Octet for Strings in E-flat, Op. 20

They say that practice makes perfect. And if Felix Mendelssohn's Octet in E-flat can claim to be a “perfect” musical work, it is because the 16-year-old had practiced—a lot. By 1825, the year of the Octet, Mendelssohn had already completed twelve string symphonies. These under-appreciated pieces, written between the ages of 12 and 14, document the boy's growing confidence and widening sphere of influence, all of which will feed into the Octet. Certainly Mendelssohn enjoyed a privileged upbringing in the family's cultured, affluent Berlin household. Felix’s father was a banker; his grandfather was the famous philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, which guaranteed a steady stream of intellectuals, artists, and poets passing through the house. By 12 he had buried himself in Goethe and Shakespeare, two filters through which much of his subsequent compositional efforts would pass. He knew Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven (who still lived) through first-hand contact with their music. Their echoes permeate the Octet, as we will have occasion to point out. But already one hears an individual voice, captured best perhaps in the glittering Scherzo: mercurial, virtuosic, and tinged with a sense for theater.
The opening Allegro strikes a leisurely, expansive tone. Added strings liberate the first violin to revel in concert-style display while still allowing thematic progression in the lower strings. Mendelssohn's phrases are broad, the punctuation ample, the tonal signals relatively clear. Everything contributes toward the Mozartian feel of classical form and rhetoric. An early tendency to develop the main motives is a feint; a true development section is yet to come. This is less an intimate chamber piece than a full-bodied symphony in all but name. The composer himself stated as much: “This Octet must be played by all instruments in the manner of a symphony.”
The introverted Andante opens in complete contrast to the previous movement. A touch of Baroque siciliano derives from Mendelssohn's use of that dance's characteristic dotted rhythm. Bach's sicilianos offer some of his most appealing and heartfelt slow movements, and young Mendelssohn clearly embraced a similar affect. Moreover, the final plagal cadence evokes passages in Baroque concertos, suggesting immediate continuation into the following movement. Beyond these resonances, echoes of Beethoven’s late quartets abound. For after the first few phrases, Mendelssohn shelves the siciliano topic and proceeds to write a profoundly lyric movement based on a variety of rhythmic figures.
As mentioned earlier, the Scherzo is where Mendelssohn's own voice comes through most clearly. The closest parallel to this fleet-footed movement can be found in another of Mendelssohn's early marvels, the Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream (1826). The Scherzo carries a program, referring to the Walpurgis Night scene from Goethe's Faust. Such a background helps make sense of the brilliant array of motives and textures. The last page, peppered with innumerable staccato figures in all eight parts, appeals both visually and aurally.
Mendelssohn's fondness for “Old Bach” inspires the fugal opening of the Presto finale. The torrent of notes dresses up Baroque fugue structure in the opening theme. Periodic interruptions by a pesante, unison idea in all strings delineate the finale’s numerous sections, which range from light comedy to learned to serene. A striking touch, lasting not more than moment amidst the blazing pace, is the effusive burst of hymn-like stasis just bars from the end. Despite the touches of Baroque plagal cadence and fugue, nowhere does a concern for history dampen the spirit of innovation; nowhere does technique overwhelm youthful exuberance. This is music “in itself,” as the philosophers would say. It is artistically “naïve” only in the best sense of the word, of being unencumbered, of fluently merging both medium and message. Perhaps it could only have been written by a youngster, before too much of life had left its heavy imprint.

(c) Jason Stell