Mendelssohn at Work: Writing While Talking

Johann Sebastian Bach had a teasing nickname for composers who couldn’t write unless they first tried everything out at a keyboard: he called them “harpsichord knights.” Felix Mendelssohn, though, was cut from a different cloth.

One day a friend stopped by and found him in the middle of composing. The visitor offered to come back later, but Mendelssohn waved him in, kept up an animated conversation, and continued writing as if nothing had changed.

The guest later described what he saw: Mendelssohn was scoring the Grand Overture in C major for full orchestra. He began at the top staff, drew a bar line all the way down the page, then filled the second staff, then the third—some measures with rests, others with notes. When he reached the violins, it became clear why he’d left so much space: a figure needed room, yet the long violin melody waited its turn like every other part, lining up neatly measure by measure.

There was no peeking ahead, no going back to compare, no humming under his breath. The pen moved steadily—slowly and carefully, but without stopping—while the conversation never paused. When Mendelssohn called it “copying out,” he meant the piece was already fully worked out in his mind, as if the score were lying in front of him.