MENDELSSOHN.
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the son of a Berlin banker, was born at Hamburg, Feb. 3, 1809, and, unlike almost all other composers, was reared in the lap of luxury. He enjoyed every advantage which wealth could procure, with the result that he became highly educated in the other arts as well as in music. His teachers in music were Zelter and Ludwig Berger, and he made such progress that in his ninth year he appeared in public as a pianist in Berlin and afterwards in Paris. The first of his compositions to attract general notice were the overture to Shakspeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the little opera “The Marriage of Camacho,” which were brought out in Berlin in 1827. After several concert-tours, in which he met with great success, he resided for some time in Düsseldorf. In 1835 he went to Leipsic as director of the famous Gewandhaus concerts,—which are still given in that city. Two years later he married Cécile Jeanrenaud, the beautiful daughter of a minister of the Reformed Church in Frankfort, and shortly afterwards went to Berlin as general director of church music. In 1843 he returned to his former post in Leipsic, and also took a position in the newly established Conservatory, where he spent the remainder of his days in company with his family, to whom he was closely attached. He has left a large and rich collection of musical works, which are favorites the world over. His three great oratorios are the “Hymn of Praise,” catalogued as a symphony-cantata, “St. Paul,” and “Elijah.” Besides these oratorios, the exquisite music to the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” which is familiar the world over, and his stately dramatic music to “Antigone,” he has left five symphonies, of which the “Scotch,” the “Italian,” and the “Reformation” are best known; four beautiful overtures, “Ruy Blas,” “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage,” “Hebrides,” and “Melusina;” the very dramatic cantata, “The Walpurgis Night;” a long list of songs for one or more voices; the incidental music to Racine’s “Athalia;” a very large collection of sacred music, such as psalms, hymns, anthems, and cantatas; several trios and other specimens of chamber music; and the lovely “Songs without Words,” which are to be found upon almost every piano, the beauty and freshness of which time has not impaired. Mendelssohn never wrote a grand opera, owing to his fastidiousness as to a libretto; though he finally obtained one from Geibel on the subject of the “Loreley” which suited him. He had begun to write it, and had finished the finale to the first act, when death interrupted his work, Nov. 4, 1847. In addition to the subjoined compositions selected for description, the following may be mentioned as possessing the cantata characteristics: op. 31, the 115th Psalm, for solo, chorus, and orchestra; op. 46, the 95th Psalm, for chorus and orchestra; op. 51, the 114th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; op. 78, three Psalms for solo and chorus; op. 91, the 98th Psalm, for double chorus and orchestra; and op. 96, Hymn (“Lass, O Herr mich”) for alto solo, chorus, and orchestra.
The Walpurgis Night.
It was during his Italian travels in 1831 that Mendelssohn composed the music to Goethe’s poem “The First Walpurgis Night.” His letters throw much and interesting light upon the composition and his ideas while writing it. In a letter written at Rome, Feb. 22, 1831, he says:—
“Listen and wonder! Since I left Vienna I have partly composed Goethe’s ‘First Walpurgis Night,’ but have not yet had courage to write it down. The composition has now assumed a form and become a grand cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. At the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty others of the same kind. Afterwards, when the watchmen with their ‘Gabeln, und Zacken, und Eulen,’ make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that I have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial Druids then appear with their trombones in C major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm; and here I mean to introduce a light, mysterious, tripping chorus, and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. Do you not think that this might develop into a new style of cantata? I have an instrumental introduction as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is spirited.”
On the 27th of April ensuing he refers to it again:—
“I must however return to my witches, so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. This whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather I do so in my ‘Walpurgis Night,’ whether I am to introduce the big drum or not. ‘Zacken, Gabeln, und wilde Klapperstöcke’ seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. I certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the Brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but I can’t help regretting the big drum; and before I can receive Fanny’s[30] advice, the ‘Walpurgis Night’ will be finished and packed up.”
On his way back to Germany he writes from Milan, July 13, 1831, to the artist and operatic director, Eduard Devrient:—
“I have been writing a large composition that perhaps will one day make some effect,—‘The First Walpurgis Night’ of Goethe. I began it simply because it pleased and excited me; I did not think of any performance. But now that it is finished, I see that it is well suited for a large concert piece, and in my first subscription concert in Berlin you shall sing the bearded Druid,—the chorus sung by ——, kindly assisted by ——. I have written the part of the Druid into your throstle (by permission), and you will have to sing it out again.”
