

Musikers Beruf, und Du gabst mir wohl recht’. Letter of Klingemann to Mendelssohn, 1 July 1841, GB-Ob, MS. M.D.M. d.40, 284. 31 ‘Tags zuvor […] hatte ich am Schlusse eines ernsthaften Gesprächs über kälter gewordene Freunde zu meiner cécile gesagt: man sollte sich gar nicht darüber betrüben; denn wer kälter werden kann, der war nie mein rechter Freund, und viel mehr als einen kann man überhaupt nicht haben, und einen habe ich, und das ist Klingemann, und daß Du mir seit langer Zeit nicht geschrieben hattest iel mir in dem Augenblick wahrhaftig nicht ein. Wenn Du mir also schreiben willst, um mir dergleichen Zweifel zu benehmen, so brauchst Dus die ersten zehn oder zwanzig Jahre nicht; willst Du mir aber eine rechte Herzensfreude machen, so thu es oft […] Denn daß mirs die größte Freude ist, wenn ich Deine Hand wieder sehe, und wenn Du mir sagst, daß Du glücklich bist, und daß Du mir gut bist, das brauche ich Dir wohl nicht erst hieherzuschreiben. Hab Dank daß Du’s getan hast!’ Letter of Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 15 April 1846, ibid., 312–13.

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Appendix 13.I Carl Klingemann to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in Düsseldorf london, 23 April 1834 My dearest Felix! Twenty four hours after I wrote to you through H. Gruber and frightened you about your parcel,32 it arrived; the contents have been distributed according to my duty and conscience, and have excited suitable rejoicing and satisfaction. the horsleys33 were pleased, to the extent that it might have been a surprise rather than a contract, and the girls can already play the magic well and promise something most beautiful. Enclosed is their letter – to which these few words merely tag along. – I have delivered the Fantasie34 to Mori35 immediately without showing it to Moscheles;36 once again he was not to be met, however. – I have given the scene for the Philharmonic Society37 to Moscheles to promote; last Sunday morning we went through it and were very pleased with it; everything so clear and easy, transparent and comprehensible and the feeling without prejudice. the Andante, and its return at the end, appealed to me and impressed me the most. this was also the case with the others, I believe, and Mrs Moscheles38 praised the end of the recitative. But who would sing it? I know not if and when Malibran39 will come. Juliette Grisi40 makes the necessary rain and sunshine here now; I have still not heard her. Moscheles has, however, and says she is a very good singer, but ( – break – ) she is as far from Malibran as Masoni is from Paganini. But I’m sure you don’t know Masoni – an unsuccessful violinist from Calcutta, with nine children that he has spawned here and now leaves to rot in God’s name. I was allowed to offer my opinion on your two Lieder ohne Worte41 that Mrs Horsley did not withhold, so gladly would I have kept it to myself; the one in F-sharp minor42 is water, or rather wine, in my mill. Sophy43 plays it with enthusiasm. 32

this parcel contained, among other things, the The Fair Melusine overture, op. 32. The family of William Horsley (1774–1858) and his wife Elizabeth Hutchins Horsley (1793–?) 34 Fantasie in F-sharp minor, Op. 28. 35 Nicolas Mori (1796/97–1839), a music publisher and violinist. 36 Ignaz Moscheles (1794–1870), composer and pianist. 37 the still unpublished 1934 concert aria Infelice! Ah, ritorna, età dell’oro. 38 Charlotte Moscheles (1805–89). 39 Maria Malibran (1808–35), a singer. 40 Guilia Grisi (1811–69), a soprano. 41 Mendelssohn, Lieder ohne Worte, Op. 30 (1833). 42 Venezianisches Gondellied, op. 30 no. 6. 43 Sophia Hutchins Horsley (1819–94). 33

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Hopefully you actually received the Gruber parcel, and everything is as you like it. With regard to the £30 which you have yet to demand from the Philharmonic Society, I gave Moscheles an order for Watts,44 and asked him to affect it en passant and elegantly. The next trial will be a new symphony by Spohr:45 I heard a piece of ‘Naturlaute’ occur in the irst note rehearsed. I presumed at irst the contrabassoon would get something to do with repelled notes – but heard, however, that it is foreseen only in innocent cock crows and things like that. When will your long awaited letter arrive? For the longest time I have been under order from Delphine Schauroth46 to send you her warmest greetings. You dedicated your concerto to her but never sent her a dedicated manuscript, as beits her.47 She would not take this well and she wanted me to warn you. I told her she would now receive one bound in velvet – she said she already had one. – You will next see her in Düsseldorf; she wishes to spend time bathing and with her mother. Mary Alexander48 translated three lieder by heine, sent the translations to your sister, who then set them to music49 and returned them adorned with a delicate vignette by hensel.50 When I heard about this (and a strong sound of it went through the country) I overcame my shyness, made the Lieder the most guilty purpose of my visit, and sang them. they are absolutely enchanting – your sister is still able to compose. In particular, I found the irst two exceptional and there is much that I must do to obtain a copy of them. Moscheles will perform your Melusine51 in his concert (8 May) and will play your new Rondo in E-lat,52 by which, among other things, he does me an enormous favor. he will be able to hold an adequate rehearsal. he is also playing his newest Concerto Fantastique53 – along with something together with herz.54 The Dutch singer de Wrugt will sing; the man has a splendid voice; he says he was at the Music Festival in Düsseldorf.

44 45 46 47 48

William Watts, secretary of the Philharmonic Society, 1815–47. Spohr, Symphony No. 4 in F major, ‘Die Weihe der Töne,’ Op. 86. Delphine Schauroth (1814–87), pianist. Piano Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 25. Mary Alexander (1806–67), married to Joshua Samuel Crompton (1799–1881) in

1834. 49

Fanny hensel, Drei Lieder nach Heine von Mary Alexander, Hellwig-Unruh Nr.

274. 50

Wilhelm Hensel (1794–1861), painter and husband of Fanny Hensel. Die Schöne Melusine overture, op. 32. 52 Rondo Brillant, op. 29. 53 Moscheles, Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 6 in B-lat major, Concerto Fantastique, Op. 90 (1833). 54 Henri Herz (1803–88), virtuoso pianist and composer. 51

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Last Sunday morning I stepped into the room of Goldschmidt55 and heard the most unique little racket of a voice; it was Koreff. Goldschmidt is off to Paris for a fortnight. In my opinion, it would not have been suitable to hold back your two Lieder ohne Worte from Mrs Horsley, although I would have liked to keep them for myself. I cannot see any longer – for a leeting update this may be enough, and I am your cK1. AutogrAph: Oxford, Bodleian Library, Music Section, MS. M.D.M. d. 29/112. Appendix translated by Nicole Grimes.

55

Adolph Goldschmidt, banker.

chapter 14

Mendelssohn as Portrayed in the Goethe–Zelter correspondence lorraine Byrne Bodley

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and carl Friedrich Zelter lived in an age when the art of letter-writing, like the rise of the novel, was a phenomenon of the time. it wove itself into Goethe’s epistolary novel, Werther, and into the letters that Goethe wrote from Weimar to Zelter in Berlin. it was through Zelter that Goethe gained access to the professional musical world beyond Weimar and became acquainted with the prodigious talent of Felix Mendelssohn. Following the introduction of Felix to Goethe in the winter of 1821/22, the composer featured regularly in their correspondence until 1832, the year Goethe and Zelter died. their correspondence provides accounts of his progress from the composition of his irst Piano Quartet in 1821 to his embarking on the Italienische Reise in 1830. in its pages, we continually encounter an exuberant image of the child, an early display of virtuosity, or some rising intellectual ground successfully surmounted. Reading such letters gratiies and furthers the range of our knowledge about Mendelssohn. it is the manifestation of this prodigious power in Mendelssohn’s early years and the signiicance of what must be one of the most extraordinary friendships in music history that i wish to examine in this chapter. the essentials of the relationship between Goethe and Mendelssohn have been explored in larry todd’s mighty argosy of scholarship, Mendelssohn: A Life in Music (2003); in lawrence Kramer’s article, ‘Felix culpa: Goethe and the image of Mendelssohn’ (1992); in Julie Prandi’s article, ‘Kindred spirits: Mendelssohn and Goethe: Die erste Walpurgisnacht’ (2002); in Martin Wehnert’s essay, ‘Zu Goethes verhalten gegenüber Mendelssohn’ (2004); and most recently in John Michael cooper’s seminal study, Mendelssohn, Goethe, and the Walpurgis Night (2007), which provides the most perceptive reading of the signiicance of the relationship for both artists, and the posthumous reception of that relationship.1 Central to all ive studies is Karl Mendelssohn’s monograph, Goethe und Felix Mendelssohn, published in 1871 and in english the following year. The date of this publication in the early 1870s and, more signiicantly, Karl Mendelssohn’s decision to place Goethe’s name ahead of his father’s – Goethe and Mendelssohn rather than Mendelssohn and Goethe, which is, in fact, a 1 todd (2003), 29–30; Kramer (1992), 64–79; Prandi (2002), 135–46; Wehnert (2004), 205–19; cooper (2007a).

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more accurate relection of the content – has not been identiied in Mendelssohn scholarship. As cooper insightfully discerns, at that time the Jung-deutschland opposition to Goethe had disappeared and ‘the ascendant nationalist discourse of the 1860s combined with the post-hegelian dialectical advocacy of Goethe’s classicism as a synthesis of polarities to render him more German […] despite his emphatically cosmopolitan aesthetic outlook. concurrently, Mendelssohn, whose cosmopolitan successes never impeded his dedication to the cause of German music [...] became less genuinely German and more Jewish in the eyes of his critics – with all the liabilities that contemporary culture ascribed to that cultural identity’.2 Karl Mendelssohn’s book was, therefore, an attempt to reinstate the image of Mendelssohn as German by linking him with Goethe, who, like Beethoven, became widely viewed as the prophet of the modern world. While Karl Mendelssohn’s monograph has remained a keystone in Mendelssohn studies, any serious engagement with the image of Mendelssohn as presented in Goethe’s correspondence with the composer carl Friedrich Zelter is strikingly absent. one reason for this neglect is that until now the musical discussion in these letters has never been published in english.3 A second – and more telling – reason that scholars have cast a suspicious eye on the correspondence of Goethe and Zelter is that their letters have been placed in the false context of their authors’ musical conservatism. Much musicological and historicist criticism has tended to ‘latten’ Goethe by conining him to the thought-clichés of his time, which has led to an implicitly patronizing view of him as musically conservative. Yet in his correspondence with Zelter Goethe proves again and again to be more musically intelligent and perceptive than scholars have allowed. certain musicological questions engross the poet throughout the letters – text setting, the theory of sound, and the nature of major and minor tonalities – yet Goethe’s thought is anything but static; the letters keep returning to and modifying his musical preoccupations. that Goethe’s relationship with Mendelssohn was vitally important to the composer is evident from Mendelssohn’s letters. that they were comparably important to Goethe, however, has not been recognized. Although the bulk of all Goethe biographies were written by Jewish authors – ludwig Geiger, Albert Bielschowsky, richard M. Meyer, emil ludwig, Georg simmel, Friedrich Gundolf, richard Friedenthal and hans Mayer4 – Goethe’s relationship with Mendelssohn is rarely recorded in Goethean literature. this is to some extent 2 the most insightful reading of Mendelssohn and Goethe’s parallel reception history can be found in cooper (2007a), 166. 3 Byrne Bodley (2009). 4 Geiger (1908 and 1910). Geiger is the only biographer who discusses the Jewish question at any length, while Bielschowsky, in fact, avoids anything connected to Jewish life, though his biography is twice as long as Geiger’s. Bielschowsky (1909/10, repr. 1918); Meyer (1895); ludwig (1920/28); simmel (1913); Gundolf (1916); Friedenthal (1963, repr. 1977, 1989); Mayer (1973 repr. 1999).

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natural, since Goethe’s life was substantially longer than Mendelssohn’s and the composer entered into it only in the last 12 years of the poet’s life. this lacuna in Goethean literature is also linked with the reception history of both artists: for late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century commentators, Mendelssohn’s artistic stature was buttressed by his artistic and personal afinities with Goethe, but Goethe needed no such support. the German-Jewish Mendelssohn thus igures less prominently than comparatively minor igures in many accounts of Goethe’s life and work – a deliberate omission by many biographers which, rather ironically, has contributed to the negative representation of Goethe’s engagement with music. negative reception of Zelter’s musical conservatism goes hand in glove with the perception of Mendelssohn as epigonal, a composer who never quite succeeded in outgrowing the archetypal ‘period of imitation’ and consequently remained overly reliant on models from the past. While such images can be linked to the complex trajectory of Mendelssohn reception and to canon formation, they fail to recognize the self-divisions in Zelter. Goethe’s famous formulation in Faust i, ‘Zwei seelen wohnen, ach, in meiner Brust’, captures the image of Zelter in these letters. Although the uncensored publication of the letters contradicted the spirit of the time – and upset the Mendelssohn family – the correspondence is more valuable because of Goethe’s acceptance of the dichotomies in the human personality. recognizing these self-divisions in her children’s teacher just months after they commenced lessons with the composer, lea Mendelssohn observed that where Zelter was concerned: the belief of the ancients, that man has two souls, seems to be true, for i cannot deny that the same man who charms us with the inspiration of an artist, touching seriousness of thought, and jokes á la Jean Paul, can also be downright insipid and prosaic.5

Lea’s portrait of Zelter as an intelligent and relective musician, with unceasing energy and passionate devotion to music, is evident in these letters. Yet his sharp wit and ironic sense of humour have also given rise to the portrayal of a blunt Zelter, who is falsely blamed for Goethe persisting in eighteenth-century concepts of musical aesthetics. Zelter’s name is usually linked with Goethe as a composer of his settings, yet what Zelter bequeathed to music history was much more than this. As Philipp christoph Kayser and Johann Friedrich reichardt correctly realized, Goethe found in Zelter the musical correspondent he had been seeking and their letters bear witness to the composer’s unceasing energy, his passionate devotion to music and the profound shocks he suffered, all of which drew Goethe and the Mendelssohns to him. the richness of themes accords with Lea’s memoir and establishes this group of letters as one of the inest in all of

5

lea Mendelssohn as cited in Byrne Bodley (2009), 17.

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Goethe’s correspondence and an important source in charting Mendelssohn’s early development.

Mendelssohn and Zelter: early talent Revealed Zelter became aware of Felix’s musical precocity when, at the age of ten, he discovered six consecutive ifths in Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto, No. 5, which Zelter’s ripienschule was rehearsing6 and his letters to Goethe provide a fascinating account of Mendelssohn’s musical development. Felix’s lessons with Zelter commenced in 1819 and continued for approximately eight years. on Mondays and tuesdays Felix attended the singakademie and twice a week Zelter came to the old Meierei, neue Promenade no. 7, where Felix’s apprenticeship was served in baroque counterpoint in its most complex forms. Zelter’s irst reference to his ‘young pupil’ in 1821 acclaims Felix’s musical facility and augurs his departure as one whose ‘work lows spontaneously’ and whose ‘love of the art ensures he is industrious’.7 Zelter introduced Felix to Goethe in the winter of 1821/22, and after the visit Zelter’s letters chronicle Felix’s astounding creativity. Between 1822 and 1826 Zelter records the completion and performance of: ive operas; a Gloria in E-lat major;8 a Magniicat in D major for solo voices, choir and orchestra;9 Felix’s second Piano Quartet in C minor, Op. 1;10 the concerto in A minor for piano and string orchestra,11 the Double Piano Concerto in A-lat major,12 and the Octet in E-lat major, Op. 20.13 Zelter’s praise was bolstered by the publication and international critical acclaim of Felix’s Piano Quartet in C minor, Op. 1, where critics hailed him as a second Mozart in leipzig;14 as a composer of genius in Paris;15 and by the publication of the Piano Quartet in F minor, Op. 2, written in 1823 and published the following year. the latter – the most substantial chamber work of 1823, revealing the formal and expressive inluence of Beethoven – was dedicated to Zelter. Writing to Goethe on 11 March 1823, Zelter acclaimed the modernity of 6

Zelter to Goethe, 25 May 1826. (All further references to letters from Zelter to Goethe will take the format ZG and letters from Goethe to Zelter will take the format GZ.) in 1911 Albert schweitzer uncovered this passage in Bach’s Fifth Brandenburg concerto which Zelter had rehearsed. For discussion of the passage, see todd (2003), 46. 7 ZG, 20 August 1821. see Byrne Bodley (2009), 283. 8 ZG, 17 March 1822, Byrne Bodley (2009), 290–91. 9 ibid., 290. 10 ZG, 11 March 1823, ibid., 296–7. 11 ZG, 17 March 1822, ibid., 290–91. 12 ZG, 26 december 1824, ibid., 324. 13 ZG, 6 november 1825, ibid., 338. 14 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 26 (1824), columns 181–4. 15 henriette Mendelssohn to lea, 11 February 1824, in Ward Jones (1989), 269–70.

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the ‘exquisite piano quartet’.16 Borrowing an image from Goethe’s Lehrjahre, on the composer’s ifteenth birthday, 3 February 1824, Zelter proclaimed Felix a journeyman and linked him with the musical masters he most valued: Bach, haydn and Mozart.17 he continually recounted Felix’s phenomenal progress, admitting that ‘everywhere I ind novelty, beauty, real originality; there is intellect, movement, serenity, sonority, completeness, dramatic force’.18 he noted that with Felix’s music ‘everything comes from within, external events remain external for him’.19 he acclaimed his individuality, which ‘entwines so well with the spirit of the age’20 and stated, ‘i do everything i can to encourage him, as he drives himself on to experiment in various new and the more conventional forms’.21 When Felix’s formal lessons with Zelter were discontinued in 1827, eduard devrient’s portrayal of an angry Zelter who believed that Felix had ‘learned everything from him and not yet outgrown his guidance’22 does not hold any weight in these letters. From his irst mention of Felix to Goethe, Zelter recognized that Felix would outgrow him, and he shared an awareness with Abraham Mendelssohn that ‘Felix’s genius was […] self-existent’.23 Moscheles believed that few, other than Zelter and ludwig Berger, truly recognized the youth’s genius – an opinion supported by Zelter’s letters to Goethe, where he rejoices in Felix’s ability to ‘seize the age with both hands and carry it along with him’.24 From 1823 he imagined his ‘joy’ at the prospect of Felix ‘fulil[ling] the promise of his youth’.25 he longed for him to prosper26 and his rich experience and empathy as a musician is evident in his dismissal of unfavourable reviews, such as a Berliner Musikalische Zeitung review in 1825 of the quartets and symphonies, which were given a ‘cold reception’ by young, inexperienced critics.27 two years later he comments on Mendelssohn’s astonishing development to Goethe in a manner that is cognizant of the potential burdens of a prodigious youth and conscious of the promise that his sound musical guidance and unwavering encouragement held for the composer: 16

ZG, 11 March 1823, Byrne Bodley (2009), 297. dorn (1872), 399. 18 ZG, 8 to 10 February 1824, Byrne Bodley (2009), 305. 19 ZG, 11 March 1823, Byrne Bodley (2009), 297. Zelter’s measure of admiration is evident in a later letter, 26 July to 1 August 1826, where he uses the same words to describe schiller’s artistic gifts. 20 ZG, 26 december 1824, ibid., 324. 21 ZG, 6 June 1826, ibid., 349. 22 devrient (1869/1972), 32–3. 23 ibid., 32. 24 ZG, 1 July 1825, Byrne Bodley (2009), 333–4. 25 ZG, 11 March 1823, ibid., 297. 26 ZG, 11 March 1823, ibid., 296–7; and ZG, 26 december 1824, ibid., 324. 27 see the Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 44 (2 november 1825): 353–5 and no. 45 (9 november 1825): 361–3 for the reviews and Byrne Bodley (2009), 339 for Zelter’s defence of Mendelssohn. 17

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When we are young, and we are given all other advantages which it takes many others the best part of their lives to achieve, it cannot do much harm. But i do wish that, given his industry, he might as soon as possible outgrow our time; yet whether we like it or not, we have to it in with it. I dare say I might still be of some use to him in this by making him fall back on himself more and more.28

