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286 are told that before leaving in the spring he had firmly resolved not to return for a permanence; and the extraordinary warmth and brilliancy of his subsequent reception in England, both in public and in social circles, and the delights, of freedom in Frankfort, when compared with the constraint and petty annoyances of Berlin—the difficulty of steering through those troubled official waters, the constant collisions with the Singakademie, with the managers of the theatre, the clergy, the King, and the ministers; the want of independence, the coldness of the press, the way in which his best efforts appeared to be misunderstood and misrepresented, and above all the consciousness that he was at the head of a public musical institution of which he did not approve—all these things combined to bring about the crisis. His dislike to the place and the way in which it haunts him beforehand, is really quite plaintive in its persistence—'If I could only go on living for half a year as I have lived the last fortnight (Soden, Aug. 15) what might I not get through? But the constant arrangement and direction of the concerts, and the exertion of it all, is no pleasure to me, and comes to nothing after all.' So he once more communicated with the King, praying to be freed from all definite duties, and from all such commissions as would oblige him to reside in Berlin. To this the King good-naturedly assented; his salary was fixed at 1000 thalers, and he was free to live where he liked. It is easy to understand what a blow this was to his sister, but it was evidently the only possible arrangement for the comfort of the chief person concerned. 'The first step out of Berlin' was to him 'the first step to happiness.' He remained till the end of November, at the special wish of the King, to conduct a few concerts and a performance of St. Paul (Nov. 25), and the time was taken advantage of by Lvoff to commission Hensel to paint a portrait of him, which has been engraved by Caspar, but can hardly be called a favourable likeness. On the 30th he left Berlin amid regret and good wishes, but the coldness of the ordinary musical circles towards him was but too evident.

Very early in December he was in Frankfort, where he found his youngest boy Felix dangerously ill: the child recovered, but only after being in great danger for many weeks. It was probably a relief in the very midst of his trouble to write a long letter to Mr. Macfarren (Dec. 8), giving him minute directions as to the performance of Antigone at Covent Garden. His own health began to give him anxiety, and his resolution was to remain in Frankfort for the whole year and have a thorough rest. He had always good spirits at command, and looked well, and would rarely confess to any uneasiness. But when hard pressed by those with whom he was really intimate, he confessed that his head had for some months past been in constant pain and confusion. 'I myself am what you know me to be; but what you do not know is that I have for some time felt the necessity for complete rest—not travelling, not conducting, not performing—so keenly that I am compelled to yield to it, and hope to be able to order my life accordingly for the whole year. It is therefore my wish to stay here quietly through winter, spring, and summer, sans journeys, sans festivals, sans everything.' This resolve he was able to carry out for some months of 1845, even to resisting a visit to Leipzig when his Violin Concerto was first played by David, on March 13; and his letters to his sisters show how thoroughly he enjoyed the rest.

Antigone was brought out at Covent Garden on Jan. 2, 1845, under the management of M. Laurent, the orchestra conducted by Mr. (now Professor) Macfarren. Musically its success was not at first great, owing to the inadequate way in which the chorus was put on the stage. Writing to his sister at Rome on March 25, Mendelssohn says, 'See if you cannot find Punch for Jan. 18. It contains an account of Antigone at Covent Garden, with illustrations, especially a view of the chorus which has made me laugh for three days. The Chorus-master, with his plaid trowsers shewing underneath, is a masterpiece, and so is the whole thing, and most amusing. I hear wonderful things of the performance, particularly of the chorus. Only fancy, that during the Bacchus chorus there is a regular ballet with all the ballet-girls!' A woodcut which made Mendelssohn laugh for three days has ipso facto become classical, and needs no apology for its reproduction.

The play improved after a short time, and the fact that it ran for 45 nights (Jan. 2–Feb. 1, Feb. 8–21), and that the management applied to him for his Oedipus, proves that it was appreciated. His letters show how much work he was doing at this time. By April 20 the six Organ Sonatas (op. 65) were in the hands of the copyist, the C minor Trio was finished—'a trifle nasty (eklig) to play, but not really difficult—seek and ye shall find'; and the splendid String Quintet in B&#x266d; (dated July 8). The sixth book of Songs without Words was shortly to be published, and dedicated to Klingemann's fiancée; a symphony was well in hand (oh that we had got it!), and the book of Elijah progressing steadily, no doubt urged by the invitation (dated Sept. 1, 1844) which he had received to conduct the Birmingham Festival in 1846. Conduct the whole he could not, the labour would be too great, but he replied that he would conduct his own music as before. Nor had the desire to write an opera by any means left him, 'if only the right material could be found.' He had not forgotten his promise to consider the possibility of setting the choruses of the Eumenides of Æschylus with effect, and a correspondence had taken place between him and the Geheimcabinetsrath Müller, in which, in reply to something very like an offensive innuendo, Mendelssohn stated that in