Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel (1805 – 1847): Piano Trio in D Minor op 11
Shortly after marrying into one of Berlin’s most illustrious families, the German court painter Wilhelm Hensel paid creative tribute to his adopted clan. Entitled “The Wheel”, his 1829 pencil sketch depicts eight figures standing in circular formation around one central figure: the golden boy and genius of the family, a precocious young composer already famous across most of Europe, the 20-year-old Felix Mendelssohn. He is surrounded by his parents, family, friends and three siblings, including his older sister Fanny. “You are our alpha and omega and everything in between,” Fanny would often tell her brother.
Fanny had recently become Wilhelm Hensel’s wife, though not without a struggle beforehand. Her romantic attachment to the supposedly lowly painter had initially been questioned by her family and for several years the couple had been kept apart by Fanny’s parents. But over time the young artist had endeared himself to them all, and he would prove to be a genuinely loving and supportive husband to his new bride.
Wilhelm also included himself in his symbolic depiction of the Mendelssohns, though with his own figure standing just outside the magic circle. It was surely no accident. Over time he would increasingly chafe at the family’s conservative, chauvinistic values and their stifling effect upon his wife’s creativity.
“Moderate learning becomes a lady, but not scholarship. A girl who has read her eyes red deserves to be laughed at” – words written by Fanny’s grandfather, Moses Mendelssohn, a Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah) philosopher of the late eighteenth century. Despite his humane and forward-looking writings on the place of the Jewish people in modern-day Europe, Moses could not apply the same open mind to the societal position of women, whom he still regarded as inferior to men.
Such views would have a significant influence on Moses’ immediate descendants. Although his own son Abraham, Fanny and Felix’s father, probably imagined himself to be a great libertarian in allowing his daughter such a wide-ranging education, even he thought it beyond the pale that Fanny’s role in life should be anything other than a good housewife and mother. Extremely talented though she was, he firmly told her that music should always remain an “ornament” to her and nothing more. The upshot was that as Fanny and Felix hit early adulthood, the world began to open up for Felix and just as quickly close down again for Fanny.
For much of her twenties and early thirties, Fanny did her best to adapt to these constraints. Outwardly she remained a vivacious and ebullient figure, curious, sociable and intolerant of any pretense: “few can rejoice as intensely as she could over everything beautiful: lovely weather, beautiful people, beautiful talents, beautiful nature”, according to her son Sebastian.
Her voluminous correspondence also shows the genuine pleasure she took from her domestic duties (doubtless helped by her happy marriage), but she also made the very most of her creativity in the one main musical activity still open to her – to hold weekly Sunday concerts (Sonntagmusiken) in the sumptuous Mendelssohn household.
Both Fanny’s father and brother Felix assumed she was perfectly happy with her life. When suffering post-natal depression after the birth of her son, she lamented to Felix that she hadn’t had the energy to write any music for months. Felix replied almost brusquely that she should joyfully embrace her motherly duties instead. He even presumed that she would now give up composing, writing to her not long after, “you must often now have other things to occupy your thoughts besides composing pretty songs, and that is a great blessing.”
Felix did not appear to consider that behind Fanny’s essentially easy-going nature was an aspiring young artist who simply wanted an opportunity to do what every aspiring young artist wants to do – to prove themselves, to be performed, to test themselves against the highest standards, and even to be appropriately recognized for their efforts. And this creative restlessness was something Fanny could never quite let go of as she admitted herself, “That I stick with it [composing] in the face of such a complete lack of stimulation from outside, I interpret to myself again as a sign of talent.”
One of the reasons why Fanny’s relationship with her younger brother would remain so intense was precisely because of his open access to all the opportunities denied to her. For most of the 1830s he would remain her one significant point of contact with the outside musical world. She wanted to know all about what he was doing and experiencing, as if at times wishing to live out her own aspirations and dreams through him.