Throughout his correspondence with Goethe, and from his irst reference to his young protégé in 1821, Zelter repeatedly longs for Felix to stretch his wings beyond Berlin and take light in Italy.29 he provided a platform for Mendelssohn to conduct his major works at the singakademie, including his Te Deum (composed for the opening of the new hall in 1827), Tu est Petrus (1828) and the polyphonic motet Hora est (1829) – but more signiicantly, the cantata written for the Albrecht dürer Festival (1828) and Bach, St Matthew Passion (1829), a performance which marked the pinnacle of his youth on the threshold of an international reputation. According to devrient, when Felix requested the use of the singakademie hall to mount the St Matthew Passion, Zelter compared their proposal to the brazen child’s play of two ‘Rotznasen’, ‘snot-nosed brats’,30 yet Fanny’s letter dated 22 March 1829 states that ‘Zelter had nothing against this’31 and his acceptance of Mendelssohn’s proposal reveals his liberalism, for he must have been aware that the idea of Mendelssohn reviving this christian work would be viewed with scepticism by older members of the singakademie and the general public. in letters to Goethe, Zelter’s account of the St Matthew Passion reveals his delight that Bach’s masterpiece had been brought to light. in a letter to Goethe on 9 March 1829, he relates how ‘Felix has studied it under me, and is going to conduct it, so i will give up my desk to him’.32 After participating in the early rehearsals, Zelter took his place with ‘exemplary resignation’ in the audience33 and sat with his score ‘in a little corner near the orchestra, from where [he] could survey [his] students and the public equally well’.34 Buoyed by the extraordinary reception of both performances on 11 and 21 March 1829,35 Zelter stepped in to conduct a third performance only to release Felix, who was invited to give a series of organ recitals in london, and he humorously conided in Goethe the pressure he experienced when conducting this

28

ZG, 20 February 1827, Byrne Bodley (2009), 367–8. ZG, 20 August to 20 september 1821, ibid., 283–4; see also ZG, 9 March 1829, ibid., 422; ZG, 10 May 1830, ibid., 468–9. 30 devrient (1869/1972), 39. 31 Fanny Mendelssohn’s letter is cited in schünemann (1828), 159. 32 ZG, 9 March 1829, Byrne Bodley (2009), 422; see also 12–22 March 1829, ibid., 423–5. 33 Fanny Mendelssohn to Klingemann, 22 March 1829, in sebastian hensel (1882), 1: 171. 34 ZG, 12 March 1829, Byrne Bodley (2009), 423. 35 ZG, 12–22 March 1829, ibid., 423–5. 29

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performance.36 By performing two comparative performances of the Passion Music, Graun’s Der Tod Jesu on Palm sunday followed by Bach’s St Matthew Passion on Good Friday, 17 April 1830, Zelter hoped to show Berlin audiences aspects of ‘the mutual relationship between two original German geniuses’; how Graun ‘formed himself entirely upon italian models and generally worked upon italian texts’ while Bach ‘never went out of Germany, and (to my knowledge) never set any italian piece’; and how both composers ‘are distinguished by nature from each other, one by depth, another by clarity’.37 And it is clear that Goethe appreciated the momentous signiicance of the Singakademie’s Bach performances.38 Zelter’s sense of goodwill towards Felix and his understanding of the signiicance and the stimulation of the Italienische Reise for the composer’s development are palpable in his blessing at the beginning of Felix’s journey, where he writes to Goethe: ‘let him go forth, therefore, into the world and discover his masters, and awake them, and begin where the beginning is; the materials for that he brings with him’.39 on a more pragmatic note, he admits to Goethe that at times he worries about Felix and wonders whether the enormous privilege and lack of suffering in his life have equipped him for the future.40 Relecting on his teaching of Felix on 15 June 1830, he writes: i like to think of myself as having taught him the truth […] he takes a complete system away with him from here, one upon which he can build what genius inspires in him, and if he continues to develop in this way, he will have reason to think of his teacher […]41

long after the lessons were discontinued, Zelter continued to take a keen interest in his former student. Writing to Goethe in 1829, he recounts Felix’s experience at the humboldt University,42 where Felix was attending hegel’s lectures on music.43 From Felix’s correspondence it is clear he shared his teacher’s scepticism at hegel’s pronouncements on contemporary music that art had declined, even ceased.44 For his part, Felix continued to support Zelter at the singakademie, copying handel’s

36

ZG, 17–18 April 1829, ibid., 429. ibid. 38 GZ, 28 March 1829, ibid., 426. 39 ZG, 2 november 1830, ibid., 480. 40 ZG, 13–15 June 1830, ibid., 470–71. 41 ibid. 42 ZG, 22 March 1829, ibid., 423–5. 43 ZG, 12–22 March 1829, ibid., 424. 44 Felix Mendelssohn to Wilhelm taubert, 27 August 1831. cited in thomas schmidt (1996), 59. see also Mendelssohn’s letter to his family, 21 May 1830, in Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1862), 5. For hegel’s perception of the decline of art, see hegel (1965), i: 550–51. 37

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dixit dominus for his former teacher in october 1829;45 recommending Zelter as a teacher to Josephine lang in 1831;46 and calling his irst child, Carl Wolfgang Paul, after both Zelter and Goethe – a gesture which transcends the familial upset caused by the controversial publication of the Goethe–Zelter letters three years earlier. While it lies beyond the scope of this chapter even to outline the controversy surrounding the publication of these letters or to re-evaluate the musicological image of his venerable teacher, Zelter – whose idelity to his vocation and fulilment of its public demands were steady and characteristically vigorous – it is possible to consider as Zelter’s greatest gift to his young protégée an introduction to Goethe, who was an active witness in the composer’s early years.

Goethe and Mendelssohn: Prodigiousness and Beyond Between the ages of 12 and 21, Mendelssohn stayed with Goethe on four separate occasions. these visits would have placed Goethe in the unique position to judge the comparison made by heinrich heine in 1822 between the two child prodigies: Mozart, whom he heard at age seven; and Mendelssohn, whom Goethe irst heard at age 12: Apart from the young Felix Mendelssohn, who according to the judgement of established musicians is a musical wonder and can become a second Mozart, i know not a single musical genius amongst the current natives of Berlin.47

Goethe’s irst encounter with the young protégé was 2–19 November 1821, when Mendelssohn and his teacher stayed with the poet for 17 days – an invitation only extended to very close friends. that Felix Mendelssohn was conscious of the signiicance of this extraordinary event is evident in his letter to his parents on 6 november: now listen, all, gather around […] on sunday Weimar’s sun appeared. Goethe. […] he was in the garden and appeared from behind a hedge; is that not strange, dear father: exactly the way it happened when you met him. he is very friendly, but I ind no portrait captures his likeness accurately. […] One would think he was ifty years old, not seventy-three. After dinner Ulricke, the sister of Goethe’s daughter-in-law, asked for a kiss and i followed suit. every morning i receive

45

the copy is in vienna, Österreichische nationalbibliothek, Musiksammlung, Ms,

16536. 46 47

24 July 1831, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1868b), 216. heinrich heine, ‘dritter Brief aus Berlin’, 7 June 1822, in heine (1997), ii: 59.

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a kiss from the author of Faust and Werther and every evening two kisses from father and friend, Goethe. imagine!48

For two hours every day Felix performed on Goethe’s streicher piano entertaining the poet with Bach fugues and improvisations, an art the young pianist only recently had begun to develop in Berlin. during Felix’s visit two parties were arranged at Goethe’s home, on 8 and 11 November. On the irst occasion the guests were the grand duke with Princesses luise and Maria Pavlovna (sister of the russian tsar), Zelter, riemer, eberwein and ludwig rellstab, who left a detailed account of the evening.49 When the audience had assembled, Goethe entered and explained the artistic reasons for their gathering. Felix was to be granted the opportunity to display his precocity in public by performing various tests, in the manner of those early concerts given by Mozart, whom Goethe had witnessed in Frankfurt in 1763. The irst audition for the role of Mozart’s successor was to measure Felix’s improvisational skills.50 Zelter chose a simple melody, ‘ich träumte einst von hännchen’ (once i dreamed of Johnny), which Felix played back at the same pitch and then wove into a contrapuntal fantasy, mesmerizing the attentive audience. the subject of a more dificult second improvisation Zelter set was from a Bach fugue which Goethe favoured, and on which Felix improvised a complete fugue.51 the third wager, testing the boy’s musical memory, was set by Goethe, who requested a minuet, whereupon Felix performed his favourite from Don Giovanni. testing the boy’s ability to play an orchestral score from memory, Goethe requested the overture to Don Giovanni, whose Allegro molto contains repeated note passages which are dificult to play on the piano. This time Felix refused, on the grounds that ‘it is impossible to play that [on the forte piano] as it is written and it is not right to alter a single note’. instead, he offered and brilliantly performed the more complex overture to The Marriage of Figaro.52 increasingly delighted by his performance, Goethe addressed Felix: ‘so far you have only played pieces for me that you know, now let’s see whether you can play something which you have never seen.’53 Goethe chose two manuscripts 48

Mendelssohn to his parents, 6 november 1821, cited in sebastian hensel (1991),

134f. 49

rellstab (1861), ii: 135–40. the Berlin notebooks, containing such works as the Fantasia in c minor for piano, give us a glimpse at Mendelssohn’s early ability to extemporize. 51 through rellstab’s descriptions of the trills in the subject which Felix omitted in the improvisation, todd has narrowed it down to the Fugue in F-sharp minor from Das Wohltemperierte Klavier I. Although this rings true because Goethe had been familiar with the work since 1816, it changes the nature of the task to one of memory because, like Fanny, Mendelssohn would have learnt this work. 52 rellstab (1861), ii: 135–48. rellstab’s account is translated in todd (2003), 88. 53 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 10. 50

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Figure 14.1

‘Wonne der Wehmut’ 1. Fassung hess 142.3 the Autograph (1810) by Beethoven which Mendelssohn sight-read for Goethe

from his private collection. The irst was a fragment, an Adagio movement to a Mozart sonata for violin and piano.54 Mozart’s hand was precise and fairly clear, and despite the complexity of some of the passagework, Felix sight-read it ‘as if he had known it from memory for many years’.55 the second, ‘splashed with ink and smudged all over’, was the irst draft of the Goethe setting, ‘Wonne der Wehmut’ (Figure 14.1), which Zelter immediately recognized as Beethoven, who ‘wrote as if he used a broomstick, and then wiped his sleeve over the wet ink’.56 When Felix saw it he immediately exclaimed, ‘look how it is written. how could anyone read that!’57 Yet with eyes riveted on the page, his face alive with intense engagement with this simple Lied, Felix slowly worked his way through the song. When he paused to work out what Beethoven intended, Goethe remarked, ‘look! didn’t i tell you you would falter. come on, try. show us what you can do’.58 Buoyed by Goethe’s encouragement, Felix battled with the shorthand-like scrawls to the end; and when he inished he performed the song from the beginning lawlessly. What this series of musical trials demonstrates is that Goethe knew how to test veritable musical talent and knew that Felix would acquit himself well. And Goethe’s warm delight at the child’s triumph was obvious to his guests. 54

K396 (=K385f), Goethe und schiller Archive, Weimar. the fragment was ‘completed’ by Mozart’s friend and clarinettist, Anton stadler, and published as a fantasy for piano solo. 55 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 10. 56 ibid, 15. Beethoven’s sketch for ‘Wonne der Wehmut’, op. 83 no.1 (Figure 14.2), is housed in the Goethe-schiller Archive in Weimar. 57 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 15. 58 ibid.

Mendelssohn as Portrayed in the Goethe–Zelter Correspondence

Figure 14.2

293

Mendelssohn performs with the Weimar court musicians for Goethe and Zelter in the Juno room (sketch from the Goetheschiller Archive, Weimar)

A second gathering, this time a private assembly, reconvened in the Junozimmer on 11 november to test Felix’s compositional gifts. the ensemble, which included the violist J. c. lobe, was made up of three Weimar court musicians,59 whom Goethe had assembled to perform Felix’s Piano Quartet in D minor with the young composer (Figure 14.2).60 After a masterly performance, Felix – revealing the double nature that Adele schopenhauer so admired in him – went off into Goethe’s garden to play. Among this assembly of professional musicians, Goethe was quick to recognize the 12-year old’s virtuosity and improvisational gifts: As far as mere technical execution goes, musical prodigies are probably not so rare any more: but what this young fellow can improvise and play at sight borders on the miraculous, and i did not consider it possible in one so young.61

recalling Mozart’s performance at the age of seven at Frankfurt, Goethe concluded: At that time i myself was only twelve years old, and was certainly, like all the rest of the world, completely astonished at his extraordinary execution; but what

59

For an account of the performance, see lobe (1855): 280–96; (1912), 192–9. lobe does not identify the work, but in his letter to Goethe on 11 March 1823 Zelter refers to Felix’s new Piano Quartet in C minor, Op. 1, and distinguishes it from the quartet performed for the poet in Weimar in 1821. see Byrne Bodley (2009), 297. 61 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 17 (after lobe) 6 november 1821, Goethe (1998), 297. 60

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your pupil already accomplishes, bears the same relation to the Mozart of that time, that the cultivated talk of a grown-up person does to the prattle of a child.62

When Zelter informed the musicians that Felix had composed the quartet without any assistance, they came to the conclusion that his genius surpassed the young Mozart and augured a glowing future for the boy. Wishing it so, Goethe wisely added that one never knows how such talent can take a false turn: a question which is sometimes raised in relation to Mendelssohn’s historicism.63 Goethe’s appraisal of Mendelssohn’s musical gifts as ‘miraculous’ recognizes his prodigiousness. As accounts of the irst visit show, Goethe knew that Felix needed a tremendous amount of support to lourish: good teachers, attentive parents, ample opportunities for performance and display, and access to avenues for publicity provided by the poet, who had set up a sequence of hurdles, acknowledged in the musical sphere, over which Felix had the opportunity to bound. As accounts of the ensuing conversation show, Goethe and Zelter knew the transition from youthful prodigy to adult master to be a vexed one and that most prodigies did not fulil their youthful potential. When Goethe recognized Mendelssohn’s good fortune in inding such a teacher, Zelter did not let the mantle rest. Although he offered Felix a strong foundation in contrapuntal techniques, he admitted he had little else to teach Felix at the age of 12, and his musical objective was to help him ind his own voice, realizing that ‘once he is free, his own direction will manifest itself’.64 Goethe agreed that a teacher’s inluence could be problematic and that an artist had to bring forth a work of art from within himself. And, as Goethe pointed out, making an original creative contribution to music was quite different from mastering the domain. he had witnessed ‘so many of sound talent go down the wrong road, and disappoint our high expectations’, whereas he believed ‘this young spirit before us will preserve the direction, which he has the good fortune to have marked out for him by Zelter’.65 According to Abraham, this visit to Goethe ‘ennobled’ Felix’s youth66 and the extent of the poet’s interests clearly impressed the young composer.67 More than this, Goethe eased Felix’s way during his adolescent years, provided opportunities for publicity, defended him against criticism, and offered different energies and talents in productive directions. Buoyed by the comparisons with Mozart on the Weimar visit, Mendelssohn was inspired to work in larger instrumental forms: the Piano concerto in A minor and the violin concerto in d minor date from 1822, Mendelssohn’s annus mirabilis in compositional 62 63 64 65 66 67

ibid. see, for example, rosen (1996), 569–98. Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 12–13. ibid., 12. Abraham to Goethe, 26 november 1821, in Friedländer (1891), 111. Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 15.

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development. In addition, Mendelssohn dedicated his Piano Quartet, Op. 1 to Prince radziwill and published it in 1823, which marked his entrance as composer into the public domain. Goethe’s obvious affection and immediate identiication with Mendelssohn on this irst visit had origins in his understanding of what it was to be a prodigy. like Mendelssohn, Goethe had been strongly encouraged by his father, himself extremely intelligent. he had surpassed his local masters by late adolescence; and at an early age his work was known in european centres of artistry, where his obvious artistic supremacy was recognized. the extraordinary friendship which subsequently developed between the 12-yearold Mendelssohn and 72-year-old Goethe emerged from this intensity – a root, a common emotional ground. On the irst three visits we witness Felix intent on pleasing Goethe. This was evident on the second visit, made on 7 October 1822, when it was conirmed to Felix’s family that their son was held in great affection by the poet. on the occasion of their second visit, lea related how Goethe spoke for hours about Felix to Abraham, and invited Felix to come to stay on an extended visit. According to lea, ‘since [Goethe] does not like ordinary music, his piano had remained untouched since Felix’s [last] visit, and as he opened it, he addressed her son, “come and awaken for me all the winged spirits which have long slumbered in it”’.68 lea was moved when Goethe compared Felix to the old testament Psalmist, david.69 the symbolic sense of the old testament Psalmist, which is allied to spiritual destiny and artistic power, has, surprisingly, not been probed by Mendelssohn scholars, though the theme is widely prevalent in Jewish art. in Goethe’s case the soothing music of david’s harp is symbolic of the artistic and intellectual nexus between himself and Mendelssohn, and of the power of music on its audience. in the biblical tale it subversively implies that art can have a corrosive and treacherous (but ultimately enlightening) effect on its audience, whereby music becomes an element of insight and control. hidden in Goethe’s allusion to the biblical metaphor is the viable possibility that Mendelssohn, his protégé, will become his artistic equal and successor. As is characteristic of the prodigy, who tends to work in ignorance of the extent of his talent, lea reported how Felix, ‘who usually appears indifferent to praise is justiiably very proud of Goethe’s afinity with him’; and she recognized how ‘such a feeling can only ennoble and raise him’.70 Following the second visit Goethe wrote to Felix’s mother with admiration, ‘he is a heavenly, precious boy! send him to me soon again, so that i can be refreshed by him’.71

68

ibid., 21. ibid., 34. Goethe to Felix Mendelssohn: ‘You are my david and if i am ever ill or sad, you must banish my bad dreams by your playing; i shall never throw my spear at you, as saul did’. 70 ibid., 21. 71 24 september 1822. Goethe (1998), no. 29853. see sebastian hensel (1882),164. 69

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Wenn ich mir in stiller seele singe leise lieder vor, Wie ich fühle daß sie fehle, die ich einzig auserkor.

When i am given to quiet musings, softly singing songs how i feel the absence of one, Whom i singled out as my own.

Macht’ ich hoffen, daß sie sänge Was ich ihr so gern vertraut: Ach! aus dieser Brust und enge drängen frohe lieder laut.

if i could hope to hear her singing, What I would dearly love to conide in her My innermost self would bring forth happy songs.

Goethe’s affection extended to Fanny. he enjoyed her performance of Bach’s 48 Preludes and Fugues and appreciated her Goethe settings. to thank her, Goethe later, in 1827, gave Zelter a love poem that he had written for her: According to Karl Mendelssohn, Fanny treasured the manuscript but never composed its contents. Max Friedländer claimed, however, that Fanny set these verses but evidently never sent her music to Goethe.72 on the third visit, in May 1825, Felix and his father spent a weekend at Goethe’s home on their return visit from cherubini, for whom Mendelssohn played the Piano Quartet in B minor, Op. 3. The initial purpose of the visit was to help henriette Mendelssohn’s return to Berlin but Abraham also took the opportunity to seek cherubini’s opinion about his son’s potential as a professional musician: an opinion sought during Felix’s ‘apprenticeship’ with Zelter, who, with characteristic generosity, delighted in Felix’s success.73 en route Felix and Abraham spent a weekend in Weimar;74 Felix relieved the poet’s intense work on Faust ii by performing for him once more, and one member of the Weimar circle found Felix’s improvisations more profound than the virtuoso displays of his youth.75 on this occasion Felix received Antoine Bovy’s medallion of Goethe for his collection. Felix’s gift to the poet, the Piano Quartet No. 3 in B minor, op. 3, was given on their return visit on 20 May 1825 at a musical evening in Goethe’s home.76 this dedication may have been inspired by the poet’s early comparison of the composer with Mozart, one of the few composers to have written in this genre. Felix was familiar with Mozart’s two piano quartets (K478 and K493), the imprint of which is on Felix’s score.77 lea had already written to the poet before this performance, enclosing a sample copy of the published score and requesting permission to dedicate it to Goethe. ironically it arrived on 16 June 1825, the same day as Franz schubert’s manuscript containing the op. 19

72 73 74 75 76 77

Friedländer (1891), 116–17. ZG, 28 May 1825, Byrne Bodley (2009), 329–30. letter of 13 March 1825, cited in Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1984), 36–9. soret to caroline von egloffstein, 13 March 1825, in Biedermann (1971), 755. GZ, 21 May 1825, Byrne Bodley (2009), 328–9. For a development of this argument, see todd (2003), 105.