It was several years before the “Walpurgis Night” was publicly performed, and meanwhile it underwent several changes. On the 28th of November, 1842, he writes to his mother:—
“I am really anxious to make the ‘Walpurgis Night’ into a symphony-cantata, for which it was originally intended, but did not become so from want of courage on my part.”
On the 11th of December of the same year he writes her:—
“My ‘Walpurgis Night’ is to appear once more in the second part, in a somewhat different garb indeed from the former one, which was somewhat too richly endowed with trombones, and rather poor in the vocal parts; but to effect this I have been obliged to re-write the whole score from A to Z, and to add two new arias, not to mention the rest of the clipping and cutting. If I don’t like it now, I solemnly vow to give it up for the rest of my life.”
The cantata was first publicly performed in Leipsic, Feb. 2, 1843, at a concert, in which it occupied the second part of the programme. It had to stand a severe test of comparison, for the first part was very brilliant, including a Haydn symphony, a Mozart aria, Beethoven’s “Choral Fantasie,” the piano part played by Madame Schumann, the overture from “Euryanthe,” and the chorus from Weber’s “Lyre and Sword;” but it made a success, and was received with great enthusiasm.
The subject of the cantata is a very simple one. The witches of the Northern mythology were supposed to hold their revels on the summit of the Brocken on the eve of the 1st of May (Walpurgis Night), and the details of their wild and infernal “Sabbath” are familiar to every reader of “Faust.” In his separate poem Goethe seeks to go back to the origin of the first Walpurgis Night. May-day eve was consecrated to Saint Walpurgis, who converted the Saxons from Druidism to Christianity, and on that night the evil spirits were said to be abroad. Goethe conceived the idea that the Druids on that night betook themselves to the mountains to celebrate their rites without interference from the Christians, accomplishing their purpose by disguising their sentinels as demons, who, when the Christians approached, ran through the woods with torches, clashed their arms, uttered hideous noises, and thus frightened them away, leaving the Druids free to finish their sacrifices.
The cantata begins with an overture in two movements, an allegro con fuoco and an allegro vivace, which describes in vivid tone-colors the passing of the season from winter to spring. The first number is a tenor solo and chorus of Druids, which are full of spring feeling, rising to religious fervor in the close:—
“Now May again
Breaks winter’s chain,
The buds and bloom are springing;
No snow is seen,
The vales are green,
The woodland choirs are singing!
Yon mountain height
Is wintry white;
Upon it we will gather,—
Begin the ancient holy rite;
Praise our Almighty Father.”
The next number is an alto solo, the warning of an aged woman of the people, which is very dramatic in its style:—
“Know ye not a deed so daring
Dooms us all to die despairing?
Know ye not it is forbidden
By the edicts of our foemen?”
The warning is followed by a stately exhortation from the Druid priest (“The man who flies our sacrifice”), leading up to a short chorus of a very stirring character in which the Druids resolve to go on with their rites. It is followed by a pianissimo chorus of the guards whispering to each other to “secure the passes round the glen.” One of them suggests the demon scheme for frightening the enemy, which leads to the chorus:—
“Come with torches brightly flashing;
Rush along with billets clashing;
Through the night-gloom lead and follow,
In and out each rocky hollow.
Owls and ravens,
Howl with us and scare the cravens.”
In this chorus the composer has given the freest rein to his fancy, and presents the weird scene in a grotesque chaos of musical effects, both vocal and instrumental, which may fairly be called infernal, and yet preserves form and rhythm throughout. It is followed by an exalted and impressive hymn for bass solo and chorus, which is a relief after the diablerie of the preceding number:—
“Restrained by might
We now by night
In secret here adore Thee.
Still it is day
Whene’er we pray,
And humbly bow before Thee.
Thou canst assuage
Our foemen’s rage
And shield us from their terrors.
The flame aspires!
The smoke retires!
Thus clear our faith from errors!
Our customs quelled,
Our rights withheld,
Thy light shall shine forever.”
Following this impressive hymn comes the terrified warning of the Christian guard (tenor) and the response of his equally terrified comrades:—
“Help, my comrades! see a legion
Yonder comes from Satan’s region!
See yon group of witches gliding
To and fro in flames advancing;
Some on wolves and dragons riding,
See, ah, see them hither prancing!
What a clattering troop of evil!
Let us, let us quickly fly them!
Imp and devil
Lead the revel;
See them caper,
Wrapt in clouds of lurid vapor.”
As the Christians disappear, scared by the demon ruse, the Druids once more, led by their priest, resume their rites, closing with another choral hymn of praise similar in style to the first.
