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Rating: The Germans, especially the wealthier ones, have always had a penchant for tourism, driven by a hunger for knowledge of other lands that is unknown to us, which at times has led them to overdo it, causing a few minor incidents such as invasions, annexations, and various little wars. But typically, their hordes move peacefully towards the latest trendy destinations. In the first half of the 19th century, the "must" was the journey to Italy: immersing oneself in ancient art, ruins, and classicism in the land "where the lemons bloom" was considered essential for the cultural and spiritual development of every respectable young person. However, a "cult" of the opposite kind was also emerging: the journey in search of Nordic myths, the magic of gnomes and elves, the mysterious people of the Celts, of which even less was known than we know now.
Felix Mendelssohn was German and, above all, incredibly wealthy, being the scion of a family of Jewish bankers, so in his short life (1809-1847) he had the opportunity to travel a lot, for both his and our fortune. Ours as well, because some of his clearest travel impressions have been permanently captured in his clean, balanced, and linear music, which learned and distinguished musicologists identify as the link between classicism and romanticism, precisely because of the coexistence of classical grace and lightness with the early signs of deep romantic sensitivity. Personally, the Mendelssohn I prefer is the one slightly more "disturbed" and open to romantic suggestions. The stylistic perfection of some of his youthful works (the String Symphonies come to mind) seems a bit academic and an end in itself to me, almost a showcase of prowess by a musician who knows he is extremely gifted. His brilliant melodic inventiveness becomes much more engaging when it serves stronger feelings and impressions, which is certainly the case with these two great symphonies, despite their differences.
In Symphony No. 3 in A minor, Op. 56, known as the "Scottish," reworked several times after the composer's return from his trip to Scotland, Mendelssohn's unperturbed serenity is put to the test from the very onset of the first movement ("Andante con moto - Allegro un poco agitato"), which suggests foggy landscapes and old castles (it's said that right after visiting one of these, the musician found the thread leading through the entire symphony). The melancholic main theme, presented quietly, gradually gains intensity and motion, until it attains an unexpected agitation, intertwining with another majestic motif. In the second movement ("Vivace ma non troppo"), the author's irrepressible joy resurfaces in the form of a true Scottish dance that, with little effort of imagination, one could picture being played on bagpipes; the third ("Adagio") is a complex and troubled movement that, like the first, begins almost withdrawn and subdued, but the central surges possess great dramatic power. Without intermission (a common trait to the entire symphony), the last movement, "Allegro vivacissimo - Allegro maestoso assai," begins, with an extraordinary thematic richness that, starting from furious dance interweaving, uses a nimble "bridge" to prepare us for the finale, truly majestic as befits such a monumental symphony, perhaps the one most distinct from the cliché of Mendelssohn always being "cheerful" and somewhat "perfectionistic."
Precisely for this reason, it is my favorite, although Symphony No. 4 in A major, Op. 90, known as the "Italian," and shortly after the return from that trip to the land (it's worth remembering) of lemons, is more popular. Here the mists have completely dissipated, and the listener is presented with bright Mediterranean scenes of outdoor dances, airy landscapes, and a nature filled with vivid colors. A festive cheerfulness resounds especially in the first movement ("Allegro vivace"), then fades into the serene sweetness of the subsequent "Andante con moto," and gently emerges with delicate sparkle in the gentle ripples of the third movement ("Con moto moderato"). A cheerfulness ready to decisively re-explode in the concluding "Saltarello: presto," the only movement in which the inspiration seems drawn directly from Italian folklore (although its frantic rhythm is akin, though not identical, to that of a tarantella). But the entire symphony is illuminated by an "Italian" or at least "Mediterranean" atmosphere, and Mendelssohn's greatness lies in having created it with motifs arising from his fantasy, as well as from his travel impressions.
These two great symphonies are available in a vast number of interpretations. I suggest, but only because I know it, the one by the London Symphony Orchestra conducted by Claudio Abbado, where, alongside the usual perfection of performance, the perfect naturalness with which the orchestral sound adapts to the completely different atmospheres of the two symphonies really stands out.
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