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settings. Goethe acknowledged receipt of the schubert settings in his diary78 and sent to Felix what Zelter affectionately termed a ‘love letter’, thanking him and praising the quartet: through this wonderful dispatch you have brought me great pleasure, my dear Felix; although expected, it surprised me. the script, the title page, as well as the most beautiful cover vie with each other to give the gift a noble inish. I have regarded it as the graceful embodiment of that beautiful rich, energetic soul which so astonished me when you irst made me acquainted with it.79

It is signiicant that Mendelssohn dedicated Op. 3 to Goethe, a work which heralds a new phase in Felix’s compositional development and approaches the mastery of the Octet, Op. 20, inished on 15 October 1825, which established Mendelssohn’s place in the Western canon of european composers. Zelter praises the octet for eight obligato instruments in a letter to Goethe on 6 november 1825 and mentions Felix’s completion of a metrical translation of Terence’s irst comedy, The Girl from Andros, written for heyse’s birthday, 15 october 1825, the same day he completed the octet. Goethe was an important inluence on both works. As Fanny relates, the Scherzo of the Octet, Op. 20 was inspired by the stanza from the Walpurgisnacht traum in Faust i: ‘the light of the clouds and the veil of mist/Are lighted from above./A breeze in the leaves, a wind in the reeds,/And all has vanished’.80 And the poet’s presence is felt in Felix’s translation of terence’s comedy. With a musician’s ear, Felix closely imitated the metrical patterns of the original and captured the spirit of the comedy. At the end of september 1826 he sent a copy of this ‘poor attempt by a poor pupil’81 to Goethe, who had staged terence’s comedies in Weimar in 1803.82 through Zelter, Goethe sent his warm thanks to Felix for the splendid copy of his aesthetic studies and entertained members of the court with a reading of the composer’s translation.83 Mendelssohn’s inal encounter with Goethe took place in the annus mirabilis of 1830 and lasted from 21 May to 3 June 1830, on the threshold of the composer’s italian journey. When he arrived he found Goethe unaltered in appearance but more 78 loeper et al. (1887–1912), iii vol. 10, 16 June 1825, 68–9. For challenges to the traditional interpretation that Goethe rejected schubert’s dispatch, see Biba (2004), 27; Byrne Bodley (2008), 119–36. 79 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 50; Friedländer (1891), 114. 80 todd (2003), 149. 81 Felix to Goethe, 30 september 1826, cited in Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1984), 42. 82 terence’s comedy Eunuchus (trans. einsiedel, ‘die Mohrin’) was performed on 19 February 1803 and on 6 June Andros was performed in niemeyer’s translation, Die Fremde aus Andros. 83 GZ, 11 october 1826, Byrne Bodley (2009), 364.

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inward than he had remembered him. Goethe requested Felix play to him after dinner, admitting ‘that he had not heard music for a long time. constant progress [had been made] in music and he knew nothing about it’. he asked Felix to tell him about these developments because he was eager that they would have good discussions with one another.84 Goethe’s intellectual solitude was banished by the presence of Mendelssohn who, for the irst time, engaged as equal in a genuine dialogue with the poet. Up to the time of the third visit, Mendelssohn’s appearances were as portents from the gods, to be marvelled at by audiences in Weimar and Berlin who were predisposed to admire rather than scrutinize. As Felix began to be received as an adult composer, the preternatural giftedness of his prodigious youth no longer suficed; he had experienced a shock at the critical reception of his fourth opera, Die Hochzeit des Camacho, in 182785 and had struggled to prove himself. recognizing his inner transformation, he addressed Goethe as an equal for the irst time, requested and was granted the familiar ‘du’ – a form of address which Goethe rarely offered after 1800. this was granted on the condition that Mendelssohn remained longer than two days. he duly extended his visit, playing for the poet, and was enriched by the daily conversations exchanged after dinner. Felix told Goethe about scotland, hengstenberg, spontini and hegel’s Aesthetics; Goethe discussed lamartine’s elegies and the theatre.86 during this visit, Goethe commissioned for his portrait collection of family and friends a crayon sketch of the composer, which Felix found very like him, but also rather sulky.87 Although now quite reclusive in old age, Goethe invited guests into his home to enjoy Mendelssohn’s performance, which he described as ‘quite stupendous’. every morning for two weeks Goethe enjoyed a private audience with Felix, who played a selection of pieces by Western canonical composers in chronological order and explained what each composer had done to further the art. According to Felix, Goethe listened intently from a dark corner, ‘his old eyes lashing ire like a “thundering Jupiter”’.88 Mendelssohn’s correlation of Goethe and Jupiter – which anticipates heine’s comparison of Goethe with Jupiter in Die Romantische Schule (1836) – communicates his admiration of the poet. And among the pieces Mendelssohn performed for him were Beethoven’s symphony no. 5 in c minor, op. 67 and possibly some schubert. (the previous year in Berlin he had performed schubert’s setting of Goethe’s ballad ‘erlkönig’ in Lieder recitals on 13 november and 25 December 1829 – probably Mendelssohn’s irst introduction to Schubert’s music.) According to Goethe’s account, Mendelssohn also performed some of his own music – most likely the reformation symphony, which he revised on 84

Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 34. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 29 (1827b), 410–11; Revue musicale (May 1827), 386–87; Berliner Schnellpost 2 (1827), no. 70, 280. 86 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 36. 87 25 May 1830. Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1868b), 8. the drawing, by Johann Joseph schmeller, is in the stiftung Weimarer Klassik, Weimar. 88 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 35. 85

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Goethe’s streicher piano on 1 June 1830,89 and an Andante in A major composed for ottilie von Goethe.90 Goethe’s account to Zelter of these sessions is engaging. on 3 June 1830 he relates how ‘my response to music is the same as ever. i listen to it with pleasure, interest and relection, and I love the historical aspect of things’.91 Goethe’s openness to contemporary music prompted his assertion: ‘Who can understand any kind of occurrence if he is not thoroughly acquainted with its development down to the present time?’92 he describes himself as ‘passionately active, aspiring and keen to learn’ from the musicians Zelter sends him, and he describes how he is elevated by Mendelssohn’s conversation and presence.93 When ottilie enquired whether Felix visited him too often, Goethe replied, ‘i have only begun to have real conversations with him, because he is so clear about his subject and i can learn so much from him’.94 Uncharacteristically, Goethe did not want to hear about his departure and he asked ottilie to arrange it so that Mendelssohn could stay. in the garden that evening he himself pressed Felix to stay a few more days. Mendelssohn could not resist and did not regret it. the following day, 1 June 1830, Mendelssohn recorded as the loveliest he had experienced in Weimar. Walking through the park with Goethe, they discussed english literature: stendhal and scott. Goethe spoke at length about schiller and the tremendous activity which the playwright could only maintain until his 46th year. Mendelssohn’s presence inspired recollections from the past, as Goethe related to the composer how he would love to write the history of the year 1775, a time of liberalism, Jacobinism; the aristocratic nature of the Berlin ruler, nicolai; the poetic circle of his own youth; and the new intellectual climate of 1775 as he built a new life for himself in Weimar. As Mendelssohn related: it was one of those conversations which one can never forget […] and as I relected that that is the Goethe of whom people would say, ‘he is not one person but is made up of several little Goethes’; i would have been crazy if i had regretted spending this time with him.95

When he thanked the poet profusely Goethe remarked, ‘it is pure chance; it all comes about it in passing […] called forth through your lovely presence’.96 on the inal evening he requested for the last time favourites by Mozart, the Fantasie in C

89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

todd (2003), 227. ibid. GZ, 3 June 1830, Byrne Bodley (2009), 469–70. ibid., 470. ibid. ibid. Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 42. ibid.

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minor, a trio by haydn and a Weber capriccio, and he promised to give something special to Felix on his departure. on the morning of his departure, 3 June 1830, Mendelssohn found Goethe in front of a map plotting the composer’s italian journey. As a parting gift Goethe gave him a manuscript bifolio of Faust Part ii,97 along with letters of introduction to the court of ludwig in Munich and to the painter stieler. Goethe kissed him farewell, expressing the hope that they would enjoy each other’s company once more – ‘so you’re off now, let’s see that i survive until your return; but we don’t want to depart without piety and so we must pray that we will see each other again’98 – and Mendelssohn took with him the poet’s ‘fervent blessing’ to italy.99 Following the composer’s departure, the poet immediately relected on what Mendelssohn’s visit had meant to him and all he had learnt from him.100 What impressed Goethe most was Mendelssohn’s immense historical knowledge and ability to grasp music history as a process. Whereas Mendelssohn has been criticized for his ‘excessive’ reliance on history, Goethe admired the composer’s concern to explore the continuity of the european musical tradition. Mendelssohn and Goethe shared the same aesthetic aim of overlaying onto richly expressive art classical balance and form. such shared traits combined with Mendelssohn’s cultural education and reined social graces. The multifaceted nature of Mendelssohn’s talent as a watercolourist and as a writer of letters led the poet to recognize in him a perfect fulilment of humanistic ideas. through ottilie von Goethe’s letters we know of the lacuna Mendelssohn left in their household,101 a sentiment which is echoed in Mendelssohn’s letters.102 Felix responded to Goethe’s request (through ottilie) that he write more frequently and from Munich he wrote to Goethe, thanking him for the gift of those lovely days.103 it is clear from a second letter, from rome on 5 March 1831, that Goethe’s inluence extended beyond this inal encounter.104 Mendelssohn’s experiences in rome were a direct replica of Goethe’s, who arrived in the city exactly 44 years earlier. Zelter recognized this and remarked to Goethe, ‘Felix’s letters from home, too, agree beautifully with your [italian journal]’.105 due to Abraham’s intervention Felix was unable to trace Goethe’s footsteps as far as sicily.106 Goethe and Zelter both recognized how Felix needed 97 the Faust ii leaf survives in the Bodleian library: Ms M. deneke Mendelssohn d.8, but retained in the portfolio c.21; see crum, ii: 72. 98 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 40. 99 GZ, 3 June 1830, Byrne Bodley (2009), 469–70. 100 ibid., 470; ZG, 15 June 1830, ibid., 471. 101 Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 41. 102 ibid., 35. 103 GZ, 8 July 1830, Byrne Bodley (2009), 472. 104 GZ, 31 March 1831, ibid., 503. 105 ZG, end of February 1831, ibid., 501. 106 ZG, 15 June 1831, ibid., 514.

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to take hold of his own life (as did Felix, who wrote after he left Goethe’s house: ‘courage! courage! i am alone from here’),107 and it was for this reason that Goethe and Zelter were so angry over Abraham’s intervention. however, Goethe’s creative inluence remained with Mendelssohn as he accepted the musical challenge of Die erste Walpurgisnacht in rome. Goethe was delighted when he heard that Mendelssohn had undertaken what Zelter had struggled with in vain, and he sought to help the composer in his endeavour.108 A third letter, written on Goethe’s last birthday in lucerne, shared Mendelssohn’s love of switzerland with the poet. Up to that point Mendelssohn, by his own admission, had lived by Goethe’s maxim of Steigerung, constant activity leading to higher things.109 in lucerne, however, he realized that Goethe’s gentle words of caution about the dangers of schiller’s Fleißigkeit were meant for him and he vowed to temper his activity: ‘only today have i realised the importance of Goethe’s words about schiller, and i have understood that i must pull myself together’.110 When Goethe – and shortly after him Zelter – died in the spring of 1832, Mendelssohn recognized the end of an epoch also in his own life. hearing of Goethe’s death in Paris, he wrote: ‘With news of Goethe’s loss we are poor again. how different the country seems!’111 he predicted that Zelter would soon follow. For Mendelssohn, Goethe was an important igure in the question of artistic identity. in his writing and in person, Goethe offered Mendelssohn important lessons on how an artist ought to conduct himself. the high standards he set were the usual basis for the attainment of durable distinction in any life or art: openness, courage, and complete commitment to one’s art. Goethe and Mendelssohn shared many things: a love of Bach; a keen interest in the visual arts; an acute recognition of the immense divide between German and French music – a subject robert schumann was to take up in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik. With Goethe and Zelter gone, their recognition of his signiicance which had nurtured and sustained him had also passed, and part of the composer’s innocence was lost.

107 108 109 110 111

Karl Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1872), 40. ibid., 45. ‘there is so much to do in life and i intend to be industrious’. ibid., 50. ibid. ibid., 48.

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chapter 15

Business is War: Mendelssohn and his italian Publishers Pietro Zappalà1

Mendelssohn’s reputation in nineteenth-century Italy and his inluence on Italian musical culture is an intriguing topic that has received scant attention in scholarly writings on the composer. this may be because this subject is hindered by inadequate bibliographic aids2 and a scarcity of contemporary music criticism and reviews.3 it is generally accepted that nineteenth-century italy was devoted mostly to operatic music and its by-products (potpourris, paraphrases and arrangements). The irst Italian edition of Mendelssohn’s music appeared in 1844, signiicantly later than in Britain and France.4 this lag poses a number of questions: What was the state of italian music publishing at that time? What were publishers interested in? What was the dissemination of Mendelssohn’s music in italy? Just how interested was Mendelssohn in publishing his music in italy, and how did he determine which compositions to release there? the answers can be found in the correspondence pertaining to Mendelssohn and his italian publishers, which provides an insight into how Mendelssohn’s music was received in italy during the composer’s lifetime. the letters also afford us a clear picture of the extent to which instrumental music, as opposed to opera and its derivatives, had a foothold 1 i am deeply indebted to rudolf elvers, Berlin, for having disclosed to me his valuable list of Mendelssohn letters, helping me to locate the extant letters to the publisher ricordi. i am also grateful to Peter Ward Jones, oxford, for his prompt cooperation in checking the relevant documents in the Bodleian library. My warm thanks also to John Michael Cooper, Denton (Texas), who irst tempted me with this research. 2 the operatic repertoire is relatively well documented, but studies of italian musical life in the nineteenth century with detailed lists of performances are rare. chronicles or reports in journals are often limited to the occasion of the performance, indicating performers and composers but with only a leeting reference to the compositions actually performed. 3 the critical essays rarely go beyond mere account of facts, are frequently imbued with poetic expressions, and seldom offer technical analysis or aesthetic judgement. the rare assessments available by Italian commentators seem to have been inluenced by foreign authors, especially French and German music critics. 4 In fact, the irst French edition was already concerned with his Quartet Op. 1, and was published in Paris by Maurice Schlesinger in 1823. See Ward Jones (1993). The irst English edition appeared about 1828 and was Mendelssohn’s Capriccio Op. 5, published in london by clementi. see cooper (2001b).

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in the musical lives of nineteenth-century italians, with its popularity increasing dramatically throughout the second half of the century.

Milanese Rivalries: Benacci-Lucca v. Ricordi At the end of the eighteenth century, italian music publishing was just beginning to re-emerge, following a lull during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, and was often only a secondary activity for publishers of literary texts. Music publishing began to lourish in many towns at the turn of the century, possibly on account of the advent of lithography, and by the early 1840s many publishing houses were well established. in the main publishing centres of Milan, rome and naples, publishers focused predominantly on the musical life of the theatres, issuing piano and vocal scores of operas as well as excerpts and arrangements for various instrumental and vocal scorings. A letter from the publisher Ricordi to Mendelssohn in September 1844 indicates a disparity between italian audiences and those of France and Germany, and points to a further division in the italian musical world. here, there was the predominant popular audience, the ‘common amateur’ who was ‘mad for theatrical vocal music’ and piano arrangements thereof but who had no appetite for ‘chamber music … albums, and the whole genre of music that is so much cherished in Germany and above all France’. there was also ‘the elite pianist, rare though they are’, who ‘despises this sort of easy music, and dedicates themselves exclusively to original works written speciically for piano by the most distinguished authors like yourself, sir, thalberg, döhler, liszt and so on’. An erudite minority of amateurs with a proclivity for ‘chamber music of a less popular genre’ such as ‘trios, quartets, and the like in which you excel over all others’ could not ‘constitute a class of their own’ in italy.5

5 ‘les italiens sont fous de la musique vocale de théâtre; mais il n’aiment pas beaucoup les morceaux de chambre, les Albums, et tout ce genre de musique qu’on cherit tant’au contraire en Allemagne et surtout en France. Apres la musique vocale de théâtre, vient cette même musique arrangé[e] pour Piano en toutes les manières. ce ci c’est pour le com[m]un des amateurs, mais l’élite des pianistes, qui n’est pas cependant très nombreuse, dédaigne ce genre de musique facile, et se voue exclusivement aux ouvrages originaux composés exprès pour le piano par les auteurs les plus distingués, tels que vous, Monsieur, thalberg, döhler, liszt & &. voilà comme se partage le public musical de l’italie. il y a bien ça et là quelques unes [sic] amateurs de la musique instrumentale d’ensemble du genre moins populaire, mais plus élevé et scientiique tels que les Trios, les Quatuors & &, dans les quels vous excellez sur tous les autres, mais il sont en si petit nombre, qu’ils ne peuvent pas constituer une classe, ce qui fait que les éditeurs de musique ont toujours de la perte en publiant ce genre d’ouvrages, qu’on ne gravent que pour l’amour de l’art et pour l’estime qu’on porte aux auteurs’. Unpublished letter from Milan, 19 September 1844 (now in GBOb, MDM, d. 46); see Crum (1980), Correspondence, XX/91, 192.

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ricordi implied that Mendelssohn’s music was cultivated only by a close circle of initiates. Yet there is an abundance of evidence to show that his music was reasonably well disseminated; there are many reviews of Mendelssohn’s new compositions in italian periodicals (although often derived from foreign reviews); copies of irst and early German editions survive in Italian libraries; and italian music markets of that time frequently dealt with foreign publishers whose well-organised sale of foreign editions for the italian domestic market ensured an adequate proit margin.6 therefore, although there was some interest in Mendelssohn’s music, it was not enough to make the publication of material already available from German or French publishers inancially viable in Italy. The publication of the irst Italian editions of Mendelssohn’s music by the Milanese publisher Francesco Lucca in 1844 seems all the more noteworthy in this context. this enterprise was not instigated by the italian publisher, who had no direct contact with Mendelssohn, nor by Mendelssohn himself, who seemed somewhat disinterested in the dissemination of his music in italy. rather, according to letters Mendelssohn wrote, it was the initiative of the French publisher Benacci & Peschier. he wrote to Breitkopf & härtel that at the request of the French publishing house ‘on the title page [of Op. 61 in a four-hand piano arrangement], the name of another italian publisher must stand next to the two english and French irms: F. Lucca of Milan’.7 He also asked Simrock to ‘add the irm F. Lucca of Milan to those already standing on the title page of my Lieder ohne Worte [Songs Without Words] (Book V) [Op. 62]’.8 The French publisher met Mendelssohn in 1843 in Switzerland where they agreed on the acquisition of rights for Mendelssohn’s music in France.9 Benacci realised that italy was a market that had not yet been tapped into and one where he could increase his proits. For the compositions Mendelssohn intended to publish in France, he suggested that Mendelssohn also extend the rights to him in italy,10 6

See Aversano (1999). ‘Und auf diesem Titel [Op. 61 in piano four hands arrangement] muß außer der beiden Firmen des engl. und Französ. verlegers noch stehen: Mailand bei F. lucca’. letter of Mendelssohn to Breitkopf & Härtel, 5 March 1844 (BDV, no. 154, 140). 8 ‘Auf den Wunsch meines französischen Verlegers muß ich Sie ersuchen, auf dem Titel meiner Lieder ohne Worte (5. Heft) [Op. 62] die Firma Mailand bei F. Lucca außer der früher angegebenen noch zuzusetzen’. Letter of Mendelssohn to Simrock, 6 March 1844 (BDV, no. 274, 240). 9 the meeting of Benacci and Mendelssohn is also quoted in a letter from liszt to Chopin at Lyon (21 May 1845). See Liszt (1998), 69–70. It was Mendelssohn’s custom to publish simultaneously in Germany, France and Great Britain in order to insure against the pirate editions that could appear if his works had been published in one country earlier than in another. An unscrupulous publisher could purchase a new foreign edition and then reproduce it in his homeland without paying fees to the original publisher, since there was no international system for copyright. 10 Op. 56 (Symphony No. 3, in version for four-hand piano); Op. 57 (Lieder); Op. 58 (Cello Sonata); Op. 61 (three pieces from the incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s 7