[30] His sister.
Antigone.
Mendelssohn wrote incidental music to four great dramas,—the “Antigone” of Sophocles (1841); the “Œdipus at Colonos” of Sophocles (1843); the “Athalia” of Racine (1843); and the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” of Shakspeare (1843), the overture to which was written by him in 1826. The latter is mainly instrumental. Of the other three, the music to “Antigone” and “Œdipus” is most frequently performed, and for that reason has been selected for description.
In June, 1841, the King of Saxony invited Mendelssohn to become his Capellmeister. Frederick William IV. of Prussia had made him a similar offer about the same time. He accepted the latter and removed to Berlin, and the first duty imposed upon him by the King was the composition of music to the “Antigone” of Sophocles. With the assistance of the poet Tieck, who helped arrange the text, the work was accomplished in the short space of eleven days, and was given on the Potsdam Court stage October 28, to a private audience. It was first performed in public at Leipsic, March 5, 1842. It is written for male chorus and orchestra, and includes seven numbers; namely, 1. Introduction and maestoso (“Strahl des Helios schönstes Licht”); 2. Andante con moto (“Vieles Gewaltige lebt”); 3. Moderato (“Ihr Seligen deren”); 4. Adagio (“O Eros, Allsieger im Kampf”); 5. Recitative and chorus (“Noch toset des Sturmes Gewalt”); 6. Allegro maestoso (“Vielnamiger! Wonn’ und Stolz”); 7. Andante alla marcia (“Hier Kommt er ja selbst”).
The following extracts will give a comprehensive view of this powerful and felicitous music. Lampadius, writing of the first public performance, says:—
“On the 5th of March the ‘Antigone’ of Sophocles, translated by Donner and set to music by Mendelssohn, was brought out at the Leipsic theatre before a full audience. The composer directed, and was received with great applause. The music indeed was not antique, if to be so it must be played on the σύριγξ, the σάλπιγξ, and the φόρμιγξ, or if the composer must confine himself to that Greek type of melody and harmony of which all we know is that it was extremely simple, and, according to our ideas, meagre; but it was antique completely, in its being filled with the fire of the tragedy and making its spirit intelligible to us moderns, strengthening the meaning of the words, and giving a running musical commentary on them.... With us at Leipsic, as indeed everywhere, the Eros Chorus, with its solemn awe in the presence of the divine omnipotence of love, and the Bacchus Chorus, which, swinging the thyrsus, celebrates the praise of the Theban maiden’s son in joyous strains, as well as the melodramatic passages, where Antigone enters, wailing, the chamber where her dead lover lay, and whither Creon has borne in his son’s corpse, had an imposing effect. The impression of the whole piece, taken by itself, was very powerful. With amazement our modern world realized the sublimity of the ancient tragic muse, and recognized the ‘great, gigantic fate which exalts man while grinding him to powder.’”
Devrient, the director of the opera at Carlsruhe, in his “Recollections of Mendelssohn,” has left a delightful sketch of the composition of the work. He says:—
“Felix did not enter upon his task without the fullest consideration. The first suggestion was to set the chorus in unison throughout, and to recitative interspersed with solos; and as nearly as possible to intone or recite the words, with accompaniment of such instruments only as may be supposed in character with the time of Sophocles,—flutes, tubas, and harps, in the absence of lyres. I opposed to this plan that the voice parts would be intolerably monotonous, without the compensatory clearness of the text being attained....
“Nevertheless Felix made the attempt to carry out this view, but after a few days he confessed to me that it was impracticable; that I was right in maintaining the impossibility of making the words clear in choral singing, except in a few places that are obviously suited for recitative;[31] that the chanting of a chorus would be vexatiously monotonous, tedious, and unmusical; and that accompaniments for so few instruments would give so little scope for variety of expression that it would make the whole appear as a mere puerile imitation of the ancient music, about which, after all, we knew nothing. He concluded therefore that the choruses must be sung, as the parts must be recited, not to assimilate themselves with the usages of Attic tragedy (which might easily lead us into absurdity) but as we would now express ourselves in speech and song.... With this I fully concurred; and Felix set, so vigorously to work, that in a few weeks he played me sketches, and by the end of September nearly the whole chain of choruses was completed. Besides my delight at the beauty of these choruses, they confirmed me in the certainty that Felix’s genius was eminently dramatic. They not only gave the key to every scene, the expression to each separate verse, from the narrow complacency of the Theban citizens to their heartful and exalted sympathy, but also a dramatic accent soaring far beyond the words of the poet. I allude particularly to the dithyrambus that occurs between Creon’s attempt to rescue Antigone and the relation of its terrible failure. This song of praise really consists entirely of glorifying appeals to Bacchus, and its dramatic application lies only in the verse:—
‘She was its pride,
Who, clasping the Thunderer, died;
And now, seeking its lost repose,
We pray thee to come and heal its woes.
