Octet in E flat major Op.20 (1825)

The string octet is such a difficult medium, neither string orchestra nor chamber ensemble, that it takes an inexperienced composer to get away with it. The three most successful string octets – Mendelssohn’s, Enescu’s and Shostakovich’s Two Pieces Op.11 – were all written by composers in their teens. At 16 Mendelssohn was the youngest of the them and, no less remarkably, his is the first work of its kind. He had the freshness of imagination to realize that a double sring quartet could offer him a range of colour approaching that of a string orchestra without denying him recourse to chamber-music intimacy. He also had the youthful confidence to carry it out.

The basic orientation of the score, as the mass tremolandos accompanying the first violin the opening bars suggest, is orchestral. But he also takes advantage of the chamber-music potential, most effectively when comes to the second subject of the first movement. From the textural point of view, the Andante is even more remarkable. Basically, this is a chamber piece, withdrawn and almost private at first, but then suddenly outspoken in an exclamation involving the whole ensemble. In the Scherzo he invented a new sound, pianissimo throughout and neither orchestral nor chamber music but something peculiar to itself. The last movement, a spontaneous and entirely unacademic display of contrapuntal brilliance, ingeniously integrates allusions back to the Scherzo in a perpetual motion sustained just to the point where its proportions are balanced in symmetrical perfection.

Mendelssohn was no more than sixteen when he wrote his Octet in E flat. Had he been older and wiser, he might not have written it at all. It is not that he was unaware of the problems involved in working in this hitherto unexplored area between chamber and orchestral music. He did, on the other hand, have the teenage confidence that he could solve them – as he duly proceeded to do, and far more successfully than anyone who has tried it since. The Octet still has the freshness of the discovery of a new sound produced through the conviction that an ensemble of eight strings, far from being neither here, is in both places at once.

The mass tremolandos accompanying the first violin in the opening bars and enhancing the essentially dramatic quality of the first subject are an immediate example of what he means. But Mendelssohn also takes advantage of the chamber-music potential of his ensemble – most effectively when, eventually, he comes to the second subject and presents an expressive legato melody in octaves on third violin and first viola. In the middle of the development section, too, the music turns inwards, before it is whirled into the recapitulation on a flood of orchestral semiquavers on all eight instruments.

From the textural    point of view, the Andante is even more remarkable. Basically, this is a chamber piece, withdrawn and almost private at first, with conversations limited to two or three instruments, but then suddenly outspoken in an exclamation involving the whole ensemble. Mendelssohn moves between the chamber and the orchestral with rare virtuosity here, picking up an apparently insignificant phrase, enlarging its expressive scope, and instantly restoring its innocence.

It is the Scherzo that is generally considered to be the most inspired of the four movements, partly for its own sake and partly because it is the predecessor of the even more famous magic sounds Mendelssohn was to invent to match the atmosphere of    Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” a year later. There is a similar poetic inspiration here – the Shakespearean episode in Goethe’s “Faust” headed “Walpurgis Night’s Dream, or the Golden Wedding of Oberon and Titania.” At the time it was written it was quite unique – pianissimo throughout, always lightly articulated, a generally staccato texture with gently legato lines occasionally drawn across it.

Having developed this new textural virtuosity, Mendelssohn was evidently reluctant to let it go. The last movement adopts the same two-in-a-bar metre and much the same tempo. A spontaneous and entirely undogmatic display of contrapuntal brilliance, it ingeniously integrates allusions back to the Scherzo in a perpetual motion that comes to an end just at the point where its proportions are balanced in symmetrical perfection.

Mendelssohn was no more than sixteen when he wrote his Octet in E flat. Had he been older and wiser, he might not have written it at all. It is not that he was unaware of the problems involved in working in this hitherto unexplored area between chamber and orchestral music. He did, on the other hand, have the teenage confidence that he could solve them - as he duly proceeded to do, and far more successfully than anyone who has tried it since. But Mendelssohn also had the freshness of imagination to realize the new kind of sound he could produce in an ensemble that offered him a range of colour approaching that of a string orchestra without denying him recourse to chamber-music intimacy.

The composer’s thinking is clear from the instructions he wrote for the eight string-players who were to give the first performance of the work at his parents’ home in Berlin in 1825: “This Octet must be played by all instruments in symphonic orchestral style. Pianos and fortes must be strictly observed and more strongly emphasised than is usual in works of this character.” The mass tremolandos accompanying the first violin in the opening bars and enhancing the essentially dramatic quality of the first subject are an immediate example of what he means. But, in spite of the basic orchestral orientation of the score, Mendelssohn also takes advantage of the chamber-music potential of his ensemble - most effectively when, eventually, he comes to the second subject and presents an expressive legato melody in octaves on third violin and first viola. In the middle of the development section, too, the music turns inwards, before it is whirled into the recapitulation on a flood of orchestral semiquavers on all eight instruments.

From the textural point of view, the Andante is even more remarkable. Basically, this is a chamber piece, withdrawn and almost private at first, with conversations limited to two or three instruments, but then suddenly outspoken in an exclamation involving the whole ensemble. Mendelssohn moves between the chamber and the orchestral with rare virtuosity here, picking up an apparently insignificant phrase, enlarging its expressive scope, and instantly restoring its innocence.

It is the Scherzo, that is generally considered to be the most inspired of the four movements, partly for its own sake and partly because it is the predecessor of the even more famous magic sounds Mendelssohn was to invent to match the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” a year later. There is a similar poetic inspiration here - the Shakespearean episode in Goethe’s “Faust” headed “Walpurgis Night’s Dream, or the Golden Wedding of Oberon and Titania.” At the time it was written it was quite unique - pianissimo throughout, always lightly articulated, a generally staccato texture with gently legato lines occasionally drawn across it. It is neither orchestral nor chamber music but something peculiar to itself,

Having developed this new textural virtuosity, Mendelssohn was evidently reluctant to let it go. The last movement adopts the same two-in-a-bar metre and much the same tempo. A spontaneous and entirely undogmatic display of contrapuntal brilliance, it ingeniously integrates allusions back to the Scherzo in a perpetual motion that comes to an end just at the point where its proportions are balanced in symmetrical perfection.