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asking Mendelssohn to extend the rights for future compositions to all countries (with the obvious exception of Germany and Great Britain), with spain and the Kingdom of Sicily speciically in mind. This resulted in an agreement being drawn up between Mendelssohn and Benacci & Peschier in 1843 or 1844 whereby the rights for Opp. 56, 57, 58, 61 and 62 in France and Italy would be transferred to Benacci & Peschier, along with the exclusive rights to sell any subsequent works by Mendelssohn that the publisher deemed suitable to be sold in any country – with the exception of england and Germany, where Mendelssohn retained the privilege to sell the works himself.11 Most likely Mendelssohn found this request excessive. however, he agreed to the transfer of rights ‘pour l’italie’ alone. On 15 January 1844 Benacci contacted Ricordi in an attempt to sell him the rights to Mendelssohn’s music on italian soil. he reminded him that they were ‘the proprietors for France with the right to sell all forthcoming works by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy in Italy for our own proit. If it would please you to purchase the exclusive rights for italy, we could discuss an agreement’. he wrote of their currently engraving Mendelssohn’s own four-hand piano arrangement of ‘the irst nocturne, march, and the scherzo’ from A Midsummer Night’s Dream for publication the following March, and of Mendelssohn’s intention to send three other manuscripts: ‘Songs Without Words, Book v, a trio for piano, violin and cello, a string quartet for two violins, viola and cello’. Benacci could purchase ‘the rights for all of these works as well as those to come from this composer […] for the price of one hundred and ifty francs each, to be paid within three months after publication’.12 Dream, arranged for piano duet); and Op. 62 (Lieder ohne Worte, Book v). 11 Unpublished draft of agreement between Mendelssohn and Benacci & Peschier, late 1843 or early 1844 (GB-Ob, MDM d. 46; see Crum, Correspondence, XX /318, 201). 12 ‘dans notre dernière lettre nous avons oublié de vous faire part, que nous sommes dorénavant propriétaires pour la France avec le droit de vendre à notre proit la propriété pour l’italie de tous les ouvrages a venir de Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. s’il vous était agréable d’en acquérir la propriété exclusive pour l’italie nous pourrons entrer en arrangement. Notre propriété en France a déjà commencé de l’Op. 56, 3.ème Symphonie dont nous avons gravé également l’arrangement à 4 mains par Mendelssohn même. Nous avons publié en outre l’op. 57 six lieder avec paroles allemandes, et traduction française, plus Op. 58 grand Duo pour Piano et Violoncelle; comme ces 3 ouvrages sont déjà publiés c’est trop tard pour vous les proposer en propriété. […] nous avons à la gravure maintenant pour être publiés en mars prochain 2 ouvrages nouveaux tirés du rêve d’une nuit d’été de Mendelssohn, arrangés à 4 mains par Mendelssohn même, ces 2 ouvrages portent l’Op. 61 et sont intitulés le 1.er nocturne et marche – le 2.d Scherzo. Mendelssohn nous annonce bientôt l’envoi de 3 autres manuscrits, savoir – 5.me cahier Romances sans paroles pour Piano – Un Trio pour Piano, Violon et Violoncelle – un quatuor pour 2 violons, alto et violoncelle. si tous ces ouvrages ainsi que ceux à venir de ce compositeur vous conviennent en propriété, nous vous les vendrons à cent cinquante francs chaque en règlement à 3 mois après la publication’. copy of the unpublished letter from Benacci & Peschier to ricordi, Lyon, 15 January1844, attached to the letter from Ricordi to Mendelssohn, Milan, 28

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Benacci also contacted the Milanese publisher lucca with this offer, although there is no extant evidence to testify to this. in fact it was lucca, and not ricordi, who was the irst to accept Benacci’s proposal. There may be two reasons for this. Establishing an Italian edition of Mendelssohn’s music testiies to the market’s increased interest in the composer. For the irst time, printing a national edition was more proitable than the sale of foreign editions. Lucca’s enterprise can also be seen in the context of a rivalry with ricordi that lasted for decades. Being the irst to publish Mendelssohn’s music in Italy would have assured him not only temporary proit from one single edition, but also priority for future works by Mendelssohn. Benacci’s initiative with lucca proved successful, most likely on account of lucca publishing only those works best suited to the italian market. these included the four-hand piano arrangement of the scherzo, notturno and March from Op. 6113 and Book v of the Songs Without Words, Op. 62 (ending with the famous Frühlingslied)14 – works whose musical content and scoring would surely have been successful among the vast audience of the italian dilettanti. The joint venture of Benacci–Lucca altered the status quo of music publishing in italy and made Breitkopf & härtel fearful that they would lose their share of this market. Since they had already had some dificulty with Milanese publishers,15 they asked Mendelssohn for more precise information about the unexpected appearance of the italian publisher on the title pages, along with the traditional english and French publisher already hosted as co-publishers, and asked whether lucca had purchased the rights for italy directly from Mendelssohn. the composer attempted to explain the situation in his response of 10 March 1844: herr Benacci wrote wondering whether i would not also want to give him the rights to my things ‘pour l’italie’, and because i thought of it as a mere formality, because i could not dream that anyone there would really be concerned with my music, because the connection between lombardy and Austria of which you remind me did not occur to me, so i believed it to have been a mere favour for the French publishers, and answered him that i had no opposition should he sell my things for his own interest to italy, then i would like him to do so.16

October 1844 (GB-Ob, MDM d. 46; see Crum, Correspondence, XX/139, 194), but already sent to Mendelssohn with the previous letter of 19 September. 13 Plate number d4701d and c4702c. 14 Plate number a4703a. 15 Letter from Breitkopf & Härtel to Mendelssohn, 9 March 1844 (BDV, 141, footnote 1). 16 ‘hr. Benacci schrieb ob ich ihm nicht auch das eigenthum meiner sachen “pour l’italie” geben wollte, und weil ich mir das mehr als eine Form dachte, weil ich mir gar nicht einbilden konnte daß sich irgend jemand dort wirklich um meine Musik bekümmerte, weil mir endlich der von ihnen erinnerte Zusammenhang der lombardei mit oesterreich nicht einiel, so glaubte ich, es handle sich von einer bloßen Gefälligkeit für den Französ. verleger, und antwortete ihm, ich hätte gar nichts dagegen, wenn er meine sachen in seinem

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setting aside his own negative experiences (musically speaking) during his italian journey of 1830–31, and admitting a disparity in taste and aesthetic conceptions between himself and most italians, Mendelssohn should have known that at this point there was considerable interest in his music in italy. this was evident in the repeated contact with Abbot Fortunato santini (to whom he sent the preludes from Op. 37 in 1840); the irst performance in Italy of Paulus (Florence, 1841); his appointment as honorary member of the congregazione di santa cecilia in Rome in 1842; and one further performance of Paulus in Rome in 1843.17 it is also possible that Mendelssohn’s statements were an embarrassed answer to the publisher, in the face of the unexpected problem that had arisen. Breitkopf & härtel’s concerns were also a cause of worry for Mendelssohn, not because he was interested in selling his editions in italy but because these editions would be detrimental to Breitkopf’s rights and would therefore jeopardise Mendelssohn’s favour with the Leipzig irm. He wrote to Breitkopf & Härtel on 10 March 1844 and 16 March 1845 begging the publisher to tell him what ought to be done to rectify the oversight: 1) can i forbid the delivery of copies to Austria, and if so how? this should be done immediately. 2) do you believe that the rights i have given once for this work ‘pour l’italie’ can be restricted to one italian state? this, however, does not seem feasible to me. on the other hand 3) how would you like this arranged in the future? do you want to reserve the sole rights for my things in italy in the future? or only for a part of the country? And which part? As i have absolutely no interest in it, i would much rather that you were granted such rights rather than the French publishers. 4) If it is a case with this work that it can no longer be put right in the manner i have outlined in point 2) above, is there any possible way that i can compensate you for it, and if so how?18

interesse nach italien verkaufen könnte, so möchte ers thun.’ letter of Mendelssohn to Breitkopf & Härtel, 10 March 1844 (BDV, no. 156, 141–3). 17 For details of the preludes sent in 1840 and the 1842 appointment, see Zappalà (1997); for the two performances of Paulus see the extant librettos. on Abbott Fortunato Santini, see Todd (2003), 235–6. 18 ‘1) Kann ich die versendung von exemplaren nach oesterreich verbieten, und auf welche Weise? Es soll sogleich geschehn. 2) Glauben Sie, daß ich die einmal für dies Werk gegebne Erlaubniß pour l’Italie beschränken kann auf irgend einen Italiänischen Staat? dies scheint mir aber nicht wohl thunlich. dagegen 3) Wie wäre ihnen die einrichtung künftig lieb? Wollen Sie sich das eigenthumsrecht für italien bei meinen sachen künftig vorbehalten? oder nur für einzelne theile des landes? Und für welche? da ich gar kein interesse dabei habe so ist mirs natürlich eben so lieb und lieber ihnen ein solche recht zuzugestehen, als dem Franz. Verleger. 4) Wenn die Sache mit diesem Werk, wie ich in 2) fürchte nicht mehr zu redressiren ist, kann ich sie dafür auf irgend eine Weise entschädigen, und auf welche?’ Letter from Mendelssohn to Breitkopf & Härtel, 10 March 1844 (BDV, no. 156, 141–3).

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the outcome was that lucca’s rights to A Midsummer Night’s Dream in italy could not be altered.19 Benacci came out the better of this ‘conlict’: the German publisher and the composer resigned themselves to this irst commercial defeat. Nevertheless, Mendelssohn tried to limit the damage, and wrote to Benacci on 24 March denying any further rights of the French publisher on italian soil: I cannot formulate the statement as you wish; it is only for the works Opp. 61 and 62 that I can sign over the rights for Italy, asking for the rest that you leave our agreement as we established it, that is, only for France. You know that where i am concerned i would not have presented any obstacle, but since it seems that i will have problems with other publishers, i will only be able to keep the promise that i’ve made once and to renew the former arrangement in future.20

Ricordi’s Counter-offensive As we have seen, in 1844 Ricordi had been contacted by Benacci, who had offered him – as well as Lucca – the transfer of the rights for Mendelssohn’s music; but ‘par une fatalité’ they did not reach an agreement. On 27 July 1844 Ricordi wrote directly to Mendelssohn, in a style markedly different from that of lucca, asserting the quality of his music publications and appealing to the esteem of the musician. he regretted that he had not been able to ‘enrich’ his ‘catalogue that contains all the musical celebrities from europe with your illustrious name’ and asked that Mendelssohn make his ‘hope a reality by selling the rights to your works in italy directly to me, without having to ask the French publisher for this’.21 19

143–4). 20

Letter from Mendelssohn to Breitkopf & Härtel, 16 March 1844 (BDV, no. 157,

‘[J]e ne puis pas formuler la déclaration comme vous le souhaitez & ce n’est donc que pour les oeuvr. 61 & 62 que je puis céder la propriété pour l’Italie, en vous priant de laisser pour la suite notre convention comme nous l’avions établie, c’est à dire seulement pour la France. vous savez que je n’aurais point mis d’obstacle quant à moi mais comme il parait que j’aurais des desagrémens avec mes autres éditeurs par là, je ne pourrai que tenir la promesse que j’ai donné une fois, & renouveler l’ancien état des choses pour la suite’. Unpublished letter from Mendelssohn to Benacci, Berlin, 24 March 1844 [F-Pn, W 40 (316)]. 21 ‘eh bien, Monsieur ce que [sic] fait mon regret c’est de n’avoir pu encore enrichir de votre nom célèbre ce catalogue si volumineux et qui renferme ceux de toutes les célébrités musicales d’europe. c’est pour cela que je vous m’adresse [sic] moi même avec la presente avec l’entremise de mon ami Mr. Benedict qui vous donnera aussi tous les reinsegnements que vous pouvez desirer sur ma personne et sur mon etablissement, et je viens vous prier de realiser mon espoir en me vendant directement la proprieté pour l’italie de vous ouvrages, sans que vous chargiez de ce soin les editeurs de France’. Unpublished letter from ricordi to Mendelssohn, Milan, 27 July 1844 (GB-Ob, MDM d. 46; see Crum, Correspondence, XX n. 36, 190).

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The letter – which was delivered by Julius Benedict (a friend of Mendelssohn) who acted as witness to the standing of Ricordi’s business – was accompanied by ricordi’s own music catalogue; moreover ricordi indulged in an open captatio benevolentiae and asked Mendelssohn openly if he would become his italian publisher, quoting the agreement between Benacci and Mendelssohn (and correctly guessing that the transfer of rights to lucca was not without its problems). the following August, while staying in Bad soden, Mendelssohn entertained the Benedict family. On 1 September 1844 Raymund Härtel also arrived. The desire to speak personally with härtel may explain Mendelssohn’s uncharacteristic delay in answering ricordi, whose response bears the same date. he acknowledged that he was aware of the ‘great and justiied reputation’ that Ricordi’s irm enjoyed, continuing: it is then sincerely that i thank you for your letter and your proposal that i sell the rights for my works in italy directly to you. i accept this offer with the greatest pleasure and i beg you to let me know if an agreement such as the one i have with my publisher in France would be convenient to you: that is to determine a price that would remain the same for every work, large or small, as they are published in Germany. if this can be the case, i would ask you to determine this price yourself. I would ind it dificult to calculate without knowing Italy and i am convinced that you would be much better able to outline conditions convenient to both of us than i would; i have no doubt that i will consent to everything you will say to me about this in your answer.22

ricordi expressed his gratitude to Mendelssohn for having been granted the sole right to represent him in italy and, concerning the price, confessed that ‘you 22 ‘c’est donc bien sincèrement que je vous remercie de votre lettre & de la proposition que vous m’y faites de vous vendre directement la propriété de mes ouvrages pour l’italie. J’accepte cette offre avec le plus grand plaisir et je vous prie de me faire savoir si un arrangement tel que je l’ai avec mon éditeur de France, vous conviendrait: c’est à dire de ixer une somme qui reste la même pour chaque ouvrage grand ou petit à mesure que je les publie en Allemagne. Si cela est je vous prierai de ixer le nombre de cette somme vous même, je trouverais dificile de le faire ne connaissant pas l’Italie et je suis persuadé que vous serez bien plus à même de faire des conditions qui conviendront à nous deux que je ne le serais; tout ce que vous me direz donc là dessus dans votre réponse je ne doute pas que j’y consentirai avec plaisir’. Unpublished letter from Mendelssohn to ricordi, Frankfurt am Main, 1 September 1844. The Ricordi archive was largely destroyed during the Second World War and now holds only the correspondence from the 1880s onwards. This letter, however, was published in 1892 as a facsimile in the Internationale Musikund Theater-Ausstellung, Wien 1892. R. Stabilimento Tito di Gio. Ricordi e Francesco Lucca (Milan: Ricordi, 1892), 95–6, and is mentioned in Autograi di musicisti (Florence, Lapiccirella, 1957), no. 106, 44. The autograph re-emerged recently through the New York music antiquarian lubrano and is now in the possession of theodore cohn, new York, who very kindly made it available to me.

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embarrass me greatly, sir, by asking me to determine the price’. he nonetheless agreed to set one in a manner ‘always proper to my character and that you deserve so highly’.23 ricordi explained the kind of musical genres then enjoying commercial success and requested that Mendelssohn send new compositions. having received no answer, on 28 October 1844 Ricordi sent Mendelssohn an exact copy of his previous letter; in his reply of 6 November Mendelssohn may have proposed a series of compositions, or he may have suggested the type of compositions already in progress: the sense of Mendelssohn’s letter (which has not yet been located) can be inferred from Ricordi’s answer, dated 22 November 1844, in which the publisher evaluated Mendelssohn’s proposal and agreed to ‘accept all your works, except the vocal ones’ as there were not enough ‘learned musicians who appreciate your magniicent vocal works to compensate for the publisher’s purchase and engraving expenses’.24 he accepted instrumental music for piano, violin and organ, and chamber music, indicating that instrumental music was suficiently well established in italy to persuade a publisher to invest in it. no further correspondence survives between ricordi and Mendelssohn for several months,25 but on 10 April 1845 the composer sent the irst of his compositions to the new Italian publisher, the Violin Concerto Op. 64, in a reduction for violin and piano prepared by the composer himself.26 Mendelssohn had waited for Breitkopf & Härtel to inish engraving his version of Op. 64, and the irst proof copies had arrived just the day before. In this way Mendelssohn could send to ricordi not a further manuscript copy but a proof by the German publisher. it should be noted, however, that on the very same date (10 April) Mendelssohn gave the proofs back to Breitkopf & härtel with a 23

‘Je vous suis bien reconnaisant d’avoir accepté mon offre d’être l’éditeur de vos œuvres en italie: seulement vous m’avez mis, Monsieur, dans un grand embarras à vous en ixer moi même la somme. Mais je procèderai avec vous avec cette loyauté qui est toujours dans mon caractère et que vous méritez à si haut titre’. Unpublished letter from Milan, 19 September 1844 (GB-Ob, MDM, d. 46; see Crum, Correspondence, XX/91, 192). 24 ‘Permettez-moi donc, Monsieur, de vous dire avec la même sincérité que j’accepterai tous vos ouvrages excepté ceux pour Chant. Que cela ne vous blesse pas, car moi person[n]ellement, et bien d’autres admirent vos compositions vocales, mais elles ne sont pas (comme celles aussi de tous les autres compositeurs ultramontains allemands et français) pour la masse de nos dilettanti italiens, qui ont le prejugé de ne vouloir chanter que des morceaux d’operas executés sur nos theâtres, et les musiciens savants qui peuvent aprecier [sic] vos magniiques compositions vocales ne sont pas en assez grand nombre pour dedomager [sic] l’editeur des frais d’achat et de gravure’. Unpublished letter of ricordi to Mendelssohn, 22 November 1844 (GB-Ob, MDM, d. 46; see Crum, Correspondence, XX/182, 195). 25 The sale catalogue of the antiquarian Nicolas Rauch, Geneva, of 29–30 April 1957 (see Rauch, Autographes, no. 349, 71) quotes a letter dated 21 January 1845. This corresponds to the letter of 21 June 1845 (now in D-B, Mendelssohn-Archiv, Ep. 91), implying that there is a misreading in the catalogue with regard to the month. 26 Unpublished letter from Mendelssohn to Ricordi (NL-Au, HSS-mag.: 80 As 2).

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considerable number of corrections.27 one wonders if he sent the same corrections to ricordi or if he planned to include them at a later stage when the Milanese publisher sent his own proofs. ricordi replied by return of post and requested the orchestral parts in order to print the concerto in both piano reduction and with orchestral accompaniment. he made it clear to Mendelssohn that this was an exceptional case and was due to the outstanding merit of the composer, comparable to Bériot and vieuxtemps.28 Undoubtedly the decision to publish a violin concerto in italy, especially with all of the orchestral parts, seemed rather strange, or perhaps daring, and may be interpreted in two ways: instrumental music in italy was not totally neglected, as is often assumed; or, ricordi was compelled to accept compositions that were less desirable for the italian market in order not to lose the sole rights for italy. At the end of the letter ricordi urged Mendelssohn to send him music for piano, which would potentially sell better. The next letter from Ricordi, of 3 June 1845, shows that on 25 May Mendelssohn had sent the six Songs Without Words, Op. 67, with the appropriate transfer of rights. in this letter, ricordi also accepted the six organ Sonatas, Op. 65 for publication.29 Mendelssohn again wrote to Ricordi on 10 and 21 June 1845, listing a series of errors he had found in the proofs of the German edition of the Songs, Op. 67 (and possibly also to be found, and therefore amended, in the manuscript he sent to Ricordi). These included: in Song No. 1, bar 14, the lat before the e’ in the third beat; Song No. 3, bars 8 (Example 15.1a) and 9 (Example 15.1b); Song No. 4, bar 52, the sharp before the last d’, and bar 53, the sharp before the irst g in the bass line’. Ricordi’s reply conirmed that he had amended the errors, assuring Mendelssohn that they were not as numerous in his manuscript as in Mendelssohn’s proofs. He conirmed a number of details including a payment of 300 francs and a publication date of 1 September 1845.30 With the next letter, Mendelssohn BDV, 156–9. ‘Quoique le violon ait peu d’amateurs en Italie, et que pour cela je ne m’empresse pas a graver certains ouvrages pour cet instrument je fais cependant exception aux ouvrages des compositeurs comme vous, Monsieur, comme Beriot, comme vieuxtemps &. Ainsi n’ayez aucune hesitation pour l’avenir, mais aussi n’oubliez pas les morceaux pour Piano, qui ont certainement un plus grand nombre d’exécutan[t]s’. Unpublished letter from Ricordi to Mendelssohn, 18 April 1845 (GB-Ob, MDM, d. 47; see Crum, Correspondence, XXI/149, 208). Mendelssohn wrote to Breitkopf & Härtel on the following 23 April asking them to send a copy of the orchestral parts to ricordi (see Bdv, 171). 29 Unpublished letter from Ricordi to Mendelssohn, 3 June 1845 (GB-Ob, MDM, d. 47; see Crum, Correspondence, XXI/210, 210). The letter from Mendelssohn to Ricordi, dated 25 May, has not yet been located. 30 Unpublished letter of Ricordi to Mendelssohn, 7 July 1845 (GB-Ob, MDM, d. 48; see Crum, Correspondence, XXII/9, 212). A closer examination of Ricordi’s edition compared with the list of possible errors sent by Mendelssohn reveals that ricordi had to intervene in at least three places, adding alteration signs in a very small space. 27 28

Business is War: Mendelssohn and His Italian Publishers

example 15.1

a)

313

Mendelssohn, Songs Without Words, Op. 67, No. 3: a) bar 8; b) bar 9

b)

sent Ricordi the ‘Six Sonates pour l’Orgue’, Op. 65, to be dedicated to Fritz schlemmer, advising him that the German and english publishers had set the publication date for 15 september.31 Besides the Violin Concerto in piano reduction, published in June 1845,32 all other works were published the following september, including the orchestral parts of the Violin Concerto, Op. 64,33 the Songs Without Words, Op. 6734 and the Organ Sonatas, Op. 65.35 ricordi took care advertising his new editorial enterprise and allowed a review to be published in (his) Gazzetta musicale di Milano. in this review the writer (isidoro cambiasi) introduced Mendelssohn as a follower of the style of J. s. Bach; charted an increasing success for the violin concerto; complained that the Songs Without Words were not up to the standard of the previous collection; and praised the organ sonatas as providing welcome relief from the italian habit of performing operatic pieces on church organs.36 there is no letter for the next Mendelssohn work published by ricordi (the Piano Trio No. 2, Op. 66),37 even in the collection held in the Green Books in oxford. it is most likely that the negotiation was conducted directly between Breitkopf & härtel and ricordi. the date marked on the so-called ‘libroni’,38 16 January 1846, indicates the approximate date of Ricordi’s receipt of the engraved exemplar sent by Breitkopf & härtel, to be used as Stichvorlage for ricordi’s own engraving. Ricordi also had a review of Op. 66 published in the Gazzetta Musicale di Milano, again signed by isidoro cambiasi.39 this review appeared on 26 April as a dialogue between two music lovers, pointing out that the melody is surrounded by luxuriant harmonies, typical for the German school and unusual for Unpublished letter to Ricordi, 22 August 1845 (F-Pn, W 2(91)). Parts of piano (32 p.) and solo violin (13 p.), 35 cm, plate-nr. G17439T. The solo violin part has a double plate-nr. (G17439T and G17440T) pertaining also to the orchestral version of the edition. 33 Parts of solo violin (13 p.) and irst violin (7 p.) [the orchestral parts all together should amount to 80 p.], 35 cm, plate-nr. D17440D. The solo violin part has a double platenr. (G17439T and G17440T) pertaining also to the piano reduction of the edition. 34 Plate-nr. K17485K. 35 Plate-nrs. K17653K, D17654D, M17655M, 17656RR, G17657G, Y17658Y. 36 Cambiasi (1845), 188. 37 Plate-nr. K17889K. 38 The registers of Ricordi for internal use; see Fuld (1984), 139–45. 39 Cambiasi (1846), 131–2. 31 32

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italian listeners. After mentioning many other Mendelssohn works, the reviewer predicted a certain success for this trio, although he anticipated that the sales igures would not be high. Op. 66 was the last work published by Ricordi during Mendelssohn’s lifetime. the works up to op. 71 are vocal works that ricordi had previously excluded from his editorial programme; only op. 72 (Kinderstücke for piano) could have aroused Ricordi’s interest, but it was published in 1847 in England and only in 1848 – i.e. after Mendelssohn’s death – in Germany. Ricordi went on to publish Mendelssohn’s works, while lucca, his direct rival, did not publish anything else by the German composer until the early 1860s. Thus the battle between the two publishers for primacy, which had initially gone in lucca’s favour, now ended to ricordi’s advantage.