Oh, hither bend;
From thy Parnassian heights descend.’
“To raise this chorus to be the terrible turning-point of the action; to bring here to its culmination the tension excited by the awful impending doom; to give this continually gathering power to the invocation, ‘Hear us, Bacchus!’ till it becomes a cry of agony; to give this exhaustive musical expression to the situation, marks the composer to have a specially dramatic gift. And this is betokened no less in the melodramatic portions. The idea of adding rhythmical accompaniments to spoken words may have been suggested by a few well-set passages in the music to ‘Faust’ by Prince Radziwill. It is to be regretted that the public is scarcely able to appreciate how exquisitely Mendelssohn has done this, since the representatives of Antigone and of Creon are seldom sufficiently musical to enter completely into the composer’s intention; besides that in two passages of the accompanied dialogue of Antigone the words are not correctly set under the music.”
Of the private performance before the King and Court, Oct. 28, 1841, the same writer says:—
“We had two more rehearsals on the following day, the evening one in the presence of the King, and the performance itself took place on the 28th, before the Court and all the invited celebrities of art and science. It produced a very great sensation. The deep impression that the revival of an ancient tragedy could produce in our theatrical life promised to become an influence; it has purified our musical atmosphere, and it is certain that to Mendelssohn must be ascribed great and important merit in the cause.
“Although the learned, of whom each expected the ancient tragedy to be put upon the stage according to his peculiar conception of it (which would of course be totally different in every case) might find the music too modern, too operatic, in fact, not sufficiently philological, it is undeniable that Mendelssohn’s music has made the tragedy of Sophocles accessible to the sympathies of the general public, without in any wise violating the spirit and aroma of the poem, but rather lending it new life and intelligibility.”
[31] The passages, “But see, the son of Menœtius comes,” etc., and “See, Hæmon appears,” etc., are examples.
Œdipus at Colonos.
The story of “Œdipus Tyrannus” is told in this work in connection with Professor Paine’s composition. The “Œdipus at Colonos,” to which Mendelssohn set music, is the continuation of Sophocles’ tragedy, describing the banishment of the blind hero, the loving care of his daughters, his arrival at Attica, and his death in the gardens of the Eumenides at Colonos, absolved by the fate which had so cruelly pursued him.
The music to “Œdipus” was written at the command of the King of Prussia in 1843, and was first produced at Potsdam, Nov. 1, 1845. It contains a short introduction and nine choral numbers. The first and second choruses describe the entrance of Œdipus and Antigone into the grove of the Eumenides, their discovery by the people, the story of his sorrows which he relates to them, his meeting with his daughter Ismene, and the arrival of Theseus the King. The third number is the gem of the work, and is often given on the concert-stage. The free translation of the text for this beautiful double chorus is as follows:—
“Strophe.—Thou hast come, O stranger, to the seats of this land, renowned for the steed; to seats the fairest on earth, the chalky Colonos; where the vocal nightingale, chief abounding, trills her plaintive note in the green dells, tenanting the dark-hued ivy and the leafy grove of the god, untrodden, teeming with fruits, impervious to the sun, and unshaken by the winds of every storm; where Bacchus, the reveller, ever roams attending his divine nurses.
“Antistrophe.—And ever day by day the narcissus, with its beauteous clusters, bursts into bloom by heaven’s dew, the ancient coronet of the mighty goddesses, and the saffron with golden ray; nor do the sleepless founts of Cephisus that wander through the fields fail, but ever each day it rushes o’er the plains with its limpid wave, fertilizing the bosom of the earth; nor have the choirs of the muses loathed this clime; nor Venus, too, of the golden reign.
“Strophe.—And there is a tree, such as I hear not to have ever sprung in the land of Asia, nor in the mighty Doric island of Pelops, a tree unplanted by hand, of spontaneous growth, terror of the hostile spear, which flourishes chiefly in this region, the leaf of the pale gray olive that nourishes our young. This shall neither any one in youth nor in old age, marking for destruction, and having laid it waste with his hand, bring to nought; for the eye that never closes of Morian Jove regards it, and the blue-eyed Minerva.