She always selflessly championed his music. When Felix’s oratorio St Paul was being performed in Berlin, Fanny meticulously attended all the rehearsals in her brother’s absence and took both conductor Carl Friedrich Rungehagen and orchestra to task over what she thought were some shoddy preparations. When they started a certain chorus at a slightly too leisurely tempo, Fanny impulsively cried out, “my God, it must go twice as fast!” She was also horrified at Rungehagen’s suggestion that they add a tuba to bolster the organ part. Fairly quickly the conductor recognized his life might be easier if he simply deferred to the composer’s feisty sister over any contentious details in the score. “I assured them that they should be ruled by my word, and that they’d better do it for God’s sake”, Fanny told her brother, presumably a little tongue-in-cheek.
Above all, Fanny craved Felix’s affirmation for her own creative efforts: “I will never stop believing in myself as long as you love me”, she told him. Felix could be encouraging, but sometimes surprisingly critical too, especially towards Fanny’s more ambitious projects. The problem was that Felix regarded his sister as a master of “feminine” forms, such as German lieder (he did not even attempt to compete with her in this genre) as well as short piano pieces. Whenever she attempted something bigger, like an oratorio or extended piece of chamber music, Felix could be curiously mean-spirited in his response, almost as if he felt she were straying too far into his own territory.
After Felix had criticized three promising cantatas written by Fanny at around the age of 25 and told her that her “talents did not lie in that direction”, the latter wrote nothing further in that genre, nor indeed anything else for orchestra for the rest of her life. But still something in her sensed that his reaction had been unjust. Five years later she wrote to him that she had recently played them through again, and while she still partly agreed with his assessment of them, her so-called ‘Cholera’ Cantata in particular had “pleased me so much that, as foolish as it may sound, I felt exuberant. For I consider it a kind of test when one is satisfied with one’s things again after a long time has passed and they have been totally forgotten. Meanwhile, what you’ve said has fallen on deaf ears, and I’ve become mistrustful, although I generally believe I have more skill for it now than previously, and would have undertaken the revision of a few pieces if your interdict hadn’t deterred me.”
A similar thing happened when Fanny wrote her String Quartet in E Flat Major in 1835, one of her finest works. Continuously inventive and innovative, it shows much the same creative freshness as the late quartets of Beethoven (always an important inspiration on Fanny’s music), while always striking out in its own individual directions. But when Felix again appeared underwhelmed by the Quartet’s obvious strengths and Fanny felt forced to defend herself, she managed to talk down her own creative abilities to disastrous effect:
I’ve reflected how I, actually not an eccentric or overly sentimental person, came to write pieces in a tender style. I believe it derives from the fact that we were young during Beethoven’s last years and absorbed his style to a considerable degree. But that stye is exceedingly moving and emotional. You’ve gone through it from start to finish and progressed beyond it in your composing, and I’ve remained stuck in it, not possessing the strength, however, that is necessary to sustain that tenderness… It’s not so much a certain way of composing that is lacking as it is a certain approach to life, and as a result of this shortcoming, my lengthy ideas die in their youth of decrepitude. I lack the ability to sustain things properly and give them the needed consistency. Therefore lieder suit me best, in which, if need be, merely a pretty idea without much potential for development can suffice.
Having thus persuaded herself she could not write in extended forms, Fanny Mendelssohn wrote no further string quartets for the rest of her life. Only ten years later, in composing her only other piece of chamber music – her late, great Piano Trio – would she entirely disprove her notion that she lacked “the ability to sustain things properly.”
She did at least recognize her emotional dependence on her brother and implored him to be more gentle with her. “I don’t know exactly what Goethe means by the demonic influence”, she once wrote to him, “but this much is clear: if it does exist, you exert it over me. I believe that if you seriously suggested that I become a good mathematician, I wouldn’t have any special difficulty in doing it; if you thought that I was no longer any good at music then I’d give it up tomorrow. Therefore treat me with great care.”