Beyond Milan: the Case of Paulus one further edition published in italy during Mendelssohn’s life, which appears in quite a different context from the business of the Milanese publishers, is pertinent to the current discussion: a vocal score of Paulus, issued in september 1844 by the lithographer Martelli in Rome. The sponsor of this edition was the Marquis domenico capranica, who also translated the German text into italian. capranica, a member of the family that owned the teatro valle in rome, was a well-known composer and librettist. he was noted, among other things, for his activity in promoting sacred repertoire by German composers – not only through performances of this kind of music, otherwise rare in rome, but also through the publication by subscription of a collection of oratorios. in addition to Paulus, he translated and issued the vocal score of handel’s Jephte (Rome: Martelli, 1846). This publishing enterprise, however, absorbed too many inancial resources without assuring him an adequate proit. For this reason he entrusted Ricordi with the edition of the vocal score of handel’s Messiah in his own translation (Milan, c1846). In 1854 he again turned to his proposal to publish Mendelssohn’s Elias, to which he planned to add the incomplete Christus; but again the project did not appeal to enough subscribers, so instead he published only his italian version of the libretto. capranica’s interest in Paulus is evident as early as October 1843, when news of his italian translation of the text of the oratorio appeared in the Gazzetta Musicale di Milano, along with his intention to start a subscription for its publication.40 We know of two incomplete performances of Paulus in Rome in the following year: the irst – consisting only of the chorus ‘Stimar dobbiam beato’ [‘Siehe! wir preisen selig, die erduldet’] – during the last of the season’s concerts given by ludwig landsberg; and the second by the Accademia Filarmonica Romana, an institution where Capranica was an inluential member. 40

Anon. (1843), 171–2.

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capranica does not seem to have planned to keep in touch with Mendelssohn in relation to his publication of the work, or to seek any kind of authorisation to purchase the rights. this case is in keeping with Mendelssohn’s understanding of Italian publishing as expressed in his letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of 16 March 1843, when he was faced with the problem of copyright in Italy: ‘I believed until now, it is not to be thought of at all, and that since everything appeared until now without the Italian irm on the title page, so it is (if I am not mistaken) common property, and everybody (or rather nobody) could have something to do with it’.41 nonetheless, capranica sent Mendelssohn an edition of Paulus with a cover letter. remarkably, a copy of this ‘pirated’ edition of Paulus survives in Mendelssohn’s personal musical library,42 where no trace remains of the other, commercially legitimate italian editions. the reception of Paulus in italy, however, is more complex. capranica was not the irst to show interest. A performance had already taken place in 1841 in Florence, with a different translation (by Andrea luigi Mazzini) going back perhaps to 1839.43 the existence of two different translations caused a small querelle in the periodicals. On 21 July 1844 the Gazzetta Musicale di Milano reported on an article printed in the Ricoglitore, a Florence newspaper, that claimed that the irst Italian translation of Mendelssohn’s Paulus was that by A. l. Mazzini in Florence printed on the occasion of a performance of the work held in the royal rooms of the Residence Palace in 1841.44 Mazzini’s supporters emphasised his chronological primacy, while capranica’s highlighted that his version was available not only as a libretto but also as music, and moreover already itted the needs of the Italian text. While Mendelssohn was still alive, Paulus was again performed in Florence in 1846. On that occasion the choral score was sent as a gift to Mendelssohn by teodulo Mabellini with a cover letter.45 Following Mendelssohn’s death there are 41

‘ich glaubte bisher, daran sei überhaupt nicht zu denken, und da alles bisherige auch ohne italiänische Firma auf dem titel erschienen ist, so ist es (wenn ich mich hierin nicht irre) Gemeingut dort gewesen, und es hat sich ein jeder (oder vielmehr niemand) damit zu thun machen können’: BDV, 143 (emphasis mine). 42 GB-Ob, Deneke 133 (Ward Jones, Books, n. 538, 149–50); the presentation letter is dated 8 January 1845 (GB-Ob, MDM d. 47; Crum, Correspondence, XXI/169, 208). 43 According to its catalogue, the national library in Florence should have the following libretto: Paolo. oratorio dal testo tedesco della sacra scrittura …, traduzione in versi italiani dell’avv. Andrea Luigi Mazzini (Florence, Tip. Galileiana, 1839). I have been unable to see the actual exemplar, which was possibly lost during the 1966 lood of the river Arno. 44 Anon. (1844a), 121. The (vocal) score of the Florence performance, here quoted as ‘buried in the court music archive and unavailable to the public’, could be the manuscript now in D-B, N. Mus. ms. 10776: see Klein (2003), 149. 45 This magniicent manuscript choir score is now in GB-Ob, MDM c. 52 (Crum, Music, p. 19–20); the letter, dated 13 May, in GB-Ob, MDM d. 49 (Crum, Correspondence, XXIII/269, 235, here attributed to an otherwise unknown Marquis Marbellini). The day of

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records of other performances in Milan in 1854 and 1856, in Rome in 1876, again in Milan in 1877, in Naples in 1882 and in Rome again in 1886. interest in Mendelssohn’s music increased dramatically in the second half of the century, with new editions extending the availability of his works. Between 1862 and 1877 the Florentine publisher Guidi issued no fewer than 19 pocket scores of Mendelssohn’s works, mainly his chamber music and overtures. this italian reception was not affected by the denigrating campaign that had already started in the Austro-German area, and there is still much to be done in future studies on the composer’s reception in italy after his death. in closing, it is worth noting that italian editions of Mendelssohn’s music during his lifetime appeared quite late in comparison to Germany, France and england; as has been shown, commercial rivalries between different publishers played an important role in these italian editorial ventures. this unknown episode in Mendelssohn studies not only broadens our knowledge of the reception of Mendelssohn’s music during his lifetime; it also helps us revisit some wellestablished commonplaces about nineteenth-century Italy and its ixation on vocal repertoire.

the performance (28 June), as well as the title as transcribed by Crum, differs slightly from the title of the following libretto: Paolo | oratorio | di Felice Mendelssohn Bartholdy | dal testo della sacra scrittura | recato in versi italiani | e da eseguirsi nel gran salone di Palazzo Vecchio la mattina del dì 29 Giugno 1846, | a beneizio degli Asili infantili di Carità della Città di Firenze | Firenze | Stamperia sulle Logge del Grano, 1846.

chapter 16

Beyond the salon: Mendelssohn’s French Audience cécile reynaud1

Published works in France on 28 november 1847, Paris’s most important music journal, the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris (published under the direction of Maurice schlesinger from 1834 to 1846) commented on the death of Felix Mendelssohn in an article signed by the writer Maurice Bourges, the translator of several of Mendelssohn’s Lieder and his oratorios Paulus and Elias: For almost one month all the echoes of the musical press are repeating this cry of astonishment and regret: Mendelssohn is dead! […] certainly much less familiar with the works and the merit of the illustrious master, who visited here very briely […], France has also been unable to hear this universal wail without painful sympathy. nevertheless, Mendelssohn is certainly not a popular composer in France. Although several of his piano works are known among the amateurs and elite artists, his most important works are less well known if they are known at all. […] Mendelssohn’s irst opus was published in 1824. It was the quartet in c minor for piano, violin, viola and cello.2

1

My thanks to ralph Wehner and richard Macnutt for their help, and for having shared with me their ongoing work on Mendelssohn’s correspondence with his French publishers. 2 ‘voici bientôt un mois que tous les échos de la presse musicale répètent ce cri de stupeur et de regret: Mendelssohn est mort! […] Bien moins familière certainement avec les œuvres et le mérite de l’illustre maître, qui la visita très rapidement […], la France n’a pu entendre, elle aussi, cette plainte universelle sans douloureuse sympathie. et cependant, Mendelssohn n’est pas encore chez elle, à beaucoup près, un compositeur populaire. Quoique plusieurs morceaux de sa musique pour piano soient répandus parmi les amateurs et les artistes d’élite, ses ouvrages les plus importants ne sont que peu ou point connus. […] en 1824 parut l’œuvre première de Mendelssohn. c’est le quatuor en ut mineur pour piano, violon, alto et violoncelle’. Bourges (1847). For an interesting account of the translation of the texts for Mendelssohn’s music into French see cooper (2008), 207–50, particularly 221–5.

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Mendelssohn Perspectives

on 16 January 1848, the same journal reviewed a séance of the société des concerts du conservatoire dedicated to Mendelssohn: This irst séance was exclusively dedicated to the gloriication of Mendelssohn. the programme is entirely made up of the works of this great artist, fatally struck in the middle of his career. [ ] For some time now the société had been the irst in France to reveal several of the main works of the master to the Parisian audience, an act which, it must be said, is to its honour. these works include the overtures of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Fingal’s Cave, the third symphony and some excerpts from Paulus.3

the Paulus excerpts were also mentioned in the review: The irst one, that could be named The Martyrdom of Saint Stephen, contains three choirs of a strong and characteristic color: ‘celui-ci prophétise’ [no. 5 ‘dieser Mensch hört nicht auf zu redden’], ‘lapidez-le’ [no. 8 ‘steiniget ihn’] and ‘Gloire aux bienheureux’ [no. 11 ‘siehe! Wir preisen selig’]; eventually the expressive aria ‘Jerusalem’ […] [no. 7 ‘Jerusalem’]. the second [excerpt] enclosed the duet between saint Paul and saint Barnaby ‘nous sommes tous deux’ [no. 25 ‘so sind wir nun Botschafter’], the choir ‘Porteurs du saint message’ [no. 26 ‘Wie lieblich sind die Boten’] and the one of the Pagans, ‘les dieux quittant leur sphere’ [no. 33 ‘die Götter sind den Menschen gleich geworden’].4

these reviews refer to works that were known in France in 1848, and it clearly appears that the publisher Maurice Schlesinger had been among the irst in Paris to publish Mendelssohn’s works – a privilege he shared with richault, as will be discussed below. his publishing house (whose musical collection became the property of Brandus in 1846) had already issued 16 of Mendelssohn’s works before his death (see Appendix 16.1).5 Schlesinger was the irst to publish Mendelssohn’s chamber music, notably the Piano Quartet, op. 1, whose French publication preceded other foreign editions. the Piano Quartet no. 2, op. 2 was also published by schlesinger, but only in 1842 (the parts had been published by schlesinger in Berlin in 1824). the sonata for Piano and violoncello no. 1 in 3 ‘Cette première séance était exclusivement consacrée à la gloriication de Mendelssohn. les œuvres de ce grand artiste, frappé si fatalement au milieu de sa carrière, défrayaient seules le programme. [ ] depuis longtemps déjà la société avait révélé au public parisien, et il faut le dire à son honneur, la première en France, plusieurs des principaux ouvrages du maître, tels que les ouvertures du Songe d’une nuit d’été, de la Grotte de Fingal, la troisième symphonie et quelques fragments du Paulus’. Bourges (1848), 18–19. 4 Ibid. 5 regarding publications outside France, see the catalogue in John Michael cooper (2001a), 223–77.

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B-lat major, Op. 45 was issued in Paris in 1839, at the same time as the Kistner edition in leipzig and the novello edition in london. the piano works represent the main corpus of Mendelssohn’s works published by schlesinger, sometimes as supplementary scores to the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris. the opus numbers 19b, 30, 38, 67 (Lieder ohne Worte), 35 (Six Preludes and Fugues for Piano) and 65 (Six Sonatas, for organ or ‘piano for three hands’) were all published before 1847.6 Schlesinger was also the irst to publish the piano reduction of Paulus in 1842, at the same time as the Parisian publishing house Richault. Yet Richault had been the irst to publish a work by Mendelssohn in France – the Trois Fantaisies ou caprices pour le piano, op. 16, in 1825. Between 1825 and 1860, richault published no fewer than 62 opus numbers, 34 of these being published before the end of 1848. richault’s catalogue consisted mainly of piano works, including solo piano or four-hand transcriptions (among which were the symphony no. 3 in A minor, op. 56 for solo piano, published in 1850 and the four-hand arrangement of the symphony no. 4 in A major, op. 90 published in 1851); chamber music (including Piano Quartets, string Quartets opp. 12, 13, and 44, Variations concertantes for violoncello and piano op. 17, the string Quintet op. 18, string octet op. 20 and Piano trio op. 49);7 and Lieder (most notably op. 99 and the songs for two voices and piano, op. 63). Mendelssohn’s symphonic works were not neglected, and the following works also appeared in orchestral scores, but mostly after 1848: the violin concerto in e minor, op. 64 was published in 1846 but symphony no. 1 in c major, op. 11 was published well after his death, in 1859, with the ‘Harmoniemusik’ (Overture for Wind Instruments), Op. 24 and the ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture, op. 26 both appearing in 1854. In the footsteps of Schlesinger and Richault, the publication of Mendelssohn’s works in France was taken over by Brandus and schonenberger. Brandus (who had acquired schlesinger’s music collection in 1846) published 11 opus numbers, and schonenberger 25. Between 1846 and 1860 Brandus published mainly piano and chamber music; similarly schonenberger, between 1838 and 1860, also restricted most of his catalogue to Mendelssohn’s piano music. other French publishers of lesser importance occasionally published Mendelssohn’s works. A comparison of their catalogues with those of the main publishing houses of Schlesinger, Richault, Brandus and Schonenberger conirms that the majority of works published until the composer’s death were piano works and chamber music, whereas publications of his symphonic and choral works 6 Respectively: Op. 19b, 1832, (same year as Novello, irst edition); Op. 30, 1835 (same year as Simrock, irst edition); Op. 35, 1837 (same year as Breitkopf & Härtel, irst edition); Op. 38, 1837 (same year as Simrock, irst edition); Op. 65, 1846 (published after Breitkopf & Härtel, 1845); and Op. 67, 1845 (same year as Simrock, irst edition); Op. 87b, 1833–1834. 7 All these works were published simultaneously by richault and other european publishers, with one exception: op. 20, published by richault in 1852, had been previously published in 1850 by Breitkopf & Härtel.

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remained extremely sparse before 1848. the publisher Benacci-Peschier, from lyons – whose catalogue contains several items already published by Brandus and Schlesinger – was nevertheless the irst to publish the orchestral score of the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in 1848. Another rare instance is the publication of Antigone by Bernard latte in 1844 in a piano reduction. to sum up, it seems that before Mendelssohn’s death only two orchestral works had appeared in France in full score: the above-mentioned violin concerto in e minor, op. 64 (richault, 1846) and Benacci-Peschier’s overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 21 in 1848.

Mendelssohn’s works Performed in Paris before 1847 the periods of time that Mendelssohn spent in France (1816, 1825, 1831–32) have been well documented in the Mendelssohn literature. his Parisian stay of 1832 provided the opportunity for the violinist Pierre Baillot to programme his chamber music at his own concert series. on 14 February 1832, Baillot and his quartet performed Mendelssohn’s string Quartet, op. 13, which had been published in 1830 by richault.8 Joël-Marie Fauquet has examined the performance history of Mendelssohn’s works at Parisian concerts especially in relation to the composer’s visits to France. In 1825, at the salon of Madame Kiéné, mother of the pianist Marie Bigot, Mendelssohn played his Piano Quartet no. 3, op. 3 with Baillot, the cellist louis norblin and the violist simon Mialle.9 during his 1831–32 stay, Mendelssohn played several times at Baillot’s evening concerts, notably J. s. Bach’s sonatas. Baillot’s pupils at the conservatoire also rehearsed Mendelssohn’s irst two string quartets, and the Octet for Strings, Op. 20 was performed several times in Paris. Mendelssohn also made appearances as a soloist at the société des concerts du conservatoire, which had started to perform his works. As recorded in a letter to his father, Mendelssohn’s overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream was performed on 19 February 1832 at the société.10 one month later, on 18 March 1832, Mendelssohn appeared as soloist in Beethoven’s Piano concerto no. 4 in G major, op. 58. By the end of 1847, Mendelssohn’s works were known in France primarily through publishing, although his increasing presence in the concert hall also played a signiicant role before his death. It is possible to establish which of his works were most frequently performed: the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, See Fauquet (1986), Appendix III: ‘Programmes des séances de quatuors et de quintettes de P. Baillot’, 322. 9 op. 3 was published in 1827 by richault. 10 Fauquet (1986), 60–61. see holoman (2004), 152. Mendelssohn’s letters to his father, 21 February 1832, in elvers (1986), 170–81. to see the programme for Piano Concerto No. 4 in the concert of 18 March 1832, see D. Kern Holoman’s website at http:// hector.ucdavis.edu/SdC/default.html, accessed 31 January 2011. 8

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table 16.1

321

overview of the programmes of the société des concerts du conservatoire

Genre

title

dates performed

First edition

overtures

Grotte de Fingal [les hébrides] op. 26 overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 21

leipzig, Breitkopf & Härtel, 1835 leipzig Breitkopf & Härtel [1835]

symphonies

symphony no. 1 in c major, op. 11

1842, 1843, 1845, 1848, 1850 1832, 1851, 1852 (x2), 1853, 1854 (x2), 1855, 1856 (x2), 1858, 1859 1843, 1844 (as ‘nouvelle symphonie’), 1845 (as ‘symphonie’) 1844, 1846, 1847, 1848, 1860 1852

symphony no. 3 in A minor, op. 56 symphony no. 4 in A major, op. 90 oratorio

Paulus

1842, 1848 (fragments)

the ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture, symphony no. 1 in c major, op. 11 and symphony no. 3 in A minor, op. 56. An overview of the programmes of the société des concerts du conservatoire shows which works were played in Paris before (and after) Mendelssohn’s death (table 16.1). Nevertheless it is still dificult to establish a link between these performances and their publications in France. the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream – published by Breitkopf & Härtel as a four-hand piano transcription in 1832, then as an orchestral score in 1835 – was published in France by Benacci-Peschier as an orchestral score in 1848, followed in 1853 by the four-hand piano transcription by Schonenberger. The orchestral score of the ‘Fingal’s Cave’ Overture, irst published in Leipzig by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1835, was published as a four-hand piano transcription in 1844 by richault. none of the symphonies were published as orchestral scores in France during Mendelssohn’s lifetime.

