Moses Mendelssohn, a little humpbacked Jew peddler boy, with keen eyes and winning face, came to Berlin about the middle of the last century. He had a hard fight with penury, and an unconquerable passion for knowledge and the culture of his mind. At that time the Jews in Germany were at the lowest stage of social repression. Excluded from nearly all honorable and profitable pursuits, restricted to Jew quarters, outcast and despised, they were the chosen victims of Christian intolerance. On the other hand, driven back upon the synagogue, upon the even fiercer bigotry of their own priests and rabbis, with whom "to speak the German language correctly or to read a German book was heresy," the young man was caught between two fires. Yet so brave, so able was he, so faithful to his great life purpose, and withal so winning by his hearty, sterling honesty of spirit, that he became one of the lights of German literature, one of its recognized apostles; the intimate associate of Lessing, Herder, Kant, etc. His conversation had the Socratic quality; and his "Phaedo," a dialogue on immortality, founded on that of Plato, was so persuasive that it was translated into many languages. He married a Jewess in Hamburg, and grew prosperous as well as learned. He left three daughters and three sons. Abraham, the father of Felix, was the second son, a thriving banker, for a while in Paris, when he married Lea Salomon, of the Bartholdy family, a lady of wealth and culture, from Berlin, and formed a partnership with his elder brother in his native Hamburg. Their first child was Fanny, born, as her mother said, with "Bach fugue fingers." The second child, Jakob Ludwig Felix, was born February 3, 1809. Before he was three years old, the French occupied Hamburg, and Abraham fled to Berlin, where he formed a new banking house, and his whole family were baptized into the Protestant Communion, taking the added name Bartholdy.
The patriarchal rule, obedience and industry, was strict in the house. But the father was kind and gentle as well as severe, and Felix loved him dearly; called him "not only my father, but my teacher both in art and in life"; and wondered how it was possible that a father, not a technical musician, could criticize the son's early efforts in composition so shrewdly and so justly. After Felix became famous, Abraham said once humorously of himself: "Formerly I was the son of my father, now I am the father of my son."
The mother, a lady of fine person, with an air of much benevolence and dignity, was a model housewife; spoke several languages, read Homer in the Greek, played the piano, and gave the first frequent five-minute lessons to her two eldest children, Fanny and Felix. The boy was full of life and fond of out-door play, very attractive with his long brown curls and great brown eyes. He was frank, unspoiled, earnest in what he undertook, and could bear no foolish flattery, no nonsense.
MENDELSSOHN'S BIRTHPLACE IN HAMBURG.
Feb. 3—1809.
After a short visit of the family to Paris, in 1816, when Fanny was eleven and Felix seven years old, the children's education began systematically. Heyse (father of the novelist) was their tutor at large; Ludwig Berger, teacher for piano; the strict, conservative Zelter (Goethe's friend) for thorough bass and counterpoint; Henning for violin. Felix, whose pen and pencil sketches in his letters show such a facile gift for drawing, was taught landscape by Rösel. Greek he learned with his younger sister Rebecka, even reading Æschylus. The children were kept closely to their lessons; Felix used to say how much they enjoyed the Sundays, when they had not to get up at five o'clock to work.
He was first heard in a public concert on Oct. 24, 1818, when he played the piano part in a trio with two horns with much applause. Early in his eleventh year he entered the singing class of the Singakademie as an alto. "There he took his place," writes his friend Devrient, "amongst the grown people, in his child's suit, a tight fitting jacket cut very low at the neck, and with full trousers buttoned over it. Into the slanting pockets of these he liked to thrust his hands, rocking his curly head from side to side, and shifting restlessly from one foot to the other."—He spoke French and English fluently; wrote a letter in good Italian; and translated the "Andrea" of Terence into German verse, besides making such good headway in Greek. He could ride and swim and dance, right heartily, but was not fond of mathematics.
In 1820, his twelfth year, he set about composing regularly. With that year begins the series of forty-four volumes in which he methodically preserved autograph copies of a great part of his works down to the time of his death, with date and place carefully noted. These are now in the Imperial Library at Berlin. Another proof of his methodical self-discipline is found in the fact that for many years he made it an invariable rule to compose something every day.