For years Fanny would suffer the most agonizing conflict between pleasing a beloved brother and realizing her undoubted talent. The problem was Felix’s barely concealed contempt towards the idea of her pursuing music as a profession, or of her ever publishing anything – he believed that becoming a composer was beneath the standards of a lady of Fanny’s class and that it would somehow dishonor her.
When even Fanny’s mother Lea took Felix to task over this unbending attitude, he replied unequivocally, “from my knowledge of Fanny, I should say that she has neither inclination nor vocation for authorship. She is too much all that a woman ought to be for this. She regulates her house, and neither thinks of the public nor of the musical world, nor even of music at all, until her first duties are fulfilled. Publishing would only disturb her in these, and I cannot say that I approve of it.” Both Felix and his father Abraham had always agreed that “the home is stage enough for a woman.”
In a more despairing moment, Fanny would ask herself, “what do my compositions matter? After all, no one cares about them, and no one dances to my tune.” She once complained that her music was ignored, even in her home city. “Once a year, perhaps, someone will copy a piece of mine, or ask me to play something special – certainly no oftener… If nobody ever offers an opinion, or takes the slightest interest in one’s productions, one loses in time not only all pleasure in them, but all power of judging their value.”
Thankfully the other man in Fanny’s life, her artist husband Wilhelm, had quite different ideas about her talent. He not only encouraged his wife’s composing from the very start of their marriage, but also continually urged her to publish some of her own music, something that Fanny repeatedly refused for fear of upsetting her family. Wilhelm was also not alone in noticing that Fanny’s creativity would mysteriously dry up whenever her increasingly confident and successful brother was around.
But if the 1830s had been a long period of frustration and self-doubt for Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel the composer, the 1840s would bring some long-overdue recompense. A major turning point in her life was the nine-month journey she and Wilhelm took to Italy between 1839 and 1840, also the first time that Fanny had spent any significant time away from her family. Even better was the genuine admiration and respect Fanny felt from many of the musicians they encountered along the way.
In Rome they met the young French composer Charles Gounod, a recent winner of France’s prestigious Prix de Rome, and quickly struck up a warm friendship with him. Fanny recorded, “we go out in the woods or to the Forum and the Colosseum. Gounod climbed on an acacia tree, and threw flowering branches at us, we sing a Bach concerto in chorus, and we walk rhythmically through Rome.”
In return Gounod was genuinely dazzled by Fanny (the evidence suggesting he may even have been in love with her): “Mrs. Hensel was an extremely learned musician and played the piano very well. Despite her small, slight figure she was a woman of excellent intellect and full of energy that could be read in her deep, fiery eyes. Along with all this she was an extremely talented pianist. She had rare powers of composition, and many of the ‘Songs without Words’ published among the works and under the name of her bother were hers.”
As as a highly promising young composer himself, Gounod was able to install the older woman with a new self-confidence, with Fanny recalling, “I adore his lack of words to express the influence I have on him and how happy he is to be with us.” Gounod would credit her for introducing him to the music of JS Bach as well as that of her own brother, “which were like a glimpse of a new world to me.”
Fanny would enjoy herself so much in Italy – perhaps in having glimpsed new possibilities for herself (exactly as Wilhelm had probably intended), that she was almost heartbroken when it was time for them to return home: “I would never have thought that it could make such an impression on me. I will not conceal it from myself, that the atmosphere of admiration and respect with which I am surrounded has partly contributed to it. In my early youth I have never been so courted as now, and who can deny that this is very pleasant and gratifying.”
One of the first fruits of her Italian experience was the set of piano pieces she wrote in 1841 depicting all 12 months of the year, Die Jahr. The score was written on specially tinted paper, besides fragments of poetry, to which her husband added a series of charming illustrations. “And so we try to ornament and prettify our lives”, Fanny said of the work. “That is the advantage of artists, that they can strew such beautifications about, for those nearby to take an interest in.” Die Jahr stands as one of Fanny and Wilhelm’s most satisfying collaborations.