French Biographies of Mendelssohn Before the publication of hippolyte Barbedette’s biography of Mendelssohn in 1868 there were only a few similar texts circulating in France, most of which were not of the same calibre.11 nevertheless, these remain valuable sources of information and help us to identify which works were favoured by French audiences. on 21 december 1833, François-Joseph Fétis’s Revue et Gazette 11 Barbedette (1868). Blaze de Bury (1856); Comettant (1883); Ernouf (1888); Krinitz (1867); Jullien (1877), 65–156.

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Musicale de Paris published a biographical article on Mendelssohn, in which the absence of any mention of his piano works (by then the most important part in the catalogues of French publishers) is in striking contrast with the emphasis given to his symphonic works: At the age of ten, Felix Mendelssohn had already written fugues, piano pieces, and a few little operas performed on amateur stages. It was in 1824 that he published his irst work, an opus made of two quartets for piano, violin, viola and cello. this opus was followed by a sonata with violin accompaniment and a much esteemed [string] quartet in B-lat. Since then, Mendelssohn’s life gained a very public character. the years since 1829 have seen him travelling in France, Italy, England and Scotland. […] Among his new works, we can name the following: a cantata written for the death of Albrecht dürer;12 a symphony written for the reformation Feast; two overtures, one being entitled The Hebrides, the other for A Midsummer Night’s Dream by shakespeare, a most original work.13

A similar neglect of Mendelssohn’s piano works is observed in the article ‘Mendelssohn’ in the Biographie universelle des musicians by Fétis published in 1840:14 he came to Paris, and played a concerto by Beethoven at the concerts du conservatoire. his overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream was also heard there […]. Already in 1830 there was a tendency towards originality in his works, especially in A Midsummer’s Night Dream Overture that I had heard in Paris; but it was easy to see that these were more the result of research and work than of inspiration. since then, the artist has grown consistently, and his manner has developed daily in individual qualities. his concerto in G minor for Piano, his octet and above all his oratorio Paulus are works of great scope. one also cites among his most beautiful works the cantata he wrote for the anniversary

12

Grosse Festmusik zum dürerfest, 1828. ‘A l’âge de dix ans, Félix Mendelssohn avait déjà écrit des fugues, des morceaux de piano, et quelques petits opéras qui furent exécutés sur des théâtres d’amateurs. ce fut en 1824 qu’il publia sa première composition, une œuvre de deux quatuors pour piano, violon, alto et violoncelle. ce morceau fut suivi d’une sonate avec accompagnement de violon et d’un quatuor en si b très estimé. [ ] depuis ce temps, la vie de M. Mendelssohn eut un caractère public. les années qui se sont écoulées depuis 1829 l’ont vu parcourir la France, l’Italie, l’Angleterre et l’Ecosse. [ ] Parmi ses nouveaux ouvrages, nous citerons les suivants: une cantate composée pour la mort d’Albert dürer; une symphonie écrite à l’occasion de la fête de la réformation; deux ouvertures dont l’une intitulée, les hébrides, l’autre pour le rêve d’une nuit d’été, de shakespeare, morceau fort original’. Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris 7/47 (21 December 1833): 391. 14 Fétis (1835–44), vol. 6 (1840), 368. 13

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celebration of Albrecht dürer, another one written for the celebration that Mr Alexander von humboldt15 has given to the naturalists gathered in Berlin, and the one for the Walpurgisnacht,16 on Goethe’s poem; inally a symphony for the reformation feast that has been performed at various major musical venues.17

In the list of works following his article, Fétis only mentions German publications of Mendelssohn’s works, despite the fact that in 1840 some 15 of his works had been published in France. It seems then that the published works (piano works and chamber music) were not recognized as being the most important for the musical taste of this time (at least in France) but were rather works that would appeal predominantly to an audience of amateur musicians. however there is another thread that helps to identify which of Mendelssohn’s works were fully appreciated in France – that is to say, corresponding to the French musical taste of the early and middle nineteenth century – and to understand if such favour among the critiques was the main reason for their publication. through the musical press we can track the performance of Mendelssohn’s works in Paris and the success of his published scores, as well as reviews of these scores according to their publications, whether or not issued by a French publisher.18

15

Cantate Humboldt, 1828. Die erste Walpurgisnacht, Op. 60, published in 1844 by Kistner in Leipzig and ewer in london. 17 ‘Il vint à Paris, et exécuta aux concerts du Conservatoire un concerto de Beethoven. Il y it aussi entendre son ouverture du Songe d’une nuit d’été [ ]. Il y avait bien déjà en 1830 des tendances à l’originalité dans ses productions, particulièrement dans l’ouverture du songe d’une nuit d’été, que j’entendis à Paris; mais il était facile de voir qu’elles étaient plus le fruit de la recherche et du travail que de l’inspiration. depuis lors, l’artiste a toujours été grandissant, et sa manière a développé chaque jour des qualités individuelles. son concerto en sol mineur pour le piano, son octette, et surtout son oratorio de Paulus sont des œuvres de grande portée. on cite aussi parmi ses plus belles compositions la cantate qu’il a écrite pour la fête anniversaire d’Albert dürer; une autre composée pour la fête que M. Alexandre de humboldt a donnée aux naturalistes réunis à Berlin, et celle de la Nuit de Sainte-Waldpurge sur le poème de Goethe; enin une symphonie pour la fête de la réformation qui a été exécutée dans plusieurs grandes réunions musicales’. Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris 7/47 (21 December 1833): 391. 18 the following is a list of articles on Mendelssohn’s works published in the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris during the composer’s lifetime: 20 August 1837, Psalms with choir and orchestra; 4 March 1838, six Preludes and fugues; 15 July 1838, six romances sans paroles, 3rd collection, op. 38; 3 January 1841: salons Pape: Mendelssohn, sonata pour piano et violoncelle en ‘si’ bémol; 4 February 1841, string octet; 9 January 1842: sur la Gondola; 27 March 1842: Paulus (performed at la rochelle); 22 January 1843, symphony no. 1, at the concerts du conservatoire; 21 January 1844, symphony no. 3, at the concerts du conservatoire; 15 February 1846, Album de chant (supplément); 1 March 1846, symphony no. 3, at the concerts du conservatoire; 19 April, 30 August, 6 and 27 september 1846, 10 January 1847, Paulus; 31 May 1846, six organ sonatas; 24 16

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on 4 March 1838, a review of Mendelssohn’s Six Préludes et fugues pour le piano, op. 35, published by schlesinger in 1837, appeared in the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris.19 On 15 June 1838, Georges Kastner reviewed the third collection of Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte – translated in French as Romances sans paroles – op. 38, also published by schlesinger in 1837.20 In 1841, the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris reported on an evening hosted by césar Franck, during which a sonata for cello and piano was performed – probably the Sonata for Violoncello and Piano No. 1 in B-lat, Op. 45, published by schlesinger in 183921 and described as ‘a light and delightful work from the present Mozart of Germany’.22 Before 1848, at least ive of the musical supplements in the Revue et Gazette Musicale de Paris were dedicated to Mendelssohn, including: the Romances sans paroles, op. 30; the Caprices, op. 33, immediately following the death of the composer; and the Souvenirs d’enfance, Op. 72. In February 1842, the société des concerts du conservatoire (following the concerts saint honoré conducted by valentino)23 performed the ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture.24 In a review of this work published in the Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris, Berlioz stressed the exceptional orchestral invention of the composer.25 one month later, Berlioz reviewed excerpts of Paulus26 (also performed by the société des concerts),27 without hiding his astonishment at the lack of enthusiasm shown by the audience. In 1844, Berlioz reviewed the performance of the Symphony No. 3 in A minor, op. 56, the ‘scottish’.28

January 1847: Paulus chœur. At the concerts du conservatoire; 7 February 1847, trio for piano No. 2; 18 April 1847, Symphony No. 4 ‘Italian’, at the Concerts du Conservatoire; 16 January 1848, irst séance of the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, posthumous tribute; 2 February 1848, violin concerto. 19 Kastner (1838). 20 F-Pmus Ac.p. 4067. 21 F-Pmus Ac.p. 4053. 22 ‘œuvre légère et délicieuse du Mozart actuel de l’Allemagne’. 23 Berlioz (2004), vol. 5, 47. 24 It seems that this overture was published as an orchestral score by Richault quite late in 1854, with the title Ouverture de concert en partition n° 2. Grotte de Fingal, richault [1854]. GB-ob Mus. 221 d.623. the orchestral score was published in leipzig by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1835. See Cooper (2001a). 25 ‘Quatrième concert du conservatoire’, in Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris, 27 February 1842; see also Berlioz (2004), vol. 5, 47. 26 op. 36 was only published in a version with piano accompaniment by schlesinger and richault in 1842, probably coinciding with the performance at the société des concerts du conservatoire. the orchestral score had been published in Bonn by simrock in 1836–37. 27 Berlioz (2004), vol. 5, 77–8. 28 Ibid., 420–21.

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Mendelssohn’s Correspondence with his French Publishers After 1840, fewer of Mendelssohn’s scores were published by richault and Schlesinger, but smaller publishers began to take over. The irst among these was Benacci-Peschier from lyons, a publishing house born out of the association of Jean Benacci and Claudine Peschier. Of Italian origin, Benacci established himself in 1832 in Lyons as a music and Italian teacher. At their home, Benacci-Peschier organized a series of musical events for their friend sigismond thalberg. the couple was also on friendly terms with liszt, who declared Benacci to be ‘France’s most intelligent publisher’. A recently discovered letter from Mendelssohn to Benacci, dated 10 december 1843 – in which the former consigned to the latter the three pieces from the incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 and the ifth collection of the Lieder ohne Worte, op. 62 – reveals that Mendelssohn held his publisher in high regard: I am sending you three four-hand pieces by post from the music I have just written for shakespeare’s play entitled A Midsummer Night’s Dream which has been played at the royal theatre 17 times in the last six weeks. these are a scherzo, a Notturno and a march. They form the interludes of the irst, third and fourth acts of the play. You can publish these separately or together, as you wish, but every title page must announce that they have been arranged for four hands and taken from the above-mentioned play. I permit you to publish them as one work, rather than four. If, later on, you want to publish the other pieces forming the whole score (there are two choirs, a few melodramas, ballets etc.) since these are going to be published in Germany, I would count the whole as another work … I doubt that the whole would interest the musical audience in France … let me know as soon as possible on which day you could be ready for publication, because the same day should be set for you, England and Germany. Next week I will also send you a new collection (the ifth) of Romances sans paroles for solo piano.29 29 this letter was recently put up for auction by the Parisian book antiquarian ‘les Neuf Muses’; I am grateful to Joël-Marie Fauquet for mentioning this letter to me. ‘Je vous envoie par la poste 3 morceaux à 4 mains, tirés de la musique que je viens de composer pour la pièce de shakespeare intitulée le rêve d’une nuit d’été qu’on a donné au théâtre royal 17 fois depuis les dernières six semaines. Ce sont un scherzo, un Notturno et une marche. Ils forment les entractes du 1er, 3e et 4e acte de la pièce. vous pouvez les publier séparément ou ensemble, comme vous voudrez, mais il faut remarquer que sur le titre de chacun qu’ils sont arrangés pour quatre mains et tirés de la pièce susdite. Je vous les compte pour un ouvrage. si vous voulez publier plus tard les autres morceaux qui forment l’ensemble de la partition (ce sont encore deux choeurs, quelques mélodrames, ballets etc.) comme on va les publier en Allemagne, je compterais le tout pour un autre ouvrage … Je doute que le tout intéresserait le public musical en France … Faites-moi savoir le plus tôt possible quel jour vous pouvez être prêt pour la publication, parce qu’il faudra ixer le même jour pour vous, pour l’Angleterre et l’Allemagne. […] Je vous enverrai aussi la semaine prochaine un nouveau cahier (le 5e) de romances sans paroles pour piano seul’.

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that Mendelssohn’s German publishers were already aware of this episode is shown in their letters (published in 1968 by rudolf elvers).30 In a letter to the publishers Breitkopf & Härtel bearing the same date as the one to Benacci, Mendelssohn stressed he was ‘sending the numbers 1, 7, and 9 only to england and France, for which there is no need of translation’.31 Benacci was also the publisher of the piano four-hand version of the symphony no. 3 in A minor, op. 56, the ‘Scottish’. On 28 September 1842, Mendelssohn informed Breitkopf & Härtel that he had sold the rights to the titles for France (to Benacci-Peschier in lyons) and england (to ewer).32 It was also with Benacci that Mendelssohn corresponded about his oratorio Elias: The next work (and the only one) that I will publish this year will be an oratorio that I have had performed for the irst time in England at the great festival in Birmingham, one month ago. It is a work of the same magnitude as my Paulus and in sending it to you I clarify that it is not part of our former agreement; but as I have just been told that this sort of music and even the score of my Paulus is enjoying a greater reception in France than it had previously, I believe that it may be a favourable moment to publish a new work in this genre, and if you agree I would ask you to tell me under which conditions you would undertake a publication of this sort. It will be in January or February that the German publishers will be ready to publish the work to which I refer.33

one month later, another letter tells us about the progress of the French publication of Paulus: Sir, I have received your honorary from 15 November and I beg you to let me know if the price of 800 francs for the rights of my new oratorio in France 30 31

Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1968). Letter of 10 December 1843 to Breitkopf & Härtel. Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1968),

136. 32

‘J’ai vendu le titre de propriété pour la France et l’Angleterre de ma symphonie (op. 56) à des éditeurs de ces pays: Benacci et Peschier à lyon’. letter of 28 september 1842, Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1968), 127. 33 ‘le prochain ouvrage (et le seul) que je publierai dans le cours de cette année sera un oratorio que je viens de faire exécuter pour la 1ère fois en Angleterre à la grande fête de Birmingham, il y a un mois. comme c’est une œuvre de la même étendue que mon st-Paul je ne serai pas à même de vous l’envoyer comme faisant part de notre convention d’alors; mais comme on vient de me dire que cette espèce de musique et même la partition de mon st Paul commence à être plus connu en France qu’elle ne l’était, j’ai cru que c’était peutêtre un moment favorable pour faire paraître un nouvel ouvrage de ce genre, et si vous êtes du même avis je vous prierais de me dire à quelles conditions vous entreprendriez une publication comme celle-là. ce sera le mois de janvier ou février que les éditeurs allemands et anglais seront prêts à publier l’ouvrage dont je vous parle’. F-Pmus l.a. Mendelssohn 2; to Benacci-Peschier, 11 october 1846.

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sounds convenient to you. I would be much obliged to you if you could answer me as soon as possible.34

In general, Mendelssohn’s opinions on French editors, as expressed in his correspondence, conirms the view expressed by other contemporary composers. It is well known that Stephen Heller was particularly severe in his judgement of French publishers – as is evident in a letter he sent to Jean-Baptiste laurens on 23 June 1844: And the publishers, well then! one of them, h. lemoine, for instance, is a music teacher, and hence believes he can judge music. he rejects any good work. Another publisher, Mr schlesinger, […] although avaricious and narrow-minded in business, is no better as a merchant. he spends huge sums on detestable things and speculates with more clumsiness … than a good artist. let’s speak about a third publisher, richault. […] richault is an unbridled counterfeiter. he hopes that we Germans will ind a publisher more easily in our country than in France. the pressing need of money makes us print our works in Germany (if it is the case that one inds a publisher, which is not easy) without having found one in France. once the works have fallen into the public domain, richault orders these, and engraves them without having to pay the least remuneration to the authors. thus richault owns the greatest musical collection in Paris without having paid one single penny.35

It seems that Mendelssohn shared Heller’s opinion to some extent, at least concerning Schlesinger: in a letter to Breitkopf & Härtel, dated 24 March 1838, the composer explained his wish to publish the string Quartets, op. 44 with richault, ‘but under no circumstances with schlesinger!!’ (‘aber nun in keinem

34 ‘Monsieur, J’ai reçu votre honorée du 15 novembre et je vous prie de me faire savoir si le prix de 800 francs pour la propriété en France de mon nouvel oratorio vous convient. Je vous serai obligé si vous vouliez bien me répondre le plus tôt possible’. F-Pmus l.a. Mendelssohn 5; to Benacci-Peschier, 8 december 1846. 35 ‘et les éditeurs, donc! l’un d’eux, h. lemoine par exemple, est professeur de musique, et par là il croit pouvoir juger la musique. Il rejette toute bonne œuvre. Un autre éditeur, schlesinger, […] s’il est avare et serré dans les affaires, il n’est pas moins mauvais marchand. Il dépense des sommes énormes pour des choses détestables et spécule plus maladroitement … qu’un bon artiste. Pour parler d’un troisième éditeur, richault. […] Richault est un effréné contrefacteur. Il espère que nous autres Allemands trouverons plus facilement un éditeur dans notre patrie qu’en France. le besoin pressant d’argent fait qu’on fait imprimer ses œuvres en Allemagne (dans le cas qu’on y trouve un éditeur, ce qui n’est pas aisé) sans en avoir trouvé en France. Alors les œuvres sont tombées dans le domaine public, et richault les fait venir, les grave sans avoir à payer à l’auteur la moindre rétribution. Ainsi richault possède le plus grand fonds à Paris sans avoir bourse délié’. heller (1981), 122–3.

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Fall bei schlesinger!!’).36 obviously Mendelssohn’s dealings with richault did not involve the experience of illegal publishing, an endemic issue during the nineteenth century.37 however, illegal publishing certainly helps us to understand Mendelssohn’s attitude towards publishing: despite some slight differences particular to every country, the general rule was that a work, once published, remained protected only in the country in which it was originally published. Any work published in France, even by a foreign composer, was then protected with the same regard as any French work. however, the situation became much more complicated when a composer, whether French or foreign, having published his work outside France, wanted to keep the rights for France. In 1837, the lawyer Joseph Adrien Gastambide published a treatise on counterfeiting in various domains, stating that: If an author wants to keep the rights to his work for himself in France and in foreign countries, he should make two simultaneous publications, one here, another there; he will have to fulil the legal requirements here and there, and his rights will be maintained. thus the French counterfeiter will not be able to pretend that the foreign publication came to enrich the public domain in France, since this publication will not precede even for one second the publication made on French territory.38

Gastambide’s advice can be applied perfectly to Mendelssohn’s case: to publish his works simultaneously in different countries was the best way to protect his rights as an author. certainly, Mendelssohn was faced with precarious copyright issues in a number of countries. Peter Ward Jones has discussed similar issues for Mendelssohn in Britain, noting that ‘as similar laws applied in other countries, simultaneous publication became the normal way of protecting copyright in a work with international sales potential’.39 If, on leaving Paris in 1825, Mendelssohn’s estimation of the city, pace rode, was that of the locus of musical decadence (‘C’est 36 Letter to Breitkopf & Härtel, 24 March 1838; Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (1968), 69. 37 Kallberg (1982): see, in particular, Chapter 1, ‘Going Before the Public: Chopin and the International Music Publishing Industry’, 11–41. Peter Bloom has investigated this issue in relation to Berlioz, and Peter Ward Jones in relation to Mendelssohn. see Bloom (1995) and Ward Jones (1992). 38 ‘si un auteur veut se réserver la propriété de son œuvre en France en même temps qu’à l’étranger, qu’il en fasse deux publications simultanées, l’une ici, l’autre là-bas; qu’il remplisse les formalités légales de part et d’autre, et ses droits seront conservés. Alors le contrefacteur français ne pourra prétendre que la publication à l’étranger a eu pour effet d’enrichir le domaine public en France, puisque cette publication n’aura point précédé même d’un instant la publication faite sur le territoire français’. Gastambide (1837); quoted in Kallberg (1982), Chapter 1. 39 Ward Jones (1992), 241.

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ici une défringolade musicale’),40 the issues he encountered in his experience of copyright law in the years following that would have done little to ameliorate his estimation of musical life in France.