“Antistrophe.—And I have other praise for this mother-city to tell, the noblest gift of the mighty divinity, the highest vaunt, that she is the great of chivalry, renowned for the steed and famous on the main; for thou, O sovereign Neptune, son of Saturn, hast raised her to this glory, having first, in these fields, founded the bit to tame the horse; and the well-rowed boat, dashed forth by the hand, bounds marvellously through the brine, tracking on the hundred-footed daughters of Nereus.”
The first strophe is begun by one choir in unison after a short but graceful introduction which is repeated at the end of the strophe in another form, and then the second choir begins the antistrophe, set to the same beautiful melody. At its close the music changes in character and grows vigorous and excited as the first choir sings the second strophe, with which shortly the second choir joins in splendid eight-part harmony. The latter takes up the strain again in the second antistrophe, singing the praise of “the mother-city,” and the number closes with the united invocation to Neptune,—an effect which has hardly been excelled in choral music. The fourth chorus, which is very dramatic in its effect, tells of the assault of Creon upon Œdipus, and the fifth, his protection by Theseus, who comes to the rescue. In this number the double choirs unite with magnificent effect in the appeal to the gods (“Dread Power, that fillest Heaven’s high Throne”) to defend Theseus in the conflict. The sixth number (“When the Health and Strength are gone”) is a pathetic description of the blind hero’s pitiful condition, and prepares the way for the powerful choruses in which his impending fate is foreshadowed by the thunderbolts of Jove which rend the heavens. The eighth and ninth choruses are full of the mournful spirit of the tragedy itself, and tell in notes as eloquent as Sophocles’ lines of the mysterious disappearance of the Theban hero, ingulfed in the opening earth, and the sorrowful lamentations of the daughters for the father whom they had served and loved so devotedly.
As the Hart Pants.
The music to the Forty-second Psalm, familiarly known by the caption which forms the title of this sketch, was first performed at the tenth subscription Gewandhaus concert in Leipsic in 1838, Clara Novello taking the soprano part. Though not constructed upon the large scale of the “Hymn of Praise,” or even of the “Walpurgis Night,” it is a work which is thoroughly artistic, and just as complete and symmetrical in its way. It contains seven numbers. After a slow and well-sustained introduction, the work begins with a chorus (“As the Hart pants after the Water Brooks, so panteth my soul for Thee, O God”) which is a veritable prayer in its tenderness and expression of passionate longing. After the chorus a delicate and refined soprano solo (“For my Soul thirsteth for God”) continues the sentiment, first given out in an oboe solo, and then uttered by the voice in a beautifully melodious adagio. The third number is a soprano recitative (“My Tears have been my Meat”) leading to a chorus in march time by the sopranos and altos (“For I had gone with the Multitude; I went with them to the House of God”). Then follows a full chorus beginning with male voices in unison (“Why, my Soul, art thou cast down?”), answered by the female voices (“Trust thou in God”). Again the soprano voice is heard in pathetic recitative (“O my God! my Soul is cast down within me; all Thy Waves and thy Billows are gone over me”). A beautiful quartet of male voices with string accompaniment replies: “The Lord will command His Loving-kindness in the Day-time; and in the Night His Song shall be with me, and my Prayer unto the God of my Life.” The response is full of hope and consolation; but through it all runs the mournful strain of the soprano (forming a quintet at the end), coming to a close only when the full chorus joins in a repetition of the fourth number (“Trust thou in God”), this time elaborated with still greater effect, and closing with a stately ascription of praise to the God of Israel.
The Gutenberg Fest-Cantata.
The occasion for which the short festival cantata known as the “Gutenberg” was written, was the fourth centennial celebration of the art of printing, which was observed at Leipsic in 1840 by the unveiling of Gutenberg’s statue in the public square, and other ceremonies. The direction of the musical part of the festivity was intrusted to Mendelssohn. The text for the hymn to be sung at the unveiling, which occurred on the morning of June 24, immediately after the public service in Church, was furnished by Adolphus Prölsz, a teacher in the Gymnasium at Freiberg. Lampadius, in his Life of Mendelssohn, says of the performance:—
“Mendelssohn arranged it with trombone accompaniment. When the opening words, ‘Fatherland! within thy Confines broke the dawning Light,’—so the opening ran, if my memory is correct,—were heard in the Music Hall at the first rehearsal, the heartiest applause arose among the performers as well as the invited guests. Nothing so simple, powerful, joyous, and unconstrained had been heard for a long time.... Many will remember how, on the very day of the public performance, the slight form of Mendelssohn was seen moving nervously around to find just the right place for the trombonists, and how nearly he came to a fall from the platform. During that performance the singers were divided into two choirs, which sat at some distance from each other; one of them was conducted by David, and the other by Mendelssohn.”