Word was gradually beginning to spread about Felix Mendelssohn’s highly gifted but somewhat overlooked older sister. Her young male admirers seemed to multiplying: when the 26-year-old Niels Gade first heard her music in 1843, he was “totally charmed”, describing it as “full of invention, experience, spirit and life.” Further encouragement came from Robert von Keudell, a fine amateur pianist and future diplomat. Fanny was in almost daily contact with him for the last two years of her life as he became a trusted advisor and confidante: “Keudell looks at everything new that I write with the greatest interest, and points out to me if there is something to be corrected – and in general, he is right!”
An even more significant contact was with Clara Schumann – although Felix and Robert Schumann had been friends for many years, Clara only got to know Fanny for the first time in the mid-1840s, after spending some time in Berlin (another sign of how much Fanny had been closeted from the rest of the world). Clara took an immediate liking to the “congenial” Fanny and saw her every day – when she and Robert for a time considered moving to Berlin, Clara admitted it was as much to be closer to Fanny whom she described as the “most distinguished female musician of her time.”
Although neither Fanny nor Clara would produce many “big” compositions in their lives, it is surely more than a coincidence that they were both working on piano trios at the same time they were in regular contact (Clara’s effort was indeed dedicated to Fanny). But it’s more interesting still that, for all their mutual admiration, the two women could show their creative independence and produce such different works. While Clara’s Trio in G Minor is exquisitely crafted and full of classical balance, Fanny’s own Trio in D Minor takes more harmonic risks while embracing an almost wild and ferocious energy.
Some of that ferocity is present in the first movement (Allegro Molto Vivace), much of which is built upon the opening theme, heard initially in the strings against rapid rising and falling piano semiquavers. Although nominally in sonata form, Fanny constantly subverts the conventional structure with unexpected side-turns, all the while maintaining a compelling (and completely convincing) dramatic narrative. In all, this is music that shows us a very different side to the woman who could be so diffident about her creative gifts; it demands our attention, while its emotional arc is touched by something close to outright anger.
The contrasting second movement (Andante Espressivo) is much more softly contoured than the first and reveals a mood of poignancy and longing. Its hesitant main theme is shared equally between all three instruments, before eventually rising up to a beautiful polyphonic dialogue.
The short third movement (Lied) is really a Lied ohne Worte (Song Without Words), a type of piano miniature so famously pioneered by Felix but actually thought to have been invented by his sister. But even within the Lied’s relaxed, lyrical charm are unusual chromaticisms and strange harmonic allusions, helping to retain an element of tension and uncertainty.
The highly original fourth movement almost defies description – it consists of two alternating sections each with its own expressive theme. Harmonically inventive throughout, the music only reaches a level of resolution (in the tonic major of D) towards its conclusion, while restating one of the principal themes in the first movement.
A major piece of chamber music for the 1840s, the Piano Trio seems to herald a new phase in Fanny’s creative development. But even considering the unbearably sad reality – that it would be one of the very last works she ever wrote – it remains one of her crowing achievements.