Appendix 16.1 Mendelssohn’s Works Performed at the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire 1832–186041 19 February 1832: overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 21 20 February 1842: ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 27 March 1842 (easter sunday): ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 15 January 1843: symphony no. 1 in c minor, op. 11 23 April 1843: ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 14 January 1844: ‘symphonie nouvelle de M. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy’ 12 January 1845: symphonie de Mendelssohn-Bartholdy 20 April 1845: ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 22 February 1846: symphony no. 3 in A minor, the ‘scottish’, op. 56 2 April 1847 (Good Friday): symphony no. 3 in A minor, the ‘scottish’, op. 56 9 January 1848: First concert in memory of F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy – symphony no. 3 in A minor, the ‘scottish’, op. 56; excerpts from the oratorio Paulus (solo sung by Mlle Grime); violin concerto (soloist M. Alard); excerpts from the oratorio Paulus (solos sung by MM. Barbot and Grignon); ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 7 April 1850: ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture in B minor, op. 26 23 March 1851: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (overture, scherzo, verses and choruses with words in French by M. A. Bélanger, solos sung by Mlles Meyer and devisme; Prologue, Adagio, March) 13 April 1851: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (overture, Allegro appassionato, verses and choruses with words in French by M. A. Bélanger, solos sung by Mlles Meyer and devisme; scherzo, Adagio, March) 11 January 1852: Symphony No. 4 in A Major, the ‘Italian’, Op. 90 22 February 1852: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (the solos to be sung by Mlles Boulard and Montigny) 18 April 1852: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (overture, scherzo, verses and choruses with words in French by M. A. Bélanger, solos sung by Mlles Meyer and devisme; Prelude, March) 40

letter from Mendelssohn to his family, 9 May 1825, in sebastian hensel (1881), 128, cited in todd (2003), 145. 41 list compiled from the programmes of the société des concerts du conservatoire as given on D. Kern Holoman’s website on Berlioz: http://hector.ucdavis.edu/SdC/default. html, accessed 1 June 2008.

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20 February 1853: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (French words by M. Bélanger) 20 March 1853: Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 10 April 1853: Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 22 January 1854: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (words by M. Bélanger, solos sung by Mlles Boulard and Amélie Bourgeois) 9 February 1854: Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 9 April 1854: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (words by M. Bélanger: overture, Allegro appassionato; verses and choruses with solos sung by Mlles Bourgeois and Boulard; scherzo, March) 1 April 1855: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (words by M. Bélanger: overture, Allegro appassionato; verses and choruses with solos sung by Mlles Boulard and Bourgeois; scherzo, March) 24 February 1856: ‘singet dem herrn ein neues lied’ (Psalm 98) 9 March 1856: Finale to Act I of Die Lorelei 30 March 1856: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (overture; Allegro appassionato; verses and choruses with words in French by M. A. Bélanger, solos sung by Mlles Boulard and ribault; scherzo, March) 19 June 1856: excerpts from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (Allegro appassionato; verses and choruses sung by Mlles rey and ribault; scherzo) 11 January 1857: choruses from Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 25 January 1857: overture in c minor, ‘ruy Blas’, op. 95 21 March 1858: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (overture, Allegro appassionato, Andante; 4. verses and choruses with words in French by M. A. Bélanger, solos sung by Mmes damoreau-Wekerlin and dussy; scherzo, March) 28 March 1858: ‘singet dem herrn ein neues lied’ (Psalm 98) 18 April 1858: ‘singet dem herrn ein neues lied’ (Psalm 98) 9 January 1859: choruses from Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 23 January 1859: choruses from the oratorio Paulus, op. 36 10 April 1859: excerpts from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, op. 61 (Allegro appassionato; verses and choruses with solos sung by Mlle Marie dussy and Mme Altès; scherzo) 22 April 1859 (Good Friday): choruses from the oratorio Paulus, op. 36 8 January 1860: symphony no. 3 in A minor, the ‘scottish’, op. 56 1 April 1860: choruses from the oratorio Paulus, op. 36 15 April 1860: symphony no. 3 in A minor, the ‘scottish’, op. 56 29 April 1860: ‘singet dem herrn ein neues lied’ (Psalm 98) Parts housed in the Archives of the société des concerts (Fonds du conservatoire, Bibliothèque nationale, department de la Musique) Athalie: Piano-vocal score. Ewer & Co. [D. 17597] Die erste Walpurgisnacht, op. 60 (‘la nuit du 1er mai ou le sabbat des sorciers’): Piano-vocal score [d. 17598] Psalm 42, Op. 42. Breitkopf & Härtel [D. 17599] symphony no. 3 in A minor, op. 56, the ‘scottish’. richault [d. 17612]

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Weininger, otto, Geschlecht und Charakter: Eine prinzipielle Untersuchung (vienna: Wilhelm Braumuller, 1893 and 1903); trans. as Sex and Character (london and new York: W. heinemann/G. P. Putnam’s sons, 1906; repr., new York: AMs Press, 1975). Wells, samuel, New Physiognomy, or Signs of Character as Manifested Through Temperament and External Forms, and Especially in ‘The Human Face Divine’ (new York: samuel r. Wells, 1873). Werner, eric, Mendelssohn: Leben und Werk in neuer Sicht (Zurich: Atlantis, 1980). Wilson, John, Lectures on our Israelitish Origins, 5th edn (london: James nisbit, 1876). Wilson Kimber, Marian, ‘the composer as other: Gender and race in the Biography of Felix Mendelssohn’, in The Mendelssohns: Their Music in History, ed. John Michael cooper and Julie d. Prandi (oxford: oxford University Press, 2002). Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, ‘thoughts on the imitation of the Painting and sculpture of the Greeks’, in German Aesthetic and Literary Criticism: Winckelmann, Lessing, Hamann, Herder, Schiller, and Goethe, ed. and trans. hugh B. nisbet (cambridge: cambridge University Press, 1985). Wistrich, robert s., The Jews of Vienna in the Age of Franz Joseph (oxford: oxford University Press, 1989). Wolff, christoph, ‘cadenzas and styles of improvisation in Mozart’s Piano concertos’, in Perspectives on Mozart Performance, ed. r. larry todd and Peter Williams (cambridge: cambridge University Press, 1991). Wolff, ernst, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (Berlin: harmonie, 1906). Wolff, hellmuth christian, ‘Zum singspiel “dichterliebe” von Mendelssohn’, Mendelssohn-Studien 6 (1986): 151–62. Wolff, Konrad, ed., Robert Schumann: On Music and Musicians, trans. P. rosenfeld (new York: norton, 1946). Wollny, Peter, ‘sara levy and the Making of Musical taste in Berlin’, The Musical Quarterly 77 (1993): 651–88. Woodrow, ross, ‘lavater and the drawing Manual’, in Physiognomy in Proile: Lavater’s Impact on European Culture, ed. Melissa Percival and Graeme tytler (newark: University of delaware Press, 2005). Young, robert M., Mind, Brain, and Adaptation in the Nineteenth Century: Cerebral Localization in its Biological Context from Gall to Ferrier (oxford and new York: oxford University Press, 1970). Zappalà, Pietro, ‘Autographe von Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in italien’, Mendelssohn-Studien 10 (1997): 77–95.

index of Mendelssohn’s Works

this index includes references to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy: Thematisch-systematisches Verzeichnis der musikalischen Werke (MWV), Studien Ausgabe, by ralf Wehner (Wiesbaden, leipzig, Paris: Breitkopf & härtel, 2009). these are found before the page numbers in each entry, and are in the following format: ‘MWv A 10’. Allegro molto, piano, F-sharp minor (1836), 206, 207, 209 Andante, piano, A major (1830, for ottilie von Goethe), (MWv U 76), 299 Andante und Allegro assai vivace (Allegro brillant), piano duet, op. 92 (MWv t 4), 96 Andante cantabile e Presto agitato, piano, B major/B minor, Woo 6 (MWv U 141), 96, 99 Antigone, op. 55 (MWv M 12), 5, 129, 163–75, 179, 320 Athalie, op. 74, incidental music (MWv M 16), 72, 97, 330 Beiden Neffen, Die, (MWv l 4), 185 Capriccio, piano, op. 5, F-sharp minor, (MWV U 50), 303 fn4 Capriccio brillant, piano and orchestra, op. 22, B minor (MWv o 8), 95 Caprices, Three, piano, op. 33, 324 Christmas Pieces, Six, piano. see Kinderstücke, piano. Christus, op. 97 (MWv A 26), 314 concerto, piano, string orchestra, A minor (1822), (MWv o 2), 227, 228, 286, 294 concerto, piano, no. 1, op. 25, G minor (MWv o 7), 95, 111, 281, 322 concerto, piano, no. 2, op. 40, d minor (MWv o 11), 96, 246 Concerto, two pianos, A-lat major (1824), (MWv o 6), 227, 228, 286

concerto, two pianos, e major (1823), (MWv o 5), 227, 228 concerto, violin, d minor (1822), (MWv o 3), 294 concerto, violin, op. 64, e minor (MWv o 14), 74, 75, 79, 97, 311, 313, 319, 320, 329 concerto, violin, piano, string orchestra, d minor (1823), (MWv o 4), 228, 241 ‘dürer’ cantata (1828), (MWv d 1), 288, 322, 323 Elijah (Elias), op. 70 (MWv A 25), 35, 36, 42, 60, 61, 129, 193, 276, 314, 317, 326 Erste Walpurgisnacht, Die, op. 60 (MWv d 3), 4, 49–55, 61, 62, 95, 131–42, 213, 250 fn1, 283, 297, 301, 323, 330 Fantaisies ou caprices, Trois, piano, op. 16, 319 Fantasia, c minor, piano (1823), (MWv U 41), 291 fn50 Fantasia, piano, op. 28, F-sharp minor (MWv U 92), 95, 242, 280 ‘Fingal’s cave’ overture. see Die Hebriden Gesänge, Sechs, op. 47 no. 5: ‘der Blumenstrauss’, (MWv K 73), 270 Gesänge, Sechs, op. 99, 319 Gloria, E-lat major (1822), (MWV A 1), 286

358

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Harmoniemusik, overture, op. 24 (MWv P 1), 319 Hebriden, Die, overture, op. 26 (MWv P 7), 95, 318, 319, 321, 322, 324, 329 Heimkehr aus der Fremde, op. 89 (MWv l 6), 95, 181, 270 Hochzeit des Camacho, die, op. 10 (MWv l 5), 94, 185, 298 Hora est (1828), (MWv B 18), 288 ‘humboldt’ cantata (1828), (MWv d 2), 323 Infelice (concert scene and aria), op. 94 (MWv h 4), 274 Kinderstücke, piano, op. 72, 314, 324 Lieder ohne Worte, op. 19b, 202, 319 no. 1, e major (MWv U 86), 205 no. 5, F-sharp minor (MWv U 90), 95 no. 6, G minor (MWv U 78), 197 Lieder ohne Worte, op. 30, 197, 203, 204, 280, 319, 324 No. 1, E-lat major (MWV U 103), 197, 199 No. 2, B-lat minor (MWV U 77), 202 no. 3, e major (MWv U 104), 199, 205 no. 4, B minor (MWv U 98), 202 no. 5, d major (MWv U 97), 198, 199 no. 6, F-sharp major (Venetianisches Gondollied), (MWv U 110), 197–201, 212 Lieder ohne Worte, op. 38, 203, 204, 319, 324 No. 1, E-lat major (MWV U 121), 205 Lieder ohne Worte, op. 53, 203, 204 No. 1, A-lat major (MWV U 143), 191 Lieder ohne Worte, Op. 57, 305 fn10, 306 no. 5, B minor (Venetianisches Gondollied, or Rendez-vous), (MWv K 114), 197–9 Lieder ohne Worte, op. 62, 305–7, 309, 325 no. 5, A minor (Venetianisches Gondollied), (MWv U 151), 197 no. 6, A major (Frühlingslied), (MWv U 161), 213, 214

Lieder ohne Worte, op. 67, 312, 319 No. 1, E-lat major (MWV U 180), 213, 214 No. 3, B-lat major (MWV U 102), 313 no. 5, B minor (MWv U 184), 40, 206, 211 Lieder, Drei, op. 84 no. 2: ‘herbstlied’, (MWv K 99), 270 Lieder, Sechs, op. 71 no. 2: ‘Frühlingslied’, (MWv K 119), 270 Lieder, Sechs (duets), op. 63 no. 4: ‘herbstlied’, (MWv J 11), 207–10 Lorelei, Die, op. 98 (MWv l 7), 178, 330 Magniicat, d major (1822), (MWv A 2), 286 Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt, overture, op. 27 (MWv P 5), 95 Midsummer Night’s Dream, A, overture, op. 21 (MWv P 3), 122, 181, 228, 318, 320–22, 329 Midsummer Night’s Dream, A, incidental music, op. 61 (MWv M 13), 72, 129, 181, 305–7, 309, 325, 329, 330 Motetten, Drei, op. 69, 66 Octet, strings, Op. 20, E-lat major (MWV r 20), 94, 98, 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 286, 297, 319, 320, 322 Oedipus at Colonos, op. 93 (MWv M 14), 165, 172–4 Ouvertüre zum einsamen Insel. see Die Hebriden Paulus. see st. Paul Preludes and Fugues, Six, op. 35, piano, 319, 324 Preludes and Fugues, Three, op. 37, organ, 308 Psalm 42 (‘Wir der hirsch schreit’), op. 42 (MWv A 15), 330 Psalm 98 (‘singet dem herrn’), op. 91 (MWv A 23), 151, 330 Psalm 114 (‘die israel aus Ägypten zog’), op. 51 (MWv A 17), 60, 71

Index of Mendelssohn’s Works Psalm 115 (‘non nobis domine/nicht unserm namen, herr’, 1831), op. 31 (MWv A 9), 60 Psalmen, Drei, op. 78, 34, 35, 36, 37, 41, 44 Quartet, piano, d minor (1821), (MWv Q 10), 293 Quartet, piano, no. 1, op. 1, c minor (MWv Q 11), 105, 283, 286, 295, 303 fn4 Quartet, piano, no. 2, op. 2, F minor (MWV Q13), 105, 254 fn10, 286, 318 Quartet, piano, no. 3, op. 3, B minor (MWv Q 17), 94, 98, 100, 101, 250 fn2, 296, 297, 319, 320 Quartet, string, No. 1, Op. 12, E-lat major (MWv r 25), 6, 95, 249–65, 319 Quartet, string, no. 2, op. 13, A minor (MWv r 22), 94, 250, 252, 253, 319, 320 Quartets, string, nos. 3–5, op. 44, 319, 327 no. 1: d major (MWv r 30), 96 no. 2: e minor (MWv r 26), 95 No. 3: E-lat major (MWV R 28), 96, 250 fn2 Quartet, string, no. 6, op. 80, F minor (MWv r 37), 97, 98 Quintet, string, no. 1, op. 18, A major (MWv r 21), 94, 251, 319 Quintet, string, No. 2, Op. 87, B-lat major (MWV R 33), 97, 98 fn49, 105 Rondo brillant, piano and orchestra, op. 29 (MWv o 10), 60, 98, 229, 281 Rondo capriccioso, piano, op. 14 (MWv U 67), 94, 99 Ruy Blas, overture, op. 95 (MWv P 15), 96, 330 Serenade and Allegro giojoso, piano and orchestra, op. 43 (MWv o 12), 96, 99 Schöne Melusine, Die, overture, op. 32 (MWv P 12), 95, 274, 280

359

Sommernachtstraum, Ouvertüre. see, A Midsummer Night’s Dream Sonata, cello, No. 1, Op. 45, B-lat major (MWv Q 27), 96, 319, 324 sonata, cello, no. 2, op. 58, d major (MWV Q 32), 97, 305 fn10, 306 sonata, piano, no. 1, op. 6, e major (MWv U 54), 94 Sonata, piano, No. 3, Op. 106, B-lat major (MWv U 64), 94, 108, 109 sonatas, six, op. 65, organ, 312, 313, 319 St. Paul (Paulus), op. 36 (MWv A 14), 50, 60, 61, 142, 156, 174, 183, 229, 308, 314–26, 329, 330 symphony, no. 1, op. 11, c minor (MWV N 13), 250 fn2, 319, 321, 329 Symphony, No. 2, Op. 52, B-lat major, ‘lobgesang’, (MWv A 18), 96, 142, 157, 171, 174 symphony, no. 3, op. 56, A minor, ‘scottish’, (MWv n 18), 191, 203, 250 fn2, 305 fn10, 306, 318, 319, 321, 324, 326, 329, 330 symphony, no. 4, op. 90, A major, ‘italian’, (MWv n 16), 4, 72, 95, 130, 131, 250 fn2, 319, 321 symphony, no. 5, op. 107, d minor, ‘reformation’, (MWv n 15), 95, 171, 174, 250 fn1, 298, 322 Te Deum (1826), (MWv B 15), 288 trio, piano, no. 1, op. 49, d minor (MWv Q 29), 96, 98, 250 fn1, 319 trio, piano, no. 2, op. 66, c minor (MWv Q 33), 97, 106, 174, 250 fn1, 313, 314 ‘trumpet’ overture, op. 101 (MWv P 2), 94 Tu es Petrus (1828), (MWv A 4), 288 Variations concertantes, cello and piano, op. 17, d major (MWv Q 19), 319

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General index

Abraham, Gerald, 83 Accademia Filarmonica romana, 314 d’Agoult, Marie, 181 Alexander, Mary, 281 Archduke rudolph, 240 Auber, Daniel-François-Esprit, 183 fn27 Fra Diavolo, 183 fn27 Bach, carl Philipp emmanuel, 224 Bach, Johann sebastian, 4, 31, 33, 43, 44 fn51, 60, 61 fn47, 67, 74, 108, 109, 113, 115, 145–60, 172, 174, 183–6, 227, 229–31, 286–9, 291, 296, 301, 313, 320 Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, 286 cantata BWv 29, ‘Wir danken dir, Gott, wir danken dir’, 159 fn61 Cantata BWV 80, ‘Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott’, 158 cantata BWv 199, ‘Preise Jerusalem, den Herrn’, 157 Concerto for Two Harpsichords (BWV 1061/1061a), 108, 109 Fugue in F-sharp minor, WTC I, 291 fn50 Keyboard Concerto in D minor (BWV 1052), 227 Mass in B minor, BWV 232, 159 Motet BWv 229, ‘Komm Jesu, Komm’, 60 orchestral suite no. 3 in d major, BWV 1068, 158–9 St. Matthew Passion, 115, 151, 159, 172, 184, 185, 288, 289 Bad reinerz, 228 Baillot, Pierre, 113, 320 Balkin, Henry, 14 fn41, 16, 18, 27 fn100 Barbedette, hippolyte, 321 Bartholomew, William, 242 Basso continuo, 151–7

Bayreuth, 58 fn35, 75 Beardsley, Aubrey, 27, 28 Bechler, Julius, 178 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 5, 13, 30, 37, 67, 74, 83–6, 87 fn23, 88, 90, 91, 98, 105, 108–10, 112, 113, 116, 147 fn6, 148, 156, 212, 226, 229– 31, 242, 247, 265 fn29, 284, 322 Drei Lieder, op. 83, no. 1, ‘Wonne der Wehmut’(Goethe), 292 Egmont Overture, Op. 84, 85–6 Fantasia in C minor for Piano, Chorus, and orchestra, op. 80, the ‘choral Fantasy’, 228 Piano concerto no. 1 in c major, op. 15, 227, 231–9, 246 Piano concerto no. 4 in G major, op. 58, 212, 227, 239–41, 243, 247, 320 Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-lat major, Op. 73, the ‘Emperor’, 227, 235–7, 239 Piano sonata no. 21 in c minor, op. 53, the ‘Waldstein’, 240 Piano sonata no. 23 in F minor, op. 57, the ‘Appassionata’, 105 Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-lat major, Op. 106, the ‘Hammerklavier’, 101 fn51, 108, 239, 241 Piano sonata no. 30 in e major, op. 109, 241 Piano Trio in B-lat, Op. 97, the ‘Archduke’, 108 String Quartet in F major, Op. 59, No. 1, the ‘Razumovsky’, 251 fn4 Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67, 298 Symphony No. 7 in A major, Op. 92, 148 Symphony No. 9 in D minor, Op. 125, 147 fn6

362

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Bell, charles, 13 Benacci, Jean, 304, 307, 309, 310, 325, 326 Benacci & Peschier, 305, 306, 320, 321, 325, 326 Bendemann, eduard, 22, 118 Benecke, Henriette, 270 Benecke, Marie, 199 Benedict, Julius, 113, 310 fn21 Benjamin, Walter, 223, 247 Berger, Ludwig, 91, 113, 226, 287 Bériot, charles de, 113, 230, 312 Berlin, 2, 74 fn46, 121, 122, 127, 133, 156 fn47, 164, 165, 168, 170, 174, 181, 186, 206, 211, 226, 227, 229, 242, 260, 270–73, 283, 289–91, 296 Academy of Arts, 278 humboldt University, 289 Komische oper, 191 Opera House, 179 Schauspielhaus, 169, 228 Singakademie, 152 fn31, 186, 286, 288, 289 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz, 18, 24 fn89, 206, 231–4, 237, 247, 271 fn7 Berlioz, Hector, 4, 86, 92, 113–35, 142, 143, 324, 328 fn37 Francs-Juges Overture, 127 Grande messe des morts Requiem, 127 Harold in Italy, 130, 131 Huit scenes de Faust, H. 33, 115–17, 122 King Lear Overture, 122, 127 La belle voyageuse, 127 Le jeune pâtre Breton, 127 Les nuits d’été, 127 Rêverie et Caprice, Op. 8, 127 Romeo et Juliette, Op. 17, 127, 129 Symphonie Fantastique, 120–21, 127, 133, 135, 142, 143 The Tempest Overture, 120–22 Bernsdorf, Eduard, 34, 43, 44 Bielschowsky, Albert, 284 Bigot, Marie, née Kiéné, 226, 320 Bischoff, Ludwig, 34, 39, 40