The cantata opens with a stately chorale (“With solemn Hymn of Praise”) set to the old tune “Honor to God alone,” followed by the song in memory of Gutenberg (“Fatherland! within thy Confines”), which has been separately arranged and printed as a solo. The third number is a quick, spirited movement for tenors (“And God said, ‘Let there be Light’”) followed by another effective chorale (“Now, thank God all”), which brings the work to a close. On the afternoon of the same day Mendelssohn’s much more important work, “The Hymn of Praise,” was given. A sketch of this has already appeared in the “Standard Oratorios.”
Lauda Sion.
The “Lauda Sion,” or sequence sung at High Mass on the Feast of Corpus Christi, was chosen by Mendelssohn as the subject of one of his most beautiful cantatas, for four solo voices, chorus, and orchestra. The majestic rhythm of Saint Thomas Aquinas’s verses loses none of its stateliness in this musical setting. The work was composed for the celebration of this Festival by the Church of St. Martin at Liège, and was first performed there June 11, 1846. Chorley, the English critic who accompanied Mendelssohn on that occasion, has left us in his “Modern German Music” an interesting sketch of its first production. He says:—
“The early summer of 1846 was a great year for the Rhine Land and its adjacent district; since there the Lower Rhenish Festival at Aix-la-Chapelle was conducted by Mendelssohn, and starred by Mlle. Jenny Lind; and within a fortnight afterwards was celebrated at Liège the ‘Fête Dieu,’ for which his ‘Lauda Sion’ was written....
“It was a pity that those who had commissioned such a composer to write such a work had so entirely miscalculated their means of presenting it even respectably. The picturesque old Church of St. Martin is one of those buildings which swallow up all sound, owing to the curve of the vaults and the bulk of the piers; the orchestra was little more powerful, when heard from below, than the distant scraping of a Christmas serenade far down the street; the chorus was toneless, and out of tune; and only one solo singer, the soprano, was even tolerable. On arriving at Liège with the purpose of conducting his work, Mendelssohn gave up the matter in despair. ‘No! it is not good, it cannot go well, it will make a bad noise,’ was his greeting to us....
“We drove with him that afternoon up to St. Martin’s Church, to hear, as he merrily styled it, ‘the execution of his music.’ The sight of the steep, narrow, winding street, decked out with fir-trees and banners and the escutcheons of the different towns of Belgium, pleased him, for he was as keen a lover of a show as a child, and had a true artist’s quick sense of the picturesque....
“Not envy’s self could have helped being in pain for its composer, so slack and tuneless and ineffective was the execution of this clear and beautiful work, by a scrannel orchestra, and singers who could hardly be heard, and who evidenced their nationality by resolutely holding back every movement. But in the last verse, alla breve—
‘Ecce panis angelorum’—
there came a surprise of a different quality. It was scenically accompanied by an unforeseen exposition of the Host, in a gorgeous gilt tabernacle, that slowly turned above the altar, so as to reveal the consecrated elements to the congregation. Incense was swung from censers, and the evening sun, breaking in with a sudden brightness, gave a fairy-like effect to the curling fumes as they rose; while a very musical bell, that timed the movement twice in a bar, added its charm to the rite. I felt a quick grasp on my wrist, as Mendelssohn whispered to me, eagerly, ‘Listen! how pretty that is! it makes amends for all their bad playing and singing,—and I shall hear the rest better some other time.’ That other time I believe never came for the composer of the ‘Lauda Sion,’—since this was only the year before his death.”
The work is composed in seven numbers. After a short introduction the voices give out the theme, “Lauda Sion,” followed by a chorus, “Laudis Thema,” full of devotional spirit. The soprano then enunciates in the “Sit Laus plena” phrases repeated by the chorus, followed by a beautifully accompanied quartet, “In hac Mensa.” The fifth number is a solemn chorale in unison, leading to a soprano solo in the arioso style, “Caro cibus,” which is exquisitely beautiful. The work concludes with a very dramatic solo and chorus, “Sumit unus,” set to the words “Bone pastor,” and the closing verses of the hymn itself. Short as the cantata is, it is one of the most felicitous of all Mendelssohn’s settings of the ritual.