Fanny’s reputation had meanwhile continued to rise. And rather than go after any publishers, they eventually came after her, with two Berlin publishing houses approaching her in 1846 and inviting her to put together a package of her works. At long last, Fanny decided to defy Felix and take up their offer. The letter she wrote to him, explaining her momentous decision, is worth quoting in full:
I wouldn’t expect you to read this rubbish now, busy as you are, if I didn’t have to tell you something. But since I know from the start that you won’t like it, it’s a bit awkward to get under way. So laugh at me or not, as you wish: I’m afraid of my brother at age 40, as I was of Father at age 14—or, more aptly expressed, desirous of pleasing you and everyone I’ve loved throughout my life. And when I now know in advance that it won’t be the case, I thus feel RATHER uncomfortable. In a word, I’m beginning to publish…
After allowing her brother a moment to take a deep breath, she then went on:
I have finally lent a well-disposed ear to Herr Bock’s sincere professions of affection for my lieder, and to his favorable terms. And since I made the decision on my own initiative and cannot blame anyone in my family if annoying consequences result (…), then I can, on the other hand, console myself with the knowledge that I in no way sought out or occasioned the kind of musical reputation that might have brought me such offers. I hope I shall not disgrace you all, for I am no femme libre-still less, alas, young Germany. I hope you will in no way be bothered by this, for as you see, in order to spare you every possible unpleasant moment, I have proceeded entirely on my own, and I hope you won’t think badly of me. If it succeeds, that is, if people like the pieces and I receive further offers, I know it will be a great stimulus to me, which I have always needed in order to create. If not, I shall be at the point where I have always been, and not be upset; and then if I were to work less, or stop working altogether, nothing would be lost by it either.
Felix took a full month to respond, as if needing time to absorb the information. But his better self then prevailed when he finally sent her these words: “only today, do I, hard-hearted brother, get round to answering your kind letter,” he told her. “I send you my professional blessing on becoming a member of the craft … may you have much happiness in giving pleasure to others; may you taste only the sweets and none of the bitterness of authorship; may the public pelt you with roses, and never with sand.”
Such words meant the world to Fanny. “Felix has written”, she wrote in her journal, “and given me his professional blessing in the kindest manner. I know that he is not quite satisfied in his heart of hearts, but I am glad he has said a kind word to me about it.”
Three sets of Lieder, plus another three sets of Songs without Words (for piano solo) were duly published as ops 1 to 7* under Fanny Hensel’s name. They would all receive unanimously positive reviews.
*Op 4 & 5 having been published as one set.
It looked as if Fanny was finally emerging from her brother’s shadow. She began to prepare more manuscripts for the publishers. By the following spring, Felix recorded that he had never seen his sister appear “so hale and hearty”.
On the 13th May 1847, Fanny composed a new song, “Bergeslust” a setting of a poem by Eichendorff, whose final line was “our fantasies, as well as our songs, rise up until they reach heaven.”
The following morning, she read a very complimentary review of her Gartenlieder song cycle (op 3) in a prestigious German music journal. Later that day she was taking another Sonntagsmusiken rehearsal at home (practising one of her brother’s choral pieces), when she suddenly lost the feeling in her hands. This was something that had happened before, and Fanny was not unduly alarmed, leaving the room to go and massage them with vinegar, while instructing the choir to keep singing. “How beautiful it sounds,” they heard her call out from an adjoining room. These would prove to be her final words – a few moments later she had collapsed from a ruptured blood vessel in her brain, and within hours she was dead.
When the news reached Felix (currently in London) it virtually destroyed him. He was unable to get back for the funeral in time and having visited Fanny’s grave, wept almost continuously for several weeks. As if now fully recognizing the folly of having helped suppress her music for so long, he immediately began organizing further publication of her compositions, managing to set the wheels in motion for two more sets of Lieder, some piano pieces and the Piano Trio (all eventually released in 1850). He also took the time out to write his own musical memorial for his sister, his moving and elegiac String Quartet in F Minor op 80.
But Felix was himself not a well man by this point and years of chronic overwork, as well as his own inconsolable grief, would catalyze his own tragically early death six months later, also from a catastrophic stroke. Beforehand he had expressed his hope that death was a place where “there is still music, but no more sorrow or partings.”
He was buried next to Fanny – even in death, brother and sister were to remain inseparable.
Suggestions for Further Listening
Fanny composed over 450 works in her lifetime, though often felt obliged to write in the two genres deemed most “acceptable” for a woman – Lieder and short piano pieces.
Two sets of her Songs Without Words for piano can be found here and here.
One of her most beautiful vocal songs, which closes her op 1 set, is Gondellied.
Sadly the vast bulk of her music remains unpublished, unperformed and entirely unknown today.