Böckh, August, 164, 166 Böhmer, C., 186 Bonn Beethoven-haus, 240 Booth, Charles, 77, 78 Borges, Jorge Luis, 57 Botstein, Leon, 49, 50, 53, 58, 62, 171 Bourges, Maurice, 317 Bovy, Antoine, 296 Brahms, Johannes, 1, 52, 53, 59, 60, 61, 84, 86, 92, 93, 247 Gesang der Parzen, Op. 89, 60 Rinaldo, 52, 53 Brandus, 318–20 Breitkopf und Härtel, 113, 153 fn37, 158, 271, 305, 307, 308, 309, 311, 313, 315, 321, 326, 327 Brendel, Franz, 31, 34, 40–43, 47, 83 Brown, Clive, 155 Bruckner, Anton, 84, 86, 90, 92, 265 fn29 Buxton, Edward, 178, 180 cambiasi, isidoro, 313 Capranica, Marquis Domenico, 314, 315 cervantes, Miguel de Don Quixote, 185 charlemagne, 131, 133 Cherubini, Luigi, 296 childe, James Warren, 20 Chopin, Frederic, 30, 76, 86, 89 fn9, 92, 184, 229, 230, 305 fn9, 328 fn37 Chorley, Henry, 67, 72–4, 114 Chrysander, Friedrich, 272, 274 Church of England, 66, 69 Clementi, Muzio, 91, 92, 226, 303 fn4 cohen, Gustavus, 14 Cooper, John Michael, 2, 4, 51 fn6, 51 fn8, 55, 67, 283, 284 cowling, Mary, 20 Cromwell, Oliver, 64, 68 Czerny, Carl, 87, 90 Dahlhaus, Carl, 1, 3, 83, 85 Darcy, Warren, 4, 84–93, 98, 111 Darwin, Charles, 59, 67, 71 David, Ferdinand, 42, 158 fn54, 159 fn59, 164 fn4, 230, 269

General Index Davison, James, 67, 74, 130 Devrient, Eduard, 19, 20, 23, 24, 69 fn24, 163, 165, 168, 239, 269, 287, 288 Disraeli, Benjamin, 64, 65, 69, 70, 72, 77 Döhler, Theodor, 304 Dömpke, Gustav, 55 donizetti, Gaetano, 191 Donner, Johann Jakob, 163, 166, 169, 173 Dresden, 124, 177, 184, 185 Droysen, Johann Gustav, 165, 167, 169, 203, 269 Dublin, 246 Düsseldorf, 151, 178, 274, 275, 281 Dulcken, Louise, 246 dussek, J. l. Concert militaire, 228 dutton, G. h. J, 29, 30 eberwein, 291 eckert, Karl Anton Florian, 230 Eichendorff, Joseph Freiherr von, 197 Elvers, Rudolf, 2, 303 fn1, 326 Emil, Wilhelm, 186 erskine, John, 30 Ewer, 159 fn59, 323 fn16, 326 Farrakhan, Louis, 78 Fauquet, Joël-Marie, 320 Feldman, David, 77 Fétis, Françoise-Joseph, 122, 322, 323 Field, John, 92 Finson, Jon W., 2 Fischer, Jens Malte, 32, 40 Förster, Friedrich, 164, 165 Forsyth, Cecil, 76 Fosbroke, Gerald, 22 Franck, césar, 324 King Frederick William IV, 163, 270, 278 Freeman, Edward Augustus, 77 Freiligrath, Ferdinand, 198 Freud, Sigmund, 6, 249, 253–6, 260, 264 fn26 Friedenthal, richard M., 284 Friedländer, Max, 296 Gall, Franz Joseph, 11, 36 Galton, Francis, 21 Garratt, James, 112

363

Gastambide, Joseph Adrien, 328 Geibel, Emanuel, 206, 209, 211 Geiger, ludwig, 284 Gilman, Sander, 23, 25, 35 Gluck, christoph Willibald von, 9, 148, 229–31 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 6, 12, 49–55, 115–17, 131, 133–5, 142, 143, 163, 167, 197, 283–99, 301, 323 ‘Die Braut von Korinth’, 55 fn21 ‘Die erste Walpurgisnacht’, 52–4, 55 fn21, 131–42, 284, 323 Die Leiden des jungen Werthers, 283, 291 Die Wahlverwandschaften, 143 Faust, 115, 285, 291, 196, 297, 300 ‘Rinaldo’, 52, 53 Staging of Sophocles’ Antigone, 163 Goethe, ottilie von, 299, 300 Goldschmidt, Adolph, 282 Gooley, dana, 242 Graun, carl heinrich Der Tod Jesu, 289 Grell, Eduard, 186 Grenser, Carl Augustin, 152, 154 Grisi, Guilia (Juliette), 280 Großmann-Vendrey, Sabina, 146, 147 fn7 Grove, George, 10, 12, 13, 19, 24, 26, 27, 71 Gruber, h., 280, 281 Guidi, 316 Gundolf, Friedrich, 284 Guthmann, Friedrich, 225 Habeneck, François-Antoine, 117, 122 hadden, cuthbert, 30 haley holm, henry, 9 Handel, George Frederick, 4, 74, 102, 147–54, 156 fn49, 230, 247 fn47, 272 Dixit Dominus, 289, 290 Israel in Egypt, 151, 152 Jephta, 314 Joshua, 154 Messiah, 70, 148, 152–5, 314 Hanslick, Eduard, 4, 31, 49–62 Härtel, Raymund, 310

364

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Hauptmann, Moritz, 42, 155, 156 fn47, 202 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 74, 84, 90, 98, 148, 149, 230, 231, 287, 300 Piano Sonata in D major (Hob. XVI/51), 251 fn4 The Creation, 148 hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 289, 298 Heine, Heinrich 34, 45, 57, 72, 179, 191, 197, 281, 290, 298 Heller, Stephen, 327 hensel, Fanny née Mendelssohn Bartholdy, 5, 36, 92, 116, 170, 203–6, 211, 224–7, 229, 230, 243, 288, 296, 297 cadenza to Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in C major, Op. 15, 231–9, 244–6 Das Jahr, 214 Die furchtsame Träne (H-U 66), 234 Drei Lieder nach Heine von Mary Alexander (H-U 274), 281 Es rauscht das rote Laub (H-U 419), 206, 209, 210, 212 Im Molo di Gaeta (H-U 89), 234 as improviser, 234 Sonntagsmusik, 229, 240 Übungsstück (H-U 53), 234 Wiegenlied (H-U 65), 234 Hensel, Sebastian, 10, 15, 205, 273 hensel, Wilhelm, 18, 229, 239, 281 Hepokoski, James, 4, 84–93, 98, 100 fn51, 101, 111, 250 herz, henri, 281 Heuberger, Richard, 55 Heyse, Paul Johann Ludwig von, 297 Hiller, Ferdinand, 114, 115, 123, 245, 271 Hirschbach, Hermann, 127 Hirschberg, Leopold, 186, 192 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 256 Hoffmann, Philipp Karl, 224 hogwood, christopher, 3 Horsley, Charles Edward, 274 horsley, elizabeth hutchins, 280 horsley, sophia hutchins, 280 horsley, William, 280 Hubbard, Elbert, 27 humboldt, Alexander von, 12, 323 Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 92, 227, 230

Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 85, 227 Rondeau brillant in A major, Op. 56, 227 Inglis, Robert, 65 immermann, Karl, 184 Jabet, George, 20, 21 Jackson, Timothy L., 86 Jacobs, Joseph, 21, 72 Jellinek, Adolf, 27 Joachim, Joseph, 42 Joseph, Emperor Franz, 54 Jost, Christa, 207 Kalbeck, Max, 55 Kalkbrenner, Friedrich, 92 Kastner, Georges, 324 Kayser, Philipp Christoph, 285 Keller, Hans, 249, 251, 254, 265 Kiéné, Madame, 320 Kiesewetter, raphael Georg, 149 Kistner, 50–51, 207, 319 Kitzler, otto, 90 Klein, hans-Günter, 2 Klingemann, Carl, 6, 146 fn6, 147 fn6, 174, 197, 207–9, 239, 269, 272–7, 279, 280 Sieben Lieder, 270 Sechs Lieder, 270 Acht Lieder für eine Singstimme mit Begleitung des Pianoforte, 271 Klingemann, Friedrich, 270 Klingemann, Karl Jr., 197, 207–9, 271 Klingemann, Sophie, 272, 273 Kloss, Karl, 147 Knox, Robert, 19, 26, 68, 70 fn28 Krakow Biblioteka Jagiellońska, 208, 211 fn20 Kramer, lawrence, 283 Kramer, Richard, 223, 247 Kristeva, Julia, 112 Krüger, Eduard, 34–7, 40–44, 46, 47 la Mure, Pierre Beyond Desire, 177, 183, 185, 186, 193 lamartine, Alphonse de, 298 landsberg, ludwig, 314

General Index lang, Josephine, 290 Lassalle, Ferdinand, 72 latte, Bernard, 320 Laurens, Jean-Baptist, 327 lavater, Johann caspar, 11, 12, 14, 20, 21, 55 fn21 le Brun, charles, 21 leipzig Conservatory, 42, 72, 129, 185 Gewandhaus orchestra and concerts, 114, 125, 127–9, 146, 148, 149 fn15, 151, 152, 154, 157, 159, 160 fn64, 212–14, 241 fn31, 275 Historische Konzerte, 146–50 Singakademie, 152, 153, 154, 155 fn44, 155 fn45, 186, 286, 288, 289 St Nicholas Church (Nikolaikirche), 153 St Thomas Church (Thomaskirche), 152, 153, 156, 157 Thomanerchor, 148, 150, 151 fn25, 152, 153, 157 Lemoine, Henry, 327 Lenau, Nikolaus, 197 lessing, Gotthold ephraim, 12 levy, sarah, 229 lind, Jenny, 180, 213 lipinski, Karol, 124 Liszt, Franz, 13, 75, 86, 92, 181, 206, 229, 242, 304, 325 Lobe, Johann Christian, 34, 44, 45, 128, 129 fn35, 293 Loewe, Carl Gottfried, 228 Logier, William, 270 London, 9, 41, 63, 64, 66, 74–7, 114, 130, 131, 146, 164, 178–80, 191, 207, 212, 269, 270, 272–4, 280, 288, 319 Albert Hall, 76 ‘Ancient concerts’, 146 Buckingham Palace, 212 Her Majesty’s Theatre, 179 House of Commons, 64, 65, 69 House of Lords, 64, 65 Philharmonic Society, 74, 75, 131, 212, 243, 280, 281 Lucca, Francesco, 304, 305, 307, 309, 310, 314

365

lucerne, 301 ludwig, emil, 284 Lueger, Karl, 54, 55, 61 Princess luise, 291 Lumley, Benjamin, 179, 180 Luther, Martin, 174, 250 fn2, 148 fn10 Lyser, Johann Peter, 160 fn64, 203, 205 Mabellini, Teodulo, 315 Macfarren, George, 67 Macnutt, Richard, 317 fn1 Magee, Bryan, 58 Magnus, Eduard, 24, 26 Malibran, Maria, 280 Mantegazza, Paolo, 13 Princess Maria Pavlovna, 291 Marschner, heinrich, 230 Martelli, 314 Marx, Adolph Bernhard, 31, 35 fn13, 87, 90–92, 116, 117, 193, 226, 270 Masur, Kurt, 2 Maurer, ludwig, 228 Mayer, hans, 284 Mazzini, Andrea Luigi, 315 Méhul, ́tienne, 113 Mendelssohn Bartholdy family, Leipzigerstrasse 3, 227, 229, 270 Neue Promenade 7, 227, 228, 229 fn15, 286 Sunday Musicales, 226–8 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Abraham, 36, 114, 115, 117, 120, 122, 226, 229 fn15, 287, 294–6, 300, 301 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Carl Wolfgang Paul, 290 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, cécile, née Jeanrenaud, 183–5, 275, 279 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Fanny, see hensel, Fanny née Mendelssohn Bartholdy Mendelssohn, Henriette, 296 Mendelssohn, Karl, 283, 284 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Lea, 115, 117, 226, 229 fn15, 235, 269, 285, 295, 296 Mendelssohn, Moses, 12, 66 Mendelssohn, nathan, 228 Mendelssohn Bartholdy, Paul, 156, 272, 273

366

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Mercer-Taylor, Peter, 3, 32 Meyer, richard M., 284 Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 34, 35, 37 fn29, 38, 43–5, 56, 69, 70, 113, 181–4 Robert de Diable/Robert il Diavolo, 181, 182 Les Huguenots, 183 Mialle, simon, 320 Milder-hauptmann, Anna, 228 Mintz, donald, 32, 40, 193 Molique, Bernhard, 113 Moore, Thomas, 198 Mori, nicholas, 280 Moscheles, Ignaz, 42, 63 fn2, 92, 113, 227, 230, 273, 274, 280, 281, 287 Concerto fantastique, op. 90, 281 Moscheles, charlotte, 280 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 5, 31, 74, 84, 91, 98, 109, 113, 148, 152, 153, 223, 224, 226, 229–31, 234, 242–7, 286, 287, 290–94, 296 Concerto for two pianos in E-lat major (K. 365), 245 Arrangement of Handel’s Messiah, 152–3 Die Zauberlöte, 148 Don Giovanni (K. 527), 291 Fantasia in C minor (K. 475), 299 fn50 Le Nozze di Figaro (K. 492), 291 Piano Concerto in D minor (K. 466), 243, 244, 246 Piano Concerto in C major (K. 467), 243 Piano Concerto in C minor (K. 491), 228 Piano Quartet in G minor (K. 478), 296 Piano Quartet in E-lat major (K. 493), 296 Mücke, Heinrich, 15, 22 Nation of Islam, 79 new York, Majestic Grand opera company, 193 Niecks, Friedrich, 76 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 1, 3, 58 norblin, louis, 320 Notley, Margaret, 54–6 novello, 319

Ompteda, Ludwig Karl Georg von, 270 Paganini, nicolo, 182, 280 Paris, 35, 114, 115, 119, 121, 123, 124, 164, 184, 224, 226, 229, 270, 282, 286, 301, 320–24, 327, 329 Grand Opéra, 179 société des concerts du conservatoire, 318, 320–24 Paul, Jean, 285 Peschier, Claudine, 325 Pillet, Leon, 179 Pistor, Betty, 253 fn5 Pleyel, Camille, 223–5 Poe, Edgar Allan, 27, 164 Polko, Elise, 22, 26 Prandi, Julie, 2, 49, 53, 55, 283 Prechtler, Otto, 178, 180 Quantz, Johann Joachim, 224 Prince Radziwill, 295 razumovsky, count Andrey Kirillovich, 226 Recio, Marie, 127 Reicha, Anton, 85 fn13, 87, 90, 91 Reichardt, Johann Friedrich, 186, 285 reichwald, siegwart, 3 rellstab, ludwig, 291 Richault, 318–21, 325, 327, 328 Richter, Ernst Friedrich, 90–92 Ricordi, 303 fn1, 304–7, 309–14 riemer, 291 Rietz, Eduard, 228, 235, 239–41 rietz, Julius, 42 Ripley, William Z., 18–21 Rochlitz, Friedrich, 148–53, 157, 158 fn55, 163 Rockstro, William Smyth, 72, 213, 214 Rome, 114, 115, 117, 119, 122–4, 126, 128–30, 300, 301, 304, 308, 314, 316 Teatro Valle, 314 Rosen, Charles, 84, 89 fn29, 164, 174 fn41, 257, 258, 263, 264 Rosen, Sophie, 275 Rossini, Gioachino Antonio, 69, 70, 223, 230

General Index Rothschild, Lionel de, 64, 65, 78 fn61 rubinstein, Anton, 92 ruskin, John, 14 santini, Abbot Fortunato, 308 Saundby, Robert, 25 schadow, Wilhelm, 22 scharwenka, Xaver, 92 schauroth, delphine, 281 Schelling, Friedrich, 170, 256 Schicht, Johann Gottfried, 153, 154 Schiller, Friedrich, 116, 167, 287 fn19, 299, 301 Schlegel, August Wilhelm, 168 Schlesinger, Maurice, 115, 116, 123, 124, 303 fn4, 317–20, 324, 325, 327, 328 schmidt, christian Martin, 2 Schmidt, Heinrich, 166 Schmidt, Julian, 46 Schmitt, Aloys, 227 schonenberger, 319, 321 schopenhauer, Adele, 293 Schorske, Carl E., 54 Schubert, Franz, 86, 108 fn54, 185, 191, 206, 296–9 Lieder, Op. 19, 296, 297 Erlkönig (D. 328), 298 Schubring, Julius, 269 Schulz, Johann Philipp Christian, 152, 155 fn44 Schumann, Clara, née Wieck, 66 fn11, 92, 229, 247 Schumann, Robert, 31, 66 fn11, 74 fn46, 86, 92, 154, 183, 197, 199, 202, 203, 212, 213, 242, 250 fn2, 265, 301 Genoveva, Op. 81, 185 scott, sir Walter, 299 Scribe, Eugène, 179, 181 seaton, douglass, 2 seidel, Wilhelm, 2 Shakespeare, 122, 171 Midsummer Night’s Dream, A, 122, 322, 325 The Tempest, 122, 179, 181 Sharp, R. Farquharson, 27 Shaw, George Bernard, 1, 76

367

Sheppard, Elizabeth Sara, 70 Charles Auchester, 70, 181 simmel, Georg, 284 Simrock, 197, 305, 319 fn6, 324 fn26 Singer, Heinrich, 27 Sophocles, 5, 163–74, 179 Antigone, 163, 164, 168, 169, 171 Oedipus at Colonos, 172–4 Souchay, Marc André, 175, 203–5 spohr, louis, 92, 230, 281 Symphony No. 4 in F major, Op. 86, ‘Die Weihe der Töne’, 281 spontini, Gaspare, 298 Sposato, Jeffrey, 36, 50, 51, 55 fn22 Spurzheim, Johann Gaspar, 9, 11, 13 fn32, 17, 67 Stanford, Charles Villiers, 76 Steinberg, Michael, 49 fn2, 59, 169, 171 Stendhal (Marie-Henri Beyle), 299 Stepan, Nancy, 71 stern, emil Dichterliebe, 189–92 Stettin (Szczecin), 228 Stieler, Josef Karl, 300 Taylor, Bayard, 13, 19, 22, 27 Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 1 Terence Andria (The Girl from Andros), 297 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 23, 66, 70 fn28 Thalberg, Sigismond, 304, 325 Tieck, Ludwig, 163, 170–74 Todd, R. Larry, 2, 5, 32, 98, 172, 197–222, 242, 245, 283, 291 fn51 Toelken, E. H., 163, 164 Türk, Daniel Gottlob, 224, 225, 234, 245, 246 Uhlig, Theodor, 34, 35, 37–9, 45, 47 valentino, 324 vernet, horace, 118, 119 Queen Victoria, 13, 70 fn28, 212, 270 Vienna, 49–62 Neue Freie Presse, 56 Theater an der Wien, 191 vieuxtemps, henri, 230, 312

368

Mendelssohn Perspectives

Vitercik, Greg, 257, 260 fn22 voigt, henriette, 198, 212 Wagner, Richard, 4, 24 fn88, 30–47, 52, 56, 58, 59, 61, 63, 73–6, 83, 86, 92, 175, 185 Das Judenthum in der Musik, 4, 30–47, 56, 59, 63, 73 Die liegende Holländer, 74 fn46, 75 Lohengrin, 74 Wagstaffe, W. de, 193 Ward Jones, Peter, 6, 303 fn1, 328, 338, 355 Wasielewski, Wilhelm Joseph von, 14, 22 Watts, William, 281 Weber, Carl Maria von, 86, 92, 98, 109, 110, 116, 148, 186, 228–31, 300

Piano concerto no. 1 in c major, 109, 110 Weber, Gottfried, 156 Wehner, Ralf, 155 fn44, 317 fn1 Wehnert, Martin, 283 Weininger, Otto, 27, 37 Weisse, Carl Friedrich Ernst, 154 Wells, Samuel, 16, 19, 20, 27, 30 Willis, richard storrs, 19, 23 Winckelmann, Johann Joseph, 167 Winterfeld, Carl, 149 Wolf, August, 167 Wolff, Christoph, 234 Zajacskowski, Theodor, 59 Zelter, Carl Friedrich, 6, 31, 91, 116, 117, 122, 158, 186, 227, 283–301